Some days as I putter around the house, changing diapers and folding laundry and tossing plastic horses back from whence they came into their gray felt toy bin, I'll stop and realize that I feel a little bit like I'm playing house. All these green army guys dotting the floor and the smears of yogurt on the couch stop feeling like a mess. Instead they become the very best kind of make believe. Make believe this life is mine. And then I laugh at myself because this is my life. And plenty of people would look at it and think, "yuck." Plenty of people would look at my marriage and think, "limiting." Plenty of people would look at my daily list of things I accomplish and think, "silly."
I really like being a mom. Should we go for broke here? I love being a mom. I love that feeling where it's just the two of us, and I got this—I'm in charge, and the whole day is ours. I love what being a mom brings to me as a whole. I love the way a woman looks when she's holding the hand of somebody small. She takes on this otherworldly, almost supernatural aura when she is about the business of caring for her people. A good mom is gravity, raw earth. She is Mother Nature herself.
It's not like being a mom is necessarily any great accomplishment, and it's not like my life is anything noteworthy or special. It's just the life of a mom cleaning up after a baby. You see it every day in commercials: frumpy mom in a button-up mops the floor. Frumpy mom in a button-up chooses garbage bags that keep the kitchen smelling fresh. Frumpy mom in a button-up makes decisions about the peanut butters, sacrifices herself and her former ambitions so her kids can run wild like ungrateful brats in stain-free clothing, playing soccer and drinking juice and leaving messes in their wake. It's the kind of life businesspeople in suits look down on and tsk-tsk about, all the while trying to turn a profit from it. You know, "bon-bons and soap operas and minivans." That's all this is.
But this is it. For me, this is it. Brandon goes off to work, and I don't feel jealous of his importance or his title; in fact I rather respect his sacrifice all the more, because I had that life once. I had it, and I hated it. This is it right here, for me; this is the promotion. And Huck isn't the boss, like some might think he is. I'm the boss. I'm more than the boss. Huck, that little turkey, is my kingdom, and this place, this tiny apartment on the Upper West Side, this blessed little home, this is my palace. And I will tell you something: It feels regal, the work I do in here. In here, I am a queen.
First thing in the morning when Huck pops his messy head up from the pillows and looks at me with his dream-crazed eyes (even better if he's got sheet wrinkles on his cheeks), sunlight streaming through the windows and the day ahead is ours, using funny voices while unloading the dishwasher, singing silly songs to each other about the things we need at the drugstore and remembering to buy bananas, this is fun. It's a party every day, if you want it to be.
I feel lucky, because I had to struggle for this first. This silly life of cleaning up after a baby, of sudsing down the high chair for the millionth time and counting to three for my cooing songbird over and over—I had to fight for it first. My mom always told me this would be the case, when I'd call her crying after another failed month, though I never believed her. After all, it's just menial housework and dirty diapers and negotiating the emotions of a very small person. But she'd tell me that my fight would make my baby sweeter, the late nights easier, the messes smaller. And as always (always always), my mom was right. How does that happen? How are moms always right? And it's weird to me sometimes that I find such odd satisfaction in the sweeping. Weirdly, I love sweeping. I see God in the sweeping. I see angels in the laundry. In the middle of sleepless nights, I feel heaven in my arms—heaven that could just as easily have been hell had I not had the chance to find out just how badly I wanted it.
I never thought the day would come, but it has, and I am going to write it in ink because for me this is a milestone: I am grateful for those two years I struggled to get pregnant. I am grateful for those seven years I struggled to find my purpose. I am grateful for every horrible moment of them.
Today. Folding little baby clothes that will be smeared with hummus in a matter of hours. Sweeping up the Cheerios. Hundreds of Cheerios that seem to scurry away under the couch to multiply and replenish the living room when I'm not looking. Stopping at the dinner table to run my hand along its bumpy surface and admire my place settings. A pot of soup on the stove. A fridge stocked full of Diet Coke and a freezer full of frozen chocolate. This is not a kingdom I'm embarrassed to rule over. I rule powerfully here. With grace and elegance and mercy. And sometimes false lashes.
This is a season in my life. This is my chance to be somebody's mother, to make my home my castle, and I'm so honored to do it.
This sovereignty, this kingdom, this is a gift. And this, this book you are holding, is about making the most of it. This is a book about our kingdoms. This is a book about being a queen.
