Picture this. Across the street is a pretty house with a pretty yard, with the inside lights shining out. From my vantage point, I can see pretty pictures on the wall, indicating a fashionably decorated house. On the door is a duck with a gauzy blue ribbon symbolizing the baby boy that just arrived there this weekend. The house is emitting a calm, contented aura.
Then there is me and our house. I emerge carrying a 26 lb, 13 month old, a diaper bag, a gym bag, a plastic bag with borrowed items I am finally going to return, a paper bag of recycling, a plastic bag of recycling, a pizza box, and keys. I stumble to the car trying not to drop any of these items, especially the 13 month old. I am carrying all at once, because, yet again, I am rushing. I drop everything (except the 13 month old) by the car and then start the process of trying to get everything in, while still trying to hurry.
I remember the calm beginnings of motherhood fondly, but I do feel, despite the craziness, it only gets better.