every last one. You can call me whatever type of mother you want. But I call it survival friends.
And it's not all bad.
I've decided (after my 8 years of mothering) that the exhaustion and the pure rawness of motherhood is the constant vacillation-back and forth, up and down. I sit here now, with the window open to the cool morning air, the clip, clip, clipping of tiny feet run down my hill toward the school and happy cheery voices ring in the morning sun. But upstairs is a vomiting child, and in the kitchen is a mess, and on the rug is a son with pinching fingers and a vocabulary which seems to be limited to poop and knuckle head.
But the light is pretty and the cat is soft.
And I am making progress on Rosemary's queen quilt, which does teach me that by simple means great things are created.
