The doors open. The kids pile out. For exactly ninety seconds, I watch them walk toward the building. My son trips on his own feet but doesn't fall. My daughter smooths her hair. They disappear through the double doors.
My heart is so full that it hurts. When my daughter whispers "I love you, Mommy" in the dark. When my son draws a picture of me with stick arms that are way too long. When the baby runs to me for no reason other than to feel safe.
And here is the "full" truth. The Mom POV is not a tragedy. It is not a complaint. It is a privilege disguised as exhaustion. mom pov full
We get home. The house looks like a tornado hit a toy store. I start unpacking backpacks. Inside one backpack, I find: a half-eaten apple, a permission slip due yesterday, a wet swimsuit, and a rock. Just a rock. Why is there always a rock?
I cry every single day. Not because I am sad, but because the "full" Mom POV includes the relentless grief of watching them grow up. Time is a thief. You blink, and the baby who nursed for two hours is a fifth-grader who refuses to hold your hand in the parking lot. The doors open
People ask me, "What do you do all day?"
I look in the mirror. There is a smear of what I hope is peanut butter on my shoulder. My hair is doing something that resembles a bird's nest after a hurricane. This is the "mom POV full aesthetic." It is not a filter. It is survival. By 7:30 AM, I have made three different breakfasts. Not because I am a short-order chef, but because the first pancake was "too round," the second cereal had "the wrong crunch," and the toddler is currently eating a cold hot dog bun under the table like a gremlin. My son trips on his own feet but doesn't fall
Tomorrow, the alarm will go off again. I will step on another LEGO. I will wipe another counter. I will lose my patience and apologize and lose it again.