I was chatting with one of my best friends from high school yesterday afternoon. She was feeling guilty for sitting on her couch eating a whole chicken cutlet sub from our favorite sandwich shop, and I was cleaning human shit off my couch. Needless to say, I was a bit envious of my friend’s biggest problem as it compared to my own, but it got me thinking and missing a simpler time in my life.
Once upon a time, I didn’t worry about someone shitting on my couch. And, if someone had, they would have been asked to leave and we never would have spoken again – ever. Sadly, that is no longer an option. These days, I clean all kinds of disgusting things off my couch; while the person responsible yells at me to get them a glass of water. What’s worse? Not only can I not give them the boot, I have to get the water. I started thinking about other things that are just memories now.
There was once a time, I could sit on my couch and enjoy a whole cup of yogurt without someone taking a dump in front of me. If I had I’d only known those days would end, I would not have taken those moments for granted. As it turns out, food takes much better without bearing witness to other people’s shit. These days, at least once a day, someone shits in my living room.
I used to be entitled to personal space. My body was rarely confused with a jungle gym, and my clothes did not play close second to a soft tissue. These days, I can’t even get halfway through an apple without it becoming community property.
“Co-sleeping” used to be an extracurricular activity enjoyed by all. Honestly, “no-sleeping” might be a more fitting term, because it’s surprisingly difficult to hit REM while being kicked in face repeatedly by a spidermonkey.
I remember when the flashing of my knockers occurred only where there was cash or beads involved. Okay, I made that up, but seriously. I have no idea how my husband can sexualize me after seeing the way my boobs are treated. Nursing is not glamorous.
It may sound like I’m complaining, but I’m not. I’m merely calling attention to the fact that some of life before kids was terrific. I’m simply reminiscing days before daily violation by ways of tiny hands and saliva.
It’s possible I sat on my couch feeling guilty about eating a whole delicious sub by myself. My couch used to be a place I wanted to eat food.
I vaguely remember hot baths and going to the bathroom all by myself. Long phone conversations without any screaming or crying were not overrated.
I have traded in my “me” time and clean curtains for the joys of motherhood. I haven’t shaved my legs in a month. Not because I don’t like having soft, hairless legs, but because it’s difficult and dangerous to use sharp objects two inches away from a toddler in a slippery shower.
I’m hairy, half-showered, and exhausted like it’s my job – because it is. I’m frumpy, and my wardrobe consists of yoga pants without yoga. I call them “life pants.”
I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a food by myself, without someone else’s hands or spit on it.
There is human shit on my couch.
I know someday I will miss these days. Maybe, once the kids have moved out, it will be all too quiet. Perhaps one day, I will sit on the couch in my quiet house with a cup of yogurt and wish someone was laying on top of me screaming for a cup of water.
One thing’s for sure. I will not miss the shit.