I am many things. Full-time working mom. Procrastinator. Wife. Perfectionist. The list goes on. What I’m not? Well, there’s also a big long list for that. But there’s one thing in particular that rank pretty damn high: singer. I can't help it. It’s hereditary. Literally no one in my family can carry a tune to save their lives. Lucky for us, no one has ever held us at gunpoint and insisted that we sing…or else. Anyway, today my deficiency in the crooning department was made significantly apparent. While in the bathroom.
You know that moment when you have to go to the bathroom, like really really bad, but the cries of the 5 month-old you've already left hanging out in his play gym longer than is likely AAP recommended are escalating from an "I'm kinda fussy" whine to a full-fledged "I'm getting pretty annoyed, here" wail? And for a split second you look from the baby to the bathroom to the baby again, contemplate the courses of action that a really loving, caring, devoted mother would probably do but then quickly think, aww, tough it out kid instead? Then you ditch the laundry you’ve been folding for what seems like 3 consecutive weeks to gingerly launch him one of those overly colorful, almost psychedelic, accordion pull-apart plush toys (you know the ones) and make a beeline to the potty to poo in some sort of semblance of content? Well, that moment happened to me today.
And then there's that other moment when you think you're done going to the bathroom so you get up and do what you do when you're done going to the bathroom? And then Just about the instant you reach for the soap dispenser you realize you're not really done? So you sit back down? And All the while, you’ve been trying to ignore the fact that baby's cries have topped the charts at near hyperventilation levels, but like several more decibels than is really humanly necessary because he’s not like…dying? And you’re basically in crisis mode? Yeah. That also happened to me today.
So what do I do with the knowledge that I’m not leaving that bathroom any time soon? Sing. Loudly. Like my neighbors might hear me loud, even though it's February in Minnesota and the windows are basically boarded shut. And ironically, I do so with the intent to soothe. As if my screeching, which resembles the sounds of a what I can only imagine an injured raccoon would sound like, are going to calm this child. But hey, at least he knows I haven’t abandoned him completely while I'm stuck on porcelain island doing nature’s work. Because here’s the thing: a mother’s inability to do anything about her baby’s crying for a prolonged period of time—no matter the circumstances—is always accompanied by a primal wave of guilt. So I just keep singing. Because in this moment, the only thing I can do for either of us is the very thing I do with the least amount of talent.
You know that moment when you realize that underneath the long list of things you are or claim to be, sometimes you’re just a person sitting on the toilet, singing The Wheels on the Bus to a crying baby in the next room, really badly? No? Well, give yourself some time. You’ll probably get there one day. And when you do, I hope you don’t discover mid-way through that the toilet paper roll is empty.
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