I always thought she’d move in once our house became home to our firstborn.
I assumed she would wake up early so she could cross some things off her to-do list before making her husband and herself a hearty breakfast. I imagined her kissing her husband as he headed off to work, then folding laundry until her little one woke for the day. I could almost see her putting away the neatly-folded clothes into perfectly organized drawers.
I gathered she would look nice and put-together as she left the house to go meet with mom-friends for coffee, and that all the babies would enjoy some tummy time while happily sprawled out across someone’s living room carpet as all the mommies chatted.
I pictured her standing in our kitchen, spick and span, cooking carefully prepared meals with a baby on her hip. I envisioned her afternoons spent going on long walks, working on fun, creative projects and playing peekaboo with her giggly, little babe.
I thought she would be on time to every appointment, and that she would juggle all she had done before along with all her new, added tasks with ease.
I supposed she would stay up late to vacuum and plan out the following day after bath-time, or maybe flip through a magazine to gather some ideas for some updated home decor.
I imagined her crawling into bed with her husband and spending a while talking and cuddling before turning out the lights. I pictured her waking up in the middle of the night and nursing in a big arm chair while gazing into her baby’s eyes.
I’ve waited three months now, but she still hasn’t arrived.
No, Supermom doesn’t live here, but Mommy Alyssa does. And although her hair is a little messy, her brain a little scattered and her kitchen floor a little crunchy, I think I like her better anyways.