For Moms. ♡

Yesterday. Sunday.
10:15 PM.

I drop into my chair, nudge the mouse, and wake up the computer.
I breathe in the silence and exhale the leftover Sunday evening chaos.

Then suddenly, with a burst of energy, I jump up—as if I’ve forgotten something—and rush to the kids’ rooms.

Pa is already fast asleep, and my “goodnight” kiss only flips her over like a pancake in a pan.
Kissing Do on the head, I probably slow him down just as he’s drifting off:

—Sweet dreams. I love you so much.
—Goodnight, Mom. I already know that very well.
—Forgive me if I run out of patience sometimes…
—Oh, stop! I’d run out way faster! You’re still doing really well, you know…

he says slowly, already slipping into a dream.

Even though just five minutes earlier…
standing in the shower, I was honestly trying to wash away—scrub off with a rough cloth—the thought that had been buzzing around me all evening like the most annoying fly:

“How easy it would be not to have children…”

No Sunday homework.
No endless hours sitting beside them, holding onto the very last thread of patience—
a thread that trembles from time to time, as if about to snap,
but somehow doesn’t… because it’s the most elastic one.

No piles of laundry.
No sorting, folding, and delivering clean clothes like a postwoman into every closet and drawer.

Dear God, sometimes I wonder—why do they need so many socks?
And why are those tiny underwear pieces so ridiculously hard to fold?

No torn pants or tights.
No careful mending that takes forever.

No broken-record “melodies” like:
“Go wash up. Did you brush your teeth? Why are your rooms still messy?”

No mess at all.

No outgrown shoes and jackets (every season!!!!).

No banana pancakes with jam.

No spilled cocoa and accidentally stained once-perfectly-white curtains.

No thunderously heavy early mornings—
when you almost chase sleep away with a stick
and go wake them gently, tickling them awake,
still smelling of dreams, grumbling softly.

No “Mom, I forgot to tell you that…”

No mountains of band-aids.
No endless reminders: “doctor,” “hairdresser,” “dentist.”

No anxious glances at the clock,
mentally calculating how many minutes he’s been walking alone through busy city streets—
and even more irrationally comparing if yesterday it didn’t take less time.

If I didn’t have children, I swore to myself,
I’d live on tomatoes, cucumbers, and instant 3-minute porridge.
A mouse could hang itself in my fridge from emptiness.
I’d vacuum rarely.
Dust even less.

Why?
Because there would be no “whirlwinds”
lifting the quiet dust from corners,
pulling things out of neat closets,
building towers of dirty dishes—
and on top of all that chaos,
my overheated ears would no longer catch those perfectly clear “radio waves”:

—Mom, what’s this? Ew. I don’t eat this. Can you make something else?

I. C.A.N.’T!!!—
I roar inside myself like nine hurricanes.

And for some reason, right here and now, I remember a funny phrase I once heard:
“Love your future grandchildren—they’ll take revenge on your children.”

If I didn’t have kids, I’d live in stillness.
I’d read a lot.
Devour books every day—not fall asleep ten minutes after opening one.
I’d read in the early evenings.
In silence.

I’d exercise—
not glancing at the clock, wondering if it’s time to run and pick them up.
Not squeezing it into a free minute—
but when I actually want to.

I’d nap on weekends.
Drink coffee slowly—not just on weekends.

I’d lie in the bath.
Go to regular beauty treatments.

Plan vacations without the main questions:
“Will there be anything for the kids to do? A pool? The sea? What’s the shore like? Not rocky? What about food? Water slides? A playground?”

I’d build my meals on simplicity and speed.

I wouldn’t fill the house with the smell of pancakes.

…I’d have a perfectly maintained figure, glowing skin, smooth under-eyes, a spotless home, a massive library of books read…
I’d be more “cultured,” more cosmopolitan…

…and I’m almost certain
my biggest dream would be
to have them.

Hearing my own child tell me before sleep that I’m doing a great job as a mom…
I suddenly crushed that nasty thought that had flown into the evening chaos—
that happiness lives in silence and sterile order.

We, MOMS, do have silence.
From the moment they dive into sleep
until we, exhausted, follow after them.

Our silence is short—
but intensely concentrated.
And I suspect it’s more valuable
than the kind we could have in a sterile life without them.

Sweet dreams, moms.
Listen to what they say in that half-asleep state—
it recharges your drained batteries back to 100%.

V.