motherhood should come with a pause button

Child misbehaving (read: messy puddle of muscle, bone, and tiny, whiny voice) in middle of mall?

PAUSE.

Masticated clump of cumin-lime grilled steak taco launched from a spoon-turned-trebuchet?

PAUSE.

Damp, bed-head hair ground into my neck-collarbone intersection while wiry monkey arms wrap and squeeze around my shoulders?

PAUSE.

Motherhood should come with a pause button.

We should be so lucky to have a chance to collect our breath, run through the room collecting stray food particles before they hit the new dining room rug, and relish the moments we want to last forever and forever and forever.

I picture the pause button giving me the super human ability to rival Helen Parr/Elastigirl of The Incredibles.   That would be me: Beth Hendrickson/PauseButtonGirl.  (Note to self: work on name.)  I’d hit the Pause Button (something that looks a bit like that Easy Button from the Staples commercials and just as portable).  I’d mosey, meander, rush, fidget, sigh, laugh, weep, poke, prod, blow my nose, or maybe just go to the bathroom and take as long as I want in peace.  Everything around me would just…wait.

I’d get the house picked up.  Sweeped up.  I’d wash windows that are shedding years of grime.  I’d dabble in sewing a pillowcase dress for Little Friend.  I’d make and freeze a month’s worth of meals.  I’d sleep for eight hours straight.  Every night.  For a week.  For two weeks.

Then I’d press play and get to enjoy every uninterrupted moment of brushing bugs off of slides, staying out an extra twenty minutes on a walk, reading Elmo’s Blanket for a sixteenth time, throwing a bouncy ball up the steps over and over and over.  And when a mall meltdown threatens?

PAUSE.

That’s all I really want for Christmas, Birthday, Easter, Valentine’s Day, Earth Day, and Lincoln’s Birthday.  No receipt needed.

Now, does anyone know where I can get a deal on a REWIND button?

If you’ve got a moment to pause now in your day, head over to The Gypsy Mama where plenty of talented writers are confining themselves to just five un-edited moments of writing about what motherhood should come with.