It’s the Saturday of Mother’s Day weekend, and I’m sitting at home writing this because our otherwise perfectly planned weekend was interrupted by projectile vomit emanating from two of our young children.

So there goes that plan. 

Instead, I’ll be home doing (more) laundry and steam cleaning upholstery.

And the easiest thing in the world right now is to complain, if not out loud, then inwardly. We finally get a nice weekend of weather and make a few plans to get away for a few hours and isn’t this the way it goes?

But then again, isn’t it? Is this not what I signed up for when we had kids? I didn’t sign up for a day all about me. I signed up to be the kisser of skinned knees and bonked heads, to make food that may or may not get rejected, to answer a myriad of questions that range from obvious to unintelligible, to calm the midnight fears and chase away the bad dreams, to dry tears and officiate throwdowns and, more importantly, to teach the importance of considering others ahead of ourselves.

Ope. That one stings.

On the list of things I wanted to do today, cleaning up after small children with questionable aim didn’t make the cut. But here I am.

A couple years ago I wrote another column, almost to myself, about finding hope amongst the throes of parenthood. I needed that reminder then, and I need it again today. Because there is hope, after all.

And someday, when tired heads don’t find their way to my shoulders and warm, grubby hands are too busy to hold mine, and sick days aren’t quite as intense as today, I pray my kids remember that I clung to that hope.

So, from the trenches of parenthood at the Niles house to those of you doing the same at yours, Happy Mother’s Day. You are fighting the best of fights.