The other day some one asked my three-year-old daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up (which is such a crazy question for a three-year-old but that's a topic for a different day). She said she wanted to be a fire mom. So we asked her what that meant. She said it's a mom who puts out fires, with no earrings but with tattoos. That sounded so much like what I do every day (except for the without earrings part, I have a lot of earrings). Some days it feels like all I do is put out fires, usually metaphorical ones. So the name has stuck with me and when I contemplated starting this blog it seemed like the perfect fit. As parents, so much of our time is spent trying to put out the fire that has already been set, or trying to stop the next one before it starts.
This isn't a new idea. Everyone knows that parents are busy. But somehow, as parents, we're supposed to still be endlessly grateful for the fire. We're supposed to sit next to it and be warmed by the glow and never admit that sometimes it burns. By not being allowed to admit that sometimes we hate the fire and it hurts, we're left to suffer alone and that's ridiculous. (OK, I promise to stop using the fire metaphor now)
I have three small children. My oldest is a girl who is three and then I have twins, one boy and one girl, who are almost one year old. I also work and have a lovely husband and a great dog. My house is loud and messy and I drive a minivan that is endlessly full of crumbs. I love true crime everything and was sad when my oldest got to the point where she understood too much and I couldn't listen to/watch it around her anymore.
My life is messy and crazy and I don't always like it. But it's mine. And yeah, it's pretty much always on fire. (Last time with the fire metaphor, I swear)