Motherhood is easy. This, my friends, is the conclusion I have come to after a few days of sunny weather. When I can take those two chuckleheads outside and let them while away the hours riding bicycles (Frankie) and trudging up and down the driveway intently looking at their own feet (Molly), I start getting positively giddy and thinking, why, I could handle a dozen of these!
It's when I am cooped up in the house all day, unable to plan an outing because someone's nap is always imminent that I think motherhood is difficult. And when I am trying to clean and someone knee high is nipping at my heels, literally tossing the contents of drawers to the floor without a backward glance and absconding with the Windex. When we are outside, Frankie has the magical ability to entertain herself and I am faced only with the task of monitoring Molly's peripatetic ways instead of breaking up indoor fights involving stolen puzzle pieces and accusations that Molly is "just an AWFUL CREATURE, Mom."
Getting them outside can be complicated, though. Molly is always eager and willing to go. Just mention the word "outside" and she will bring me her shoes and stand at the front door shouting "WHOOO! WHOOOO!." She'll stick her arms out for her coat, very cooperatively, but as soon as I attempt the mittens, she calmly flaps her arms several times until they fly into the corners of the rooms. Eventually I give up and think she could probably do quite nicely in life without her fingers, heck, I went to college with a girl who seemed to manage fine without any ARMS. Frankie, on the other hand, never wants to go outside. Or to the library. Or to church. Or to Meijers. She always wants to "just stay here, Mom. I just like being in my house. Don't WORRY about it, Mom." She seems to have inherited my own bent toward inertia. I hear the echoing of my own mother's voice saying "Come on! It will be good for you." Ah, the sweet irony of motherhood, when all of your irritating qualities come back to bite you in the form of your progeny.