Remember To Change The Sheets

Phew. This one is gonna be a hard one.

Today, as I watched my littles drive away with their dad, a wave of nausea hit me so fast I swear I could feel it in my throat. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t just a “sad moment.” It was physical. Like my body didn’t understand why my babies were leaving and my arms weren’t stopping it.

I kissed my one year old on her forehead. I told my little man I’d see him at gymnastics tomorrow. I tried to sound normal. Like this is normal. But it isn’t. Not really.

Because I’m not kissing them goodnight in the only bed they’ve ever known. I’m not laying them down and tucking them in and listening for their breathing before I finally go to sleep. I’m not grabbing my son water, turning on the monitor on the highest sound setting, and setting it next to my pillow like I do every other night.

Now they have two beds each. One there, one here. And three nights a week, the beds in my house are empty.

And the craziest part is how quickly the house changes.

At first, I almost feel relief. For an hour, maybe less, I can breathe. I can take an everything shower. I can shave. I can paint my toes. I can do all the things that make me feel like I exist outside of motherhood.

But then it hits me. Because once the shower is done and the quiet settles in, I don’t get to rest. I get to clean.

I walk past my bed and see a stuffed animal foot peeking out from underneath it, like a tiny reminder that just a few hours ago my whole world was running around this house. I pick it up and carry it into the room they were playing in before they left, and suddenly the silence feels louder than any tantrum ever did.

That’s when the thoughts start.

Did I spend enough time playing with them? Did I do enough to show them how much I love them? Did I work too much? Did I truly sit and make sure I was present, or was my mind wandering too far away? Did I really soak them in the way I should have?

And as if the universe wants to make sure I feel it all, I find a half eaten chicken nugget on the floor that I could’ve sworn I watched her eat.

So I turn on music. Loud enough to drown out the spiraling thoughts. Loud enough to convince myself that everything is fine, because technically… it is.

I know they’re safe. I know they’re having fun. I know they deserve time with their dad, and he deserves the same. But knowing that doesn’t stop my chest from aching.

I start laundry, because that’s what moms do. I make sure their drawers are stocked with clean clothes for when they come back home… well, when they come back to this home. I vacuum. I clean the bathroom. I scrub that one spot in the shower that I hate scrubbing. I plug in my Scentsy warmer because I don’t have to worry about tiny hands burning themselves if they tipped it over. I move the TV to a place I can actually see it because the other five days, I forget it even exists.

The house becomes spotless, not because I’m some perfect adult who has it all together, but because I don’t know what else to do with the quiet.

Then I open my phone to make a grocery list, but someone sent me a reel, and I scroll without thinking. Instagram always seems to know when they leave, because that’s when it starts feeding me happy family videos like salt in an open wound. Smiling moms, laughing dads, kids running through the kitchen, wholesome little moments that make you wonder why life couldn’t just be simple.

I scroll longer than I meant to, feeling guiltier with every video, like distraction itself is something I should be ashamed of. Then I see the one that always gets me, the video where the man falls in love with the mom and her kids and proposes to the mom and the daughter too because he knows they’re a package deal. He knows love doesn’t come in halves. He knows you don’t choose the woman without choosing the babies too.

And that’s when I stop watching reels.

Back to the grocery list. I restock on enough fruit to feed a small village. I plan meals for the week because meal prep day is coming. I buy a backup gallon of milk, and I order extra flour because I already know my three-year-old is going to wake up Sunday morning expecting homemade bread like he can’t breathe without it.

I can’t risk those eyes. The ones that look at me like he’s a teenager, eyes halfway rolled, hands on his hips, while he asks, “Mommy… you forgot the breadddd?”

When the groceries are ordered, I switch the laundry over and get ready to go to the gym. I look around at my freshly vacuumed carpet, my sparkly bathroom, my bed made like a hotel, the empty trampoline, the living room free of toys, and for a second, I almost sigh in relief because my home is so clean.

Almost.

Then I walk past their room and realize I left the light on. Silly me. I step inside to turn it off and I see their sheets all twisted up, stuffed animals scattered, little signs that prove they were here. That this room was alive just yesterday.

And something in me breaks all over again.

I strip the beds because I should probably wash the sheets anyway. I toss everything into the washer and stare at two bare mattresses. Two empty spots where my babies should be sleeping. I turn off the light and walk out the door while it takes everything in me not to text their dad every ten minutes asking for another picture, another video, another reminder that they’re okay.

I go to the gym. I run errands. And then I go to a coffee shop, because I don’t want to go home.

I sit there with my tea, and I look like every other adult in the room. Like a single, working woman with a quiet life. Like someone who can just sit and exist without being needed every second. And for a moment, I almost forget how heavy motherhood feels when it isn’t physically in your arms.

But I can’t fully relax. I can’t keep both headphones over my ears because what if someone needs me? I hear a small child say “mommy,” and my head turns faster than my brain can even process it.

I check the time constantly like I have somewhere I’m supposed to be, even though I don’t.

And I sit there just long enough for my body to remind me of everything it went through bringing two humans into this world. Tailbone aching, pelvis sending shooting pains down my leg, and nerve damage that still flares up when I sit too long. Trauma is stored in places nobody talks about. I leave after about an hour, because I can’t sit longer than that on hard surfaces. I choose coffee shops based on the seating they provide, and even that choice comes down to being a mama.

Even my body still belongs to motherhood, and it always will.

That’s the part people don’t see.

To the world, I look like a single woman living her life. But I’m not one person. I’m three. Even on the days it’s just me, I am still made up of four tiny feet running through my heart.

I can paint my toes, I can drink my tea while it’s hot, I can have a quiet house and a clean floor, but my chest still aches for the noise. For the mess. For the chaos. For the constant “Mommy watch this!”

And even in all of this, I know how blessed I am. I know there are so many mamas out there who would give anything to feel this kind of ache again, because their babies aren’t coming home at all. I know some mamas are truly grieving in a way I can’t even comprehend, and I don’t take that lightly. I thank God every single day that I still get to wake up with my babies in my life, that I still get to hear their laughter, still get to kiss their cheeks, still get to be their mama.

And while I carry so much gratitude, it doesn’t take away the ache of watching them leave.

Everything is a reminder that they will always have two homes. I will always have to kiss them goodbye for a couple of days. I will always have nights where their beds are empty, and the silence is so loud it feels like it’s pressing against my skin in the place they should be snuggled up on my chest.

Sometimes it’s nice to feel like an individual, to exist outside of motherhood, to remember I’m still a woman. But at the end of the day, I’m a mama first. I always will be.

And I am proud of myself for always finding the beauty in the chaos. I really am. But now I have to find beauty in the stillness too, and I will. I know I will. I’m just still in the era of feeling physically sick over it, and that’s okay.

And I know time will pass and things will get better, but sometimes I have to remind myself. I know they are there. I know they are okay. I know I made the right choice.

At the end of the day, at least I can say I always remember to change the sheets.

Thank you for being here,

Kaitlyn