In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, dog food was spilled on the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand was spread by the back door. He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and more piles of clothes, looking for his wife. He was worried she may be ill, or that something serious had happened. He found her lounging in the bedroom, still curled in the bed in her pajamas, reading a novel. She looked up at him, smiled, and asked how his day went.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably in the sandbox.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids. Real Mothers know that dried playdough doesn't come out of shag carpets. Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up. The figure that she carries, Or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, Because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.