A Comedy of Errors (and Floating Vegetables)
Motherhood by Dana Van Galder
As Mother’s Day is next Sunday May 11th, I’d like to share a story from one of the Cittavino Wine Club members. I believe from the date that Dana sent this story to me, she was drinking the Scala Ciro' Rosato.
Dana is a real estate marketing executive, aspiring novelist, and mother of three.
So we spent six days with my mother and stepfather, which is basically like running a three-ring circus, except the lions don’t listen, the clowns cry a lot, and someone is always covered in something sticky. Clark, the fearless leader at almost five, charged ahead into chaos. Annie, at two and a half, followed like a dedicated sidekick, and baby Emmons just sat there, watching, cooing, and probably thinking, Oh God, what have I been born into?
Meanwhile, my husband and I were running on fumes—feeding, dressing, corralling, strategically planning outings so we didn’t break the grandparents. And let’s not forget the naps—or rather, the absence of them—because a two-year-old will fight sleep like it’s an Olympic event.
Then we get home. Two nights later, life resumes. There’s cleaning, laundry, snacks, pumping for a work trip, playdates, meltdowns, and a well-intentioned attempt at self- care—which is how I find myself sinking into a hot bath, a large glass of rosé in hand. And then, like an omen, a single piece of broccoli drifts into view. Innocent enough, except—we didn’t eat broccoli today. Or yesterday. Or in the last week. This broccoli is prehistoric. It has a backstory. How did it get here? Was it lurking in some dark, mysterious fold of one of my children for days? Had it clung to the side of the tub through multiple baths like a barnacle of shame? Is this butthole broccoli?
I pluck it from the water with all the dignity of a woman who’s seen things, place it on the ledge, and take another sip of wine. Because at some point in motherhood, you just have to accept that you’re soaking in questionable broccoli water, and the only rational response is to drink more rosé and accept that some battles just aren’t worth fighting.
Tonight, I choose rosé over butthole broccoli.