You might be a mother if you have ever been covered in another human’s excrement before you’ve even had a chance to drink your morning coffee.
You might be a mother if, no matter how recently you’ve swept, there is always at least one Cheerio being kicked around your kitchen floor.
You might be a mother if it takes you forty-five minutes to prepare for and get out the door to run a fifteen-minute errand.
You might be a mother if you fight to the death with a small human over a matter of their personal survival (like eating, buckling a carseat, or going to sleep).
You might be a mother if you can predict the type of illness that will afflict your family next simply by the color shirt you choose to wear that day (i.e. - black shirt = sniffly noses, white shirt = stomach flu).
You might be a mother if you are perpetually wearing someone else’s bodily fluids.
You might be a mother if you have 3,481 pictures on your phone and you can’t bring yourself to delete any of them.
You might be a mother if, when you come into some money, you go out to buy yourself something nice, but come home with a small stuffed animal, and you can’t wait to see that sweet smile you know a silly stuffed pig is sure to elicit.
You might be a mother if, when you get fifteen minutes to yourself, you can’t decide whether to empty the dishwasher, fold the laundry, or take an uninterrupted shower.
You might be a mother if you obsess over what school your six-month-old will attend, even though it’s years away (but don’t blink, because it will happen before you know it).
You might be a mother if, even though you might have made fun of this concept before, you are now keenly aware that your heart will indeed forever walk outside of your body.
You might be a mother if the news of anyone’s untimely passing makes you weep because you know, somewhere, there is a mother whose heart will always ache for the child she lost too soon.