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The Highs.
Someone I love sent me this piece from The New Yorker this morning. I got it after a nearly-two-hour experience in the pediatrician’s office, which ended with me trying to peel my middle child off their front door when it was time to go. What kind of kid wants to STAY at the doctor’s office?!
Oh, wait. I know. A three-year-old. Because nothing with a three-year-old makes sense.
I’m reporting to you from the trenches. And I could go into a tirade about who snotted on my one pair of clean yoga pants today or why bath and bed time has me wanting to rock in a corner, clutching vodka … but I won’t. You already know that parenthood is hard; the highs are always followed by lows that we get through by telling ourselves “everything is a phase.”
But everything is.
Maverick got a little wound up in the days following Halloween. All that extra red dye # 40 did a number on him, apparently. After a particularly long and difficult day, I finally said that he was going to bed early. He got mad, I got mad, we both dug in. I ended up dragging him to his room after reminding him in the living room who was in charge.
I gave him time to calm down and then tried to talk it over, but he was so angry and he just kept yelling that I was a horrible mommy — a very bad mommy — and he wished I belonged to someone else. “I understand that you’re upset with me,” I said as I covered him up. “But I am glad I belong to YOU.”
He replied with an angry noise.
Sometimes it’s hard to know if you’re doing the right thing. I’m all the time wondering if I’m too hard on them or not hard enough. Am I respected? Am I a doormat? I’m a fairly self-assured person, but I find motherhood to be discombobulating.
The next morning, Maverick crept into our bed at 6:15. It was still dark out, and I was fumbling around for my glasses when I heard him say the following words. I hope I never forget them, because it was the sweetest apology that has ever come out of that boy’s mouth.
“Mommy? I’m so sorry I yelled at you last night. You’re a good mommy and I love you. I really love you. And you know what else? I really WAS tired, like you said. I konked right out after you left! Man, I was tired. I feel better now. You know what I was thinking? Maybe I could go make you some coffee. I know how much sugar to put in it, and Daddy showed me how to use the Keurig. I’ll be really careful.”
Speechless. I still tear up when I think about it.
I struggle. We all do. And sometimes, yes, it’s even barefoot in the snow like the essay from The New Yorker suggests. That would be a low point. But the highs … they are so, so sweet. Just like my coffee.
Highlight.
I don’t get out much, but when I do …
… I enjoy every kid-free minute of it.
The Slacker Mom Table.
The PTA is hosting a “movie night” at the school with pizza, hot dogs, and a bake sale to raise money for a new playground. I got the flier in my son’s paperwork on Friday, which said to send wrapped baked goods with your child on Monday.
Which is today. And I forgot. Of course I did.
So this morning, I got him on the bus and then dressed the little kids and went to the grocery store for some of those bakery cookies with icing on them … you know the ones. I bought three huge containers of them and took them to the school. Two secretaries were sitting in the entryway when I walked in.
I explained that these cookies were for the bake sale, and then I said, “I’m sorry, I know they aren’t individually wrapped — is that a problem? I guess I’m a slacker mom.”
Secretary #1 said “That’s fine,” at the same time that Secretary #2 pointed to a table behind me and said “You can put them over there on the Slacker Mom table.”
I turned around and spotted a sad little table that was filled with sad little boxed bakery goods. There was no flair. No cellophane wrappers with ribbons tied around them. No little happies. Just plain, clinical-looking, clear boxes with plain cookies in them, and here I was about to add my flair-less stack of store-bought goods to the pile like the slacker mom that I was. Everything about it said “Slacker Mom.”
I pictured all the non-slackers who worked furiously the night before making tiny turkeys out of Little Debbie snack cakes, or whatever it is that they do (I wouldn’t know), and then I pictured the other moms like me who just grabbed whatever random cookies were sitting in the front of the grocery store, and I started laughing so hard that no sound came out.
Secretary #2 started to freak because I was just standing silently (shaking with laughter) with my back to her, staring at the table in front of me. She started apologizing profusely, saying “I’m just kidding! You’re not a slacker! We appreciate them so much! Thank you so much!!” I nodded and waved bye, and as the door shut behind me I heard her call out one more time, “WE APPRECIATE IT!”
I know they do. And I’m totally owning this title from now on. I am a Slacker Mom who shows her love simply by showing up, sipping a coffee, and sharing her enthusiasm.
WHAT MORE DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME?!
That’s A Tampon.
Maverick has asked us repeatedly what “these things” are, and we have answered repeatedly that it is none of his business.
Finally, I guess he wore Robbie down.
“They’re for her armpits,” I heard him tell our son.
“What?! She puts them in her ARMPITS? Why?”
And then … I found him like this.
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Overwhelmed.
Sometimes, like now, I find myself completely overwhelmed with my life and I wonder if something is wrong with me. Why can’t I just chill out and not care about the mountain of laundry shoved in my closet or the toothpaste that got squeezed all over the kid’s bathroom?
I have piles of paperwork-slash-multiple writing projects accumulating all over the house, and just when I get started on one, someone comes along and pushes the papers to the floor, poops their pants, or starts yanking on the cord of my laptop.
Robbie will look at me curiously and throw out comments like, why are you so grumpy? He says that he makes these statements hoping that it will, and I quote, “snap me out of my mood.” I’ll let you draw your own conclusion about how well that works.
Today we all got dressed for church and the children sat nicely on the couch in a row and definitely did not smack each other in the face while they waited for me to take their picture. Asher also did not get upset because his shirt was touching him. He was calm and completely rational.
Maverick listened to all of my instructions and did not squeeze his little sister until she started screaming. And she most certainly did not jerk the bow out of her hair multiple times.
So yes, excellent question, Robbie. Why AM I so grumpy?! Certainly not from tiredness. Since you’re home to watch the kids, maybe I’ll take a little walk and think it over … I’ll come back when I have it all figured out.
I may be gone awhile.
November 1.
Ever wondered what a pissed off NASA Space Commander looks like?
This.
Complete with black dress socks and no shoes. You don’t need shoes in space.
Last night Robbie and I emerged from our home dressed like real people and took the boys trick-or-treating. I don’t have any pictures from this experience because we, along with other parents and children, were crammed into a trailer wrapped in plastic sheeting and carted around the neighborhood. We bumped around and took Jell-o shots and I really don’t know how to explain what went down or why, so you’ll just have to accept what I’m telling you and know that it was awesome.
I saw a mom dressed like Wonder Woman running down the sidewalk, cape flying behind her, with a cup full of wine in her hand. She spilled nary a drop. It nearly brought me to tears, it was so beautiful.
Maverick gave all of his candy to a kid who didn’t have as much.
We ran into a READER OF THIS BLOG!!! Hi, Courtney Vidrine! She said she was going to buy the book! And then we hugged.
I now welcome November with open arms.
Pepper Hates Walmart.
“Walmart — and your current outfit — disgusts me. A lot.”
This Monster Eats Bad Kids.
Yeah, we all know parenthood is exhausting, blah blah blah.
It’s emotionally taxing, physically draining, never-ending, HARD AS SHIT. You have heard it all, multiple times, because hasn’t everything about having kids already been said?
It has.
I just keep saying the same things, in a slightly different way, over and over. The thing that keeps it interesting is the children themselves, who continue to say and do things I never would have imagined them saying or doing.
Oh, and first-grade artwork. Which is pretty much the best thing ever.
This monster is totally going to eat me in my sleep.
Mothers of Boys.
You should relax, they say.
Okay, yes. I should. So I will send my sons out to play, and while they are outside I will make a shopping list.
Aww … look how nicely they’re playing.
This was just before Maverick shoved the wagon containing his little brother into the street.
Now, I’ll give him credit for immediately freaking out and trying to catch him. And I give myself credit for not coming completely and totally unhinged.
Mothers of boys can never relax, I’ve decided.
Modern Mommy Madness 