Archive for the ‘motherhood’ Tag
April 20 2011
The countdown, it starts ticking ever louder even before the afternoon is over. I peer at the clock between the 67th round of dress-up as the second-hand turns in slow-motion. While I’m winding down, the kids are gearing up. Their voices talk over each other until it’s all just noise. Noisy noise, making my head hurt. Is it time yet?
3 hours: I think I can, I think I can.
Dinnertime, when my two youngest know I’m preoccupied and take advantage of the opportunity. They jump on couches after I warn against and streak through the house at the speed of light. When they’re finally quiet, it’s too quiet. Most likely because they’ve been in the bathroom, splashing in a sink full of water. I spend our meal urging them to sit, to eat, to not throw food on the floor. How much longer?
2 hours: It’s official, this night is never going to end.
Try to regain my wits after the catastrophe of dinner. The kids, however, are always hyped up like I gave them bowls of sugar for their meal. They are a tornado of constant conflict sweeping through, making a mess of destruction in their path. My moment of zen is fleeting and laughable. Cue the tiny violins as I chant curses at the clock.
1 hour: The light, I can see it, though very faint.
Clean up. Baths. Brushing teeth. Diapers. Pajamas. Chaos. Does it ever stop? Gather kids together like a ranch hand herding cattle, with not as much luck. Stare impatiently at the time. Why don’t these kids ever act tired? I’m exhausted. Disheveled. Done.
5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
Bedtime! Sweet, beautiful bedtime. Does it make me a bad mom that I love you so?
April 19 2011
Abby has a thing for crayons. I have a thing against crayons. This causes a bit of friction. Thus, every day she asks for her crayons. And every day after I finally give in, I fight to get her to gather them back up again. I bribe, I threaten, I beg. I’ve tried it all, none of it more enticing than her rainbow of colors scattered on the floor. Some who have been witness to our battles have asked why I don’t just pick up the crayons myself. After so long, I tell them, it’s a matter of principle.
And principle took center stage yesterday before dinner, when once again nothing worked. Then, with a throat raw from repeating pick up your crayons to no avail, I went to take a drink of milk. Of course, Abby followed, because what else would she do, pick up her crayons?
“Milk?”, she asked, eyeing the jug.
I knew what she wanted and hesitated. I shouldn’t encourage that kind of behavior. One of my duties as her mother is to teach her manners. Yet I’m also supposed to instill responsibility. I was sure it wouldn’t work, anyway. “I will if you pick up your crayons”, I finally bargained.
“Pick up crayons?”, she studied me, then at the jug of milk before running off. When I went in to check on her, she was kneeling on the floor. Picking up her crayons.
A few minutes later, she dashed back in to the kitchen and swung the refrigerator open. “Milk!”, she declared, heaving out the gallon with both hands. As promised, I unscrewed the top, set the rim against her mouth, and tilted it back so my 2 and a half year old daughter could chug from the jug. I then handed her a cold slice of pizza and a pair of flannel boxer shorts. Might as well complete the look, you know, as a matter of principle.
April 13 2011
Let’s play a game, shall we?
Maybe it’s more of a test. Multiple choice. But I’m sure your kid(s) will think it’s a game.
Say your 4 year old runs to you with a worried expression, flapping his arms excitedly. “Mommy! Mommy!”, he calls for your attention as he darts off. You take the hint and follow as he leads you into the bathroom that you didn’t even realize had been opened. Inside, you eye your not-so-innocent 2 and a half year old daughter standing stoic in nothing but a diaper, dripping wet toilet plunger in hand like a staff. A few other items are scattered nearby, thankfully nothing toxic. From the sound of the tank filling again with water, you can hear that the toilet had just been flushed. You look in the bowl to find the soggy remnants of:
a.) A full roll of toilet paper
b.) Your watch
c.) The television remote control
d.) A Spiderman action figure
e.) A handful of unopened pantyliners
f.) Your child is an angel who wouldn’t dare think of tainting anything with toilet water, because you’re a wonderful mother who has worked hard to raise your child right. Where’s that Mother of the Year award?
If you chose f., congratulations. However, if your answer is e. in this instance, you next are:
a.) Angry
b.) Relieved
c.) Fearful at the possibilities of what they might have also managed to plunge down the drain before you walked in.
Answer key: There are no right answers.
April 11 2011
I swear, at one point in time I had other topics of interest to contend. A day that didn’t consist of dirty diapers and spilled milk and tantrums over string cheese. There was a time when I engaged in meaningful discussion. Some might even call them arguments, a more kind term would be debate. My opinion countered against another’s. About the state of our world, the direction it was headed, the ridiculousness of politics. Big, smart stuff, people.
I vaguely recall a joy at simply being heard. My point of view listened to. Sometimes, even taken into consideration. If nothing else, however, I was at least acknowledged.
From what I can remember, it’s nice to be able to express your thoughts in a clear and intellectual fashion.
Now, my most heated discussions have to do with; behavior that constitutes a time-out punishment, hiding in closets: pros and cons, how one can not live on peanut butter and jelly alone (backed by scientific studies, no less), acceptable play items (ie; a dirty mop is not a toy, neither is an oven), the benefits to cleaning up after oneself, and naps: a necessity or waste of time? My position on these matters is probably not surprising.
These debates tend to not be polite, neither are they friendly nor constructive. They can quickly turn downright nasty. Kicking and screaming, a contest is likely to end in wails of discontent. Points are not given the chance to be considered, they are essentially ignored. I am selectively heard, rarely acknowledged, and completely dismissed.
With all of the education I’ve received, along with the bits of information I’ve collected since, I never would have imagined my toughest adversary would sleep in pink Minnie Mouse footie pajamas. My kids have taught me that you don’t need years of knowledge to win a debate, however. The secret is to thoroughly exhaust the opposition until they just don’t give a damn anymore.
March 29 2011
Knock, knock, knock.
It was the afternoon, my daughter was just stirring from a nap and Buzz was watching a movie as quietly as he can be in the back room. I had my netbook in my lap, leisurely taking in the moments of relaxation until it was time to gather everyone together for our daily jaunt to meet Jedi at the bus stop. I still had about an hour to go until then, though. When there was a knock on the door.
I pried myself off the couch to peek out the peephole. I looked and looked again, but I didn’t see anyone there. Figuring it must be someone trying to sell something, or stupid neighbors, I began to walk away. But then it knocked again.
Knock, knock, knock.
Fine, I heaved a loud sigh as I reluctantly answered the door.
When I did, there he was, still too small to be seen by the viewfinder.
“What are you doing here? Are you OK?”, I asked, looking around for a car or some way he made it home.
“You FORGOT ME at the BUS STOP!”, as Jedi’s face curled into almost-cries. “I waited for you for 10 MINUTES!”
“I…. What?! But…. Oh! An hour early! You got off an hour early today!”, you could probably see the light switch on from my forehead.
“YOU FORGOT ME!”
I don’t think that was the best time to tell him that I almost didn’t answer the door for him, either.
