mother’s day at my worst

by humanmama on May 9, 2013

Mother’s Day is coming. Ahh, so relaxing. A day just set aside so I can be a mother all day. Be lavished with the gifts of motherhood. Enjoy the fruits of my labor (and/or loins). Be one with my offspring.

Except–that’s every day. Every. Single. Day. Every day from wake ’til sleep and many, many moments in between is filled, to the brim, with celebrating the fact that (yeah, I know) I’m a Mother. Flowers, and candy? And breakfast in bed? And a diamond tennis bracelet? That’s really not motherhood. Sorry, Hallmark.

“Mom! Mom! Mommy? Mommy? Mommmmmmyyyy? Mommmmmmyyyy? MOMMMMMAAAYYYYY? Can you wipe my buummmm?” That’s motherhood.

At my best, I’m a good mom. Actually, I take that back. I’m a great mom. I know because for the past 4 days I’ve had the worst pinkeye known to human existence, which might just be some sort of unknown and undiscovered eye cancer or disease since the kids have been spared, WHICH IS LIKE THE MODERN-DAY LEPROSY WHERE PEOPLE LOOK AT YOU AND IMMEDIATELY CLUTCH THEIR CHILDREN TO THEM AND CROSS TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET AND NOW EVERYONE WILL KNOW ABOUT IT, but still, Carp has been gone at night so I’ve been putting all 3 kids to sleep by myself. My mom came over a couple of nights, which was nice, but it’s still on me to get them ready, bedded, and clean up all our shenanigans before the morning. My eyes went out at like 4pm and so I could barely see from 4-8, when they were all thankfully in bed. I hurt. My head pounded. And still I switched the laundry (so it wouldn’t be all mildew-ey), let the dog out, quickly checked the bank balance, picked up the downstairs, folded, put away, etc. etc. etc. That’s pretty much my best. Every morning I was still there, still loving, still not screaming “DAMMIT CAN’T YOU JUST LET ME BEEEE” when my kids climbed all over me early in the morning.

At my worst, I am angry and short-tempered and the fact that I can’t even listen to the radio show that I want to makes me weary. Like, bone-weary. Like, searching-craigslist-for-the-help-wanteds-weary. Like searching Aruba for the help-wanteds weary.

At my best, I’m making cookies from scratch and letting them pour the sugar in even though I know they will spill it.

At my worst, I daydream about running away with Carp (or, even,without him…maybe I’ll change my name…) to a desert island. Or a dessert island. Or just to go eat a dessert by myself where no one says “CAN I HAVE THAAAT? ARE YOU GOING TO FINISH YOURS MOMMY?”

At my best, I quiz on homework even though we both hate it. I faithfully think of and make them follow through on a fantastic science fair idea. At my best I tell them I love them every hour, and let them know why I’m getting really, really frustrated before I’m too mad and lose it.

At my worst, I do that horrible thing where you grab them by their arms and rip them back to you to glare into their eyes “DID YOU HEAR WHAT I JUST SAID??”

At my best, I love them. And at my worst, thankfully, I love them. Which means all I want for Mother’s Day is for Carp to take all three of them out for the entire day and just let me be me. By myself. For better or worse.

But, if I have to lay in bed and open handmade gifts while choking down a strange crunchy omelet lovingly prepared by them with the Carp? I have to say: things could be worse.


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