So THIS is what I signed up for?
Saturday, November 14th, 2009Not long ago, a father commented on one of my posts, saying that he was sad and depressed that I was someone’s mother. He went on to say that he was thankful that I was not his wife. I think I’m glad about that, too.
At any rate, I hope he’s not still reading the blog, because I doubt he would enjoy this post at all.
I wish I were the kind of parent—perhaps like that dad who commented—who felt nothing by unwavering love for my child every moment of every day. When I decided to become a parent, that’s truly how I thought I would feel.
And I do feel like that sometimes. Sometimes, I kiss my daughter over and over as I tell her how much I love her. I get all gushy about how great she is. I tell her how smart and beautiful and funny she is. I tell her that she’s the best kid on the planet.
But other times, I’m satisfied if I manage to get through a day without doing something that some innocent bystander might consider cause for calling social services.
I never expected to have Thank God No One Had to Call Social Services days when I decided to become a mother. I’d heard other parents joke about them, but I thought I’d be able to do better. I thought I’d be able to rise above it all. I thought all of my yoga and meditation would transform me into the Zen Parent.
Alas, it will be many lifetimes before I get remotely close to reaching enlightenment. Parenting has taught me that much.
But, I must ask this. Who among you feels a deep sense of joy at the prospect of taking something that looks like this:
And turning it into something that looks like this:
And doing it at 7 a.m., before any caffeine has been consumed?
I did just that this morning, by the way. But I’ll tell you this: no joy was felt during the experience of taking that Lego mess and turning it into that Star Wars thingymabobber. No, what I felt was a deep sense of fear that the most important Lego piece was going to be missing, and so I would not be able to build the Star Wars thinymabobber and therefore my daughter would start crying and eventually accuse me of not properly loving her.
Because that’s how things usually go for me.
Except this morning I actually managed to be a good Mommy and put something together for once.
I also must ask just how jubilant you would feel if you kid’s hair somehow had changed overnight from well-managed, fine, presentable locks and into something resembling a cross between dreds and a bird’s nest? That I somehow found a way to transform that bird’s nest back into something that resembled human hair—all without any of my neighbors thinking that child abuse was going on in my house—that, my friends, is what I call a minor miracle.
While I’m on a roll, I tell you about something else I did not particularly enjoy today. It was when I stood on the sidelines of a soccer field for 75 minutes in the cold, icy rain. I did manage to do this with a smile, even though my fingers went numb from the cold. If that’s not motherly dedication, I don’t know what is. If someone really expects me to actually feel happy about such a situation, though, I have just three words for that someone: You. Try. It.
I didn’t know until somewhat recently that children enjoyed eating their clothes. Therefore, I’m still not used to hearing myself say, “Please stop eating your shirt.” Sometimes I don’t use a completely loving tone of voice, especially after I’ve already said it 179 times in the past 15 minutes. Is that a character flaw? The father who commented on that one post might think so.
Today I hit the refresh button on my email inbox 1,798 times within 5 minutes, while my daughter and I anxiously awaited a confirmation email from Printies so we could start making whatever it is that those blasted things actually are. This confirmation email, by the way, did not arrive in my inbox until hours later—even though the website specifically said that I should wait right there for its imminent arrival. I did not find this experience enjoyable. Do some parents enjoy these sorts of experiences?
Today I also ate at a family style restaurant twice in the same day, and I was thankful for the opportunity because it meant that I did not have to cook at home and then listen to complaints about how no one liked what I cooked. The ten or so minutes that I ate my Mediterranean salad at TGI Friday’s and my eggs Benedict at Perkins were the most relaxing minutes of my day.
Apparently the experience of eating eggs Benedict was not relaxing enough, though, because I completely lost it when my daughter, after whining about wanting to get something out of the gumball machine, accused me of lying when I said I did not have a single quarter in my purse.
I called her a brat. Should I have called her a sweet adorable princess instead?
Just before bedtime, we had a long, deep, heartfelt conversation about how all of the other kids in the world seem to have more toys than my child does. I thought things were going really well for a while. I even silently congratulated myself for being such a calm, understanding mother. But the whining grew louder and the tears went on and on and on. Something in me snapped, and I told her to go to her room before I put all of her toys in her closet.
I suppose there are parents who would have definitely handled that situation better. I’m just not one of them.
I threatened to put all of her toys in her closet again when she complained that she didn’t feel like brushing her teeth.
And, since I was on a streak, I threatened to do it again when she didn’t let me have the pillow I always have when I read bedtime stories.
But, even though I was still mad and annoyed, I managed to read Thesaurus Rex in my happy voice. And I used the happy voice when I tucked her in, too. A truly horrible mother would not have pulled that off, I don’t think.
Oh, some days are bad. Some days are horrible. Some days could go a heck of a lot better. I could beat myself up over it and tell myself that I don’t deserve to be a mother, or I could just be happy that we both live through such days to wake up and see another.
