Don’t speak

September 29, 2012

I am a female in my mid-30s. I don’t know if other women my age had the same grand scheme in their minds as I did of how life should unfold.

I knew I wanted to be a mom. Because it’s sweet to be a mom! And playing mommy was always fun, right?!

One of my babies…walking her babies.

You know what else moms are? Bat-sh+t crazy.

After spending all day listening to my three arguing over who’s right, screaming out in delight over the dumbest things, questioning everything I said, ignoring my pleas to hurry up, and tormenting each other because the only thing that’s worse than being together with your siblings is having to spend time apart with (gasp!) no imagination or ability to entertain yourself, I reached my boiling point.

I looked them straight in the eye and said:

“Look at me. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!!”

“I don’t care what you do when we get home, but I don’t want to see or hear you. So find something to do and don’t bother each other.”

They looked up at me and their eyes said what their mouths didn’t. “Ok, mom. You’re mean. Whatever.”

And you know what? Mean mom didn’t feel a tinge of guilt. Because while mean mom was shopping for a new shower curtain earlier in the day, she witnessed the little angel pictured above actually lick the floor of Target because her oldest brother told her to. (No I didn’t! Yes you did. So shut it.)

Off to the second store. Mean mom then visited Nobbies with the same brother in the hopes of finding a scary costume that not only fits his coolness standards, but also isn’t inappropriate for school. Because THAT’S possible.

Did I mention this impossible-to-please-mini-version-of-my-husband expects to walk into a store and have a costume magically appear in front of him within minutes without exerting any effort? So after I made him ask the store clerk (eye roll…followed by exasperated sigh) about whether or not a particular overpriced costume he liked was in stock, we learned it was not. Forty five minutes later, we walked out empty handed and defeated.

That got us through lunch time.

Following our refueling, I thought it would be a grand idea to get them out of my face take them all to the park for some exercise. No less then 20 minutes later, one kid had to poop. Return home. Head out to park number two. New scenery, different kid, same scenario.

(I didn’t HAVE to poop when we got home the first time. Yes you did. So shut it.)

It was during the final trip home when I gave them direct orders to stay far, far away from me if they knew what was good for them.

They obliged, I grabbed a bottled sangria, and plopped myself down to blog it out – spilling my thoughts to you, my online therapists.

No matter how ready you feel you are, no woman is ever adequately prepared to calmly raise children. And that’s ok. Because unlike every other scenario we face in our adult lives, we get a chance to begin anew everyday.

And those floor-licking, eye-rolling, constantly-pooping beings are ready to forgive and forget their mean mom.

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3 responses to Don’t speak

  1. 

    Five words: Peanut butter and Benadryl sandwiches…

  2. 

    Too funny. I am relieved to know that dads are just as irrational with their thoughts. We psychotic parents must stick together.

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    […] …disgusted. Until I saw you lick the floor of Target. […]