Some may call me a multitasker, others a micromanager, others still a tyrant. But I prefer to think of myself as in the running for the “NOT Mom of the Year” award.
This is not intentional. I do wake every morning with the intention of winning that golden cup on which the words “Mother of the Year” are emblazoned in diamonds. But somehow, someway, during that race, I tend to get sidetracked.
I got up early this morning and thought: “I’m going to get lots done today.” Since I’m all about killing several birds with one big boulder, I told Terran, the 6 year old, to get on his bike. He could ride to the grocery store while I jogged behind him.
See. Three birds: spending time with the kid, grocery shopping, and exercising. I’m a freaking genius.
Off we go. All is well for the first part of the excursion. I’m jogging. He’s riding. We’re talking. Well, Terran is talking, and I’m staying at a reasonable distance behind so I won’t have to partake of the conversation ’cause it usually has to do with burping, farting, or pooping. He’s six. What else does he have to talk about. As long as I’m contributing the necessary “That’s nice” and “Was it a wet one?” he’s good.
We get to the grocery store, I get what I need, I get him a donut, and we get out of there. So far, we’re making pretty good time.
On the ride back though, he’s complaining that his hands are sticky from the donut. So he’s trying to ride with one hand. I’m jogging ahead now because he’s slowing me down, and… well, he’s slowing me down. No further explanation needed.
So I’m going at a pretty good pace, thinking, “This is great. I’ll go home, make the guacamole for supper, vacuum,
watch The View spend some time with the other kids. I am so good at multitasking. I should write a book about it. Look at me, fulltime nursing student, mother of four, keeping fit, house is still standing. I’m freaking amazing!” when suddenly I hear a “Mooom!” followed by a “splat”…or maybe it was a “crash.” Definitely not a “smash” though.
Sure enough, I turn around, and there he is sprawled out under the bike.
Great. Just great. This is definitely going to slow me down.
Mother of the Year would have sprinted to her child, cradled him in her arms, wiped the mud from his brow, and asked, “Are you ok? Are you ok?”
But me. Not so much.
I stomp over to him, lift the bike off of him, very unceremoniously plunk him back onto it, and give him a push in the right direction, all the while freaking, “See! If you’d been riding your bike with both hands, this wouldn’t have happened. Now we’ll be late, and I won’t have time to
watch The View hang out with your brothers and sister.”
When we get home, the other kids are lounging in the living room. And I mean lounging. Glasses of orange juice on my dented coffee table. Toast crumbs on the stained couches. Five empty plates scattered throughout the living room. Oh, and the dog had barfed up something green and gelatinous on the rug which somehow the kids said they “didn’t even know was there.”
Mother of the Year would have used this moment as a learning opportunity. She would have spouted words of encouragement and wisdom ~must picture nauseating singsong voice~ “Come now children, let’s clean the living room together. Let’s have race! And afterwards kids, we’ll play a rousing game of Scrabble where I will proceed to let you win so that your self-esteem will remain intact!”
Me, on the other hand, am flying around on my broomstick pointing at them and barking out orders: “You! You will vacuum the upstairs. You! You will go downstairs and put away the clean laundry. You! Get back here, I see you hiding! You will unload the dishwasher. Thanks a lot guys! I was in a really good mood before I walked into this shitpit!”
So I don’t get everything done that I had planned. My hair looks like I stuck a finger in the socket it’s so fricken frizzy, and I don’t have time to straighten it. But I do make it to class on time.
When I get home from school, the house is still clean. They are all alive. AND they are quiet. Now I’m all like, “Aaaaw! I love them! I shouldn’t be so mean to them.”
After supper, my scope falls onto my oldest. He doesn’t participate in any extracurricular activities and he inherited his father’s (my ex-husband) fat genes. Thank goodness it wasn’t the asshole gene or the moronic gene. But still, as a result of the fat gene, he does tend to struggle with weight issues. I, in my quest for the “Mother of the Year” award, weight train with him a couple of times a week and go for long walks with him where we bond over our love of Adam Sandler movies, talk about the meaning of life, and…
Ok. See that’s what I wish I did. Instead, though, I’m practically dragging him down the street. I start off calmly. I start off like Mother of the Year, all “That’s terrific! I’m so proud of you!” But not long into it, I’m like, “Let’s go! I don’t have all freaking day here kid! You think we’ll make back by daylight?”
Then I get home and my son Jax and daughter Zoe want to watch Toddlers in Tiaras with me. I am exhausted. It’s 10:30, and because it’s summer vacation, apparently kids don’t need a bedtime. They can just stay awake until they pretty much fall unconscious where they stand.
But that fucken Mother of the Year rears her ugly head, and I’m like ~must picture nauseating singsong voice~ “Well, I never did spend time with them this morning. And they had to spend the afternoon in the house because I was in class. Ok kids, let’s make some popcorn and watch the show!”
Of course we aren’t 5 minutes into the show, two of them are fighting over who is going to sit next to me. Again, Mother of the Year would have placed herself in the middle of the couch so each child would have a spot next to her.
But me, well, I prefer the end of the couch so that I can have my drink and my popcorn next to me on the table. So instead of being all, “Let’s find a solution that works for all of us!” I’m like, “Sit your asses down somewhere or I’m turning off the tv.”
The rest of the time together is spend with me “shhhhh”ing them because of their constant commentary, and I can’t hear the psycho pageant mothers saying things like, “It’s our destiny for her to become the next Miss Universe.” Mother of the Year would have said, “Come now children, be quiet so we can feel badly for how these poor children are being objectified by their parents.”
But me: “Shut up!”
Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I can strive towards that shiny golden cup on which the words “Mother of the Year” are engraved. But there’s a pretty good chance, that by 8am, I’ll be back in the running for the “NOT Mom of the Year.”
It’s all good though. A trophee is a trophee.