I'm not even quite sure where to start this, but it occurred to me today that I am actually a mom. Like a mom-mom. Not like a new, still basking in my new-baby glow mom, but a carrying-too-many-bags, forgot-to-brush-my-hair-and-don't-even-ask-me-about-my-teeth, one in the carrier, one holding my hand (or, rather, I'm holding his... more like clutching), and one running up ahead going "come on, Mom!" MOM. To teenagers, I am the cautionary tale... old, fat, single, and not wearing a speck of makeup. To older mothers (some now grandmothers) I am the shake of the head. But to other mothers... yeah, they get it. However, even to them, it's my friendship with one particular mom that sets me outside the seeming range of "normal"... MY mom.
Let me track back a little... I homeschool my 8 and 3 year olds, as did my mom for us and still does for my niece/adopted sister (long story for later). So we go to homeschool group once a week, for an extended duration of group activities with other homeschooled kids at the Y. We just were able to afford ALL the activities, so both my oldest and I were incredibly excited to go this morning.
It. Did. Not. Go. Well. Not the group... no, that went fine, except for one bump on the head that my 8-year-old almost instantly recovered from with the help of some mommy-hugs. No, it was the getting out of the house. To sum up... I had to instruct him to put on each of his socks... that's how bad it was. We were ten minutes late on the first day. Normally, this would be really good for us, but, given that these little mini-classes are only 45 minutes each, it's not great. And that's when it happened.
Despite my wildest efforts to be more progressive and innovative with parenting than my own mom, I found myself echoing the words that I had heard so often as a child, or at least the spirit of them. Reminded my son that there were three of them, not just him, and he was THE ONE who was supposed to be able to dress himself. Aside from the fact that I barely had time to slip something adequate on for the 22 degrees that it was outside. My heart was pumping, my mind was racing between *so pissed* and *gotta get there on time!*, and I'm pretty sure 3-4 of those angry honks were aimed at me.
So we pulled up to the YMCA and I didn't budge. I picked up my phone, dialed my mom (who was inside) and stated simply "Do you want to hop in and go get a root beer float because it is just that kind of day." We ended up with more sugar than either of us should be consuming, but, as we pulled back up to the Y, we sighed in conjunction, having artificially triggered fake endorphins to help her let go of the mind-bending nightmares plaguing her and me to let go of my eldest child's mind bending absent-mindedness that lost me the Most Popular and Punctual Mom Award.
I'm not even sure what my point is or if I have one, but I guess I just wanted to shout-out "Hey, Mom!"... thanks. And to all moms wondering if they're doing okay or if their kids are always going to hate them or drive them crazy: No, not always. Sometimes the culmination of it all is just root beer floats on a crazy day in front of the Y. So maybe send a shout-out to your mom or a mom-like figure today. She gets it and needs it as much as you.
Megan is a single, holistically-minded mother of three boys, biology student, doula, childbirth educator, health coach, and independent mind. In her spare time she likes to... HA HA HA HA! I couldn't even keep a straight face for that one! What spare time??