My mom is incredibly giving and selfless, but kids can be pretty damn annoying—and she had five of them. Mama devoted her life to braving hell and high water on our behalf, but still didn't hesitate to let us know she hated the following 4 things (in addition to Organized Happiness). And now I totally get it.
Questions about when dinner would be ready. My mom ran a daycare out of our house for most of my childhood as a way to be present for her own 5 kids, while assisting my dad in financing our existence. Ninety percent of our dinners were masterpieces in home-cooking that my mom began prepping while the “baby-sitting kids” ate their lunches midday. By the time we had the audacity to ask when it would be ready, our dinner had been in progress for HOURS. Mama was on it. She had not forgotten. Our dinner’s readiness would be meticulously poised at “almost” until the last babysitting kid’s departure, at which point she would skillfully throw it on the table like a magician doing a tablecloth trick in reverse. I’m sure, at one time, she saw fit to humor us by explaining the intricacies of timing a hot, balanced meal. But after being interrupted by 5 consecutive impatient children from the very task they’re asking about, “When’s dinner going to be ready?” naturally elicited the type of exasperated response she typically gave instead: “When I’m good and damn ready.” And now--I get it.
Questions about what she was making. When asked, “What’s for dinner?”, my mom almost always told us “dog food”. And after attempting to please the meager palates of my own kids for the past 5 years--now I get it. Nothing my mom could have said was a guaranteed win across the board. Marie would eat white cheese—if it was melted—but dry-heaved at cheddar. I gagged over green beans. And Caroline refused pretty much everything except Coke and chicken nuggets. Mikey and Liz generally snatched up whatever got tossed out like baby crocodiles--but to consistently please only 40% of your kids after laboring since lunch time with food preparation was a big ol’ buzzkill for Mama at the end of the day. She was a great cook. We were just picky little shits half the time—but we learned to like good food because she didn’t give in to our extraneous commentary about what we did or didn’t want for dinner (unless it was our birthday, of course!). So rather than process the preemptive cascade of food critiques from any number of her children, Mama opted with “dog food”, a response that under-promised, but over-delivered. And we were some lucky little bastards--cuz Mama's daily version of "dog food" was pretty damn delicious.
Being asked to help find things that weren’t actually lost. As a kid, I remember scouring the cabinets for food items or cleaning products that I just could not see. “Open your eyes and LOOK!”, Mama would yell from the other room, until I finally complained enough for her to stomp in and confirm that the missing item was, in fact, “right in front of my face.” It made her crazy. And now I get it. Far too much of my day is devoted to “finding” things that are “lost” in plain view. Toy cars. Bouncy balls. A runaway shoe. After a quarter-second's worth of looking on their own, my kids inevitably enlist my help to find items that are RIGHT THERE. And dear GOD, how I wish they would just open their eyes and LOOK.
Sand. As kids, we all loved the beach. The waves. The pool. The beach condo. The thrill of being anywhere else but home for a whole week straight. But we were generally oblivious to the overwhelming amount of work this trip created for my mom—the planning, the packing, and the patience required to pick up and move our 5-ring circus to a place that was covered in saltwater, sunscreen, and SAND. So much sand. Even though it was supposedly her vacation, too, our mom could not escape the insurmountable deluge of SAND we tracked in. On our bodies. In our swimsuits. On our flipflops. On our sopping-wet towels. And in every crevice of the extensive sand toy collection we refused to carry or wash out ourselves, but cried like hell if we didn’t have on the beach. Mama hated sand. And we all knew it—because she told us. Every day of our vacation.
And now, I totally get it.
When I’m still struggling in from the car 10 minutes later with all the bags, jackets, and preschool artwork they refused to help carry and my kids accost me in the doorway with demands about the ETA on their lunch—“when I’m good and damn ready” sounds just about right.
And if claiming to prep “dog food” for dinner wouldn’t just confuse my kids into thinking we were getting an actual dog, I’d probably do that, too.
And as I consider leaving a trail of breadcrumbs from my kid’s elbow to his ass when he swears his rear-end has gone missing, a reminder to “open your eyes and LOOK” seems like the next best option.
And after unsuccessful attempts to literally scrub it from the crack of my 3-year-old’s ass, I can whole-heartedly confirm: Sand is the devil.
So even though Mama never wished “The Mother’s Curse” on me, personally—the one where you grow up to spawn kids who are just as annoying as you—I totally get why she would have. Because motherhood is a joy, an honor, and a privilege. But it’s also a huge pain in the ass.
So thanks, Mama. Now I get it.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO THE BEST MOM FOUR GIRLS AND A GUY COULD HAVE!!!
Questions about when dinner would be ready. My mom ran a daycare out of our house for most of my childhood as a way to be present for her own 5 kids, while assisting my dad in financing our existence. Ninety percent of our dinners were masterpieces in home-cooking that my mom began prepping while the “baby-sitting kids” ate their lunches midday. By the time we had the audacity to ask when it would be ready, our dinner had been in progress for HOURS. Mama was on it. She had not forgotten. Our dinner’s readiness would be meticulously poised at “almost” until the last babysitting kid’s departure, at which point she would skillfully throw it on the table like a magician doing a tablecloth trick in reverse. I’m sure, at one time, she saw fit to humor us by explaining the intricacies of timing a hot, balanced meal. But after being interrupted by 5 consecutive impatient children from the very task they’re asking about, “When’s dinner going to be ready?” naturally elicited the type of exasperated response she typically gave instead: “When I’m good and damn ready.” And now--I get it.
Questions about what she was making. When asked, “What’s for dinner?”, my mom almost always told us “dog food”. And after attempting to please the meager palates of my own kids for the past 5 years--now I get it. Nothing my mom could have said was a guaranteed win across the board. Marie would eat white cheese—if it was melted—but dry-heaved at cheddar. I gagged over green beans. And Caroline refused pretty much everything except Coke and chicken nuggets. Mikey and Liz generally snatched up whatever got tossed out like baby crocodiles--but to consistently please only 40% of your kids after laboring since lunch time with food preparation was a big ol’ buzzkill for Mama at the end of the day. She was a great cook. We were just picky little shits half the time—but we learned to like good food because she didn’t give in to our extraneous commentary about what we did or didn’t want for dinner (unless it was our birthday, of course!). So rather than process the preemptive cascade of food critiques from any number of her children, Mama opted with “dog food”, a response that under-promised, but over-delivered. And we were some lucky little bastards--cuz Mama's daily version of "dog food" was pretty damn delicious.
Being asked to help find things that weren’t actually lost. As a kid, I remember scouring the cabinets for food items or cleaning products that I just could not see. “Open your eyes and LOOK!”, Mama would yell from the other room, until I finally complained enough for her to stomp in and confirm that the missing item was, in fact, “right in front of my face.” It made her crazy. And now I get it. Far too much of my day is devoted to “finding” things that are “lost” in plain view. Toy cars. Bouncy balls. A runaway shoe. After a quarter-second's worth of looking on their own, my kids inevitably enlist my help to find items that are RIGHT THERE. And dear GOD, how I wish they would just open their eyes and LOOK.
Sand. As kids, we all loved the beach. The waves. The pool. The beach condo. The thrill of being anywhere else but home for a whole week straight. But we were generally oblivious to the overwhelming amount of work this trip created for my mom—the planning, the packing, and the patience required to pick up and move our 5-ring circus to a place that was covered in saltwater, sunscreen, and SAND. So much sand. Even though it was supposedly her vacation, too, our mom could not escape the insurmountable deluge of SAND we tracked in. On our bodies. In our swimsuits. On our flipflops. On our sopping-wet towels. And in every crevice of the extensive sand toy collection we refused to carry or wash out ourselves, but cried like hell if we didn’t have on the beach. Mama hated sand. And we all knew it—because she told us. Every day of our vacation.
And now, I totally get it.
When I’m still struggling in from the car 10 minutes later with all the bags, jackets, and preschool artwork they refused to help carry and my kids accost me in the doorway with demands about the ETA on their lunch—“when I’m good and damn ready” sounds just about right.
And if claiming to prep “dog food” for dinner wouldn’t just confuse my kids into thinking we were getting an actual dog, I’d probably do that, too.
And as I consider leaving a trail of breadcrumbs from my kid’s elbow to his ass when he swears his rear-end has gone missing, a reminder to “open your eyes and LOOK” seems like the next best option.
And after unsuccessful attempts to literally scrub it from the crack of my 3-year-old’s ass, I can whole-heartedly confirm: Sand is the devil.
So even though Mama never wished “The Mother’s Curse” on me, personally—the one where you grow up to spawn kids who are just as annoying as you—I totally get why she would have. Because motherhood is a joy, an honor, and a privilege. But it’s also a huge pain in the ass.
So thanks, Mama. Now I get it.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO THE BEST MOM FOUR GIRLS AND A GUY COULD HAVE!!!
Comments
Post a Comment