An earlier version of Wonder Woman had an invisible jet; in other words, an unseeable plane. As a mom, I apparently possess something vaguely comparable. Less of a super-gadget and more of a curse; something fairly obscure among childless people, but painfully well-known among parents. And that’s unhearable words. Adults clearly aren’t impacted by this power because other grown-ups in the room have confirmed that I’m audibly speaking. And my kids can technically perceive sound because they react almost instantly to personally preferable words like “dessert” or to ubiquitously familiar tones like the opening notes of "Despacito". And yet, based on the consistent lack of response from both of my children, these specific words are virtually inaudible to them in the following configurations.
Wash your hands. You’ve just spent an hour crushing rolypolies and disemboweling an earthworm with your bare hands. You’ve got more DNA under your fingernails than the victim in a CSI episode and I’ve seen your hands in your pants twice since I first said it was time for dinner. But you just blew past the sink like my words were delivered via dog whistle. Wash. Your. Hands.
Pick up your trash. I’m able to exit the car with my purse, coffee cup, water Yeti, and a stack of loose school work balanced on my head like I’m practicing for a 1950s beauty pageant. Your one job is to grab that empty Nabs wrapper from the snack you ate in the carpool line. We’ve been verbally rehearsing that expectation since we turned into the neighborhood and you’re virtually neck deep in the wrappers from snack times past, so I thought maybe--just maybe--you might have heard me this time. Nope.
Shut the door. It’s fine if you don’t notice the cloud of cool air gushing onto the porch while you play with your Hot Wheels. Or that you’re completely unfazed by the swarm of hornets you’ve inadvertently invited into our foyer. But i’ll be damned if I didn’t just ask you three different times to shut the fucking door. Excuse me while I convert the message to interpretive dance.
Don’t forget your water bottle. I’ve put your name on it in permanent marker. I’ve filled it up for you and prominently displayed it next to your things. I have made it about as easy to ignore as a genital wart and nearly duct-taped it to your hand as we left for soccer. But one substitution into the game, you’re flagging me down across the field like I’m a plane flying low over a deserted island. Because you. Forgot. Your water bottle.
Yes…? Yes….????? You just called “Mommy” fives times in a row with the increasing urgency of someone on fire. But when I respond? Fucking crickets.
Put on your shoes. A friend of mine’s kid once thought “damn shoes” were a varietal of footwear, as in flip flops, sneakers, damn shoes. Anyone who’s had the regular experience of telling a kid to put their shoes on has at least thought about throwing a “damn” in there, for the simple reason that it’s absolutely maddening how long it takes for that request to be processed through to completion. Sure. The first 5 times I asked I was fairly calm and polite. But when I get ready to walk out the door 20 minutes later and you’re still barefoot and stunned like a deer in headlights— “damn shoes” is exactly what they become.
Stand up. Bath is over. The water has drained. I’m right here with a towel, telling you repeatedly that it’s time to stand the fuck up in the tub. That empty, slippery-ass tub that you would split your head open in if I walked away in frustration and left you to your own devices. And so I stay. Indefinitely repeating myself while you recline on cold porcelain.
Put on your underwear. You’ve been up since 6:45, brushing your teeth, flushing the toilet, yelling downstairs to me about where I put your favorite socks. So imagine my surprise when I come up to help 30 minutes later and you’re still naked from the waist down, spreading your asscheeks apart with your hands and trying to fart on your brother. Put on your damn underwear. For fuck sake. Put. Them. ON.
Put it in the hamper. I didn’t mean penalty-kick it through the door jam or punt it into my face. I meant pick it the fuck up with your hands and put it in the goddamn laundry basket. I’ll paint you a picture next time.
Stay still. Whether it’s applying sunscreen or wiping a dirty ass, a stationary target is generally optimal. And yet, I’ve learned to complete both tasks on the equivalent of a tap dancing puppy because the words “stay still” mean nothing to you. I could probably Google the sign language for that specific phrase--but it’s only worth it if there’s a sign for “goddammit” to go along with it.
Maybe I’ve worn a hole in their ears at the exact frequency of my speaking voice. Or maybe I need to accompany every utterance with exaggerated pantomime, a catchy song, or some animated PowerPoint slides. Either way, one thing’s for certain. Whoever came up with the expression “til you’re blue in the face” definitely had their own five- and seven-year-olds who couldn’t listen for shit. Because that’s how I’ll look once I’ve literally talked myself to death: blue as fuck, lying dead in the foyer, while a pair of shoe-less, pants-less kids play soccer with a pair of underwear around me.
So...as superhero swag goes, I think I'd prefer the invisible jet.
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