This morning, my oldest son woke me up at 8:10am, a look of relative anxiety on his face.
"Mom. MOM! It's 8am."
"Mnardasiudsgh.... yeah."
"No... MOM! Come on, it's 8!"
"MNARF....sheckle-hommy... askyerdad."
*exasperated* "Mooooooooom! Come on! I don't have pants and if I don't have pants I can't shower!"
Obvious logic process, there.
Somewhere in this conversation I realize that:
A: My nine year old son does not have pants. Or at least he can't find any. The truth could be either one of these. It was a busy weekend. I didn't exactly do any laundry.
B: My nine year old hasn't showered. Furthermore, it's 8:15 (NOT 8!), and my nine year old hasn't showered. Which means he now has a half hour to find his clothes, shower, dress, brush his teeth, find his shoes, find his backpack (all morning routines in our home involve a significant amount of finding things. It's our own little safari adventure. I should buy a pith helmet.), have me sign any and all forms that require signing, check the lunch menu for the day, argue about the lunch menu, and then send him happily on his way to the bus stop. That's a lot to do in thirty minutes.
C: The painful knot in my side is not appendicitis or a burgeoning tumor, but instead the toes of my three year old son who has somehow found his way to my bedroom in the middle of the night, only to sleep completely sideways with his heels thrust into my ribs. Clearly, he was having a fetal moment, as that's how he spent the bulk of his nine months "in residence". Not only is he still sleeping, but HE has to be ready for the preschool bus at the same time as his brother.
Uh oh.
I shoo the nine year old to the shower with promises to find pants (and meanwhile allow myself to throw something on over my jammies) and begin the process of rousing Captain Crabbypants. Promising he can have chocolate milk after he lets the dogs out-- he ADORES letting them in and out the back door-- I throw on yesterday's jeans and a clean sweatshirt. I spend the next twenty five minutes arguing about clothes (I understand it will be 55 after school but right now it's 28. Wear a coat.), hair (No, you can NOT have a mohawk), lunch choices (Please, for the love of all things holy, try a fruit!), and whether or not we can turn on Spongebob (No, he'll melt your brain.). At ten til nine my oldest busts out the front door to race to the bus stop on the cul-de-sac corner, just as the little preschool bus pulls to the curb. Kisses, hugs, and frantic waving later, I'm collapsed on the sofa feeling as if I've squeezed eight hours of negotiation into 35 minutes. Without coffee, no less.
I'm not the perfect mom. If I were the "perfect mom" I would have been up at six am making sure clothes were laid out, breakfast prepared, and listening to the morning news to get the latest weather information. Instead, I find myself stumbling out of bed at the last minute, hoping to god there's clean underwear for all involved, and begging for the kids to eat something, ANYTHING for breakfast. Half the time I take Z (the three year old) to the bus in my funky pj pants and a jacket. At least, I figure, I MAKE it to the bus. I could just send him running out. It's only down the driveway, he'd be fine.
Sometimes I wonder if I was born without part of the Mom gene. I will be the first to admit- had you asked me twelve years ago if children were on the near horizon... or really much of any horizon- I would have laughed. Laughed so hard I may well have peed my pants. But soon I found myself married and with a baby. And contrary to many beliefs I didn't get married because I was going to have a baby... I married because I was goofy in love, and had a baby for the same reasons. There's a point in which you're so in love you can't imagine not spreading some of that love around. So there I was at twenty-two: married, a beautiful baby boy, hadn't finished college, didn't know what I wanted to do with my life really... only that I'd make it somehow. And I have. This isn't exactly what I thought I was signing on for, but man, what a ride!
I do the best I can by my boys. And while I'll never be class mom, my kids know how much I love and support them. I'm the mom who paints the van windows before important games, the mom who stayed up all night cross-stitching the Valentines Mailbox from hell. I'm the one D (the nine year old) can talk to about his burgeoning interest in girls (Dateline Extra: Girls not as "yucky" as once thought; sometimes they smell good. More at eleven!), and the one who knows just how to rub the boo-boos off of a bumped head or knee. I build great roller coasters on Thrillville, the kind that really make you want to throw up. I'm prone to dancing in the kitchen with the music turned up as loud as possible. And eventually... eventually I can find a pair of killer faded camoflauge pants that will look just right with the grey hoodie you wanted to wear... at 8:15 on a Monday school morning. Without coffee.
