‘I don’t like being a mom,’ I told a friend tonight. As soon as I’d uttered the words, I regretted it. Surely an uncomfortable silence would ensue during which she’d silently judge me as the worst human being on the planet. And I’d be left (mentally) kicking myself in the shins for speaking my mind so brazenly.
But, seeing as my friend is a mom, too, none of that happened. Instead, she agreed. Love the kids. But don’t like this ‘mom’ business so much. Mostly it’s the food that sends me into a state of despair. (And the disciplining. But that’s another story for another day.)
This morning I served breakfast to my blondies: cereal and juice (and milk for the baby). And I was pleased with that. I’d remembered to include beverages with their meals. It was kind of a big deal. Not exactly ‘mom of the year’ material. But certainly a ‘hey, mom’s on top of it today’ kind of moment.
After I doled out breakfast, it was time to get the Gort’s lunch for school. A jam…sandwich? With a cheese-stick and yogurt?
An hour and a half after that, after dropping the Gort off at school and stopping at the grocery store to get some ingredients for a dessert I needed to make, the Hen announced he needed a snack.
Oh. Maybe an apple? I’d just bought some apples at the store and it was the only thing I could think to give him. So I sliced up an apple. And he ate the whole thing, which meant: he was still hungry.
Maybe some toast? I toasted a couple of slices of bread with jam and butter and cut them in quarters for the three year old and tiny pieces for the baby. And they ate all of that. ‘More toast’ the Hen called. So I made another slice. Butter. Jam. Cut. Repeat.
An hour and a half after that it was lunch-time. They’d already had enough bread. What now? Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese, that’s what.
Just before 2:30, we left to pick up brother number one from school. Of course he would want a snack once we got home: reheated mac and cheese, I guess.
In between all the snacking and lunching, I was holed up in the kitchen baking desserts for a social gathering. Around 3:30pm, I looked at the clock. I’d need to start dinner within an hour. And I didn’t want to. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not ever again.
So I began preparations for a tea party, instead. To help get my mind off the fact that I will be making breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, snack….every day for the next seventeen years.
The tea party lasted all of three minutes and turned out to be a bit of bust. Maybe because crazy-mom ordered her angels (through clenched teeth, no less) not to touch their tea, until she could take a picture of the three of them sitting down in a semi-civilized manner.
The professor glanced at the pictures later in the evening. ‘Did you make the Gort change his shirt so he’d match his brothers?’