Our Nightly Ritual: The Fight

I keep watching Downton Abbey and thinking how nice it must be to sit in a window and read a book, or take a leisurely walk out in the field, or make time for tea with my family every day.  But that’s not the world we live in. 

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt like I didn’t stop moving all day.  After I got all three kids out the door - which includes a bus pick-up, a middle school drop off, and a preschool drop off - I came home and had a couple hours to myself . . . during which I put laundry away, picked up the bedrooms, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, folded even more laundry, and ran a forgotten lunch box up to school.

I got a text from hubby mid-morning that said his meeting was pushed later in the day, so he wouldn’t be home until late. 

This text was meant to convey the following:  Babe, I’m sorry I can’t be home to help with homework/dinner/practice because I have an unexpected schedule change, but rest assured that I really want to be home with you helping to parent our children.  You're doing a great job.  I adore you.  

What I internalized was:  blah, blah, blah, you’re on your own again tonight.  Sorry.

What I responded was:  I just took a urine sample from the dog.  You suck.

After picking up Small at preschool and dropping off said urine sample at the Vet, we came home for a healthy snack (pop tarts) until it was time to pick up Large at school for a doctor’s appointment.  We were at the doctor’s office for an hour while Medium got off the bus and came home to an empty house for the first time.  For the duration of that hour, half my mind was listening to the doctor, half of it was keeping Small off the dirty floor, half of it was helping Large with his math homework (hehehe . . . see what I did there with the all the halves?) and half of it was envisioning all the things that could be going wrong at home . . . fire, noise violations, raucous partying, floods of biblical proportion, etc. 

Once we got home it was time for the daily Fight.  The Fight proceeds as follows: I tell the boys in my sweet mommy voice that it is time to start homework.  (Surprisingly enough, even though I left Medium a note with specific directions regarding how he should be spending his quiet hour alone, he did not begin his homework.)  The boys chase each other around the kitchen table.  I use my firm voice to tell them to quit horsing around and get going on the homework.  They head for the pantry.  They sit at the table and touch each other non-stop.  I separate them into two rooms so that they can each “focus.”  Focus is a buzzword during The Fight.  Large asks me for help with math homework from Room A while Medium asks for my spelling advice from Room B.  Small whines that I told him I would build a track for his cars from Room C.  I help Large in Room A, Medium starts “Mom!Mommy!Mom!Mooooom!CanYouHelpMe?Moooom!” from Room B, and Small tugs on my shirt hem.  I go into Room B to help Medium with spelling, and he asks me how many times the Braves have won the World Series or something equally as irrelevant. 

I roll my eyes and begin preparing dinner, which tonight consists of jarred spaghetti sauce over some frozen meatballs and macaroni noodles because we need to be out of the house by 5:45 for basketball practice.  And remember, we’re ALL going to practice because Daddy is stuck at the office.  We continue The Fight, except now my sweet, rational Mommy voice has been replaced by something that sounds a lot more stabby. 

We convene at one table for our “meal,” but the boys continue with the constant touching.  Medium doesn’t eat at all because he can’t focus on his meal long enough to take a bite, and Large ignores the no-electronics-at-the-table rule, but I don’t notice because I’m trying to wrestle a stray meatball from the dog while scrubbing sauce out of the carpet in the dining room because Small chose to eat alone in there. 

I guess we’re not having dinner. 

Clearly the power has shifted.  I beg them to PLEASE get shoes and socks on so we can be on time to practice, for once.  Small runs to gather cars to bring with him while Medium saunters upstairs to find a particular jersey to wear even though there’s no chance in hell he’s gonna find it, and Large launches into a debate reminiscent of Nixon and Kennedy, detailing why he should be allowed to bring his phone everywhere, all the time.

I threaten to pull them out of all extra-curricular activities since no one else seems to care.  (Cue baby violins.)  I bust my ass every night of the week trying to get homework done, children fed and dressed appropriately for whichever activity they may be partaking of, and showered and in bed at a reasonable time.  I’d much rather sit on my couch and watch crappy television than sit on an elementary school cafeteria floor while an underpaid staff person tells my kids not to run in the hallway. 

I must have this mug...

When I was young, I was a girl scout and I participated in one other activity at a time.  It is plausible that it only took one season for my mother to realize I was not meant to be a ballet dancer (because I was too clumsy,) a gymnast (because I can’t even walk in a straight line so how am I gonna balance on stuff,) or a soccer player (because I was easily distracted by pretty flowers and bumble bees.)  OR it could be that she had the common sense not to over-schedule her children and then get mad when they couldn't manage their time.  Either way, I’m doing something wrong because I’m way more wide-eyed and screechy than my mom ever was.  My goal for 2015 is to live simply; I’ve got about 11 more months to figure it out.

If Facebook Posts were REAL.

Hubby and I were chatting last night about the plethora of happy family summer photos that are making their way onto Facebook.  Sure, I could post photos of my smiling children, frolicking at the pool with their dad (on that one random evening he got home before dark and was able to join us.)  Or a photo of them playing ball in the backyard (before Medium had a full-on temper tantrum, complete with hitting, ball spiking, and name-calling.)  Or a photo of the fish we caught (after I pulled the wayward hook from a screaming Small's shorts and untangled Medium's line from his "this-pole-is-SO-STUPID-I-am-the-WORST-at-fishing-the-stupid-fish-keep-eating-my-worms" fishing pole.)

When you know people well enough, you know that what they're posting online is not the full story.  But who wants to look at pictures of messy houses, petulent children, and household chores gone awry?

What's that you say? . . .

BoyMommy's Keepin' It Real Facebook Posts, Summer 2014:


1.  Swagga Wagon

2.  Laundry

3.  baseball cards

4.  Uh oh.

5.  Gratuituous Ninja photos

6.  Healthy Eating Habits

7.  My mad Housekeeping Skillz

8.  Christmas in July.  Because I haven't put that sh*t away.

9.  My boys are SUCH good little listeners

10.  AND they're charming!

You now how all those OTHER posts on Facebook make you feel just a teensy bit envious or a tiny bit bad about yourself/your looks/your parenting/your eating habits/your social circle?  (No?  Just me?)  Well this series of real life photos should make you feel better about your own life, because if you've put all your holiday decorations away, actually have dairy products in your fridge, and had a boogerless morning, you're doing better than I am!

25 Things You Don't Know About Me

25 Things You Don't Know About Me . . . .

1.  I never wear blush.

2.  I sleep on the left side of the bed, unless we’re in a hotel room, in which case I sleep furthest from the door.  This way, if a monster breaks in through the door, he’ll get YOU first.

3.  I could easily work at IKEA as the person who puts together the furniture.  I'd have to work alone though; IKEA furniture assembly nearly ruined my marriage.

4.  I can keep the book at a baseball game or on the GameChangerApp.

5.  I hated Twilight, 50 Shades, and Harry Potter, (though I have enjoyed reading Harry Potter with my boys.)

6.  My toes are ALWAYS painted.  I'm vain.

7.  I found my first gray hair on my 26^th birthday.

8.  I get anxious about impending pain, but I seem to have a high tolerance for it.

9.  I had plastic surgery before I was 5 years old.

10.  I’ve known two of my oldest friends since we were 3 years old, and they are the closest to sisters I’ve ever had.

 

11.  I believe my Mother-in-Law likes me WAY better now than she did when she first met me.  Apparently I'm an aquired taste.

12.  I need a lot of sleep.  Naps make me a better person.

13.  I remember having my first experience with depression at age 13, and I worry that it’s a trait that will be passed on to my children.

14.  I use Oil of Olay products simply because my grandmother did, and smelling it makes me think of her.

15.  Friends is still my favorite tv show.

16.  I do laundry every day.  Every.  Friggin’.  Day.

17.  I believe in Karma . . . the energy you put out into the world surrounds you at all times.

18.  I have a tattoo - because no one ever believes a girl like me has one.

19.  I believe my husband and I are like Yin & Yang.  We are two pieces of a puzzle that complete each other; not in the sappy “you complete me” way, but in the way that we complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

20.  I loved being pregnant because I felt like I finally fit into my body.

21.  I feel guilty every day about my parenting – that I’m not good enough, I’m not paying enough attention, and that I need to be more engaged.

22.  I am addicted to my computer. 

23.  I wish I had rushed a sorority in college.  I'm really good at making those alphabet letters with the little dots on the ends.

24.  I don’t know how to whistle. 

25.  Misplaced apostrophes make me crazy.

I Did Something Stupid . . .

Kids, don’t try this at home.

Generally I am not a confrontational person, but nor am I a wallflower.  I try to be kind, generous, and to do unto others, blah, blah, blah.  I believe in teaching my children integrity by setting a good example for them. 

But sometimes I can be a b*tch.

Like many moms, the minute my boys get off the bus it’s go time.  On Wednesdays, we have art class, then cub scouts, then choir practice, and sometimes we have baseball practice mixed in there.  My Swagger Wagon is my mobile office.  I try to be a courteous, considerate driver; I allow people to merge and to make left turns in busy traffic, and I always wait my turn.

Our route home from art class takes us on a windy, narrow road that has no shoulders.  We were having a pleasant evening drive (meaning the kids were watching a video with headphones on and I was listening to a station other than Radio Disney) and I was driving the speed limit. 

The vehicle behind me was becoming increasingly aggressive.  He began following me closely and eventually he flashed his lights at me and honked his horn.  Naturally, I became Johnnie LawFollower and made sure I drove EXACTLY the speed limit as I watched him give me the universal hands-up sign for "WTF" and an incredulous shake of the head.

We came up on the light at a major intersection, and I knew from experience that the red light would follow a long cycle and that we’d be sitting there for a few minutes.  I checked out my rearview mirror, told myself don’t-do-it-don’t-do-it-don’t-do-it . . . . put ‘er in park, and told the boys to sit tight.

I walked back to the car behind me (picture John Wayne, complete with thistownain’tbigenoughforthe2ofus whistling, except with staticky hair and orthopedic Danskos) as the obnoxious driver looked up from his phone long enough to fiddle clumsily with his window putter downer. 

“You know this is a MINI-VAN, right?  It’s NOT a Porsche,” I explained, pointing to my vehicle, because apparently he was unaware of the physical logistics of driving an automobile of the grocery-gettin’ variety.  

 

“Yeah, I get it.”  Quite the forensic debater, this guy.

“And my BABIES are in this car?” I continued.  Mama Bear’s claws were out.  I’m sure my eyes were all bugged out, and I may or may not have bared my teeth.  “There is NO need to flash your lights at me or to honk your horn.”

“I didn’t flash my lights,” he insisted.  Did so, did so, did so.  “I did honk at you, but only because you braked during the turn.”   Um, there was another car in front of me, Jack@ss.

I closed my argument with an emphatic, “Mini. Van.” and walked back to the Swagger Wagon, like a Boss. 

I should not have engaged this man in conversation, especially when any idiot with a free Saturday afternoon and directions to the Moose Lodge can own a gun these days.  And I certainly did not behave in a way I would want my children to emulate.  To you, Mr. Honky Flasher Guy, I apologize for making you the brunt of my self-righteous Mommy rant.  I will be more tolerant of bad drivers.  Starting tomorrow.