Put your shoes on.
Put your shoes on.
Don’t eat that.
Put your shoes on.
GET THAT OUT OF YOUR NOSE.
PUT. YOUR. SHOES. ON.
Why does Mommy need wine? I mean seriously though, how many times do I have to tell you to put your shoes on? We do this at the same time every damn day. Today is no exception.
Ah, Mom Things.
You know what I’m talking about… that thing where we do the thing that we know is a thing? It’s the same thing that we go, “ugh, I hate when I do that thing,” and then we do it anyway? Yeah, that thing.
Directly at the point where birth occurs, we, as moms, are immediately programmed with the mommy manual that has the potential to make us crazy people. But there is one awesome antidote: listening. We exercise no control over these habits, and hell hath rain fury upon those who disobey, argue, challenge… anything we say, do, or our methods. With all that being said, there is something so strangely comforting in sharing our craziness with fellow moms and dads and friends.
Cleaning 15 minutes before you show up even though I knew you were coming two weeks ago. Oh, you’re coming over for dinner? Totally knew this two weeks ago, totally remembered this yesterday (again this morning), and yet I decided to tackle my to-do just before you’re arrival. Better dust, vacuum, finish the laundry, scrub the baseboards, sweep crumbs from the fork separator in the silverware drawer. Why did I wait until now?
Being so motivated for new projects that make you the creative mom when you are just one shining example of the “nailed it” prophecy. Don’t do the bunny biscuits. Just don’t. Also don’t do the homemade glitter glue unless you desire to ruin everything good in your home. Definitely don’t try the at-home-hair-trim from a twisted ponytail. Who are the women that create these? Where do they receive their talents? Better yet, why was I skipped in line when they were handed out? I just want to make one salt-dough hand-print that will completely freaking air-dry ALL THE WAY.
…Not all superheroes wear capes–sometimes it’s just a messy bun and a stained tanktop.
Feeling oddly compelled to tidy for you, when we are in the same boat. I’m tired, and you know I’m tired. Because you are also tired, for the same reasons. And yet here I am cleaning for you, when you know you hate cleaning for me to come over, …but if I don’t clean before you come over, your child will find and choke on the single tuft of cat fur that’s been sitting behind the entertainment center for a month (you know the one that flails around wildly in the air while you vacuum). (How do they do that?)
Using Child to be accepted in public. Reeeeeeally need to run to the grocery store. Reeeeeeeeally need to run to the post office. Reeeeeeally don’t want to spend a half hour getting ready when the errands don’t take that long, but also I could use that same half hour to pound caffeine. What’s it gonna be? Definitely gonna slap on my nicest yoga pants (fuck you; they’re pants), toss my hair up, and when you see me, I’ll make sure to more-loudly-than-normal acknowledge my child to make you think, “awe, what a hard-working mama, no wonder she looks so tired.” BOOM. Works urrvrytime.
The judging glare when same Child throws Tantrum. It isn’t always the childless folks (oh, just wait), but we do it to each other, too. Yes, hello, Becky, I see you nonchalantly glaring at me from Aisle 7. I also see your Tiny Satan and raise you two bottles of wine that you didn’t go through this ten minutes ago. We both know nothing can be done, so just eyes-forward to the checkout counter, and we will be on our way. (Also, a generous salute to the other mom that sees the tantrum and silently motions me to a bottle of wine. Thank you so much, sweetheart. I gotchu.)
Fuck you; they’re pants.
Not ever really being sure of the point where you go from strangers-in-passing to newly-found-mom-friend. Briefly referring to similar situation with not-Becky from the previous bullet, at what point during our extended Messenger conversation from the For Sale page do we become friends? Do I add you? Do you add me? Do we swap numbers, e-mails, addresses? We have exhausted item information and uses for the item(s) and done dove head-first into unrelated banter that I haven’t had in so long and you get me and OMG ME TOO, and you’re perfect and. Do you wanna get coffee some time? Too far? #momdates
Wondering what he is doing in there, because it simply can’t be pooping. How can you. What are you. I just can’t… how do you do it? I have literally tried to sit on the toilet with my phone, and I’m done before the app opens. Dearest husband, how do you blow forty-five minutes? I think we should make you an appointment. I also feel compelled to mention the perfect timing you have for only needing to use the restroom the moment I walk in the door with my arms full of groceries, still trying to catch my breath from work. At the same token, I just want you to know how completely envious I am of your ability to sit peacefully, quiet and content without concern. Care to share??
Screaming for help, then doing it yourself when no one responds in the first 4 seconds. I have a reason for asking you to do it now. If I wanted you to do it in 20 minutes, I would ask you in 20 minutes. Obviously there are other things I need to do, so I need your aid with this task so that I can continue with my task that is a prerequisite to other tasks. And It will only take you a few minutes. Ah, nevermind. I’m right; it will only take a few minutes. I can just do it. No, really, it’s fine. Ugh… why does no one ever help me?!
I can do anything.
Praying for alone time, but failing to enjoy it, and bartering with yourself to make sure that you’ve earned that alone time (when you damn well know you have). Heck yes, kid’s at school. Got all day to mindlessly scroll through Pinterest or Facebook or start a new hobby. I’m going to make those baby jar lights! I can wash the curtains; they are so dirty. Maybe a nap? Or pedicure? *scrolls Pinterest motivated to create a list that will be accomplished today* I have literally nothing to do, and this is what I have been begging for, yet I am only met with profound anxiety at the thought of me not running ragged like a freight train. Yep, I’m going to go get a pedicure. After I bleach the bathtub, because then I’ve worked hard enough to deserve it. What? It’s only been 3 minutes?? I can’t get her for another 7 hours. WHAT. WILL. I. DO. WITH. MYSELF.
Being an adult, but having to call on an adultier adult for anything
above basic chores, including basic chores. I only have enough for a small load, so can I put the red sweater in with other color clothes if I’ve already washed it before? I mean, the dye that is going to wash out has already come out at that point, right? #safe What do you mean I can’t renew my Driver’s License online? I have to do it at the place? Can my mom do it for me? *FaceTimes Mom* Unrelated, does this look infected? Can I wash the cats with baby shampoo? How many times can you wear a bra before you have to burn it? So much anxiety comes with adulthood and mommyhood and the other hoods that you can’t ever really be sure you’re doing the right thing. And Google judges the shit right out of you, so sometimes you just have to ask these things in person with no tangible record. It takes a village, right?
Feeling like a total superhero when your ducks are in the same pond. Today, I showered, made the grocery list, vacuumed the living room, curled my hair, and picked up the kids on time. I can do anything. *hairflip* So have that wine, or whiskey, or whatever, because not all superheroes wear capes–sometimes it’s just a messy bun and a stained tanktop.
You know what? We take so much pride in what we do, but Jesus Christ do we have some weird fucking habits. I never was much interested in the straight-and-narrow, and I can honestly say that I will never be jealous of those moms that get a full-night’s sleep and wake up gorgeous, ‘cuz at some point, they’re just not living. They can’t be. We have too much to worry about. So stay wild, crazies, ‘cuz you’re livin’ for the love of experience.