Tag Archives: mom

I Am Not That Mom

I am Not that Mom

I am not that mom who sits on the floor with you playing My Little Pony for hours. I am not the mom who builds entire towns on Minecraft. I have never learned to play Pokémon and I never (ever) will. I am well aware of my failure in this aspect of parenting.

I am thankful for my husband, who excels in watching cartoons and playing video games. I smile when I see him and the kids tossing a football in the yard. (In the yard. No Throwing Balls in the House. Jesus.) I laugh when they wrestle and tickle and play, play, play.

I’m just not that mom.

I was the young soon-to-be mom, scared to death but determined, so determined, to bring you into this world and love you like no other. I was the single mother of two who worked long hours and still held dance parties with just my two boys where we sang at the top of our lungs and the laughter rang as loud as the music. Before you were even born, I was the mom eating cherry cheesecake so I could see you dance. (And because cheesecake.)

When I first saw you, I knew that you would hold my heart forever. Two more times I met my new sweet babies, and two more times my heart grew to wrap around all of you. When you were a baby, I was that mom who couldn’t sleep for looking at you. I can still feel you, so tiny, snuggled on my chest. When I see you asleep now, I still picture you curled up in footie pajamas, all wispy hair and dark lashes against perfect skin.

I was that mom who rocked you all night, patting and bouncing and shh, shh, shhing when you cried. I was the mom who panicked over every bump and bruise. I was the mom who kissed boo boos. I was the mom who spent untold hours waiting on casts for broken bones or bandages for cut fingers. (Safety scissors, my ass.) I was the mom whose leg you were firmly wrapped around the day we toured preschools. I was the mom who went to school online in order to work from home because you needed me.

I am the mom who signs notes and checks homework and packs lunches. I’m the mom who makes the doctor’s visits and dentist appointments and parent teacher conferences. I’m the mom who hasn’t worn anything but thrift store clothes for years so that you can go to school wearing clothes that are apparently hand-sewn by the famous athletes of the world.

I’m the mom who makes stupid jokes and sings off-key and acts sillier than I am just to see you smile. I’m the mom who wouldn’t trade those smiles for the entire world.

I’m the mom who loves you so much more than I could ever explain. And the mom who tries so hard to show you that.

But most times I feel like I am also the mom who is failing.

I’m the mom with chronic recurring depression. I’m the mom with generalized anxiety disorder. I’m the mom with PTSD. I’m the mom who has chronic migraines. I’m the mom with chronic pain. I’m the mom who sees more doctors than hairstylists. (Hahahahaha, I don’t even remember the last time I went to a stylist. But you have an appointment tomorrow.)

I am the mom who struggles every single day to accomplish the things that have to be done so that you can have a “normal” life. I am the mom who does your laundry even when I have to sit down to sort it. I’m the mom who makes sure the water bill gets paid so that you can shower. I’m the mom who clips your fingernails and buys you toothpaste and nags you to wear deodorant.

I’m also the mom who forgets things. Not the big stuff, like birthdays or Christmas, although there have been a few notes from the Tooth Fairy instead of cash. But I forget things that you already told me. I forget that when you were playing a video game yesterday, you scored 58 touchdowns and a free throw, and spawned…maybe a chicken? I don’t know. I forget.

But I’m also the mom who can tell in a single glance when you are upset, and who listens to you when you are sad and angry and when you are happy and excited, even if I do tend to forget your ponies’ names and LeBron’s stats and how to catch ’em all.

I’m the mom who wants to slay all your dragons and breathe fire on anyone who dares to hurt you.

I’m also the mom who too often hurts too much to cook dinner. I’m the mom who lets you eat an unhealthy amount of macaroni and pizza rolls. I’m the mom who has piles of clean laundry on the couch because my arms ache so badly I can’t fold it. I’m the mom who gets overwhelmed too easily. I’m the mom who has to hide when things get to be too much. I’m that mom who cries in the bathroom when I’ve let you down.

I’m the mom who stays awake at night worrying about you. I’m the mom who wishes she could save all your hugs and all your “I love you’s” and get them back out on the days when there are no hugs, just slamming doors.

I’m the mom who loves you SO MUCH. You are the children who save my life every day. I’m the mom who is trying to be the parent you deserve, even when I’m not the one you might want.

*EDITED TO ADD: I am completely overwhelmed by the response this post has gotten. I love all you guys so much,  and even though everyone keeps saying that I’ve made them feel less alone, the truth is that YOU GUYS have made me feel less alone. Thank you all SO much for every like, comment, share, and kind thought. I’ve been trying to respond to all the comments, but as I guess y’all know, I’m sick a lot. But I have read every single one of them, and each one brings a smile to my face or a tear to my eye and sometimes both. I just wanted everyone to know how much your love and compassion for each other and your “me too” and your stories have affected me.

Love,

Steph


Kids? Tyrants? Gremlins? You decide.

My children have got the crazy-making thing down.  I mean, they are professionals.  Little ornery agents of chaos, stalking me everywhere I go.  (Seriously.  Everywhere.)

I have compiled a list of some of the random shit my children have come up with in their never-ending quest to watch me unravel.

1.  Refusing to wear coats.  This may not sound serious, but when it is 16 degrees outside and you can barely get your kid to wear shoes, you’ve got a problem.  And you might think this is no big deal, but it is a big deal when you know it is not actually a dislike of outerwear, but probably a plot designed to get Child Services called.  They are sneaky, I’m telling you.

2.  Calling me “Mommom.”  They never just say “Mom.”  It’s always “Mom. mom. mom. mom. momomomomommomom.”  I believe this is to keep me off balance, always looking over my shoulder for additional mothers.

3.  Throwing my own words back at me.  For instance:  After taking a healthy dump off the front porch, my then 5-year-old looked at me with a straight face and said, “What?  You told me to go outside if it was an emergency.”

4.  Drawing pictures of me at school.  I don’t mind the flattering ones, but seriously?  This?

The journal entry for this said, “I ate too much candy and my mom got mad at me.  She got so mad at me, her head almost exploded.”

5.  They do not show an appropriate amount any appreciation of my dancing, singing, or joke telling skills.  In fact, they claim unbelievable things like I am “lame” or “not funny.”  Pssh.

6.  They are always pointing out my mistakes, like when I put the milk in the cabinet or the toothpaste in a lunch box.  And then they tell other people.  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; the same should apply here, only with less drugs and strippers.

7.  They are always wanting food.  ALL the time.  Like, every day.  I think they all have tapeworms.

8.  They FaceTime or Skype with people without telling me, so random teenagers see me in my pajamas talking to the cat.

9.  Goading me into playing video games and then mocking my mad skills when my guy is always the one stuck in a corner or aiming at the sky.

10.  Telling their friends that I’m not helpful with studying because I always laugh at answers like “Titicaca.”  (That shit is funny.  Don’t tell me it’s not.)

I could go on and on, but I’m exhausted from trying to stay a step ahead of the little gremlins, so I’m out.  Don’t worry, I learned long ago to sleep with one eye open.


Limit four.

It turns out that the number of humans I am capable of keeping in some semblance of order is four.  That’s unfortunate, because after my three children and my husband, I make five.

This means that while my daughter went to school freshly bathed and brushed and wearing matching clothes, I worked in my pjs until about 15 minutes before I had to leave the house.

That was when I realized that although I had showered within the last week, I could not remember the last time I had attempted to brush my hair.  Which is long.  And thick.  And now partially in dreads.  Actually, that should be singular.  A dread.  I have one nappy snarled twisted mess right smack-ass in the middle of my hair.

My husband is now referring to me as Marley.  I’m not sure what the next step should be here, other than maybe hiding all his socks.  (Oh, wait, I already did that.  Ha.)

But seriously, I was under the impression that people cultivated dreadlocks, not that they just appeared if you maybe slacked off on personal hygiene for a few minutes months.

Clearly it is time for a new goal.   Actually, goals, while I’m at it.

1.  Stop eating so much damn pity pie.  Pity pie is NOT your friend.
2.  Brush your goddamn hair, you dirty hippie.
3.  Fuck it, that’s enough.  Those are pretty lofty goals; I’m worn out and a little hungry already.


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