I got royally pissed yesterday. SEE, I was trying to put some polish on my oh-so-wise words about in-season produce and various ways in which it can be stored for future consumption, thus saving tens of THOUSANDS of pennies and possibly the ENTIRE WORLD because a Mason jar can be reused indefinitely, whereas cans of corn from the supermarket must be manufactured and then (hopefully) recycled into something new, and blah blah blah…and my Denizens were making me a Crazy Person.
Every eight seconds, it was something. She’s touching me. She’s not touching me. Yeah, well, it IS a problem, we’re supposed to be playing TAG! She won’t give me the DS. She won’t let me have my latch hook kit back. Well yes, technically, I traded it for the Mickey Mouse cross-stitch kit, but it turns out that cross-stitch is hard and I don’t wanna do it anymore. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I don’t want water or milk, I want Kool-Aid. Or lemonade. Or something-else-aid. Whatcha doooooooin’, mommy? Mommy? MOMMY? WHATCHA DOOOOOIN’?!?!
I feel as though I’m just waiting for summer to be over, so I can get back to my life, you know? Waiting for school to start, so that I can get back to business.
Boo Bug bounced into the room and started nattering on about something inane as I was trying to figure out which box was supposed to be checked on the bus form for Captain Adventure, and I snapped at her.
Which is a lot like kicking a puppy.
And then, as I was hugging her and trying to explain that gee whiz, I’m only a person and you guys have been pick-pick-picking at me not just all day today, but all day every day for the last two months, it struck me: Isn’t it ironic that I’m annoyed with the children for keeping me from taking care of the business that is all about ensuring that those same children are kept in food, shelter and clothing?
They are, after all, kind of the point.
They are the things I wanted most. They’re my hope, and my reward. The greatest gift I’ve ever gotten, and my greatest gift to the world – my masterpieces. They are my sacred duty, my delight, my pride and joy.
Ironic that they can irritate the skin right off my nose, huh?
Parenthood is full of these kinds of minefields. There’s the dewy-eyed expectations we build up from the time we’re young, and then the harsher realities.
Sure, there’s still all the unicorns and rainbows and giggles and cuddles and lovey-dovey blah blah blah, but there’s also retching noises from the top frickin’ bunk at 2:15 in the morning. There’s an autistic five year old bellowing, “MOMMMMMY!” while you’re on the phone with a potential client – now a lost client. There’s a constant stream of messes, and there comes a point where you swear you’re going to just belt the next kid who says, “Sorry, Mommy!” – because seriously, I’d like a lot less sorry and a whack more not offending in the first place.
But they’re still my pride and joy. I’d rather live my life in second-hand jeans eating homegrown meals with them than, well, anything else without them.
They’re my real treasure. I’m already the richest woman I know, and no matter what may happen financially, those riches are mine for keeps.
Now, if I can just remember that when I’m back in the trenches trying to get Something Important done, and then somebody comes skidding in with their hair on fire and a sibling or two hot on their heels and starts their side of the tale with the phrase, “I wasn’t even doing anything!”
Mexican Pilchard Pudding
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