Have I mentioned my son’s an extrovert? Did you know I’m an introvert? Do you know how often we clash on that basic difference? Only about every other minute. I am a single mother made of FAIL.
If I don’t make fun of my Grumpy Mama self, I really can get grumpy. Today began before seven, with the pitter patter of size 1 wide feet, and a snuggly motor-mouth who had a crazy dream about bad guys trying to take over the world and only the combined might of the kindergarten and first grade classes at his school could overcome the threat. They were somehow armed with exploding cheeseburgers that made steam come out of the bad guys’ ears. Go figure. “And then what happened?” I managed to mumble while tearing an eyeball sized sleep rock out of my eyelashes.
“I dunno! I have to go back to sleep and find out!” he chirped.
He’s evil. He does this to raise my hopes, only so he can dash them. You’d think, after five and some odd years of this, I wouldn’t fall for it, but I still do.
He tosses. He turns. He pops up to tell me another piece of his dream. He picks his nose. He eats it. He ignores me when I ask him to go play in his room and let mama sleep. “I’m tired too!” I say I’m going to go sleep in his room. He tells me more of his dreams. He hollers, “KISSY! KISSY! KISSY!” and plasters his mouth full of un-brushed teeth across my grumpy face. I have to laugh. And get up. Whereupon he goes into his room and plays quietly. I hook up a coffee IV.
Believe it or not, getting him dressed this morning wasn’t insane like it usually is. Insane, as in get thee to an asylum go, not crazy rushed.
But I still had to listen to the metric ton of STUFF that comes out of his mouth when he’s not unconscious.
Few things annoy me more than a five year old with an attitude. All the positive parenting books give inane advice like offering neutral comments when a kid comes up with something utterly ridiculous and in direct opposition to the truth. Now, I don’t mind if the King of Everything is making stuff up just for the sheer heck of it. But when he asks me about something and then tells me I’m wrong, goes off on a five minute monologue about why what he thinks is right, and then tells me I have to agree with him?
Yeah. No. “Look, mister, stop arguing with me. If you don’t care what the right answer is, don’t bother asking me in the first place, ok?”
Obviously, I’m waiting for that second cup of coffee to back down a little. By the time my mom comes downstairs, the kid and I have come to a fun sort of truce and are happily making some truly hideous sugar cookies with what’s called Quick Icing… four cups of confectioner’s sugar blended with three or four tablespoons of water or lemon juice. With food color. And sprinkles. And all sorts of stuff to put on the cookies. The fundy-Christian radio station is doing All Christmas All the Time and have that damned Mama’s Shoes song on heavy rotation, interlaced with cryptic messages about God’s love and how the happiness of the holidays isn’t about material things, but blessings from above and not everyone is happy at Christmas but (TURN THE DAMNEDTHINGOFFBEFORE I START WEARING TINFOIL HATS)
Brian Setzer’s Orchestra is a wonderful alternative.
Ahem. By the time mom comes to take the kid to lunch, she just looks at me and laughs. “So this is day one, huh?”
“I’m putting him in winter camp tomorrow.” Fail. I can’t fathom five days in a row with me and the kid. Only one of us would emerge from this basement apartment alive. And I don’t think it would be me.
Tonight I unclogged the toilet, divesting it of half a roll of toilet paper. Made dinner, supervised more making of Christmas cookies and Christmas presents, did laundry, leveled the kitchen floor by finally mopping it and thus divesting it of the inch of cookie-related crud that had accumulated… and am currently being roundly defeated by a mitten thumb that I’ve tried–and failed– to knit four times now. FAIL. I am made of FAIL.
And you know what? That’s my third message of happiness this season: It’s really OK! We can fail. And laugh about it. And I can rip this damned thing out and start over again. As many times as it takes.
Glad to hear other Moms have the same kind of days I do. I don’t know how stay-at-home Moms do it….that’s the hardest job there is!
I also despise that song about the shoes….come on, seriously?
LOL. Don’t worry, it gets better. Casey will stay in bed until 4 PM if I let her. The attitude, though? I don’t know if that ever goes away. It just evolves.
That Christmas song about the shoes kills me. It’s like they sat down and went “let’s write a song whose sole purpose is to smash the heart of everyone who hears it to little pieces.”
Merry Christmas!