A mother’s day

Posted on | May 7, 2010 | No Comments

For Mother’s Day my requests are simple. Not breakfast in bed nor flowers nor jewelry. Just a day when things run not even smoothly but in a fashion that doesn’t resemble some theatrical farce.

A day when I don’t wake up (as this morning) to a 3-year-old by my bedside who’s soaking wet with pee. When I don’t jump up and screech when I see it’s 7.30am, realize the alarm didn’t go off at 6.30 as planned, and know I have just 40 minutes to get the kids up, dressed and fed, and lunches packed for school/daycare. 

When I don’t then face a flooded laundry room because I rammed Munchkin’s wet duvet into the machine, all the time ignoring the nagging voice telling me I shouldn’t, that I should be responsible and not risk the rubber seal on my frontloader breaking, and take it to the dry cleaner’s instead.

A day when I have time, oh glorious time. Time to dye my hair would be nice, to cover up ”those stubborn grays”. Every day for a whole month (yes, it’s  long overdue) I’ve opened my bathroom cabinet to see the box of hair coloring. And Miss Clairol Nice ‘n Easy #114A smiles smugly back at me, like a wholesome version of Britney Spears. Loser! she’s saying. You can’t even find 25 minutes in your day to use me. Lady, you are one sad, disorganized case.

A day when I don’t have to bribe Munchkin to please not do a number two straight into his underwear, that the potty is right there, that I will buy him the biggest monster truck he wants when he does a poo where it’s meant to be done. “A monster truck I can drive?” he asks, wide-eyed, plotting. “Well, maybe not that big,” I say. Because there are limits.

A day when things happen one after the other with a decent time span in between, instead of all at once. Like the other day when, at the precise second I was pulling down Munchkin’s Thomas the Tank Engine underwear (“How do you think Percy likes having poo all over him? Hm?”) the doorbell rang and it was the contractors for the fireplace surround. And then seconds after I’d cleaned up Munchkin the doorbell went again and this time it was the company who installed the solar heating panels for our pool (you try to be a responsible citizen and it backfires – the little tubes on that panel keep breaking). And so there was Munchkin running around naked (but thankfully with a clean bum) and the lingering smell of poo permeated our conversation, me and the guy from Patio Pools, because of course I hadn’t yet had time to defumigate with air freshener.

Or like yesterday when a heavily pregnant friend asked that I drive her to hospital because she had an oddly numb feeling in her tongue. And it happened that I was getting ready to take the kids to swim class. And it also happened that I was just ushering our pest control man out the door (after a long chat about ticks and whether or not to ‘do’ the back yard just in case, even though it’s been two weeks now since we spotted a live one on The Mutt). And so minutes later I was screeching to a halt outside said friend’s door, then minutes after that running in to Sweetpea’s school to pick her up, then driving oh-so-carefully-because-of-pregnant-friend-and-kids, but going just a tad over the limit nevertheless, to get her to the hospital and me and kids to swim class in time.

A day when Munchkin doesn’t cry at swim class, that’d be nice. The first class, he got so upset at going underwater that I cried too, just feet away from him by the side of the pool. And only then did I read the swim school’s instructions that parents must remain positive and upbeat and, if the child cries, remove themselves from the area and preferably out of the child’s sight. But that’s me. Hubby always says I only read instructions after something’s actually gone wrong.

A day when DIY happens without drama or unforeseen problems. My contractors have gone AWOL, haven’t been seen in three days, refuse to answer their phone. They left without finishing some grouting and without doing a clear silicone seal along the edges. And before you asked, of course I paid them. I have MUG written across my forehead, don’t you know. Just push aside those stubborn grays and you’ll see it.

A mother’s days are long but the years are short, to quote a friend of mine. This is for all you mothers who, this Mother’s Day, are hoping not for a brunch outing or a family hike or a shopping trip. But just to lie in bed and take a day off, in preparation for the next year of mother’s days – that’s every day – to come.

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