World’s Worst Mother

I am the World’s Worst Mother.

Today was my day “off” from watching my daycare baby. I mentioned by phone to my husband that I needed to go to Home Depot to buy some clog remover for the shower drain at some point. Since we have one reliable vehicle, I wondered if he would be staying in his office today or if he needed the car. He called me back later and offered to come home from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. and stay with YoungestBoy so I could run my errand. I said, “Great!”

At 10:45 a.m., he returns home and at 11 a.m. on the dot, I was in the car with baby Babygirl, heading for Lowe’s. I wandered up and down the aisles, looking at hardware and furniture and shelving units and boards and doorknobs and cabinets. I found exactly what I needed and after wandering some more past doors and plastic pipes and sand, I paid and came home. I did not need the full two hours and was home by noon, so off my husband went, back to work.

YoungestBoy leaves for kindergarten between 12:25 p.m. and 12:35 p.m., depending on when the neighbor arrives to pick him up. At 12:25 p.m., without my prompting, he appeared with his jacket and backpack on. Then he stood in the living room, peering out the window, waiting for his ride.

Babygirl was watching television and I was sitting at the computer, waiting for YoungestBoy to leave so I could put the baby to bed for her nap.

At 12:30 p.m., YoungestBoy says, “Will she be here any minute?” And I said, “Yes.”

At 12:37 p.m., YoungestBoy comes into the family room and says, “I don’t think she’s coming.” I swivel and look at the clock. Twelve thirty-seven? Oh no!

At that moment, I remember that Beth, the neighbor, had mentioned yesterday that she would not be able to pick up YoungestBoy, but she would bring him home from school. I said, “Oh, you’re right! She’s not coming! We’re going to have to walk!” School starts for afternoon kindergarteners at 12:40 p.m. He would be late, but not much. No big deal.

I grabbed Babygirl (who was not even wearing shoes) and my jacket and a set of keys and off we went. The school is a five or ten minute walk from our house. The sun shone and I was thankful that it wasn’t raining. As we left our driveway, YoungestBoy said, “I sure would be sad if I died today.”

I said, “I would, too. I’d be sad forever.” Then we had one of our usual discussions about death and he said he would be glad he’d be with our deceased cat, Millie, again. And then he said I wouldn’t be sad anymore when I got to heaven because then we’d be together again. Then he chattered on and on about the two little white terriers who live in our neighborhood and how he misses our big dog, Greta, who was sent away after she bit him last September and on and on.

We came down the hill through the woods and wound along the chainlink fence until we reached the teacher’s parking lot in the back of the school. They keep the back door locked, so we had to walk around the school to get into the office. When I signed him in, it was 12:48 p.m. Eight minutes late.

I walked him to his classroom and we went in. The children were gathering on the carpet for the morning circle routine. Three excited boys rushed towards YoungestBoy and said, “You were going to be the Helper today!” And his face lit up. “I am?” And they said, “No, you were, but you were late, so Lauren’s the Helper.”

They were gleeful, thrilled to deliver this bad news.

Being the “Helper” in kindergarten is the biggest honor and the best possible day you can have as a kindergartener. The Helper gets to help the teacher, be first in line, pass out papers, and best of all, have a “Daily News” written about him or her. The “Daily News” is a piece of butcher paper that records the weather, the letter of the day and a sentence about the honored Helper. There is nothing bigger than being the Helper in kindergarten–with the possible exception of being the Birthday Boy or Girl. Being the Helper is like winning the Lotto. Big. Exciting. Random.

I handed the aide his tardy slip and she asked for his red folder, so he retrieved that. His face was flushed and I knew he was using all the self-control he had. I whispered, “Hey, are you okay?” and he fell apart. His whole chubby little red-cheeked face contorted in grief. He said, “I–w-a-n-t (sob) t-o (sob) g-o (sob) h-o-m-e.” Great shuddering intake of breath. I said, “Let’s go outside for a second.”

So, in the hallway, I hugged him and he said he needed to get out of there. We walked down the corridor and he stepped into the brisk air and walked in a circle. Then I said, “Okay, are you ready to go back in?” He said, “Yes.” He wiped his eyes and composed himself.

Back we went. He clenched his mouth and marched towards the carpet where the kids were talking about the weather. He almost reached them and then he turned back and ran toward me. “I can’t do it!” he cried.

I said, “That’s okay. Come on.” We went back in the hallway and he insisted he just couldn’t stay. I said, “Are you sure you want to miss a whole day of kindergarten?” He loves kindergarten. He adores school. He thinks recess is great. “Yes.”

I went back inside to grab his coat. When I came back out, he had a hand in his pocket and he was fingering his six quarters. Fridays are popcorn day. Twenty-five cents a bag. “Can I still get my popcorn?” he said. I told him I couldn’t interrupt the teacher. I thought maybe we’d find them selling popcorn in the multi-purpose room, but we did not.

He’s still sobbing as we walk down the corridor towards the office. The principal says hello to me and I tell her what’s happening. I ask if it’s possible that we get some popcorn. She says, “of course” and makes a phone call. He says, “This is the worstest day of my life!” We wait for the popcorn, then leave the building.

I tell him I’m so sorry. He says with reproach and sorrow, “Why didn’t you remember that Beth wasn’t coming?” I said, “I don’t know. Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

He says, “No.”

I say, “Your dad is going to be so disappointed in me.” He would never make his beloved boy late for kindergarten. Being late is a mortal sin in his book (if he had a book and if sins were classified in it).

As we cross the parking lot and head for the chainlink fence and trudge back up the hill and through the woods, I say, “This is all my fault. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

He is wailing and crying and red-faced. “No.”

Then he stops. “Well, there is one thing. If I could have a Crunch bar when I get home, that would make me feel a little better.”

I say, “Well, that I can do.”

He resumes crying.

I have caused my almost-six year old precious child to have the “worstest” day of his life. What kind of mother am I?

When we returned home, he ate his popcorn and Crunch bar while I put the baby to sleep. (She even napped in her crib. Hooray.) When I came downstairs, I said, “Do you want to play a game or something?” He said, “Yes. I want to play Shipmates.”

So, we played Battleship. He won, even though we didn’t finish. Fortunately, he finished crying.

Then we played Uncle Wiggly. I made sure he won, without letting on that I was reverse-cheating. In fact, he won twice.

Eventually, he even forgave me.

I talked to his teacher on the telephone and she was sympathetic and kind. She promised that he can be the helper on Monday. I love her now. (She’s brand new. YoungestBoy’s original teacher is on maternity leave and until today, I’d never even seen his new teacher.)

In the backyard, YoungestBoy practiced riding his bike without training wheels for the first time. The trauma of the morning seemed forgotten.

I tell myself that if this is the worst day he’ll ever face, he’s a lucky boy, indeed.

However, I could still slap myself for being such an idiot. As my husband would say (if he was insane enough to comment on this issue), I should write these things down! My memory is not what it used to be! Make a note! (He’s learned to just not comment, though. Even though he doesn’t comment, I know what he’s thinking, though, which is kind of funny, when you think about it. He knows me well enough not to comment, but I know him well enough to know that he is commenting silently inside his head. Six of one, half dozen of the other.)

Tomorrow will be better. For one thing, there is no school.

My Cute Little Baby Face

Babygirl is boycotting nap-time. Instead, she’s putting a red and white checked hat onto her head, then flipping it onto the floor and laughing maniacally. She’s watching Teletubbies do some kind of scary dance and occasionally she falls down, too. I just took her picture with the red hat over her face and the flash distracted her, so she dropped the hat and ran across the room with great glee. Now, how can a child who would not nap today be so cheerful?

The boys will be home from school and alas, I have turned into Old Mother Hubbard and my cupboard is bare. I need to go to the grocery store. My husband has had meetings at night for so many days in a row. I will have to go tonight. I’m going to make Hamburger Helper tonight. How pathetic is that? I won’t eat it, of course, but my kids like it. And it cost a dollar on sale.

Today is the 100th day of school. YoungestBoy took one hundred Pokemon cards to school. His homework was to draw what he would buy with one hundred dollars. He didn’t even consider spending his fictional one hundred dollars on anything but 25 packs of Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I hate Yu-Gi-Oh cards so much, not only because they are addicting to small boys, but also because I despise Japanese Anime’..

My family room, the central room in our house, is in complete disarray. My computer desk has accumulated papers and magazines and a newspaper from last week, in addition to a small pile of used tissues. DaycareKid has a runny nose, again. There are scattered Cheerios on the floor, the toybox has been emptied and there is a precariously stacked pile of folded laundry on the back of the couch. The wall still needs to be repainted red. The dry clothes need to be folded and the wet clothes need to be put in the dryer and the dirty clothes need to be washed.

And here I sit because all these tasks never disappear. They reappear just like those horrible birthday candles that you can’t blow out. I often tell my husband it’s like pushing a boulder up a hill, just like that Greek guy I can never remember. (Remind me to take a course on Greek Mythology in my next life.) Click here if your knowledge of Greek mythology is as deficient as mine..

Okay. Time to speed clean. 1 – 2 – 3 – GO!

Nap time

I am so depressed. My baby stopped napping for four months, starting here: October 15. That was the day she stopped napping. Her naplessness lasted for four months, give or take.

Then, almost two weeks ago, a miracle occurred and she asked to be put in her crib. Then she went to sleep. That continued until yesterday when she popped back up when I put her to bed. She screamed for half an hour until I picked her up. Last night, she went to sleep at 6:20 p.m.

Today, same thing happened. She fell asleep, I laid her down, then she popped up, screaming. I let her cry for thirty minutes. She’s quiet now, so she either jumped to her death or fell asleep.

Let’s hope she’s sleeping.

Long Naps, Paint Fumes, and President’s Day

Yesterday after church, my husband came home, went upstairs to change clothes and never reappeared. I took him a plate of roast, baked potato and green beans along with a glass of iced tea. The next time I went upstairs to put away laundry, he was curled up, hugging a lavender pillow, sound asleep. I figured he needed the sleep. I also figured if I let him sleep undisturbed, he would owe me.

When the baby woke from her nap, I took all four kids to Toys R Us. The boys’ allowance was burning a hole right through their pockets. YoungestBoy had to have Yu-Gi-Oh cards; the twins just wanted to browse and buy something. I parked the car and issued my standard warning: “This is a parking lot. Please stay near the car until I get the baby out. Watch out for cars.” Thankfully, the boys are big enough now that they do not dart about in parking lots and Babygirl is still happy to be toted around. Still, I held YoungestBoy’s hand and he said, “I hope I don’t die today. I’m only in kindergarten!” I assured him he would not die “today”.

After our shopping adventure, we drove home the “back” way, right past the town beach. The sun shone and I said, “Hey, who wants to stop at the beach?” The big boys did not want to stop, but I overruled them when I saw there was a new Big Toy with slides and climbing areas next to the old swings.

I put Babygirl’s jacket on her, but she probably would have been fine without it. This was our most glorious day since last fall. I think it was about fifty-five degrees, but the air was absolutely still, even on the Puget Sound. Sometimes it’s sunny and warm at our house, but down at the beach, the breeze makes it seem much colder. But not yesterday. Yesterday, it was stunning. Perfect. Gorgeous! Six Canadian geese bobbed right off shore and then honked and flew away, just skimming over the sparkling water.

Babygirl permitted herself to be put into a swing. She even smiled a bit when I gently pushed the swing. Last year, she shrieked when I walked near the swingset with her. Something about it freaked her out. This year, the whistle of the passing train didn’t even rattle her. She loved running along the wide asphalt paths with a blissful grin on her face. She did not, however, like being set down on the sand nearer the water’s edge. She freaked out until I could get a grip on her (she was even trying to get away from me) and picked her up.

The boys were rosy-cheeked when we left at about 5 p.m. I am so glad we stopped.

Last night, I painted Babygirl’s room a bright white. I tend towards crankiness during home improvement projects. My husband, who is not a handy kind of guy, normally lays around or sits around and watches me work and banters with me, and then gets perturbed at my attitude, which generally disintegrates at an alarmingly quick pace. I started painting at about 8 p.m. and by 9:30 p.m., I was cursing the names of all men who have not yet created a system for painting which does not involve dripping paint. I was thinking dark thoughts about the prior owners of our home who did not have the decency to paint the rooms a nice clean white before they left. I let out great exasperated sighs and swore harmless curses (like “ARGH” and “STUPID PAINT”) as the night wore on. I was too hot. The room was stuffy. And my husband was watching Alias while I missed it because I was painting. I never realized that Alias has so little dialogue. You really do have to watch that show to follow along. You can’t just listen.

My husband said at one point, “This is why I don’t like working with you!” and I thought more infuriated thoughts like, “Well, are you actually working?” and wondered why in the world I married a man who can’t even paint a wall! Well, he could if I wasn’t so controlling and didn’t insist on the tape only covering the woodwork around the door and not the actual wall. When you think you are the one who does thing better, you pay with your own sweat and stress. “If you want something done right, do it yourself!” That’s what I learned from my dad.

I did keep my big mouth shut and tried not to complain and say outrageous things like, “This is stupid! I hate painting! I would like to kill myself! I can’t believe I am spending my Sunday night PAINTING! This is why I’ve never painted this room before. It’s horrible! I want a divorce immediately and then I will marry a man who can paint walls and fix cars!” I need to be sedated.

This is how I looked by then: Only I have longer hair.

I slept in the paint-fumed room last night, while he slept in another room. Wimp is scared of killing off a few brain cells, I guess. I have plenty to spare. Anyway, I put an extra comforter on the bed and opened the window and had the most peaceful slumber. I love to hear the sounds from outside while I sleep. I love the fresh air. Alas, my better-half does not. He wants complete silence and stuffiness while he sleeps.

First thing this morning–well, more like third or fourth thing this morning–he took the baby for a ride so I could give the walls another coat of paint. He returned before I finished, but he entertained the baby long enough so I could finish the job and then take a shower. He also made breakfast, lunch and dinner today. He’s a good guy. Even if he doesn’t paint. Or build things with his bare hands. Or take photographs. Or balance the checkbook. Oh, please, stop me. His good outweighs his bad. By far.

He’s just the complete opposite of my dad (who built a computer in 1977 from a kit!). My dad could retile a bathroom or fix a television set or get a part in community theater. He was a Renaissance Man–with a bad attitude and underdeveloped social skills. He would holler at inanimate objects when they did not cooperate with his efforts to fix them–like car engines or dishwashers or the clothes dryer. I hated it when he hollered.

So, I didn’t marry my dad, but frighteningly enough, I think I’m turning into him.

Tonight, the room is dry. I created a giant flower stamp and stamped fourteen purple flowers on the wall–the only wall with no window, door or closet. I will fill them in with random paint colors tomorrow. I hope it turns out. At least it will be done. Babygirl will be moved into that room and we will reclaim the master bedroom. My husband will be so thankful. He’s that kind of guy.

Happy VD

What a day. Just like any other, only more.

The baby’s decided that 5 a.m. is a fine time to wake up for a ten minute snack. It’s sort of okay with me because that means she’ll sleep until 7:30 a.m. or 8 a.m. I literally staggered out of bed and to her room this morning for ten minutes, then back to bed for more glorious sleep. You’d think I’d go to bed early since I love to sleep so much, but the thing is, I love to sleep in the mornings! At night, I’d rather be awake, being uninterrupted and quiet.

The twins had a friend sleep over last night, so first thing this morning, my husband bought a dozen donuts. I had finished showering by that time (with Babygirl in the bathroom with me throwing extra washcloths into the tub and flinging the shower curtain open and getting sprayed with water). Dear husband took her for a ride in the car so I could finish getting ready in peace. Then he returned my baby to me and went to work. Yes, it’s Saturday, but yes, he worked, as usual. He tends to wait until Saturday to write his sermon, which tends to bug me, but what can I do, really?

During Babygirl’s nap, I worked on the wall in “her” room which we are currently sleeping in. It needs to be painted before we move the crib back in there and move our bed back into the master bedroom. When she was born, our sleeping situation was completely jumbled up. I slept with the baby in the master bedroom, while YoungestBoy was moved (he begged to move) to the twins’ room. My husband slept in YoungestBoy’s old room on the king-sized bed from the master bedroom, while I slept on the queen sized bed in the master bedroom with Babygirl until the day she fell off the bed. Since then she’s been sleeping in the crib.

Right before Christmas, we bought new twin beds for the twins and moved them downstairs to the spare room. YoungestBoy got their old room all to himself with the queen sized bed, Babygirl ended up alone in the master bedroom with her crib and when Babygirl started sleeping through the night at 11 months, I joined my husband in the king-sized bed in the baby’s new room (which was YoungestBoy’s old room). We didn’t move the crib into that room because it needs paint. And I know if I don’t paint it before we move the crib in, we never will. Who wants a baby to breathe in paint fumes?

And why have I procrastinated on painting? Well, one wall (where the window is) was covered with two layers of hideous wallpaper which was then covered with even more hideous fabric which was stapled on. The entire mess had to be removed, then the wallpaper paste had to be removed and the staples pried out and the holes filled in. I ripped the wallpaper off years ago (literally), but the staples and a few strips of wallpaper paste remained until today. During her nap, I got out the Diff to remove the final remnants of paper and got out a utility knife and needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the staples. It took two hours, long enough to watch almost all of the horror movie about Chucky the doll. I’d never seen it before.

Being the horrible mother that I am, my boys were downstairs watching television the whole time I was upstairs working. They were quiet, too, which was a miracle. I finished the job just as Babygirl woke up.

Early this morning, we received a phone call that J. had died in the wee hours of the morning. J. was an 85 year old man from our church in good health until suddenly he was diagnosed with widespread cancer. Being a pessimist, when I originally heard the diagnosis (after he had a CAT scan), I said, “It’s going to be days, not weeks” or “It’s going to be weeks, not months.” I can’t remember now, but sure enough, it was barely more than a week. This was exactly how my dad died. His liver was riddled with cancer and he slid into death very quickly.

J.’s son and daughter-in-law are close friends of ours. Our kids all play together, so this afternoon when my husband visited the family, he offered to bring the kids to our house to play for the afternoon. So again, I had a houseful of kids. They all played well together (if you call tackling each other in the muddy backyard playing well) and had a good time.

When the baby went to bed tonight, I went out shopping. I went to Old Navy and bought a bunch of shirts and pants and two baby gifts–all on clearance. I love the clearance racks. Then I went to Marshall’s and shopped the clearance racks again and came up with a pair of sunglasses, a pair of sandals, a gift for my mother, a pack of 12 board books, a computer game for my son’s birthday, a two-pack of black tights for me, and a shirt, all for $50. The man behind the register commented on my optimism–buying sunglasses on a rainy, February day. Doesn’t he realize that it will be summer in approximately twenty minutes? That’s how fast the seasons change in my world.

I finished up my adventure at Target, buying boring stuff like laundry detergent and napkins.

So, Happy VD. That’s Valentine’s Day, for the young and romantic. For me, just another day, only more. Don’t get me wrong. My sweet husband remembered to remember me with chocolate, flowers, a teddy bear and a card. He’s a good guy. I’m just a low-maintenance girl who is happy just to shop the clearance sales.

I Live in a Shoe

This afternoon, I found myself in my own backyard with three fifth grade boys, an almost-six year old boy who was desperate for the attention of the fifth grade boys, and three babies, ages 15 months, 16 months and 17 months. My cordless phone rang in my pocket and I said, “Hello?” and my husband said, “What are you doing?” I said, “I’m in the backyard with seven children, wondering how I ended up here!”

He laughed from the quiet safety of his book-filled office. I called him back later and asked if he’d bring home pizza. It was that kind of afternoon.

Actually, the children were all well-behaved. I only watched the 15 month old for three hours, and one of the fifth grade boys was only here for a couple of hours. But still. I feel like the Old Woman Who Lives in the Shoe. Only I can’t spank all the children and put them to bed. Isn’t that how the poem read?

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Whipped them all soundly and put them to bed

I can understand why women pay other less-educated women $3 an hour to watch over their children so they don’t have to endure the thankless monotony of keeping children alive. But the thing is, I believe that wiping a nose with love is different than wiping a nose without love. I believe that taking care of those who cannot take care of themselves is as important as making a lot of money and having adult conversations. When did childhood just become a pointless stretch of time that parents can ignore if they can pay someone else to do the grunt-work?

Well, maybe I’m jealous of women who wear pantyhose and go to offices and talk to adults all day and have lunch breaks.

Wait. I used to be one of those women and I watched the clock. I had to put in 7.5 hours a day and I started counting down at 6.5 hours. Only 4.5 hours to go, just 3.75 hours left, just 2.5 hours, only 1.5 hours, I think I’m going to make it. I wanted desperately to be at home with babies. (I never thought about being at home with ten year olds, though. How short-sighted of me.) I just knew that the work I was doing for a paycheck wasn’t meaningful. My dad’s death during that time only reinforced my feelings that life was too short to sit in an office and watch the clock. He was only 47.

So, I want to be home. I want to be the one who reads my baby’s mind. I want to be the one to monitor the snack situation when the boys come bursting through the door at the end of the day. I want to be the one who rolls around on the floor with my kindergartener. I want to be in the backyard.

Every once in a while, though, I’d like to be the one waving good-bye and blowing kisses. My day will come. (I did the math the other night while I was trying to fall asleep and realized I’ll be 56 when Babygirl graduates from high school. My mother is just turning 61 this year. I am an old mother. A very old mother.)

Here’s a weird thing.

When I was born, my grandma was 59.
When Babygirl was born, her grandma was 59.
When my mother was born, her mother was 37.
When Babygirl was born, her mother (me) was 37.

That hurt my brain. Not a good sign. That’s what seven children in one day will do to an old woman!

Charades

I never really played charades when I was growing up. I’d see them played on television and I knew the gist of the game, but we never played at home. But now, oh boy! Every day is a new opportunity to play charades. And not just charades! No way. I get to play Baby Charades.

Babygirl is a pretty agreeable baby, as long as you do things her way, of course. She says a few key words, but more importantly, she nods. She’s been nodding for months now and mostly her nods mean “yes.” If she means “no”, she just looks at you blankly like you need a new brain or a translator or at least electric shock therapy. Then, the charades begin.

She leans in a runner’s stance, rocking towards her target. “You need something?” She nods. Then she points. I say, “You want to go into the kitchen?” Big emphatic nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” Then, she gestures towards the refrigerator. “Oh,” I say, “You want cheese?” “Chhhzzzz,” she says and nods. “All right,” I say, “Here you go!”

She points, she leans, she grunts, she squeals, she nods, and occasionally, she’ll turn her head away or just fling herself to the ground to kick and holler. I’m a little scared that I can just look at her and know she’s thinking “I need a drink of water, you idiot.” My husband cannot do that. Understand, I mean. He certainly can think “I need a drink of water, you idiot” but he does not have the ability to send or receive telepathic messages. It’s something that seems to come standard with the uterus.

About a month ago, we had six inches of snow. This was Babygirl’s first experience in the snow. Here is the way she said, “Mom, I hate snow. Get me out of this stuff now. Snow is bad!”

Happy Rain

Last week, Babygirl learned an important skill. YoungestBoy taught her to jump in mud puddles. Here they are, stomping with glee. I am the kind of mother who says, “Hey, it’s washable,” and then I take pictures. This philosophy has carried me through many messy times. I have pictures of a baby with paint on his whole face (TwinBoyB), a picture of twin babies with poop smeared all over them and the carpet (The Poop Incident) and of course, random pictures of kids covered in mud.

Today, the sun shone and Babygirl insisted on going outside. She’s learned to climb onto the Little Tikes plastic slide contraption and then she sits and slides. When she lands on her bottom she says, “Uh-oh!”

The days have been so much more pleasant since Babygirl has resumed napping. I almost feel like a human again.

TwinBoyB and YoungestBoy went to the dentist today for check-ups and cleanings. I was relieved to hear that they are both cavity-free. YoungestBoy had a lot of dental work the year he turned four, so I always worry about his teeth now. My husband took them and reported that YoungestBoy entertained everyone in the waiting room with his math skills.

Last night I goofed off so long talking about my red wall and my mother’s hideous fashion sense that I never painted the wall.

I just realized that I need to run to the store for milk and bread, so I leave you with a raindrops-keep-falling-on-my-head shot of YoungestBoy: