Not So Super Mom
So Bryon and I had a "discussion" yesterday after I'd had a particularly stressful day. I got up as usual, answered a dozen emails, fed the dog and cats, made 2 lunches and 3 breakfasts (4 if you count mine, which I shouldn't because I usually don't eat it), unclogged one toilet, read a book with Jake, checked two sets of homework, completed Jake's reading log, finished 72 birthday party invitations (yes, 72, and yes I made them ONLY because they had to be in English and Spanish), broke up 2 fights and started my period all before 8:30.
I will not even begin to detail the labyrinthine chaos that occupied me from 3-6. So shortly after 6 I did what I usually do, which is make an impulsive, angry phone call to my husband.
"The problem is that you try to be super mom," he told me.
On one hand I disagree. I know a couple super moms; I am not one of them. They manage the aforementioned tasks with what appears to be little effort and lots of grace. I have the grace of Mary Katherine Gallagher, and the effort? Sometimes it feels downright Herculean. Sisyphean. I am constantly on the go, frequently double booked, often agitated and typically end my day with wine.
On the other hand I agree. Sort of. It's not that I try to be super mom, it's that I HAVE to be. It is my experience and opinion that if you ever let up, the wheels fall off. You can't stop pedalling a bike and expect to coast for very long. I stopped doing laundry Saturday for four hours and it was apocalyptic.
"But you never ask for help and I can't read your mind," he told me. He is right in that I don't think I have ever said to anyone, "I need help." But I can't read my cat's mind either and I can tell when he's hungry. Just by watching him I could tell he was sick last month. I can take one look at Sam and know if he's had a bad day or look at Abby for a split second when she gets up and know how well she slept. You know why? Because I pay attention.
Along with the other activities yesterday a repair man came to fix a shattered window in the boys' room. The whole time he was working I was jumping from the computer to the laundry to the kids' rooms, up and down the stairs, sweeping, cleaning the aforementioned toilet. When the repair man was finished I walked him to the door, he shook my hand and said, "Thank God for the wives and mothers."
Yes, thank you. At the end of the day, when all is said and done, a thank you or a pat on the back would be ... well, super.
I will not even begin to detail the labyrinthine chaos that occupied me from 3-6. So shortly after 6 I did what I usually do, which is make an impulsive, angry phone call to my husband.
"The problem is that you try to be super mom," he told me.
On one hand I disagree. I know a couple super moms; I am not one of them. They manage the aforementioned tasks with what appears to be little effort and lots of grace. I have the grace of Mary Katherine Gallagher, and the effort? Sometimes it feels downright Herculean. Sisyphean. I am constantly on the go, frequently double booked, often agitated and typically end my day with wine.
On the other hand I agree. Sort of. It's not that I try to be super mom, it's that I HAVE to be. It is my experience and opinion that if you ever let up, the wheels fall off. You can't stop pedalling a bike and expect to coast for very long. I stopped doing laundry Saturday for four hours and it was apocalyptic.
"But you never ask for help and I can't read your mind," he told me. He is right in that I don't think I have ever said to anyone, "I need help." But I can't read my cat's mind either and I can tell when he's hungry. Just by watching him I could tell he was sick last month. I can take one look at Sam and know if he's had a bad day or look at Abby for a split second when she gets up and know how well she slept. You know why? Because I pay attention.
Along with the other activities yesterday a repair man came to fix a shattered window in the boys' room. The whole time he was working I was jumping from the computer to the laundry to the kids' rooms, up and down the stairs, sweeping, cleaning the aforementioned toilet. When the repair man was finished I walked him to the door, he shook my hand and said, "Thank God for the wives and mothers."
Yes, thank you. At the end of the day, when all is said and done, a thank you or a pat on the back would be ... well, super.
posted by Romine Family at 11:44 AM
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