Wingin’ It

Before I squeezed two adorably weird looking gnome-people out of my yowzaa, my idea of parenthood was oodles different than it is today.   Every woman has an idea of the kind of mom she will be when her babies arrive and I guarantee it is 1000% the opposite of their reality.   We all think we’re gonna be a crapload of Mary Poppins sprinkled with some Mrs. Brady (and Alice’s cooking, of course).  But, in truth, aren’t we all just winging it?

I’ll give an example.  My daughters are seven and a half and nearly three.  For the most part, they get along great.  I couldn’t have asked for a better first child as far as loving her little sister.  And little sis is honestly the most thoughtful and loving person I’ve ever met (she totally head butted me in the chin twice the other day and got upset when she realized she had hurt me).  BUUUUUT, we had a very interesting car ride yesterday.

Have you ever attempted to get an uncooperative toddler into a car seat?   Be careful if you’re in public because there’s a good chance you’ll get child services called on you faster than you can say “please, not another trip to emergency.”  They will shriek and claim you’re literally pulling their limbs out and crushing their liver.  Seriously, liver damage, people.  And her spleen.  I should mention that she’s a whiz at anatomy.  Thankfully, we were in our garage as I was trying to strap her in.  For her own safety.  Ironic.

No sooner do I start backing out of the garage when she asks to hold her big-ass overnight bag with 38 stuffies and a week’s worth of pajamas that she HAD to bring to her grandparents’ house for a sleepover.  If, God forbid, we have an accident in the 11-minute drive, she would most definitely be smothered by a plush Chase (from Paw Patrol, duh),  so I tell her that it has to stay in the front seat.  She asks again.  I say “Ria, that’s one.”  (1-2-3 Magic, anyone?)  She asks once more.  “That’s two.”  At this point, her sis is hushing her, knowing what’s coming – but does she? Do I even know what’s coming?   Another attempt to get her overnight bag aaaannd “that’s three, Ria, you’re cut off!”  (Just so you know, I made a gesture threatening decapitation at this point for good measure).  Jules chimes in “Mom, what does that even mean?”  “It means exactly what it sounds like,” I reply in my most authoritative tone as I turn up the music and try to pretend I know what I’m doing.

How the hell do you punish kids in the car?  I can’t threaten to turn around; if I cancel their sleepover, I’ll be dealing with two hellions that would rather be somewhere else and I’ll never get any work done.  If I claim I’m gonna “come back there,” what the hell do I do once I get there?  Do I knock their blocks together?  I think that would make things worse, honestly.  Do I try to reason with them?  Pshhhh.  Reasoning is utter nonsense.

So then this happens – Jules finds a dish from Denny’s that we stole along with her leftover goldfish from dinner the night before.  Said goldfish are now eaten or finely crushed into a bright orange powder on the floor mats, naturally.  Ria asks to hold the dish.  Jules says “no, I want to hold it.”  Mom doesn’t realize what the big fruitful deal is about holding an empty dish in the car, but what the hell do I know about joy?  So I ask Jules, and these are my exact words: “Juliet, are you really getting satisfaction out of holding that empty bowl?”  “Yes,” she replies confidently.  At this point, I remember the bargaining lesson I got in my Mom-ing Like a Boss 101 seminar and offer each child one minute at a time holding the dish (seriously, that’s what my life has become).  I spend the next seven minutes listening to a two year old attempt to count to 60.  Fun times.

I know that I’m very lucky that my kids have grandparents that enjoy spending time with them, as exhausting as my husband and I KNOW they are.  It’s tough to fold laundry as kids are jumping on the beds and kicking things on the floor.  It’s hard to keep the house smelling nice as the rugrats are trying to drink the diffuser water or stick their fingers in hot candle wax.  It’s hard to be a work from home mom when your kids want to play Candyland or ask to write poems with you.  How do you say no to that?  How do you balance the intense love and adoration you have for your kids with your stupid adult responsibilities?   I’m always impressed when my fellow moms seem to have their act together, and I’m sure other moms think the same of me on rare occasions.  I’ve had some great mom role models, still do.  What I have taken from them is this: love your kids and make sure they know it.  With literally everything else, you can wing it!