I Will Never Be Supermom.

Supermom- A strange fixation that we as a society have, leading us to believe that we singlehandedly become the worlds worst mother if we yell in times of frustration, cry in moments of loneliness and forget to bath the kids once in a while…

 

One day in the future my children will be grown. They will be self sufficient adults, with families of their own. They will have a mature thought process and with hope they will have logical problem solving skills.

They will also have their memories.

Today was a bad day. It was filled with hard feelings and ‘what if’s’. It felt as though there was no room for deep breathing for a moment of relaxation because that would take time and patience, and consequentially these were two things I just I did not have enough of today.

As I drove home from picking my son up from school a question picked at the back of my mind. The nearer I got to the battlefront, that question became more and more of a droning scream encompassing the entirety of my being.

Will they remember?

One day will they remember my yelling? Recalling easily the moments in which Mama just couldn’t keep her cool and screamed in reproach at them. Will they bear in mind my crying when I felt as though things just couldn’t seem worse. The days that Daddy was gone on long hour shifts and Mommy felt alone and failing at everything.

Will they commit to memory that warm and beautiful afternoon when they asked to go to the park but I was too busy working to oblige? Will any of those ‘maybe tomorrow’ or ‘in a bit’ stick heavily in mind in their later years?

And what about the broken promises? It hasn’t happened often, but I cannot pledge that it will never happen again either. Will they keep in mind those times when something more important came up? Will they ask themselves what could have possibly been more important than them?

The occasions of inconsistent parenting continue to accost my mind and although I would love to vow to never again drop the proverbial ball in the mothering department, I know this would be just another tall tale told by a tested story teller.

Our job as mothers is a tangled one. We make mistakes and yes, those mistakes may be carried on through our children’s adolescents right into adulthood.

More than likely, the answer to my question is a big fat YES. They probably will remember to an extent.

It is that one effortless sentence I said out of anger, fear, hopelessness or angst in a moment of stupidity that may hang in the back of their psyches years from now. And will it linger?  Never to recoil and causing the two people I love most in this world to hurt.

And it is not until after the fact that I think to grab them, and kiss them, and tell them how much I love them, and that, “I’m sorry Mama is just frustrated…”

I suppose it is the human in us that doubly allows us to slip up and in the next second feel ashamed of it. It is here and now, in this spare minute of solitude that I have had a moment to reflect and I realize I can’t be supermom.

There will be days of strife, and days of exhaustion. There will be moments of ‘how do I go on?’ and ‘where do I even begin?’ I’m sure there will be times when I want to run away from the lot of them.

But then, as always the moment passes. It will get done. I will make amends with the kids, and forgive my husband for the stupid thing that he did that made me irrationally mad in the first place.  It will get done.

You see being Supermom is a great thought. It’s the idea that we all have in those first few months after pregnancy. But the reality is, being Supermom is an illusion.

Sometimes I will yell.  From time to time I will cry, every so often I will not know what to do, or how to carry out a reprimand.  It will be difficult, and in the moments after I’ve lost composure I will feel the fault rise in me.

But the most important thing, the thing I do every day and will continue to do as long as I live is tell these two little people I love them. I will hug them 100 times a day, I will attack them with kissy monster kisses and I will forever confess my love for them at any given moment in their presence.

So yes, I have made mistakes in my parenting life thus far, in all reality I will make many more too, but the love I have for them is something that cannot be measured by mere label.

I may never be Supermom, but I’m okay with that.

I will settle for ‘Semi-supermom who is just human and tries her best, but despite the hard times loves her children unconditionally’.

(Let’s just say I was never savvy at catch-phrases!)

"Supermom is unavailable at this time. If you would like to wait for her return...You may be waiting awhile."
“Supermom is unavailable at this time. If you would like to wait for her return…You may be waiting awhile.”
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You saved my LIFE lady! You saved my LIFE.

The Purse. The one accessory I own that will leave me lost and helpless if its location is unknown. So what happens when you add one stressed out mother trying to get her kids in the car, about a hundred things spinning through her mind and a complete and utter lack of observation to her surroundings?

Me; sprawled on the kitchen floor, a dead cordless phone in one hand tears streaming down my mascara ridden face and slowing chanting ‘No, Nooo, NOOOOOOOO’ between hyperventilating gasps of air.

Perhaps it would be wise to start from the beginning rather than the end, so here my friends, is my story.

The woman held her two children’s hands while walking briskly through the grocery store. The to-do list in her mind was quickly building and the stress had snuck up on her.

She retrieved the 2-3 size pull-ups for the girl child, paid the cost of them to the cashier and left, again setting into her brisk walk, almost dragging her children behind her.

“Ok Sophie, get in the car baby. Lars you can go get in on the other side, the door is unlocked.”

The children were testing the woman. They thought it was some sort of game to ride in the small green Toyota Tercel, their family van was once again in the shop getting fixed for some problem or another.

The woman’s anxiety levels were rising, she was tired from her first day of work and concerned about finding stable childcare for the future. Again the To-Do list was ticking away in her mind.

“GET IN THE CAR!”

The children obliged.

As the woman drove out of the No Frills parking lot, she did not see the throng of concerned citizens flagging her down with flailing arms and yelling mouths. The woman was to engrossed in her mental To-Do list.

As she got home and unloaded the children, she realized one vital piece of hand-baggery was not in her midst. Her purse…Her life, was nowhere to be found. The woman again packed the children into the little green car to backtrack the whereabouts of the missing article.

She drove slowly though the streets in which drivers behind her honked and yelled furiously for her ridiculous plight of creeping down the loaded road.

She didn’t care, she needed to find that purse.

She went back to the store and asked them if it had been turned in. No luck. Shit!

Again the woman packed her children into the car that resembled a can of sardines when all was burdened in it.

As she made her way home, the tears began to flow. What was she to do? How does she even go about beginning to replace everything that resides in the thing.

Again she searched the house, the car, everywhere it could have possible fallen between the 4 block radius from the grocery store to her home.

Nothing.

She begins phoning people to cry her woes to family and friends. maybe someone will come over to help her search she thinks with a distant fleeting hope.

The woman is in mid dial of her husband’s cell phone number when the cordless phone she holds dies. All of the cordless landlines in their home are now dead. Her cell phone? Somewhere in her purse; somewhere.

And this, is the pivotal ‘no hope’ moment.

The woman collapses to the kitchen floor, tears overflowing her already bagged and bloodshot eyes. She is saying ‘No, this can’t be happening’ over and over to herself…But probably loud enough for bystanders outside to hear through her open windows.  The woman knows she has to pull herself together but she cannot. The dramatic scenery of the circumstances and her reaction almost feels natural to her, like home. And she takes comfort in the theatrical production she is putting on for the walls and few insects that venture near her vicinity.

The woman’s production is cut short when she hears a phone ringing….A PHONE RINGING?!

This means there must be another phone in the home that is not dead. Yes of course! The ancient phone that her parents had given her a few months ago, because her cordless phones were always dying.

She runs to it.

Misses the call by half a ring, but checks the message that has been left.

“Hi this message is for Lindsay. This is Joy from No Frills, someone has turned in your purse. Your welcome to come and grab it anytime, we close at 9 today. Thanks.” Click.

When the woman retrieved the purse from the grocer, she was told that the Lady who had turned it in watched as she placed the thing on the roof of the car…Buckled the kids and without thinking drove away. The lady tried to wave the woman down, but to no avail.

Today I would like to thank the anonymous woman who returned my purse. You lady, seriously saved my life!

As well, just a few morals to the story;

  • Never, I mean never, become so stressed out you do not pay attention to your surroundings. Devastation can strike anytime, anywhere…And usually when you are not expecting it.
  • Don’t drive a vehicle that is small enough to place things atop it.
  • And finally, when things get tough, don’t feel bad about throwing some dramatic efforts into your pleas…It really does make for a more satisfying tantrum!

A Quickly Declining Kind of Day

Ahhh, indulging myself in a big ol’ hunk of chocolate mint fudge, whilst sipping a glass of wine and about to turn on the new season of Arrested Development on Netflix.

Today was tough.

Today, was one of those days, where you want to go and find a deep dark cavern to hide away in; smoke millions of cigarettes, drink thousands of alcoholic beverages,  cuss without thinking twice and pretend you are 21 again. Today was undeniably one of those days.

I must admit it started out fabulous, too good to be true really. I should have known, but hey I was in too much of a damn euphoric mood to notice anything out of the ordinary this day of wakening.

Why, you ask, was I in such a super duper fantabulous place in my life when I woke up this morning?

Yesterdays Blog post, ‘How Do I Tell Him’ went over very well in my modest social media networking circa, and that made me feel rather lovely, and it somehow jump started my verve for anything joyous once more.

Yay for me.

In fact I was feeling so  wonderful, that I packed up the children and we went to the beach. This too, went spectacularly well and as we drove home after our 4 hours of splishy slpashing in tepid water, and building sand castles of monstrous proportions, I thought to myself,

“I don’t think anything could ruin this day. This day, is one of the best days ever!”

Maybe it was the heat that had gotten to me, maybe it was the endorphin rush I had been playing off all morning, but as soon as I reflected the statement I regretted it.

It was almost as if the wee ones, that were strapped into their car seats feet behind me, read my mind, and BOOM!

Goodbye marvellous, GLORIOUS day….Hello torment and tribulation.

The male child was now fervently kicking the back of my seat. Spitting out the mantra, ‘I wanna Freezie, I wanna Freezie…’

Sophie joins in.

“YES I REALIZE YOU WANT A FREEZIE, BUT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I HAVE A FREEZER IN THE BACK OF THE VAN? DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CAN PULL ONE OUT OF THIN AIR?”

This statement threw the two of them for a loop, but only for a moment, they are very resilient for their age category I feel.

“Um Mama, there’s a store right there, maybe you go get us something from there…” This was not a question that came from the four years old, but more of a statement, and a unabashed one at that.

“No.” It was the kind of ‘no’ that a mother can be proud of. The kind that only the one word, due to its tone, is sufficient.

And it was, and I prided myself inwardly.

Upon arriving home, the children finally got their freezie since hey, at least they were quiet for the last part of the trip. I then set to the task of cleaning up.

They were weary, so I popped in a movie and let them be.

Well that was, until I spotted the little princess potty, that a wonderful neighbor of mine gave to Sophie to assist us in our potty training adventure rollercoaster.

“Sophieeee,” I conjure up one of my chirpiest  Mommy voices, “How about we try out the potty that Brooklyn gave you? Do you want to be a big girl like your friends?” The tone of my voice sickens even me.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO.”

This too was a ‘no’ one could be proud of. But not for its cool and collected manner as mine was earlier, but for its loud, shrieking, undeniably desolate, ear piercing nature.

Clearly the girl did not want to sit on this princess potty.

I pressed.

“Come on baby, if you pee on the potty, you will get a treat.” Bribery, enough said.

‘Well I do love treats, and you know, all my friends are doing this potty thing. Maybe I will give it a shot. Yes…I will sit on that potty, and I SHALL BE VICTORIOUS!’ My imaginings of what my two year old is thinking at this moment.

Three hours my friends…Three whole hours go by, without a single drop of piddle in that princess potty. Although, it held Barbie heads at some point along with the hidden crust of a PBJ and Lars decided to take a spin on the thing. Yet sadly no Sophie pee ever rested within its pink plastic bowl.

I began making dinner, as I had had enough with the potty training for one day, but with a whim of hope decided not to put the girls diaper back on, thinking she just might surprise me and take the initiative and go on her own.

Oh she took the initiative, she took the initiative by removing all of my books off the bookshelf, heaping them into an astonishing pile of; Auel, Brown, Tolkien, Frost and so many more  and relieved her three hour dry stint upon my favorite authors work, all within a matter of minutes.

I wince to think back upon it.

The rest of the evening was much the same as the previous, with the exception of Television sounds and anything joy filled in regards to my darling daughters activity list.

Her and I sat on the floor and wiped up her pee puddles off the many books I have collected over the years and I cried silent tears of contrition, for not visualizing this calamity in the making.

I fear the urine smell will linger.

I hope that soon she will be victorious (her words not mine) in her potty training endeavour, but only time and patients will tell…And hopefully no more literature will become her victim in the process.

But I will tide myself over for now, with Fudge, Wine, Arrested Development and the knowledge that never again, will I jinx myself by even thinking the phrase;

‘I don’t think anything could ruin this day.’

Because in the end,  peed upon hardbacks, are most definitely a downer to a quickly declining kind of day.

Growing up sucks!

I will now take you down an utterly cliché road and tell you that when I was young, I always wanted to be a grownup. It just looked like they were all having so much fun, doing whatever they wanted and what not…always so debonair and unruffled. Grownups always seemed so darn ‘put together’.

So I always tried to act older, do older, grownup kind of things.

But once I reached my goal of adulthood I realized how much it actually blows!

Jamie and I have been through our fair share of house hold issues. I refer you to a post written months ago named ‘The dreaded household appliance’ this is just a small example of our life on a daily basis.

When it isn’t household issues going awry, it is the vehicles.

I know it isn’t just us that lives with shit-show debacles daily, but sometimes it feels that way.

The time is 10:00 pm, Jamie has just got home from work and we are talking about his day when I think, ‘hey I haven’t heard the sump pump go off lately’. So I send my beloved down to the basement to check on it.

I hear exactly what I do not want to hear echo up from the cellar.

“Fuck!”

Great!

I run downstairs and before he can even tell me what’s going on, I see it. There is about a quarter of an inch leeway until the hole in which the sump pump lies will be over flowing into our insanely cluttered basement.

We start bailing water.

Bucket after bucket after bucket. The knowledge that we need to get someone on the phone and figure this out is flagrant. The pump has completely stopped working. But how do we find the time, when we are desperately trying to keep water from accosting our basement floor!?

And the rain is coming down in funnels, this is not looking very promising.

We stay surprisingly calm, which I chalk up to simply being adapt to this type of condition, almost as though it is second nature to us, to be in precarious circumstances.

I tell Jamie to get on the blower and try and see if anyone has an extra sump pump we can borrow for the night until we can get to an open store and buy a new one.

Meanwhile I keep bailing. Good thing I got some serious muscles of steel in the ol’ bicep department.

I hear Jamie talking to various friends on the phone. No go thus far.

Things are looking pretty grim.

“Go put something on Facebook, someone is bound to respond.” Jamie says in a half frantic, half despondent sort of way.

I oblige without saying much.

I come back telling him I put up statuses on both his and my Facebook pages, while adding in wistfully, “Here’s hoping!”

We are about to call a 24 hour plumber and spend a small fortune on a sump pump when Jamie’s phone starts singing a melodic tune.

Jamie runs to answer it, but takes a second look at the number before doing so. I hear his voice become ecstatic and he runs towards the door.

“Who was that?” I ask while looking at his goofy and over eccentric smile.

“Shaun and Abigail from next door have an extra sump pump that we can borrow! They saw our Facebook post.”

I don’t even have enough time to respond because my husband is out the door before he even finishes his zealous statement.

Thank God for neighbors, thank God for social media, and thank God Jamie and I are so versed in this kind of crap that we had enough wits about us to think logically about the situation.

As Jamie has the entirety of his upper body deep within the dark depths of the sump pump hole, installing the thing, he looks up at me and says,

“Make sure you keep that flashlight on this hole, I don’t need any damn swamp monsters spooking up on me and dragging me down to their layer!”

It was completely and utterly the best thing he could have said at that moment. We were fatigued and battered from our long night and the stress of adulthood was quickly coming down upon us.

I then realized it is never too late to look on the lighter side and for a moment of relief,  just be a kid again!

Maybe Lars and Sophie will think that the adult life is the life for them, and like me try too quickly to grow up.  But I will do my best to get across to them that they should cherish their youth while they can, because in reality they will have much more years of pressured adulthood than carefree adolescence.

If I could, I would appreciate those days a lot more now in later years.

But for now, we will keep doing what we are doing, and hopefully steer clear of any swamp monsters in the near future.

Shit Weasel

There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing the hell out of my entry-way floor. I have piled the shoes on the carpet, a step up from where I kneel. I’m getting frustrated with myself that I’ve left it this long and now the dirt and grime have become unbearably difficult to scour off. Of course the female child is quickly approaching me from the back, as she is always curious as to what I am doing. She begins to grab the shoes that have been piled up, and dangle them precariously above the area in which I have already cleaned.  “Don’t do it Sophie” I say, but not in a stern enough voice because a second later a hand full of shoes get pushed onto the previously cleansed area. She continues to thrust the dirty footwear over the ledge.  Finally I stop, look at the child, and without thinking of the words; I say, “Stop it you little shit weasel.”

Shit. Weasel. Shit Weasel! Why?  WHY in all of the names I could summon up within my mind, would I call my 2 year old daughter a Shit Weasel? Granted I said the slur with a joking undertone, but I still feel that this could possibly scar the girl. What if she subconsciously buries this account and years later in some random conversation she is having in high school or college, somehow those two words -Shit & Weasel- are placed in the same sentence and BAM nervous breakdown….’My mom called me a Shit Weasel once…It was terrible!’

I carry on, trying not to let on to the kids, my disgraceful blunder. I make my way to the bathrooms and begin my cleaning regime there. The products I use to disinfect the place are pretty strong so I steer the kids away from the area when I clean it. But little Miss Sophie Anne continues to push her way towards me. I calmly ask her to go in the living room…No go. I get her some Play-dough to distract her…Not happening. I again am getting exasperated with the situation…I THEN SAY IT AGAIN!

“Get out of here you little shit weasel!” What is wrong with me? Why do I keep calling my sweet little girl a shit weasel? What does it even mean? A weasel like creature that’s covered in shit? I don’t know, I’m just the one saying it to my kid. Dishonour fills me, and I immediately say I’m sorry to the girl who looks straight through me because she has no idea what I am apologizing for.  So this is what it’s come to, expressing regret to my toddler for calling her a completely peculiar and ridiculous name.

Needless to say it is noon and I am pouring myself a glass of wine to drown away my faux pas. I will indeed be more mindful in the future as to what comes out of my mouth in a fit of aggravation, because the last thing I want is my children churning out the phrase ‘Shit Weasel’ around town and crediting the origin of the term to me.

Conquring the Failure Point

For today’s post I am going swerve away from the accustomed path of parenting and talk about me.  Me as an individual. Me as a person that has hopes and dreams and the idea that not always do those dreams revolve around my children.  Of course my first and foremost plans include the wee human beings, but I do have expectations for my own existence that do not center utterly and completely around them. Does that make me a horrible mother? The question has to be rhetorical, because if the answer is yes then I would like to be oblivious and go on living in this delusional state.  Because the cold hard fact is that since baring these babes, I have never lost the intention for what I want to grow into.

I have came to the inevitable failure point in a story that I am working on. The place where I have developed my characters, plotted out the entire story line, written some pretty great stuff if I do say so myself, but unfortunately feel as though I can’t go on. My first problem with this tale is that it is of the Science Fiction genre. In reality I have absolutely no business writing Science Fiction because I don’t really know anything about it.  The idea has become completely unbelievable because the details are lacking, and the more I begin to believe the concept, the less I think the readers will. It’s messy and chaotic, and I desperately want to clean it up but can’t find the wherewithal to do so.

When I think of Sci-Fi I think of ‘A Sound of Thunder’ by Ray Bradbury what genius that guy was! He developed everything he needed to within a few short pages and the idea’s that he presented in this short story are still being used in literature and film today. Another one of my favorites ‘Oryx and Crake’ by Margaret Atwood, this woman is phenomenal and by far one of my favourite authors. But aside from my biasness   she unknowingly created this concept in my mind. After reading ‘Oryx and Crake’, ‘The Year of the Flood’, and ‘A handmaids Tale’ all within a few short weeks, I decided that I was going to also delve into some Science Fiction writing myself.

So now I am in this awful place of whether to scrap the whole shebang or try and push through until I have something of value. I know that I will not be able to throw away the work I’ve done thus far, but hide it away, remove it from my desktop, try and forget about this atrocity that I have unwittingly started; this is a definite option.

This is why I call it the failure point, which I know is a very defeating term to name it, and probably isn’t helping my situation all too much but it is the handle that has surfaced and now will never be known as anything but. I would like to think that it is our burden as writers to go through these times of  collapse, and with persistence and a diligent fingers-to-the-keyboard attitude we can rise up and finish the vision. But right now, I have buried myself so deep in the proverbial blues, that I question even calling myself a writer.  The hope of this script ever becoming anything but a half finished narrative is quickly becoming, just that, a far-flung hope.

Lars woke up just as I wrote this last line, he saunters out to the living room where I am dwelling solemnly and tells me that he has dreamt about driving trains. He tells me that one day he will grow up to be a train driver…A conductor, just like the Fat Controller in the Thomas the Train series. He is serious and just like that his barefaced confidence has removed me from my funk.

If each time I feel overwhelmed and see no drive towards the future of my goals, each time I decide to move down the easy route of  quitting, what kind of a role model am I being for my children?  Because as much as I believe that my personal dreams have no relationship to my children’s, I lie to myself. In their young age, the kids look up to Jamie and I, everything we do they harbour and could subconsciously use in later life. If I give up each time things get tough, my example to my children is that; give up when your plans go south.

I don’t want to be that person, I don’t want my fear of failure to steer my decisions in life; and I certainly don’t want this ideology to carry on to my children. So now I will finish writing this self indulgent post, and move this curser toward the documents I had previously hidden away, and I will write. And although frustration will probably take me over again, and the plot will still come out choppy and the characters may not be believable I will push forward. Because at the very least I will have conquered the Failure Point, a place that has taken so many creative endeavours of mine, and man will that feel good!

Moms Cry Too

There is such a stigma to be the perfect mother. Then, when you put everything you have into achieving this goal, it slowly eats away at any ounce of soul you have left. Believe me, I am not a stranger to this illusion. I too, once looked down at the mother whose daughter’s hair was not brushed and face was dirty. I found joy in rolling my eyes at the woman in Wal-Mart with the screaming cart of 4 children, and when I walked into a home that was not manicured to perfection I talked incessantly of it for days to come. It is only now that I am beginning to see what it is that I was truly judging.

Oh how I miss the existence of one infant child who looks lovingly into your eyes and puts their complete and unreserved trust into, you; their wonderful, neat as a new pin, mother. Then at some point there is a shift, and rebellion starts. The tot that once could do no wrong, grows into a child that will challenge you at any chance they get.

My patience and tolerance has diminish considerably over the last four years. I used to be laid back and easy going, I really did. I loved spontaneity and ‘fly by night’ ideas. Now, if something comes up suddenly or my plans get slightly skewed; stress, anxiety and frustration flood me like the overpowering waves of a tempest, destroying anything in its midst.  I deal with stress much differently than in my younger days too. I used to get mad, and voice my frustration, like any normal individual. I now simply cry. I cry and cry and cry and cry. I can’t control it, I will cry in the solitude of my home, in public stores, I will even cry while driving. Why this horrific outbreak of emotions has taken me over is beyond me, it is embarrassing as my ‘cry face’ is not becoming in the slightest. I will feel that characteristic lump in my throat, followed quickly by a salty  fluid overflowing my eyeballs, hyperventilation then sets in and my face crumples into a muddle of nervous tension while bawls of sorrow burst out of me in a timely fashion. Believe me when I tell you, this spectacle is not an appealing one.

Along with my new found crying feature, I have also became a stickler for punctuality. I think it may border  obsessive compulsive as I have an unattainable urge to be 10 minutes early to everything. Lars’ schools drop off time is 1:05pm, and every day we leave the house at 12:45pm, only to have to wait outside the school for 10 minutes until the doors are unlocked and we are allowed to gain entrance. Why would I not wait until 12:55pm to leave the house? As it only takes 5 minutes to get there. But no, every day I make the same neurotic blunder.

And it doesn’t stop there, I get stressed when we might be late for our 10 minute early arrival.

This morning, was an especially stressful one. Our new roommate who is currently residing in the basement dwelling had just moved in and the kids are being loud. They are screaming, just to hear themselves and the walls and floors in my house are as thin as cheap diapers. ‘He knows what he was moving in with, don’t worry about it.’ My friend Janelle advises me as I explain my qualms about the kids waking him up with their excessive clamour. It doesn’t help. I look at the clock and see, good god it is already 12:30pm, I don’t even have Lars’ bag packed for school. The tension is rising.  I quickly attempt to get my shit together and by the time I am attempting to get the kids in their winter gear to leave it is 12:54pm. This is bad, really bad. Sophie then makes my state of affairs worse by refusing to let me put her left boot on, she chucks the boot into the living room and I feel a familiar lump begin to form. I hold back, and take a breath. Staying calm is my best approach and finally wrestle the boot onto her foot. Our front steps are icy and I try to get the kids down them without slipping but that is a colossal fail as I trip and bring the babies down with me. Physically were okay, but they are both crying and I am quickly on the verge of joining them. We get to the van door, again Sophie is causing me problems as she wants to try to get into her seat without assistance. She is in that phase now, ‘I do it, Mama, I do it.’ I want to let her accomplish it, and gain that self satisfaction, but that proverbial clock is ticking and my stress levels rising. Lars gets into his seat and awaits me to strap him in, all the while my sweet two year old struggles to get into the damn vehicle. She slips, she cries. I  strap her into the car seat. She is not happy about it. They are both screaming bloody murder at this point, I can’t decipher when Lars joined in on the cries for attention. But it is now that I break.

“STOP! Enough you two, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!!!” I roar to make myself heard over the two, and also to get out a bit of my own frustration. I catch something out of the corner of my eye and look to my left. A neighbour is watching the fiasco, looking at me with a pitiful, pathetic sort of stare and I want to go over there and punch them square in the nose. I don’t. I pretend not to see the golly gawker and proceed into the driver’s seat after securing in the kids. I only drive for a few seconds before I feel it happening. The tears start flowing and I wonder if I should pull over. I’m not sure if crying while driving is considered a ‘Distracted Driving’ offense. I take my chances, I can’t risk being any more late, than we already are. As we pull up to the school I look at the digital clock on the van’s dashboard and see it is 1:04pm. I provide a moan of relief  and look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My make-up is everywhere, why do I even apply the stuff, I wonder as I try to clean myself up before entering the building. Lars addresses me,

“Mama, sorry we not listening. I love you. Don’t cry.”

If it wasn’t for the fact, that I know I have to make an appearance in only mere seconds to other human beings I would have started a whole new regime of crying, this time out of love and redemption though.

I always considered that this torrent of sentiment stemmed from an overtired,  under-appreciated and overall frazzled  lifestyle. But today, as I am writing this script I realize it is none of these things that make me so poignant.  I have stress, hopefully most mothers do. We have stress because of the little people we love so deeply. All we want is the best for them, and sometimes that notion overcomes rational thinking.

Although I will try to keep the blubbering to a minimal, I won’t feel ashamed about it anymore. There will always be something to stress about, and I will never stop worrying about the welfare of my kids. As they grow older, and more than likely I become more emotional, they will almost certainly become mortified and exasperated with me, but I have faith that one day they will understand and appreciate the fact that, sometimes moms cry too.

I may not ever get a ‘Mother of the Year’ award; I yell and don’t always think to use ‘positive reinforcements’ and clearly, I often let my emotions get the best of me. But I know that I will never love something more, than I do my children.