I Am Not The Momma I Was Gonna Be

When I was pregnant with the Supergirl, I had plans and certainties about who I would be as a parent and who my child would be. I was never going to yell or spank, I wouldn’t need to. My child would see the hurt and disappointment in my eyes and quickly plead for salvation before I would ever need to discipline.

Until I learned that she could give two flying fudgsicles about my hurt or disappointment, until I discovered that her idea of fun with mommy was the art of trying to find every possible way to die from ages 2-4. Run away from mommy in parking lot? Check. Dive face first off of the kitchen counter? Check.

It’s a miracle that we have made it this far, honestly.

My child would not need to know about her family’s financial situation, we would have more than enough. Until we didn’t. I hate that she knows that she can’t have a slushy because the fountain drinks are 67 cents cheaper. I hate that she worries about whether or not the land baron has been paid. To be fair, it’s more a case of her being insanely smart than us informing her of the situation, I just hate that at 5 years old she has this much of a grasp on a situation that I still wonder if I understand.

My child would not know about cancer, would not need to know about death and dying. Except she does and no matter how much I pray for the knowledge to be forgotten, it doesn’t. At 5 years old, my child has become the morbid, strange child that talks of dying, of ghosts, of zombies, of terminal illnesses and chemotherapy, the child that makes grown ups uncomfortable.

I want to rail against this reality, scream and fight and kick to get back the dream of the child and the parent that we were supposed to be.

I want to, but I can’t and I won’t.

I am not the mother that I wanted to be, but I am a pretty kick ass momma.

My kid watches cartoons from the 80’s , sometimes wears the same set of pajamas all weekends, is cool when I forget to buy milk and all I have to offer is a Pebbles Ice Cream Sundae for breakfast before church. She loves God and Jesus and leads other children to them, her faith is contagious and so awesome. Her sense of humor and sarcasm, though sometimes flawed, are still pretty great. I know adults with a lot less personality than my girl has. She quotes Grease and Wizard of Oz, and you should see that girl rocking out to some Michael Jackson.

And I like to think that I take some credit for all of that.

Kindergartners Are Gross

Dear Kindergarten Class of 2014,

Yes, I am talking to you with your cute new outfits, spiffy new shoes, and recently snaggle- and gap toothed smiles. You are all so very, very cute and I cannot wait to see the people that you grow into. However, I do have a bone to pick with you and I hope that I can speak plainly here. You make me sick.

Literally, bed-ridden, fever addled, cannot breathe sick.

You may not realize that I am privy to the gallons of hand sanitizer, yards of disinfectant wipes, and thousands of anti-bacterial facial tissues that you have stashed away in your cubbies. This is the reason that I am puzzled over the recent string of nastiness that you have sent to my home. I cannot understand how these germs are so virulent that they have survived all of the artillery that you have at your disposal.

And yet, they are and they did which brings us to now.

See, in your tiny body, germs do their thing, you run a bit of a fever, your momma gives you some Tylenol or ibuprofen, you take a quick nap and two hours later you are running around, bouncing off the walls with a free day off like you were never even sick, but in my body and most likely your momma’s body? These germs mutate into something evil, something surely sent by Satan himself and, honestly, it’s just not fair.

When I see how rapidly you digest and defeat these germs, I begin to wonder if this is the time that I will get sick and die. I begin to think that perhaps that this disease is not the same that you have recovered from so quickly. Obviously, this is the time that I have contracted Ebola (if that still exists) or West Nile or Avian Flu or Encephalitis and my death is not only certain, but in the near future.

The fever that you were able to knock out with one dose is now going on four days strong for me, with very little relief. My body aches for sleep that is interrupted by demands for food or playtime or the intense desire to blow my nose, while one nostril leaks a constant fount of watery snot, the other is so congested that it is bitterly painful. You have to repeat everything that you say to me because my right ear has been ringing for 3 days while the left has received no sound for the last two.

I am willing to work out a truce with you. You break open the packs of supplies that your mommas scoured the city for and start using them and I will make sure that your teacher is supplied with a steady stream of the best name brand snacks that I am allowed to bring. I will not only volunteer to host your classroom parties, but will ensure that you will have lots of sugary goodness to celebrate with.

But, if I catch wind of another runny nose or fever? I will cut off your supply and you will be left eating whatever generic pretzel sticks that your poor teacher can afford for the rest of the year. I will bring a raw veggie tray of cauliflower and broccoli to every party and celebration and make sure that every kid gets some on their plate. I can and I will make sure that I go out of my way to healthify your classroom if changes are not made.

Let’s work together kids, I want you to be happy, I want you to have fun, I want kindergarten to be awesome for you, but, if you keep tossing these germs around like your basketball at PE, I will be forced to be the bad guy.

Nobody wants that.

I love you all,

Momma

A Tale of Two Mornings

While I have normally taken on the task of getting the Supergirl ready for school in the mornings, there are days that Hubs elects to do it. This morning, I sat back and allowed him to control the morning rhythm. For your consideration, here is a snapshot of our two very different mornings.

6:00 – He stumbles out of bed, wandering to the restroom, then to walk the visiting dog. 

6:15 – I get up because I have not heard the sounds of a child or even his voice commanding her to get up yet. I jolt out of the bed, sprint down the hall to her room to find him sitting on her bed, lights off, holding her, still sleeping, head wedged into the nook between his neck and shoulder. I leave the room with an eyeroll and collect her clothes. 

6:20 – They have moved into the bathroom, or rather he has. She is now face down on our bed, still asleep, feet dangling off of the side. I leave to gather the towels that he always forgets. 

6:25 – She is in the shower now, somehow. Sitting on the floor, playing with rubber duckies. I give her conditioner and a hairbrush. 

6:32 – She is ready to get out. He wraps her in a towel and leaves the room. Neither has spoken yet. 

6:36 – She is sitting, still wrapped in a towel on the couch. The clothes that I got for her are still sitting next to her. He silently hands them to her and she gets dressed. He hands her socks and her shoes. 

6:40 – He pulls her hair into a ponytail. 

6:45 – She sits at the table in front of a bowl of cereal. She stares into space in that place between waking up and going back to sleep. 

6:50 – Her food has disappeared even though I have not seen her move and was almost certain that she was asleep with her eyes open. 

6:55 – He hands her folders, her lunch box. She kisses me goodbye and I know that she will fall asleep in the car on the way to school.

7:00 - They are backing out of the driveway. I stand on the porch, amazed at the silent dance of my two night owls.

My mornings are a bit lot different.

6:00 AM – The clock is ticking, always ticking. We’re gonna be late, I know we are gonna be late, the mantra beats against my skull from the moment I wake up. 

6:03 – I turn on the lights in her room, strip the comforter off of her little body. “Rise and shine, my little porcupine.”  She squeals, groans against my constant diatribe. “Get up now and you won’t have to eat in the car, get up now and you won’t be late, get up NOW before I get really angry.” 

Tick tock, tick tock. That clock is not going to stop. 

“Time to shower. Hurry, hurry.” 

“Get dressed. Hurry, hurry.” 

The mood is tense, urgent, deliberate. 

Time check. 6:20. 

“Brush your hair. Brush your teeth” 

“Where are your shoes? Where are your socks? Are you packing your lunch today, or do you want me to? What cereal do you want this morning? How do you want me to do your hair? Hurry, hurry. We have to move a little quicker.” 

Late, late, you’re gonna be late. Time check. Shit, more to do, more to do. What else do we need to do? I click off items on my mental checklist. 

“Where is your homework? Where is your folder? These things are your responsibility, you have to keep track of them.” 

Time Check. 6:40 

My commands get louder, more insistent. “Eat. Do. Go. Hurry.” 

She eats her cereal, as I continue clicking items on the checklist. I do the hair, I slip on the socks, the shoes. I make sure that the earrings that she decided on last night are in her ears, I pack the lunch.

Tick tock, tick tock, that bleeping clock is getting louder, more insistent as are my commands.

Time check. 6:55 AM. She kisses her dad, grabs her things and heads for the door. I am speaking still calling out orders. "Don't climb over my seat, use your door. Buckle up, buckle up. Come on let's go, are you ready?"

At 7 we are pulling out of the driveway, she talks to me the entire way to school about the things on the radio, the things outside the window, the little things that she just remembered that she wanted to ask me about. She bounces out of her seat when we get to the school ready to begin her day, ready to learn, to grow, to socialize. 

In the last five years, the differences between the Hubs and I have become more and more glaringly obvious. The one thing that I have learned, that I have decided to take to heart is that just because what he does is different, just because it is not the way that I would do it, doesn't mean that he is wrong or not doing it the right way. He has been a parent just as long as I have and as long as his way works and gets her there on time, I am not going to complain.