Monday 30 May 2011

It's Quite Possible I Might Go to Jail.

And if that happens this might be my last chance to declare my innocence because I doubt they will let me have internet access in there.  I'm hoping that if I do get locked up there might be enough of you to stage a "Free Mommy Rotten" protest for me.

It could be that all children do this.  Perhaps it could be unique to boys.  Maybe I am just so lucky that it's only my kids. Whatever the explanation it seems that they are hell-bent on making themselves candidates for foster care and at the rate they are going it is quite likely that soon I shall go to jail.

Allow me to explain.  Sometimes when you see some angry bitch man-handling her kid things are not what they seem.  The first time it happened to me I couldn't believe it.  Frick was about two.  We were in the library.  The deal we made was that I was going to pick out a book for myself and then we were going to go and sit in the children's area where he could play and I could entertain myself with my book.  Something happened once we got inside where he decided that he wasn't going to cooperate and so when we headed towards the book stacks he lay down on the floor and proceeded to scream his head off.  You can imagine how conspicuous that was.  Of course I had to remove him immediately.

I lifted him off the floor and I'm still not sure how I managed not to drop him by the way he thrashed, kicked and screamed.  At first the screaming consisted of only the word "No!" but finding it ineffectual, and with a certain amount of creative genius, he upped the ante:


Can I tell you how awesome that was?  Oh and thank you librarians for glaring at me disapprovingly, that really helped.  Because all children are precious and beautiful so the default is everything is the mother's fault.  Once we got outside there was nothing I could do but try to restrain him, because he was trying as hard as he could to smash his head into the pavement.  He kept screaming that I was hurting him and so some good citizens rushed on over to his aid, got there, saw the situation......and laughed as they walked away.  What they saw was a bedraggled me, hugging and rocking my convulsing son, trying to calm him as he swore to God that I had broken his arm.

That was the first of many public displays I have had to endure.  The next time he was unhappy with me we were in a shopping mall.  I don't remember what I did to displease him but I will never forget how he handled it.  He refused to go one step further.  When I took him by the hand he threw himself on the floor screaming:


Fantastic.  The utter humiliation on my face and Frick's uncanny resemblance to me were the only things that protected me from arrest that time.  He has screamed out every imaginable abuse from choking to murder and honestly, the fact that I am not already in jail is a statistical miracle.  And now that Frack is no longer a helpless baby I think that my luck must soon run out. 

The other day I was out grocery shopping with the kids.  Frack waited until we were on our way home, when I was laden with heavy grocery bags, to have an exercise in non-violent resistance.  He deemed the middle of the busiest intersection in our town, during rush hour, to be the best and most appropriate setting for this protest.

Suddenly and without warning he just lay down on the road, staring quietly at the sky.  As the lights were beginning to change I clearly had a snap decision to make.  I took a moment to try and put him on his feet in the hopes that, once upright, I could coax him into forward motion.  But the bones in Frack's legs turned to jelly and he flopped around heavily like a rag doll.  There was no way to heave him over my shoulder safely with all the bags I was carrying.  There was nothing else to do but literally drag the poor kid across the street by his arm.  I was worried that he might dislocate his arm, but I decided that having a living child with a dislocated arm was preferable given the alternative.

Now I can imagine how this must have looked.  It didn't help that Frack looked totally adorable because he was wearing a super hero cape.  It didn't help that he then started screaming and throwing himself around wildly making it look for all the world like I was throwing him around.  It especially didn't help when some guy, rather than do something useful like calling the cops, screamed obscenities at me with as much hate as he could muster.  (Frick:  "Mommy, why is that man so mad at you?")  Really dude?  I appreciate your concern and all but how exactly does that help?  Aside from teaching my son some very imaginative and colourful new words for his vocabulary.

Fortunately Frack is just fine.  He is currently giggling over an episode of Sesame Street as he munches on Cheerios.  I like to think I deserve some credit for his well-being and maybe, just maybe, I will still have enough luck left to be able to convince a jury of this.  I sure hope so because I'm too pretty for jail.

Sunday 8 May 2011

Merry Christmas, Mommies!

I mean, Happy Mother's Day, which for me is the best holiday of the year.  I don't have to work my ass off like I do at Christmas, and there isn't a constant parade of people reminding me of how old I'm getting like on my birthday.  Which is great because then I am far less likely to get drunk and black out forgetting the whole thing or worse, being told about it by the police someone else.  Mother's Day is that magical time of year when I can emotionally blackmail my family into treating me like a queen and it works, because I can tell you that shit does not work any other time of year.  Here is how I like to celebrate my special day.

The night before Mother's Day I am almost too excited to fall asleep.   I use up all this excess energy barking orders at the men in my house that it needs to be clean for tomorrow.  I must wake up to a clean house.  Nevermind the damn breakfast.  I'm all too happy to pass on the burnt toast or the cold rubbery eggs or the pancakes still raw in the middle.  Just a decent cup of coffee and no dirty dishes in the sink, thank you.  It's the least you can do after I eroded my pelvis squeezing you ingrates into the world.

Inevitably exhaustion takes over and I am able to go to bed.  When I get up in the morning my house looks magical.  The joy of stepping onto a clean floor!  No crumbs or legos or mysterious sticky spots.  My husband and children all chorus a "Happy Mother's Day!" at me and I spend some time basking in their love before I throw them out of my house.  "I love you!"  I call after them.  "Now don't come home until supper!"

And then that's it.  The rest of the day is mine to whatever I want, and what I want is mostly to pretend for a couple of hours that I am not a mother.  I indulge in the things that are difficult for me to enjoy because I have kids like taking an uninterrupted, hot bath, painting my toenails or getting drunk in the afternoon.  Because this is the day that is all about me and damnit, I deserve it.  Because when you become a Mom you don't get holidays anymore.  Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthdays are all about the kids, overstimulated and high on sugar: us moms hardly ever get a break.  This is the one holiday that is least likely to end with me crying hysterically on the floor praying for death.

I raise my tumbler of wine to all the Mommies, cheers!  Milk this day for all it's worth.