Mommies Paradise

What does it mean when you feel like somehow you are not raising a son but grooming a king? It means that I read too much mythology.

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Every night before I go to bed I think to myself that tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be smooth and easy and organized. And That Baby will not trip me up. He will nap when he should and eat when he should and go to bed when he should. ALL without the slightest bit of fuss, muss or mess! He might just eat those grapes that I keep trying to feed him.

I will get a nice long shower and go to the bathroom alone, at least once. I will clean the house and wash the bedding — ALL the bedding. Comforters included. I will scrub the bathrooms AND their floors. Everything, I mean EVERY THING will be in order, all day.

Then I start to doze off… slowly slipping into a delirium of sleep. That coma caused by the sleeplessness that started when I, and almost every other mother, was six months pregnant. My mind finally lets go and takes a break from the usual clutter that keeps me moving like a zombie through the day. Ah… my muscles start to relax, my mind is clear…

Then it happens. It isn’t loud. Or even sharp. Just a peep. A subtle whimper. Possibly the puppy next door whining to be let in? The cat crying to get out? No and No and NO. I know exactly what it is. I am jolted, like lightening has hit my bones. I freeze. don’t - make - sound… don’t - move… SHHHHHH… Maybe it will stop if I am very, very quiet and very, very still. Maybe I can go back to my coma. Ah, the sweet release of sleep.

And then it happens. The low whimper turns into a blood-curdling scream that can only mean one thing. “I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!! WENCH!”

And that is how tomorrow begins, at 12:21 AM.

Today at the grocery store. Canned food aisle. Simply put.

Little Girl: Mommy? Have you heard of Spam?
Mommy: Uh, yeah.
Little Girl: What is it?
Mommy: Uh, some sort of meat-food invention - kinda’ like dog food for people.

Who ever thought that breakfast in bed would be a good idea, didn’t have to wash the sheets. Every time I see a commercial, or even a reference to eating greasy eggs, hot coffee and staining juice in bed, I never think of relaxation. I never think of how nice and easy it would be to eat in bed. I only think “Who is going to clean that bedding when the eggs spill and the toast falls over, butter first, right onto that pillow. AHHH that coffee is hot, and it stains!” And what kind of mess waits for that poor woman after she wipes the goo off her lap and crawls from her relaxation?

It may just be me, but I say “Leave her alone!” Let that tired, bedraggled mother of all just sleep! Look at those bags under her eyes and that bleary stare that never quite focuses on any one thing at one time - but scans the day, like scanning a clearance sale at Nordstrom, she looks for a wedge of time to knock off. No, she does not want all of you, Daddy, kiddies, dog, etc, bounding into the bedchamber, all smiles and smug satisfaction at your misguided efforts, waking her from her much needed slumber, which is granted on one Sunday of the year! Let her sleep! Take out the cats, they are taking up her bed space! Remove and wash that dog, he stinks! Leave the house! Don’t make a peep. Tip-toe to the bathroom and don’t flush too loud. There will be no sex today!

I am sure that I sound like an ungrateful woman, but don’t get me wrong. I know that you mean well and you get big points for it! But if you were to ask her what she wants, it would probably be a significant chunk of time in the day filled with nothing. Not food, not drink, not you, not anything. Maybe just sleep and quiet.

Again, maybe it is just me. I did not get breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day. I got to sleep in. And I got a nap in the afternoon. SCORE!

I feel compelled to admit though, that I don’t know how long I can go without That Baby. Maybe sometime in the afternoon we passed in the living room and he ran past me, coyly and I in a moment of guilt, for wanting to be left alone, and unending love, swept him up and kissed his face until he screamed at me and demanded that I let him down. He undoubtedly threw a tantrum of evil proportions, as he likes to do of late. He hurled his body head first to the floor and cried. I might have then called Mr. Daddy and retired to my room.

Guilt relieved.