It will probably come as no surprise to anyone that knows me that things have been a bit chaotic lately. I completed a masters degree in September, found myself volunteering to be my son's head soccer coach, completed a military school and enrolled in another one, began training for my 8th marathon, drove nine hours with two kids in less than 24 hours to attend my cousin's wedding, and am currently on a plane to Virginia. Meanwhile, John has been gone so much that Sister Anne and Sister Amy joked last weekend that they hadn't seen the guy for a year. I'm kicking my own ass for allowing things to get so crazy. My point, in telling you all this, is not to make it seem like I'm the best time manager in the history of the world. In fact, I suck at time management as most people who know me well can attest to. I'm routinely, no, chronically 10, ok if I'm honest, 15 minutes late. I joke sometimes with the people I recruit that if you were to think of a stereotypical career military person, I would not be it. I hate mornings, I'm always late, I hate being hot and I'm female. But my point to my applicants is that just because you may not fit the stereotype does not mean you won't find success in a military organization.
I think the same is true for being a parent. And that's really what I want to write about. By some standards, I'm a real asshole of a mother. Example 1: I'm in Scheels trying to buy a soccer ball since my son's ball somehow was coming apart at the seams. My 3-year-old is out of control throwing balls and running behind cash registers. The usual crap I normally use to obtain compliance isn't working. She doesn't give a shit if she doesn't get a prize today. She is not deterred by the three count. The stink eye has zero effect. I can only contort my face in so many different forms of disapproval and none of them stopped the madness. I pick her up and she goes exorcist on my ass. So finally, I hear myself telling my three year old she is grounded. I'm laughing as I'm writing this because it is the most ridiculous thing. I don't even know how to ground a three year old. And the worst thing is, it totally backfired. She started screaming like I told her she was going to have her arm cut off. The ladies in front of us looked at me disapprovingly. Thanks, gals. I needed that extra kick in the nuts as I held my head high carrying the exorcist child with a neon yellow soccer ball being bounced off my rear by my 8-year-old.
Example 2: It's picture day at my three year old's daycare. She has curly hair that is difficult to manage. It's cute as hell but it's hard to comb through and style. Most days, my daughter tells me, "I want it wild, Mom." This means she wants me to minimally comb it and leave it at that. See photo for reference. Straight up Medusa, but a cute one for sure. Due to the number of other demands I have on my energy, I often don't fight her. So what if she likes her hair messy? It's a battle I choose not to fight. However, it's picture day. And she wants it wild and I don't. The fight brews and ensues. What to do? Maybe a better mom could have pulled it off. I suppose I could have held her head in some kind of a vice grip with my forearms and got the job done. But I just didn't see how what I wanted-her picture to look perfect-warranted such a battle of wills. So, unconventionally, I took her to picture day looking like Medusa. Whatever. It's just a picture. Maybe she should get to have a say in how they look. Which, by the way, they turned out decent. John didn't think so, but he doesn't have to try to put a ponytail on a three year old with uncommon strength, rigidity and flexibility.
Example 3: As I mentioned, I coach my son's soccer team. One of the other parents is the assistant coach thankfully because he knows way more about soccer than I do. After one of our games, I was talking to Sister Anne. I thought the assistant coach had left already. So I was a little blunt when I told my sister that my kids were being dicks that morning. All of a sudden, I hear laughing. The assistant was right behind me and heard every word. Oops. Now I will probably always be known as the mom who called her kids dicks.
Last example, although I could go on. We are having Direct TV installed. There is a mix up and I call John who has a quick piss switch when it comes to cable and satellite issues. He becomes enraged for reasons that are not entirely clear to me. We get off the phone and I find myself saying the F word three times in frustration and then realize the tech has come up from the basement and heard me so eloquently express my emotions in the presence of, yes, some of you will be appalled, my kids. Yes, my kids have heard curse words. I do try to limit it but especially at family gatherings or when the cable causes my husband to go ballistic, I do occasionally, okay, more than occasionally, say it. Fuck. I sound like a real asshat. Anyway, we have taught the kids that swearing is like drinking. You can choose to do it when you are old enough but you aren't allowed to do it as a kid.
And that's how it is in my house and in my life. Beautiful, ugly, bat shit crazy, harmony. I can't spend a lot of time worrying about if I'm making all the "right" decisions. I can't spend my time fighting each and every battle. I would have no energy left if I did that especially on top of everything else I'm juggling. I'm not saying I'm right or wrong but I'm saying this works for me, unconventional as it may be. Am I bad Mom, a good mom, a busy mom, a tired mom, a crazy mom or an asshole mom? Maybe I'm all of those things but I prefer just mom. Screw the adjectives because they are all right and wrong at different times. Being mom means different things to different people. To me, it means showing my kids what it looks like to embrace the suck while living the dream. It means that they see I'm not perfect and that they learn to embrace chaos instead of avoiding it. It means the ladies at the daycare may think I suck because I fucking forgot fucking share day again this week, but they also see that my daughter runs into my arms and kisses me the moment I walk into the door regardless. I could drive myself nuts beating myself up about the way the school pics turned out or wondering if I should have stayed home with the kids, although I think we all can agree that had I stayed home, the kids would probably be cussing at a 10th grade level by the time they were in preschool. My point is that each parent has to find their own way. My kids like to be at home and prefer it but they also can exist outside the home. They don't sweat the small stuff and are pretty resiliant. They can make friends easily unlike their asshole of a mother. These are all good things that I hope will outweigh the number of times i have dropped the F bomb in front of them. I try to remember what I tell my recruits...that just because you don't fit the stereotype, doesn't mean you won't be able to find success. Perhaps creating your own reality around your individuality is success enough. For today, I'm going to go with that.
