M…O…T…H…E…R… Sadness

mother-sadness

Remember that Mormon ad from a million years ago… A little kid is happy because he got A’s on his report card and all his joy gets sucked away by the voice of a parent, getting mad at him for some minor thing he has done wrong. Sometimes (most of the time), I feel like that little boy.

Our house is a very busy place. Everyone is juggling some combination of work, school, and social commitments (except my youngest who is only 10 and Buster the Schnauzer who is… well… a schnauzer). Emotions run high. And here I stand, rooted like a bull’s eye in the center of the madness, throwing out statements that are bound to infuriate the masses. Wild, crazy things like:

  • “put on your mittens” (in my defense, it is -14 C)
  • “wrap the cheese before you put it back in the fridge”
  • “eat something”
  • “let the dog in/out/in/out” (admittedly, Buster is a high maintenance pet)
  • “time to go to bed” or “time to get out of bed” (equally aggravating sides to the same coin)

I continually ask nagging,
annoying questions… the same questions over and over. Questions like:

  • “What is that weird smell in your room?”
  • “Where is my phone charger/hairbrush/bank card/VISA card…?”
  • “Where are you going? When will you be back?” (often the question is posed to someone leaving with keys to our only car in one hand and a back pack over one shoulder)
  • “Will you be here for dinner?”
  • “Can you pick up ______ while you are out?” (the answer is always no but I keep asking, which I recognize as a sign of possible insanity)

You can see why I am attracting disdain like black pants draw in dog hair. Eyes are rolling at me all day, every day. Doors are slammed (which is usually blamed on a mysterious wind that blows arbitrarily through the house). My name is pushed at me in long, drawn-out exhales that clearly express how exhausting my existence is… M….O….T….H….E….R….

For about an hour each evening, I am useful in a non-offensive way, as I curl up on the sofa with our youngest and watch an episode of Gilmore Girls with her before bedtime. During that hour, I get on no one’s nerves, ask no questions, request no information, and make no inappropriate comments about anything. She snuggles against me and we nibble something “snacky” and when she talks to me, she calls me “mom” or even “mommy”. And I get all warm and mushy on the inside.

Then the episode ends. Even as I push the off button on the television remote, I feel it coming. My mouth opens and I start talking about tooth-brushing and flossing and bedtimes. “Mommy” is gone and I am back to being M….O….T….H….E….R.

Author: kim scaravelli

Kim lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, with her long-suffering husband, an assortment of off-spring, a charming cat named Winnie, and a less charming (but oddly loveable) schnauzer named Buster.

11 thoughts

  1. Yes, we are an annoying bunch. i just recently changed the password on our Netflix account and my daughter-in-law called to complain that she can’t get movies anymore from my account. I explained that her daughter, my granddaughter, had given my password out — or she had been hacked — because there were like five people using the account and I couldn’t actually use it because Netflix won’t let me. She was miffed. I am SUCH a bitch thinking the woman — who is 55 this year — might consider opening her OWN account using HER money rather than mine. Staggering concept, I know. I was grateful to be on a regular phone, not Skype because I didn’t think I could tolerate the eye rolling.

    They NEVER grow up. They just get old.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. What ever were you thinking, Marilyn? I am sure it clearly stated in the hospital paperwork that were were responsible for a lifetime of allowances, tuition payments, co-signing, unreciprocated gift purchases, “treating” in restaurants, putting gas in all empty tanks, etc. Did you not read the fine print?

      Liked by 1 person

  2. My wife and I figured out that we could be saying something negative to our kids at all times. So, we backed off and started enjoying them more. We still have certain moments of coaching, mentoring, parenting are required, but we stopped harping all the time. I am glad you are having the Gilmore Girls time, as we usually can only do that for a few minutes at a time.

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    1. I have been trying to enjoy them more. But I am a tad concerned that while I am enjoying them from a distance they could lose their mitten-free fingers to frostbite (ha ha).

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      1. Great analogy. My son once did not want to take a coat to a cold marching band away football game. Knowing he would regret it terribly, I finally said, “My job as a parent is to make sure you take this coat. Your job is to bring it home. What you do in-between is up to you.” When we next saw him at the game, he was wearing the coat.

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        1. That’s a great answer. I’ve used similar, but more along the lines of ‘it’s my job to make you brush your teeth, one day it’ll be your job to earn the money to pay for the dentist yourself.’

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    1. It does seem like all of us struggling parents are part of some secret society that revolves around acts of martyrdom and poop jokes

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