Levedy

Not at my best today

I hesitate to write posts like this because some of my readers are judgmental jerkwads.

I have readers that seem to look for any opportunity to see my human frailty as a mother. They love to pounce on any admission of frustration as an opportunity to click their tongues and think "See? I told you she was no good. I was/am/would be such a better mother than she is. And she's having another baby? Tsk, tsk tsk." Invariably, I'll get a call or an email or a rumor through the grapevine that my admission somehow added evidence to the case file The State of Perfect Motherhood v. that Substandard Woman Jen Rodis

But today is one of those days when I want to sell my kids to the neighbors and run away somewhere tropical.

My day started at five, when I discovered my pants-less daughter on my bed stealing my covers. With a snoring husband and an almost-three-year-old kick machine next to me in bed, sleep wasn't really an option.

Chris woke early too. He decided to spend the day mimicking a typhoon alarm. I don't know if it's just teething, or teething that is perhaps combined with a mild ear infection. (Why suffer with one form of pain when you can have two, really? Why not be efficient and have both? Throw in dysentery if you're feeling particularly productive.) Chris has been whining and crying just about non-stop for three days now. No fever, no bowel issues, nothing symptomatic, just WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, and when he catches his breath, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH. Lather, rinse, repeat.

What is it about kids that allow them to cry at the EXACT frequency that scrambles your brain and makes you batty? After three days of this, I'm ready to crouch in a corner, rock back and forth, chew my hair and mutter The Sea Monkeys made me to do it over and over.

Once the kids were up and fed, and Dim off to work, I had to extract my daughter from under my bed. Like me, she has a circus-freak large head. She may be in the 25th percentile for height and weight, but she's 75th for head circumference. More room for brains. Like me, I fear that turtlenecks and headwear of any kind will prove impossible for her. I found her under my bed distressing the cat, and saying "oops, Mama. I'm stuck. I'm sorry." I manage to drag her out by her ankles up to her neck, but her head proved more difficult. Also, I discovered that she was naked - again. This child refuses clothing, even to go furniture spelunking. We have one of those memory foam mattresses, and it weighs about 1,342 pounds. I was not about to attempt to lift a corner of the bed to release her cranium. Luckily, it wasn't bad enough that I had to grease her up with Crisco, but it might come in handy next time. I manage to get her out with a minimum of rug burns and head vises, but all the while Chris is grabbing on to my pants with snot and tears leaking out, notifying me of the imminent arrival of Hurricane Orajel: WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I have an icon hanging near my desk, a small picture in the Eastern style of Mary holding a baby Jesus. I don't talk about my faith often, but I found this icon on Ebay a few years ago, and I keep it near as a talisman for those days when I want Gypsies to come and take either me or the kids away. It's sparsely decorated, which is typical of Eastern Orthodox icons. The standard elements are there for any art historian to point out: Mary's hair is covered by her robe, she has three stars on her garment, one above her forehead and one on either shoulder, she and Jesus have halos around their heads, and Jesus is dressed way better than she is. Judging from the apparent age of Jesus in the icon, it seems odd that Mary doesn't have some applesauce smeared on her robe somewhere, but I suppose that's just for simplicity's sake. She looks incredibly serene, and when you look closer, you notice that she has three hands. One is holding Jesus, one is gesturing to him, and the third hangs out underneath the other two.

There's a whole long story about John of Damascus and why he commissioned an icon of Mary with extra appendages, but you can google that if you like. I like the icon, not just because of its religious implications, but because it's a gentle reminder to me that all of us, even the best of us, could really use an extra hand now and then.

I don't pray often. I feel that God has a full plate most days, what with fielding other people's prayers about the sick, the financially desperate, the very important sports bet, and whatever those wackadoo televangelists are going on about. My issues seem so small in comparison. There are times though, when I ask for help to get through the day, or on some days, help to get through the next half hour. It usually helps, even if it's just because I admitted out loud that the day sucks balls and I need to get myself together to get through it.

And no, I don't think that God minds that I use the phrase SUCKS BALLS. He knows how I feel, why sugar coat it?

Ultimately, I get to recharge while the two kids nap in the afternoon. I get to hit the reset button while enjoying a thrilling round of Clean-The-Kitchen-Again or managing to SIT THE HELL DOWN with a glass of Pepsi while working on my closing arguments for I'm Doing the Best I Can v. Blow it out your pie hole. If there's anyone out there who thinks that being a stay-at-home mom isn't as tough as having a career, I have a third hand with a gesture for you.

Posted by Jen at April 14, 2009 5:22 PM