Supermom Breaks a Nail
Kristen Thomas Easley
Copyright 2010 by Kristen Thomas Easley
Chapter One
Once Upon a Tuesday
I wake to a sharp pain and Space Commander Joe declaring me an intruder. I sit bolt upright in bed. I turn to see the Space Commander glaring at me from behind a scratched helmet visor. A knot on my forehead forms. My lips curl back to expose most of my gums. “Logan!” I growl to the tussle-haired gremlin behind the action figure.
“Did that hurt, Mom?”
“Yes!” I hiss.
“Huh.” He says, quizzically looking at his plastic doll -- “Joe didn’t even break. He’s SUPER STRONG!” -- and buzzes out of the room, making whooshing space commander sounds.
I hear my husband groan.
“Heck of a way to wake up, huh?” I say, still trying to rub the pain from my left lobe.
“I didn’t wake up until you barked at Logan,” he says, rolling over.
Sorry my concussion disturbed your slumber, darling. Coffee?
Since I am up anyway, I collect my “Family Organizer Binder,” my “Kiddie Kalendar Spiral,” my “Mommy’s Portable Memory Book” and my “Keepin’ It Together Folder” and head out to the computer. I switch it on and wait, pen poised. The computer comes to life, assaulting me with reminders of the tasks, appointments and activities I have lined up for today. While mapping a course for pick-ups, drop-offs and bank stops, my children remind me they need breakfast. I slap two frozen waffles in the toaster and nuke some day-old coffee in the microwave for myself. With the kids at the table covered in syrup but eating contentedly, I check the clock to see if I have time for a shower. Looks like another day of talcum and air freshener.
After breakfast, I wrestle the kids into outfits that do not match but cover all the parts that should be covered. As my husband is walking out the door, I race by and plant a kiss on him with such force I worry that I’ve chipped a tooth. Unfortunately, the force of the kiss is not produced from passion but by the fact that I was mid-stumble, having tripped over a four-inch-tall truck left in the middle of the floor. The kids are chewing on their toothbrushes, which seems good enough hygiene to me. I load the two kids and the twelve toys they each need to bring into the car. Getting in the driver’s side, I buckle up, sit back, sigh and think to myself, “What the hell happened to me?”
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I am blessed to have children. At least that is what they tell me -- that I am blessed. They say children are blessings and that I should count my blessings, which are two -- two currently very dirty blessings, who look like they may have gotten into my baking mix again. But my life before, my Single-With-Out-Children (henceforth to be referred to as SWOC) life, was blessed in a different way. At least there was some semblance of sanity to it.
In my SWOC life, I was a decent example of the female race. I did not have a heroic job, but I was good at the ordinary job I had. I took care of myself. I had friends, friends who had a variety of interests and could discuss myriad topics. I was able to follow a TV series while it aired. I used to love the taste of wine. I don’t taste wines now. I drink them, when they are in my hand, but I don’t taste them. I used to savor every moment I had with my glass of wine. I would let the velvety liquid roll on my tongue and make a game of how many flavors I could identify. Now the game is to see how much I can throw back before one of my children knocks my glass over.
No mother alive needs to be told that her SWOC life and her life as a mother are different. Single women do not need an explanation either. How many friends have they lost to a runny- nosed toddler’s schedule? One by one, those “inseparable girlfriends” drop out of Girls’ Night and only show up to lunch with child in tow.
But this is not my story. My story is elsewhere. My story is in the fairy tale of motherhood -- or the elusiveness of that fairy tale. Magazines blanket the shelves with bylines proclaiming the “Joys of Motherhood.” Celebrities allege that their million-dollar lifestyles are meaningless compared to the profundity of being a mother. Media outlets bombard you with the idea that maternity will supersede any positive feeling you’ve previously felt. The World of Motherhood became more attractive that Alice’s Wonderland, the Vikings’ Valhalla or Hilton’s Shangri-La. With this conditioning, I entered into motherhood willingly and eagerly. And now I wait. I wait for the utopian feeling to come, the rush of euphoria promised me, the ultimate rapturous payoff to be found as a mother that justifies all of my sacrifices.
The reality is that either I suck at being a mother or being a mother sucks.
Chapter Two
Different Creatures Inhabited My Body
Children are like fall fashions. They are different elements but made to work together. My five-year-old, Logan, is a boy and equipped with all the flaws inherent in those models. He chose not to talk until he darn well felt like it, sending us to all kinds of doctors and therapists who scratched their heads and told us he was a “puzzler.” As I was writing the $7,000 check to the neurologist to find out the extent of his “puzzling,” Logan pointed to a fire truck parked nearby and said, “That fire truck is yellow. They are usually red. Do the different colors mean different jobs when fighting the fire?” I tore up the check and took Logan out for ice cream. He had saved me several thousand dollars, after all.
My daughter, Tabitha, calls herself a princess. She is not. She is a diva. She is incapable of walking into a room. She must sashay or dance or stumble into the center. At the ripe age of three, she has adopted referring to people as “dahr-ling”.
People who have briefly met my children furrow their brows and say things like “They are bright, aren’t they?” or “They are certainly creative children!” I smile and lower my eyes in thanks of their acknowledgement. And they are these things – if by “bright and creative” you mean “strange and possibly unbalanced.” I am no authority on children or mothering or anything pertaining to children or mothering (which begs the questions as to why I am writing about said topics), but even I know my children are odd.
Logan is incapable of taking a decent photograph. He might be outside making amazing chalk drawings or building a nuclear generator and looking angelic as he concentrates. As soon as you produce anything that records images or sounds, he will throw open his eyes and mouth in a cartoonish look of shock and begin to make farting sounds. Then he yells at the top of his lungs and runs into the lens. Whenever we show home movies, our friends pat our hands comfortingly and let us know they know of a good program for him.
For six months, Tabby could not speak unless on her head. Asking her what she wanted for lunch would send her into the living room to grab a throw pillow. With pillow in hand, she would return to the kitchen, upend herself and say “Crackers” through her legs. (We were relieved when we got her to use the pillow. I imagine you can only go to the emergency room with your daughter’s head wounds so many times before you end up on a few lists.)
As different as they are, they do work together well. There was the requisite jealousy on Logan’s part when Tabby was born and the requisite indifference to Logan on Tabby’s part when she was an infant and getting all the attention. As soon as Tabby could grab items, the battles began. We steadied ourselves for years of conflict over who had Dad’s slipper first (why would come later). Then one day Logan introduced Tabby to the baking mix, and a union was forged. In some weird nonverbal dance that culminated in a thin blanket of white, dusting every exposed surface in my kitchen, their roles in each other’s lives were established – rank and file. Logan would orchestrate
every nefarious plan he could devise, and Tabby would execute it. If Tabby could not execute it, Logan would and leave Tabby holding the bag.
I have walked in and seen the dining room table upended with my Lladro collection precariously positioned on its edge. A line of condiments are poised at the ready to take out the Lladros. I turn, and there is poor Tabby investigating a bottle of mustard that has been hastily shoved into her hand. I growl to Logan to make himself present. He walks into the room, saying, “Tabby did it” – even though I have not accused him of any crime (well, that part was probably obvious).
We have a long discussion about the possibility of Tabby even being able to physically produce the scene at hand. He insists it was all her and isn’t the mustard bottle in her hands evidence enough? Poor Tabby is just sitting there, grinning from ear to ear, pleased as punch that Logan is saying her name.
But as the universe would have it, I am constantly reminded of why this is all worthwhile. I pass by the open doorway in Tabby’s room. She wants a book she can’t reach. Logan puts his action figures aside and says, “Let me help you, Tabby.” Logan is sad because some boy at school has said something hurtful. Tabby offers Logan her Princess Pillow because it always makes her feel better.
At night, after all the bedtime battles and negotiations have subsided and sleep has captured their hardworking minds, I creep into their rooms to look at them. Resting peacefully, their precious fingers wrap around my hand as I take theirs. I whisper my love to them.
As I creep to the door, they respond in a loud whisper of their own, “Mom?”
“Yes?” I query back.
“The pudding in my bed is all over my foot – can I sleep in your bed?”
Chapter Three
Remembering Our Foremothers
When we wed, my husband’s mother and my mother were as different as they come. One was West Coast; one was East Coast. One worked her whole life; one stayed home. One was still married to the same man she met in college; one was working on separating herself from husband No. 3. One had been raised all over the world; one moved from the house in which she was raised to the one in which she was married -- and so on.
Both are pleasant ladies; both are bright; both have an opinion or two on raising children. As far as I can make out, the only thing they agree on wholeheartedly is that I do not truly know what I am doing. And this one commonality has unified them -- unified them into one giant, two-headed, advice-dispensing creature. From the moment I gave birth, my husband and I ceased having a mother each. Now we have -- The Mothers.
They like nothing more than to pass on their wisdom. Once, after a particularly challenging day, I asked The Mothers the difference between wisdom and meddling. Their reply was somewhere along the lines of its being as vast a difference as between mothering and what I do.
It is not so much that they offer their opinion; it is how they do it. Instead of plainly stated advice, I get subtle eyebrow raises, a well-placed “Hmm” or thinly veiled sarcasm. Their bon mots include “It is so smart of you to keep all this dust on the floor to try to build up your children’s allergy resistance.” My favorite is “You know, sometimes when our children got us riled up, we would take a moment to glance out the window; breathe out a deep, soothing breath; and then calmly but sternly remind them that what we are telling them to do is for their own good and not just to be mean.” This is usually delivered as I am still wiping the froth of rage from my mouth.
To hear The Mothers tell it, they were nothing but a pillar of grace and calm during our childhood. Whatever challenge they faced, whatever problem arose, they found the sensible, appropriate solution and executed it with aplomb.
The only problem with their story is that we were there. Did The Mothers take a deep breath when we, as children, first discovered food coloring – on their imported Persian carpet? Did they calmly explain why we should not cut the pretty flowers out of the $1,200 print they just purchased? Did they merely say “Oops” when we knocked over our third glass of milk at the dinner table? No, I don’t believe they did. The only deep breath they blew out the window was to hide their cigarette smoke. And we know full well why they did not have dust on the ground – because they hired Marcella to clean it every week.
So not only am I battling their expected level of excellence, I am being measured by a fairy tale they have created of our own childhood. When my husband and I point out their lapses in perfect parenting, they smile calmly and mention they have recently been reminded of their psych courses in college when they learned of transference. I think about transferring some of the stale milk into their coffee in the morning.
I try to point out my good qualities like the fact that I SELFLESSLY stay home to raise my children. Then I remember that argument works better if the house is clean and the children aren’t half dressed and playing poker with the credit cards from my wallet. I mention how well I did in college, but that only opens me up for comments about the obvious decline in the state’s educational system. Exasperated, I point to the window and laud the beautiful weather. It takes a pretty smart cookie to move somewhere THIS beautiful. The Mothers remind me we are here because of my husband’s job. So I do the one thing that I am truly good at, the thing that even The Mothers concede I do better than anyone they know – I pout.
Just to show you what I am talking about, here was the reaction to Logan’s first accomplishment in swimming when he was three: He was very excited about swimming a short distance in the pool one day. I called The Mothers so he could tell them all about it. After Logan’s elusive and abstract version of the day, I took the phone.
“Hi. He was just really excited and wanted to call you,” I explain.
“Yes, we can hear the excitement. We are not exactly sure what he said, however [chuckle]. How are the speech lessons going?”
“Good. He has made a lot of improvements. We are really happy with his speech therapist.”
“Funny -- in our day parents taught their kids to speak.”
“Sure. Great news about the swimming, huh? He goes two times a week now.”
“Oh, yes. We remember taking you all to the pool every day, usually around 5:00 A.M.”
“Well, Logan is only three.”
“Hmm, we started you all at 18 months. We had such hope.”
“We are thinking… wait, hope for what?”
“Nothing.”
Pause. Change subject.
“The weather should be beautiful this weekend. We are thinking about heading out to the beach with the kids,” I continue.
“You will need sunscreen.”
“We have some.”
“What SPF?”
“150.”
“We always used 175.”
Of course you did. I race to the nearest window at the Y, close my eyes and let loose with those deep breaths. When I finally open my eyes, I notice a lifeguard who had been enjoying his break on the other side of the pane.
“Ma’am, it’s 10:00 in the morning. Do I smell alcohol?” he asked.
I reply, “Nope. It’s SPF 175.”
Chapter Four
The Spare Parent
When I write my husband into my mind’s romance novel, I name him Count Nathaniel Bloodgoode. I give him a long, flowing mane of silken, raven hair. He wears a velvet riding coat with a scarf sparsely covering his sinewy muscles. This morning I lay in bed in my best seductive pose, waiting for my husband. The Count walked in with his boxers askew and slightly lower than they should be. He was unshaven but in the unkempt, barfly way -- not the sexy, Hollywood way. He was absent mindedly chewing on a toothbrush while reading the paper he held in his right hand. His left hand was scratching the lower part of his back slowly and without any apparent reason. When he finally noticed me, the look on my face had changed from seduction to wondering if he realizes he has a
second toothbrush tucked behind his ear. He responded, toothbrush still in mouth, “What?”
In light of this, I will just call him Nate.
Nate and I married as partners – no matter what this world threw at us, we would take it on together. We both wanted and eagerly awaited the arrival of children. When I got pregnant, we celebrated for days. He was in the room when I bore both our children and didn’t flinch. Once home from the hospital, we would take turns tending and adoring our bundle of wonder. We teasingly argued over who was hogging the baby. We were united and co-parenting.
After a while, we realized something important: Children are tiring and expensive. Since we were committed to one of us staying home, the other had to work more. So we fell pretty comfortably into the traditional roles of working dad and stay-at-home (to be henceforth referred to as SAH) mother.
I did not foresee Nate being tired and not wanting to assume full parenting duties as soon as he walked in the door. I smile through clenched teeth and tell him, “Sure. Go ahead and unwind a bit before ‘rolling up your sleeves.’” The fact that I ripped my sleeves off and chewed on them to stifle my screams should have no bearing on his sleeve thing. After an eternity of waiting for Nate to unwind, which is, in reality, the amount of time it takes him to take off his tie, I pout and ask Nate for help. He usually complies.
But he also offers an opinion. This part baffles me. What part of help indicates opinion? I explain quite plainly, if not pedantically, why all of his ideas will not work. I remind him that he did not give them life so he could not possibly have better ideas than I. I see his mind start to work as he furrows his brow. He looks to his children, who do look a great deal like him, and then back at me.
I see his statement forming and beat him to the punch, “Oh, sure, you were involved in the conception,” I say, “but having carried two children, I am revoking your right to say you gave them life. I gave them life. I carried them; I birthed them; I fed them until my breasts bled – the claim of life is mine. You want to dispute it? Let’s shove the dog up your urethra and check back in ten months.”
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