I remember, as a child, my mother saying things like, “Can’t I just eat my own food/drink my own drink”? I remember her saying, “Can’t I just have one minute to myself”? Growing up, I just thought my mom was being a selfish asshole. After all, I just wanted a drink or a bite! Now that I am a mother, though, I understand. Completely.
I am convinced that I could prepare a four course meal of my children’s favorite foods, like chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, macaroni and chocolate chip cookies with ice cream on top, then make myself a dog shit sandwich and they would turn their noses up at their plates and beg for a share of what was on mine. I don’t remember what it is like to not have to share my food or drink. If I try to refuse to share, you would think I had just told my children that I was going to Disneyworld without them. The moment the food hits the plate, I hear, “I want a bite”. The minute I stop filling my glass, I hear “I want a sip”. For the love of vodka, I don’t want to share anymore!
I look back now and realize other things I took for granted before becoming a mother. I never really appreciated things like going to the bathroom alone. Now, every time I go to the bathroom, I have a captive audience. It never fails that there is some urgent need the moment I need to pee. Sometimes, it is just a bout of separation anxiety that compels my child to reunite with me seconds after I leave the room. Maybe they are checking on me to make sure I am not slipping out the window. Other times, they suddenly have one or one hundred questions and/or observations that simply cannot wait until I am finished relieving myself.
“Who is your favorite?”
“Do you like green or blue?”
“Where is your penis?”
“Your butt looks big.”
If you have a fragile self-esteem, I suggest you avoid parenthood.
Even when I am just sitting on the couch, watching television, I feel like a mother possum. My boys, especially, are right on top of me. Number three is on my lap, laid back against my huge pregnant belly, only putting more pressure on my teeny tiny bladder. Number two is huddled up to me, his arms flung across me and holding on tight. At this point in my pregnancy, I barely remember what feeling comfortable means. Add a couple of layers of little people on top of the one kicking my ass from the inside and I am practically claustrophobic. Killing a puppy in front of them would get me the same reaction I get when I kiss their heads and affectionately tell them, “I love you so much. Now, get the hell off of me before I throw you off of me.” I just don’t get it.
If they aren’t right on top of me, they are calling me from across the house. “MOM”! “MOM”! “MOM”! Then, when I kindly reply, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT”? They seem indignant as they tell me, “nevermind”. What the hell do they want from me? I answered you, didn’t I? Unless it is an emergency, do NOT yell across the house.
I’m sorry, Mom. I get it now, though. I get it.