I Am Not That Mother: Sorry Kids, Better Luck Next Time

 

A lot of times I take the path of least resistance because…single mom. And I have so much resistance on so many other fronts. The kids resist, my ex resists, I resist the things I know I should do. Even the dogs won’t sit when I ask them too.

 

You know the mother who’s always in the commercials around Mother’s Day or during the Olympics? The single mom who works two jobs and stays up late to study for a different degree to get a better job and then a better life for her family? The mom who is enthusiastically shown cheering from the sidelines or the audience, who when interviewed talks of realizing their child’s potential and dream and doing everything to help them achieve it? The mom who thinks that being a mom is the greatest gift is raising her children, who

The mom who is enthusiastically shown cheering from the sidelines or the audience, who when interviewed talks of realizing their child’s potential and dream and doing everything to help them achieve it? The mom who thinks that being a mom is her greatest gift, who posts those “The days are long but the years are short” memes on Facebook with a smiley face and laments each passing year of their child’s life?

“Make it stop!” they beg when they post each birthday cake filled picture of another milestone. That mom who inspires songs and poetry and makes grown men cry while giving their college valedictorian speech at graduation- “I couldn’t have done it without my Mom”? I am not that mother.

No one is currently actively bleeding in my home. I consider this a good day. I am overwhelmed, people. Exhausted. Even though my kids are both in school for a full day from 8-3, sometimes longer, those hours before and after are brutal. Two boys, two dogs, three hermit crabs, one leopard gecko and a fish is too much for this mom. No, I don’t really have it hard. I’m not working around the clock. I already have my college degree and teaching credential and am lucky enough to work as a paid writer and a teacher. I have a house. It’s the worst house in the neighborhood but I’m arguably in the best neighborhood in

I am overwhelmed, people. Exhausted. Even though my kids are both in school for a full day from 8-3, sometimes longer, those hours before and after are brutal. Two boys, two dogs, three hermit crabs, one leopard gecko and a fish is too much for this mom. No, I don’t really have it hard. I’m not working around the clock. I already have my college degree and teaching credential and am lucky enough to work as a paid writer and a teacher. I have a house. It’s the worst house in the neighborhood but I’m arguably in the best neighborhood in

Even though my kids are both in school for a full day from 8-3, sometimes longer, those hours before and after are brutal. Two boys, two dogs, three hermit crabs, one leopard gecko and a fish is too much for this mom. No, I don’t really have it hard. I’m not working around the clock. I already have my college degree and teaching credential and am lucky enough to work as a paid writer and a teacher. I have a house. It’s the worst house in the neighborhood but I’m arguably in the best neighborhood in L.A. My kids have health insurance and are getting a great education. But oh my god, I’m exhausted and feel like I’m failing most of the time.

I was watching one of those true crime shows once where a woman was accused of murdering her husband (note to self). However she was such a fastidious housekeeper that there was not a single fingerprint, hair or trace of blood anywhere in her home that wasn’t hers. I have blood spatter on my carpet right now. From two days ago. My younger son had several nosebleeds in a row at bedtime and I never quite got a grip on cleaning it all up afterward. It’s starting to just blend in now. There’s a very good chance I could be accused of having committed a heinous crime if anyone swabbed my house. God forbid they black light the bathroom because boys are gross.

If I combed up all the dog hair off the furniture I could probably cobble together a love child hairball that looks remarkably like my two existing dogs. My tiny kitchen often looks like one of those Febreze ads where they blindfold unsuspecting people in a disaster area and then spray the air so it smells lovely. I don’t have Febreze though.

With nine and seven-year-old boys and an inconsistent routine, I essentially am living in a frat house. There are socks and underwear around and lots of eye-rolling when I ask them to help clean up. I sometimes pray to be more religious because if I could just say things like “It’s God’s will” instead of having to answer the seven-year-olds question of “Why is my penis straight?” for the eightieth time. If I could find a way for my Hebrew-school attending children to actually see Jesus as a constant watching yet loving threat and have some fire and brimstone in my back pocket then I could love me some Son of God.

I’ve been assured by the boys’ teachers and parenting people and parenting books that kids save their worst behavior for the people they trust most. I guess that’s comforting because then it explains why my kids act like assholes. So I guess we’re really bonded if I wake up my youngest and his response to “Good morning!” is “I hate you and your boyfriend is an idiot.” Still, it doesn’t seem right.

I yell. Sometimes I don’t yell for long periods of time and then sometimes I yell a lot for way too long. A lot of times they totally deserve it and I still know it’s wrong. But I’m too worn down to sit calmly and talk it out and get to the bottom of the problem and their feelings and OMFG just get in the car already. If I were disciplined enough I could fund their college educations with a swear jar, probably by midweek.

I take them to the nickel arcade when we should be going to the museum. We stay in instead of going out. We stay up too late instead of going to bed on time. A lot of times I take the path of least resistance because…single mom. And I have so much resistance on so many other fronts. The kids resist, my ex resists, I resist the things I know I should do. Even the dogs won’t sit when I ask them too.

I don’t enforce manners as often as I should. Consequences are sketchy at best. I’m pretty quick on the “I told you so!” when they get injured doing something I warned them about instead of comforting them. I sigh a lot out loud. I mutter under my breath. When people post about kids learning more by watching you than by what you tell them I break into a cold sweat.

Still, no one is actively bleeding. They wear clean clothes. They can read and write and reason. They eat most of the food groups fairly often, sometimes even organic. I totally fucked up on their dental health but I’m on it now. They do well in school. I get compliments on them from strangers when we’re out and about. Sometimes.

Hopefully, that will all count for something. Because I am not that mother. I will not inspire songs and hashtags. The only poetry about my life is likely to be on my tombstone. Charities will not be founded in my honor, no one is likely to interview me for parenting tips unless they just want to feel good about what they’re doing already. I’m hoping my boys don’t need that mother because I’m the one they got.