Mother's Day Wit and Wisdom

I know, I am a horrible MoM! I missed writing last week. I would like to say that I have a wonderful excuse, but life has truly just been whooping on me. I have sat introspectively thinking about Mother's Day and what it means to me for the past two weeks, knowing that as a blog about mothering, I should feel obligated to at least nod in the direction of the holiday.

The honest truth is that I am just not a sentimental person...at all. Some more nurturing mothers post inspirational messages around their houses. I have a QWALL or in other words, a wall of quotes written on 3 by 5 cards that have inspired my family to post them and reflect on their wisdom during our goings on throughout the day. I would generously say about 10 percent of them have truly life-changing and inspirational meaning behind them. All the others are snarky comments that make us giggle and keep me from going on a shooting spree with my Pampered Chef cookie gun. So I have chosen to scatter my satirical sunshine throughout this post and perhaps inspire others to shed their saccharin ways and join me on the dark side.

Being eaten by a crocodile is just like going to sleep... in a giant blender. “

Homer Simpson from The Simpsons

My particular religious affiliation is very sentimental about the role of mothers, especially on Mother's Day. One of my unfortunate friends posted on Facebook that she had been cornered and asked to give the address about motherhood on this momentous occasion. She was begging suggestions. Before I had a chance to enter my opinion, there was a barrage of cute little mommies writing about the “blessings” and the “unconditional love.” Don't get me wrong, I feel blessed and I love my children more than anything in the world, but my advice to her was to tell the truth. More people are going to listen and and relate to truthful stories of mischief and mayhem and your God-given patience not to Velcro the little darlings to a wall. (I have never pondered this unthinkable and extreme course of action.)

Here are the truths that I have plucked from my abysmal parental sea of chaos.

#1 Motherhood is not for the squeamish. When I embarked on this crazy journey, I fainted at the sight of blood and heaved in sympathy when someone else vomited. Now I am an old pro. Apply direct pressure and grab the garbage can, here comes MoM! Admittedly, my home is weighted fairly heavily toward the male gender and their sense of self preservation is clouded by a mistaken belief of invincibility, but I could never have made it this far without an amazing ability to suppress my gag reflex and avoid going into the light.

“I couldn't detect horse manure if I stepped in it.” Michael Caine as Sherlock Holmes in Without a Clue

#2 You may believe that you have the patience of Job, you are wrong. I have mentioned before that I preceded my career in motherhood by being a journalist for newspapers. As a journalist, you research everything. The only way to take action is if three or more sources have told you to do so. So, when I welcomed my first child into the world, I was a well-read and resolute mother. My child was going to be the epitome of discipline, goodness and the American way. After a while of real life, I realized that these parenting books are full of garbage.

#3 All those moments in the store when you were single and thought you would never let your child act like THAT, were completely erroneous. You are entirely helpless to stop it once the wild hair is planted. I recently chose (by some bout of explosive stupidity) to have an operation on my left arm that rendered it completely helpless. I am still unable to lift more than the weight of my own purse (which is admittedly laden with many first aid implements given my line of work) without flinching and howling in pain. Since that ill-fated decision, my children have unleashed their inner demons. We have gone from shopping as a regimented group in a rigid formation to one child licking all the handles on the shopping carts, while another taste tests all the food in the bulk section of the store, yet another is hiding in the racks of clothing and shouting, “PICK ME!” at unsuspecting shoppers (truly happened to me today and the entire escapade was initiated and encouraged by my hubby). Yet another is tired and blowing his nose on the silk skirts in the Women's Section. I am just waiting for some passive-aggressive shopper to slip a box of condoms into my basket as a not so subtle hint.

#4 Your child will sneak out of the house without underpants/shoes/socks...several times. I find myself terrified to observe the ensembles of my crew when they file out of the van at any given destination, especially if we were hurrying out of the house. (We are always hurrying out of the house.) No underclothing, two different socks, two different shoes, no shoes at all! When I started motherhood, I swore that my child would always wear more than three articles of clothing (jam or jelly doesn't count as an article of clothing) and always wear shoes. Now I am just happy if I am not facing indecency charges when I go to the playground.

“What does that have to do with the price of beer?” Sylvester Stallone as Snaps Provolone in Oscar

#5 You may be punctual, but your children are not! Being a reformed journalist, I have a compulsive desire, actually a NEED, to meet deadlines. Being on time to anything with a child is like running a marathon in a chain gang. If you cross the finish line at all it is going to be awkward and painful. The worst part is that a few months ago, I installed a little device in my car to help me squeeze every drop of fuel economy out of our gas-guzzling beast. This cheeky little black box even gives me a letter grade for my driving performance, like some sort of voluntary and sadistic flashback to elementary school. Speeding, which I feel compelled to do when my chain gang is dragging, brings my letter grade to disgraceful levels. The only thing that angers me more than missing a deadline, is a C+ from a audacious little box attached to my dashboard. Does a cumulative GPA still apply 10 years after graduation? If so, these kids are killing my permanent record.

#6 Cold cereal for dinner is okay. Part of my self-imposed parental training was learning to cook EVERYTHING from scratch. When I mean everything, I am truly not joking. I bake my own bread from wheat that I grind myself. I stuff my own sausages with meat that I ground myself and herbs from my garden. I even cook my own soap from lye and fat, like the pilgrims. A few months ago, after that explosively stupid surgery I opted to have, I was feeling particularly unable to summon the sincerity from my soul to cook a nutritious and inspiring dinner. My friend suggested, “Just give them all cold cereal.” The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.....I could just feed them cold cereal! Occasionally indulging in sugary cereal for dinner was not going to kill them! The epiphany was utterly and indulgently pleasurable.

“A coven of witches! Not an oven!” Tim Roth as Ted the Bellhop in Four Rooms (ask your parents before watching this particular movie.)

#7 Sometimes you just have to accept defeat with grace and dignity. I have had to admit lately, as I begin plodding into the unexplored territory of teenage trauma, that occasionally I have no idea what to do. I say grace and dignity, but what I really mean is random and unexpected laughter. My eldest son, the culprit of pre-teen-anger-inducing-angst, has a razor sharp tongue (which he obviously inherited from his father, because only sweetness and light escapes my lips.) (My husband just shot his cold cereal from a nostril in suppressing his laughter as I read this section aloud.) One day, as he hovered over me (I have been declared fun-sized) and verbally bashing me about my innumerable downfalls as a parent, I was struck by defeat and could find no mature way to handle the feelings of helplessness that sat like a stone in my throat. With total and calculated precision, I inserted my index finger into my mouth and moistened it thoroughly. Being resolute in my course of action, I reached beside his ear (which may have been smoking slightly) and plunged it deep into his ear canal. The effect was immediate. His tirade stopped instantly, mostly because neither of us knew what to do about the situation. We now refer to this as maneuver as “parenting by wet willy,” and find it universally applicable.

“You know what that means, it means he doesn't have a head. How am I suppose to write for a guy who doesn't have a head? He's got no lips, no vocal cords. What do you want me to do?” Whoopi Goldberg as Rose Schwartz in Soapdish.

#8 You are your own worst enemy. Now I will get sentimental. Mother's Day is often used to reflect on the women that have shaped our lives. Not too recently, my grandmother passed away. I won't say that I knew her well, in fact as I sat listening to other people's reflections of her life, I realized that my relationship with her was completely unique, especially being that we had been estranged for many years in my youth. Whenever we came to visit, she flung open her front door with a welcoming smile. She always had food cooking, even at odd hours of the day and her pot seemed bottomless when it came to feeding my large family. I would feel embarrassed about the lack of socks, or the stained shirt, or the hyperactive behavior that is inherent after a long car ride. She would always smile and tell me what angels my children were and what a wonderful mother I was. Amazingly, my children would always rise to the occasion and be the angels that she proclaimed them to be. She didn't just say this to me, she said it to other people. As I heard stories of this woman and her life as a mother, her philosophies, her ideals, I realized that she had this relationship with me, because I was a mirror reflection of her. With her gentle and quiet nature, she had known that I had enough criticism incubating within myself, and I needed nothing more than pure encouragement.

What can I impart about Mother's Day from my mayhem? Remember that motherhood is mischief and mystery. If your children are smiling, happy, even a little smudged with jam or mud, but not withering like a forgotten houseplant, you are probably doing just fine.