The mused wanderings of a tired mother and writer because blogging is cheaper than therapy and makes me look like I know what I'm doing.
Your Mom (Not Grandma)
Day-Trip Dilemmas
Over-thinking it: This is Your Brain on Motherhood
Dear Lady Road Ragging in the Target Parking: A Life Lesson in What Not to Do
My six-year old did not need to pick up any of your "motherfucking" f-bombs hurled angrily out the open window of your car when we were just there to pick up my allergy meds. And my nine-year old certainly didn't need to pick up your nasty, entitled, impatient, profanity spewing attitude. Yes, I understand that you were annoyed that the man in the gold sedan wouldn't move over in the narrow parking lane so you could maneuver your car to one of the better spots closer to the front door. I'd be really frustrated too and most likely quietly muttering a few of those choice words under my breath so my kids didn't hear them.
However, it did not warrant you screaming like a banshee out the window that you were going to "Cut you mother-fucker" if he didn't back up. Nor did it merit a trip out your door to bang on his window and continue to threaten to beat the shit out of him among many other disturbing acts you promised to visit upon the said mother-fer.
My nine-year-old tried to dive back in the car cowering at your tone and threats. And I had to run for the door with my hands over my younger sons ears as he whimpered. And they are used to seeing me foam at the mouth when I'm angry and not batting an eye.
Now, I'm not saying they haven't heard language or voices raised in anger before. Again, there mom is a hot-headed Celt and my oldest learned the "f" word on the kindergarten bus.
But what they didn't need to see but maybe did need to learn was that there are some things worth getting angry about and then there are the miniscule, ridiculous, little nothings that over-privileged people blow up about because in America, most of us have no real problems.
Yes, we have poverty and racial discrimination and women are still treated less than men. I am not belittling those issues. But the average middle-class American's food worries are whether or not to buy the organic cookies or the gluten free ones, not whether or not they have enough money to feed the whole family. Most of us don't have to worry about war or famine or dying of vaccine and basic healthcare preventable diseases.
We live in a world of some much "muchness" you would think we'd be deliriously happy with the plenty we've got. But no, we are yelling in the Target parking lot because we can't wait three minutes for the gold sedan to pass into the other road so we can score our prime spot.
I mean I don't know you and maybe you really do have some worthy problems or something bad happened that left you roiling with anger. But to jump out of your car screaming every expletive ever coined and threaten bodily harm to a perfect stranger seems like the wrong venue for your pent-up rage. And my kids definitely did not need to see you lose your shit over a lousy right of way.
And gentleman in the gold sedan, I use that term loosely as you should have done the gentlemanly thing and backed up instead of refusing to move to prove whatever machismo fueled ego kept you stock still and in her face. She should not have been raging at you, but you were not being kind either and backing up when you were both at loggerheads.
I didn't stay to witness the end of your vapid performance play out. I had allergy prescriptions to pick up and children to reassure. But I hope it was worth it and that your parking spot and right of way was everything you hoped for. But actually, I hope you calmed down at some point that day because no one else needed to be on the end of that rage trip, including you.
As for my sons and I, we spent the ride home talking about how we shouldn't get angry over trivial things as you provided a valuable life lesson on how not to act. Your immature tantrum gave them a prime example of adults acting worse than kids.
Pimping for a Play date: Procuring Friends for My Kids
I dread summer. It actually sends me into a panic attack because it means not only scheduling day camp, vacation, and being entertainment central for two little people. But it means, I must procure my kids playdates or have them chase me around the house for two and a half months whining about how bored they are, and who can they play with.
Why is it now my responsibility to hit up the mom dropping off her kid at school for a phone number so my kid can play with hers? And why do I have to call her up like a blind date and beg her to get out her calendar so we can see when Mercury and Venus line up allowing our nine-year-old boys to play Minecraft at their house or ours?
Why does my son hand me the phone number he got off his schoolmate and expect me to call or text this random stranger so our kids can bond? Can’t he dial and ask himself? He did finally figure how to dial the phone this year, for emergencies.
Or why do I have to take to Facebook trying to artfully type up the least pathetic plea to my other mommy friends to schedule a playdate or meet at the park or pool. And then try not to take it personally if they don’t respond. Because honestly, sometimes it feels like if I’m not B.F.F.s with the mom then my kids have a slim chance in hell of playing with her kids.
Because let’s face, if you are not popular in this social media heavy, helicopter parent world we live in; then your kid is not popular.
Unfortunately, the sins of an introverted parent being visited on the poor, innocent child. I literally break out in a sweat at the mere thought of calling up a strange mom to beg her for a play date. Even R.S.V.Ping the old fashioned way via phone makes me feel awkward & 12 again. I'm much better texting or responding to an evite the way nature intended. Social media bring my preferred detached vehicle for talking to those I'm not comfortable with. So I try hard to like other moms posts and strike up inane conversations about calories, and workouts, and popular culture hoping they’ll like me enough so my kid can have someone to play with this summer.
Since, long gone are the days of calling your own friends up on the phone or hell, walking to their house and knocking on the door to ask if “Little Johnny can come outside and play right now”. One because, no one plays outside anymore. The boogeyman, skin cancer, or allergens might get them. And two, no one is usually home but on their way to soccer camp, underwater ballet, or Krav Maga. Or if they are, then their mom or dad needs my phone number, social security number, and blood type and will schedule you in for thirty minutes next July.
I seriously feel like I am pimping out my kids, working hard to make sure they look like the most attractive offer out there. Concealing their proclivity to argue over who gets to be player one or that my oldest is basically an over grown puppy, all impulse & no forethought. Instead, I try to promote Child 1, an outgoing, happy-go-lucky child who loves sports, is computer savvy, and very bright. And Child 2, my artistic, curious, lovable, curly-haired cherub who won't eat all your sweets & open all your crafts.
Because it all falls on me. If I don’t procure the playmates, then they don’t play with anyone but me. And a whole summer of me make Jack a dull boy & mom a raving, snarling lunatic.
My mom had it seriously easy compared to this. She occasionally knew the mother of the kids I hung out with. Usually, I just had to be home at a certain time, and I was free to pop in and out of whoever house. Sometimes, I had to ask her for a ride if it was too far to bike there. So I ran ragged with whomever was on the apartment playground till I was too hot or hungry or tired. I made my own friends judging them on their desire to swing & make mud pies. I would never have even thought about asking my mom to schedule a play date. I mean, how embarrassing!
But like the disappearance of cassette tapes and the ozone layer; free play is a thing of the past. So I must take a deep breath, make a glass of wine or two, and dial the number I’ve been given and try not to sound too desperate or nervous as I ask a perfect stranger for permission for her kid to entertain mine.
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