This website is my thoughts about what life is like raising a boy when you are predisposed to being a redhead. What is it about an average day in the life of motherhood that can test moms to the brink of wine?
For example, one particular Friday began like every weekday. There was the usual “Get up Brian, get up Brian. Get up Brian!” morning montage which flows naturally from my lips, sounding oddly like my mother.
My son practices his typical “I can’t find my shoes!” and “I’m tired!” responses that I have come to ignore while I drink coffee like it’s going to make me thin.
On this particular morning, my son’s cat decides to vomit on his school backpack. Now why, with all the possible choices she decides to crawl up on his toxic bag to upchuck her displeasure, one can only guess, but her sudden fur addition and the subsequent cleanup with a baby wipes made us slightly late for school.
OK, I lie. Very late for school.
Once we arrive at school, I jog toward the school office to help Brian obtain a late excuse note and get one of those “You know your child is late!” burn-a-hole-through-my-forehead stares from office staff. As I dodge rain puddles and chewing gum, I drop my brand-new cell phone square in the middle of a muddy pool of water. As I pick the wet phone up–not letting out a primal scream–my ex-husband calls with a request for help, which usually leads to more work for me and nap for him.
I wipe the mud off of the phone while signaling with my mom evil eye for Brian to open the door to the office for me. He opens it, runs inside and the door slams shut in my face just as I get a second phone call. This time it’s my mother. She’s excited to let me know that she is making me and my son travel IN A CAR WITH HER to Washington State for my upcoming birthday.
One should note this will involve a 16-hour road trip spread over two days with my mom and a 10-year-old-I-must-move-around-boy crammed in my mother’s car built for two people under 5’6″. And–she always insists upon driving everywhere. We have this kind of mother-daughter relationship where she treats me like I am 14-years-old and I let her.
I say, “OK.” Because I have no life. It’s travel, right?
As the day progresses, my client calls disintegrate into a series of loan problems. I do not have solutions. Does anyone take Good Friday off? Without eating lunch, I race to pick up Brian from school promptly at 2:30 pm.
He jumps breathlessly into the passenger side of the car:
“I’m hungry!”
Like his announcement could make me produce a hamburger right there on the spot.
“How was your day?”
“OK. I’m hungry!”
“I heard you the first time Brian, but I have to go to the grocery store before we go home.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs.
“But Moooooooooooom. I’ve had a really long day!”
Yeah, well, it’s about to become longer.
At the grocery store that likes to put everything related to Type II Diabetes within a hand’s reach of a child, Brian decides not to cooperate and be his good-child-in-a-public-place self for the excruciating 10 minutes.
Choruses of boy-whining insue:
“Can we go now?” (Sigh)
“Are we done yet?” (Sigh)
“Mom?” (Sigh)
“Mom?” (Sigh)
“Are you done yet?” (Sigh)
“Mom?” (Sigh)
“Can I have this?” (Sigh)
“Mom?”(Sigh)
“Will you buy me that?” (Sigh)
“Mom …?”
Brian follows me around the store like a dark shadow befalling a haunted house. I try those deep breathing exercises Oprah tells you are supposed to work like Prozac so you won’t kill your kids in the middle of the sugar-cereal grocery isle. To my amazement, we finally make it to the checkout without an emotional breakdown. Or Brian either.
Until I cannot find my wallet. I am now one of those women in the grocery line.
Brian gives me the “You’ve GOT to be kidding! You HAVE to have your wallet!” look only a 10-year-old boy can give to their mom in line at the grocery store in front of the world. There’s no wallet. The store clerk informs me that they will save my groceries in the cart at the back of the store for 30 minutes so I can go find my wallet.
She adds that when I return to the store, all of my groceries will have to be re-rung. I am proud of the fact that I didn’t pull out my hairspray like some pepper spray shooter and spray everyone in the face within 5 feet of me.
Brian and I calmly leave. He informs me that he is still hungry–as if I may forget this fact to go straight to bed when we get home. Like that would ever happen. A girl can dream.
I find my wallet at home in my bathroom. I remember I used a credit card to tighten a screw in the bath handle. We have canned soup for dinner as I eye a bottle of unopened wine on the kitchen counter. We do not return to the store.
Just before bed, my mom calls again to say she’s booked our rooms for her trip. Now, I have to open that damn bottle of wine.
Welcome to my life. I hope you enjoy my stories.
You can connect with me here.
Catherine