Wednesday, June 7, 2017


These past few days {read: weeks} I feel like motherhood isn't my strong suit. I get mad at a lot of things that normally shouldn't bother me. Or, I look around and see my children chasing each other in the grocery store and want those little ducklings lined up behind Mama Duck and be good. Not because the running bothers me, rather- they look like they are being bad. I was rubbing my temples while the chasing was going on and the butcher said, "Hey! .... Hey! .... HEY! You!"

I turn around.

"Take two aspirin and call me in the morning. I see you rubbing your temples."

I didn't know if he was trying to be funny or to tell me that I needed two aspirin. The kids kept running and I collared the first one as she made the next lap around the bread island. I asked the baker for three children's cookies. He looked over my shoulder, "It looks like you need three children's cookies."

What's my deal today? Is he being funny or telling me that the cookies will shut my kids up for five minutes?

Rewind an hour and we are at Chick-Fil-A. Shocking, I know. I look into the playroom and Bennie has another four year old by the collar of his shirt, holding him down. The other four year old has fifteen pounds and four inches on her... and she was pinning him down while he screamed.

"BUT MAH-MEE, He took Birdie's Fidget Spinnnnnner!"

"I don't care what he did, you don't do that!"

The sweet little boy pipes up to his mother, "They told me they aren't my friends," and then Fuzzy whacks him over the head. I kid you not, as if on cue- whacked the kid twice his size over the head. And he, rightfully, cried.

Friendly Friends Have Friends. Friendly Friends Have Friends. How many times can I say this before they get it?

The mother and I introduced ourselves and discovered that our kids are on the same swim team and members of the same pool. Awesome, she'll get to see my imps again soon.

Minutes later, another mother is in the playground area and she looks a little... distressed. I walk in and I hear her talking to her almost two year old. Turns out, my imps drug her son into the depths of playground hell- the car six feet off the ground that no mother can reach. Granted, he wasn't crying- but, this first time mother did not like the fact that my three Sirens sung him into no-man's-land.

Another kid cries, Fuzzy whacked him, too.


The First Time Child and First Time Mother were left to their own devices as my flying monkeys made their way to the shoe cubbies.

Rewind another hour and Fuzzy is in my bed, eating a granola bar. Unbeknownst to me, the chocolate of the granola bar has melted and he has smeared it all over my white sheets. It's chocolate. I checked.

When did I start falling apart in regards to my children? When did I stop being able to handle three? Where did my ducklings go that stayed in a straight line behind me?

What is going on?

Patience: shot. Humor: toast. Aggravation: through the roof.

It is summer, after all. Better still, we are first time swim-team-ers. Swim team,  I have learned, is not for second rate parents or parents of more than one child. Swim team is parental hazing and deserves a blog in and of itself. Suffice it to say, the only reason we are doing it is because Birdie enjoys it and I want her to be as strong of a swimmer as she can be. Kids need to know how to swim. Teenagers need to know how to drive a five speed. Adults need to know when to call a cab. These are basics in life.

We had a swim meet last night. My mom has to keep the little two for a swim meet because (a) they last a very long time- going until almost 11pm (b) it's a pool they can't swim in (c) it's crowded (d) someone will surely die from thirst or hunger or whining about thirst and hunger. It's the saving grace of the swim meet-- mom keeping the little two. I will save all my antics for a funnier blog on a funnier day when I am feeling.... funnier.

Currently, I am listening to Birdie and Bennie talking about "cock-roa-CHES!"

"Fuzzy can eat a cockroach."
"YEAH! Fuzzy likes to eat cockroaches."
"Do you think that cockroach is alive?"
"Fuhhhhh-zeee..... come hereeeee."

Where's that emoji of the big-eyed-yellowed-face when you need it?

My very polished friend who wears kid gloves and hats to teas with engraved calling cards once told me, "There is nothing more appropriate than a well placed "EFF" bomb."

It must be like a sterling serving piece- if it isn't perfect, then it isn't worth it.

Unlike Children- they keep us humble.

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