I brought doughnuts to my son’s pre-school today. Look, I know this delightful pastry doesn’t fall into one of the four food groups. (There are four right?) I also brought milk. In my opinion that cancels out the junk food. Honestly, I forgot it was my turn. I didn’t have time to get to a store.
The school assigns a child to be the “leader” each day of the month. Basically, they bribe you. ‘We will give your son a title for the day if you feed the children.’ The kids look forward to this day for weeks. It means they get to stand in the front of the line, lead the class in songs and pass out napkins during snack time. Wouldn’t it be great if that defined success in adulthood?
We arrived a little early and sat in the hallway waiting for the teacher to open the door. This lady doesn’t want to take these kids a minute early. Teachers aren’t paid as much as they should be. Pre-school teachers are paid less and given false hope that they will one day be hired in the district. It doesn’t make much sense to me. A teacher’s job is one of the most important and some garbage men make more. I digress.
Anyway, as we patiently waited for school to begin another mother noticed the box of doughnuts resting on my son’s lap. “Wow that’s quite a sweet treat for snack time,” she said in a condescending Martha Stewart like tone. “When my daughter was the leader I hallowed out apples and scooped peanut butter in each one. Then, I cut the apple pieces in slices. The kids had so much fun dipping them.” I could feel my face burning with rage. I grinned and said, “I wish I had that much time on my hands.” This lady also had time to French Braid her hair this morning. This isn’t France or 1984.
I woke up this morning with my 4-year-old tugging on my arm and whispering in my face, “Wake up Mommy.” His breath smelled like he ate garbage for dinner, an onion for dessert and gargled with toilet water. My kids are mouth breathers. He came into my bedroom in the middle of the night after having a nightmare. What does a 4-year-old have nightmares about? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he went with Dora to save a princess and The Map gave them wrong directions. Or maybe the cops finally arrested Dora’s parents on child endangerment charges because Dora is wandering the earth without adult supervision. Regardless, he came running in my room for comfort. His sister was already there. I admit I have allowed all three of my babies to sleep in my room. I don’t advocate co-sleeping. I know experts say it can be dangerous. It also suffocates your marriage. Forget romance or even conversation for that matter. Plus, over the years I’ve had countless nights of being kicked in the face and waking up in a pool of vomit.
So, why wouldn’t I put them in a crib? I tried, but my irrational fears took over. I actually blame Nancy Grace. Her theories on missing babies scared the hell out of me. It could be the way she glares at the camera, eyes bugged out and speaks with an angry southern drawl. Either way, her stories about “Tot Moms” are more frightening than her nip slip on Dancing With the Stars.
Truthfully, I loved holding my babies in my arms as they drifted to sleep. The scent of baby powder filled the air. The whisper of each gentle breath was soothing. I cherished these moments because I knew they wouldn’t last forever. My eldest son who once liked to ‘snuggle, buggle’ rarely offers a hug. Not to mention that baby smell has been replaced with sweat and gentle reminders to wear deodorant. So, I will cherish these moments. Before you know it I will become that old lady in the grocery store telling young mothers to “Enjoy these years, it goes by fast.”
On those days when I actually wear make-up. Pretty.
My kids love this. It makes me want to rip my hair out.
On this day of worship Tom Brady’s wife wants us to pray for her husband. Forget your ailing relative, unemployed friend or the homeless guy sleeping on a bench. Tommy needs a trophy.
My prayer: Dear God, please let Giselle develop a thyroid condition and become morbidly obese. Let her wake up one morning with her nipples pointing toward her toes. May she one day have to clean a toilet with her bare hands, wash dishes and do laundry. Then, have to take a bus to work. Amen.
I will be watching the Superbowl tonight. I wasn’t invited to a party and probably wouldn’t have gone anyway. I would like watch the kickoff lounging in my living room, my hair in a ponytail and sweatpants hugging my curves. Of course they are modern sweatpants. I wouldn’t be caught dead with elastic at the ankles. I do have some sense of style. During the game, I will probably be having tea parties, playing with Batman and changing diapers. We will feast on pizza and fried food. (which is called Friday in our house)
I know some women don’t like football. I actually enjoy the game. I did not, however, enjoy last night’s award show for NFL players. After I heard one professional athlete thank “the man upstairs” for helping him catch a football I turned the channel. I can only imagine what the categories were. Best Sack? Longest Run? Hair with the least amount of dandruff? I know there wasn’t an award for most creative end zone celebration. You can body slam a man, cause a concussion and broken bones, but don’t you dare do the Macarena in the end zone. I have never understood the flag for “excessive celebration.” Did the mother of a defensive tackle email the NFL commissioner? “It hurts my son’s feelings when the other team scores and dances. It is rude and his therapist says it’s really damaging his self esteem.” I lecture my eldest when he torments my younger son for losing. However, my child is in pre-school. You would think a football player who makes millions of dollars would have developed proper coping skills by now. If a running back wants to stick out his tongue, choreograph a dance or spike a ball so be it. Just don’t point up to the sky. God has more important work than to help you or Tommy.