Repentance

Lately I’ve been struggling to find equilibrium between my ideal self – you know, organized, calm, proactive, loving – and my real self – reactive, irritated, often irrational bordering on CRAZY. It’s not easy to strike the balance.

I yell at the kids when this was never part of my parenting plan. I send them off to bed too often without cracking a book and yet I’m completely pro-reading. I feed them hot dogs and chicken nuggets but I know eating right is essential to their health.  I let them watch Diego instead of taking them outside at the end of the work day so I can enjoy a glass of wine in peace.

Let’s see, what else?

I don’t forgive people when I should. I bicker with my husband in front of the kids. I choose being right instead of happy. I sometimes overuse the F word when I’m angry and tired. Okay I often overuse the F word when I’m tired and angry.

I know this is not a confessional and you certainly aren’t my priest.

But the more I do this parenting gig, the more I feel obligated to be honest. I refuse to let my friends think I’m something I’m not, so I always correct them when they praise me for being an outstanding mom. I gain nothing by projecting an image that doesn’t properly reflect me.

I got carded at the liquor store today. A small thrill raced through me. My ego almost got carried away.  I should tell you though, the cashier was maybe 19 and this was likely his first day on the job. Plus, this was not a large metropolitan LCBO but the tiny side-of-the road stop-by in a tiny town near Shaune’s parents’ house. And the young guy was shaky and nervous. Also, it was hard to ignore the sign behind his head: “We ID everyone under 25.” Even though the legal drinking age here in Ontario is 19.

And also this:

Last week when Deaglan and I were sitting together watching his new favourite show The Octonaughts, Naveen, a few feet away was repeatedly hitting the on switch to his toy workshop. Deaglan elbowed me in the rib, and asked in confidence:

“Does that fucking thing ever shut off?”

Two things. 

The kid at the liquor store thought I was 25! 

And you have to admit it’s impressive how Deaglan was able to properly express his ire with  a complex use of adjective.

We went camping last week for the long weekend in Port Huron at the KOA. It was a lot of fun. 

You win

Today on my run, a woman whizzed past me. When she was far enough ahead, I recognized her from the gym at work. We're about the same build and height and once when she was running on the treadmill beside me, I felt something close to kinship because her pace was about as slow as mine.

I broke off our imaginary friendship today because well – that was a bit of a show-offy move if you ask me. She couldn’t let me stay in the lead? She had to whip past me at lightning speed?  (I may be exaggerating because even when she was ahead of me she still appeared to be the slowest runner on the planet – which may be visual enough for you to picture how slow I really am)

You’d think I’d have sped up, sprinted past her. But that’s not my style. And it’s not why you think – I might have been able to take her. I searched for reasons to explain to any passersby I imagined to be wondering why I chose to lag behind. Came up with excuse after excuse. My legs are shorter. She’s (probably) had better training. I’m bigger chested. I can’t be running full speed with my Dolly Parton-esque frame even if I’m wearing 12 bras.

On and on.

Then I shook my head, chuckled because I knew the truth. I’m a slow runner. And also? I’m not competitive. It may be that I’m not competitive because I’m a slow runner. But also true is that I just don’t like competition. And it’s not because it’s against my ethics or goes against my deep moral fiber. I secretly believe that if you think you’re better than me at something – well you might be right.

Because when I feel somebody silently comparing themselves to me, I shut down. I hardly ever feel that I’ve got one up on anyone. Here’s how it works with me: If you think you’re superior, I will likely agree with you.  Your house is bigger, gorgeous? I have no doubt – don’t even need to see it.  Better mother, wife, worker? Hey you don’t have to convince me.

You win.

I don’t know why I’m like this. Maybe part of it comes from never having played on a team sport. We were a large family. Some of us were encouraged to focus on reading – it was cheaper. Maybe some of it comes from having lived in the third world for my formative years – knowing that it doesn’t matter how big your house is because there are millions of kids the same age as yours dreaming about a clean glass of water and one decent meal.

There’s also this: Deep down, I really just want us to get along. Let’s talk about how we’re alike. Let’s show each other our wounds, use our words to heal them. Let’s teach our kids the value of kindness, the meaning of real sharing - train them not to roll their eyes and turn the channel when child sponsorship commercials come on. Because in my very humble opinion? It’s everybody's business. 

Seeing to it that those beautiful dirty faces eat.

At Gramma and Grampas on Easter. 

Did I mention I'm 5'2"?

I wish I could capture the scene we have each day as I’m getting the kids into their outdoor gear. I’m sure you would drive straight to my house and award me some kind of a trophy for not giving my children away.

I’d videotape it, although I’d not only be implicating myself as the crazy woman I turn into but it’s a full body job – my legs are needed to restrain Naveen while my hands put on his socks and shoes.

I’m not kidding.

And don’t even get me started on the laps around the house I do to catch Deaglan, threaten him with the worst punishment I can think of that won’t require intensive psychotherapy when he’s a grown-up, till finally, I can sit him still long enough to get his arms into his coat.

I have no idea why I’m not thinner than I am.

I mentioned something like this to Shaune yesterday – that I’d gained a few pounds lately. And you know what my husband said? Brace yourself because you’ll be relieved to know that although he does the cooking around here, he’s not perfect. He goes – “maybe it’s all the treats you eat at work.”

Can you imagine the nerve??? I mean how dare he??

Well I know it’s the treats but I was very comfortable in my sugary little cocoon of denial, thank you very much. How can I be expected to make it through the afternoon at work without chocolate almonds? Is it my fault that on Tuesdays our coffee cart only has one Sweet Marie square and if I don’t get there at just the right time I miss out?

And in all fairness to myself, I thought I was working-out just enough to break even. I even calculated the number of minutes I’d need to run, to afford each afternoon's pick-me-up. I was no math major but I really thought I had a foolproof system.

But then I had to go and remember that we needed batteries for the scale when we were at Canadian Tire last week. And just like that Cold-Hard Truth slapped me across the face.

Seven pounds since June.

 Every time I doubt that they look alike, I get reminded that they actually do. On the left is Deaglan just shy of a year old. Look at how similar their little cheeks and mouth are.

Little punks, it's their dreamy cuteness that keeps me from holding grudges.