(Bad) Mother of the Year

You have good days, you have bad days. Today was a turd of a day. Hubby is away on business (or has an affair with some bitch named “Conference”), and I was alone getting two small kids up, cleaned, dressed, feed and ready to go. It’s not curing cancer, it’s not bringing peace to the Middle East – but it IS a tough job. Had an exchange of words with a 5-year old (going on 17!) like this:

Me: “Honey, put your booths on.”

Him, bored: “No.”

Me, overbearingly: “Yeees, please put them on.”

Him, annoyed: “No.”

Me, raised voice: “PUT YOUR BOOTS ON!”

Him, angry: “NO!”

Me, running late and pissed off by now: “YES!”

Him, whining: “No, I want the other ones.”

Me, raging, fire-belching dragon: “Well, I am telling you to PUT YOUR FUCKING BOOTS ON RIGHT NOW.”

It went on from there. I did all the things bad mommys do. I cursed. Threatened to take away privileges. Raised my voice. The list is endless. I should know better. Mornings like this does very little towards me getting nominated for Mommy of the Year. Unless there is a Razzie-version: BAD Mommy of the Year.

Finally he had his OTHER boots on (– he won by saying that “my” boots were too small. This immediately released a tsunami of guilt: Two summers ago, we one day discovered, that in the mix of moving to a new house and having a new baby, we had missed that he had outgrown his only pair of shoes. He walked around for god knows how long in shoes that were too small. I cringe to think about it.)

And we were on our way.

All winter we have driven our car to work but in the summertime, we bike. Being March, I think: We’ll bike. I put the 2-year old in his seat on my bicycle and the 5-year old on his own. The short drive is an endless bickering between me and the 5-year old. “Could you go a little faster?” “GO FASTER!!” Again, not me at my best. Actually, me at my worst. (“And the nominees are…”)

Almost reaching the Kindergarden, I fall. The pavement is icy and my bicycle skids. In slowmotion, yet irrevocably, the bike disappears from underneath me. I hit the pavement; my knee takes the hit. As I lie there, all is silent. The only thing on my mind is my knee – it hurts insanely. And then I hear him. The baby. Who is strapped to his seat behind me. After having the wind knocked out of him, he gasps for air. And screams. A passing car stops and the woman asks: “Do you need help?” “YES, GET THE BABY,” I sob-scream. My knee throbs and hurts like hell. The pavement is icy and cold and I am using all my willpower not to loose it. Next to my head, I notice a dogshit. Yes, a DOGSHIT – the feces of a dog: Next to my head. Almost mockingly. (People, who don’t pick up after their dogs should be shot! With poo!)

The lady get’s the baby, who is hysterical. My big boy comes running together with his mates the twins and their dad. “Are you ok?” “Are you hurt?” . “What happened?” They are crowding me and I feel like vomiting. I look up at the dad: “Please take my son inside with you kids”. The lady coos the baby, who calms down.

The dust settles.

The baby is ok. I am ok. The 5-year old is ok and in Kindergarden. The drama is over, and I hump to the daycare to hand over the baby.

Something that makes a bad mommy an ok mommy is the make-up. Under normal circumstances – sans icy-bicycle-knee-drama – I would have debriefed with the 5-year old before we went our separate ways, we would have talked about the mornings events, and hugged it out. Because of all the drama, today we didn’t get to. So when I picked him up 8 hours later, it was a humble mommy, who humped in the door.

I picked him up and said: “I am SO sorry for this morning, I am sorry I got so mad and I yelled. It’s not ok, and I know it.”

And he said: “Well, let’s just agree that today started out bad but will end good.”

And it did. The baby asleep, the 5-year old and me eating ice cream arm in arm and watching X-factor with my knee raised and wearing an ice-bag.

One can only hope that the good we do outweighs the bad.