It’s over.

Well, it’s been over for nearly two weeks. And minus my kids following me around the house before the show, crying that I was leaving them (again), and my 7YO predicting that I was going to pass out because I hadn’t eaten anything (which, in my defense, was impossible. My nerves were raw) everything about the night was a dream. The storytellers were fantastic, I didn’t blank on my lines, and the crowds were even better than the kind you hope for (plus they were sold out and even gave us a standing O after the second show).

But the neatest part for me was looking back and realizing that there were people there from every single stage of my life. From birth, to school, to work, to my neighborhood, to my daughters’ schools, to this blog, someone was there cheering me on. There are no words for the gratitude and love I felt that night as I drifted off to sleep, ears ringing and a little drunk from the after-party.

And so now it’s over.

Which is strange because after months of prepping, rehearsing, and talking to walls (don’t judge), it was kind of like pulling off a fake nail and still feeling the pressure of it on your nailbed. (What’s that? Only me? Whatever. You know I’m from Jersey. Back off.) And I’ll admit it, it’s kind of a letdown. The kind of letdown that lends itself to a Top 10, because it’s also kind of embarrassing to sense yourself engaging in certain activities to try and prolong it, even though it’s already over. Yet…you do it anyway. Or who knows, maybe it’s just me.

The Top 10 Signs of Post-Show Letdown

10.) The relief you were expecting to feel as you bowed to the applause of a sold out crowd doesn’t surface. Instead, the feeling spreading through your gut is more reminiscent of childhood ice-cream-in-the-dirt sadness. You trudge back to the dressing room s-l-o-w-l-y, taking comfort in the fact that your wonderful friend made you so many cookies that if six fall in the dirt, you’ll still have six more to binge on.

I'm a cookie! (And I'm delicious.)

9.) You still automatically run lines the moment you step into the shower, or wander into a quiet part of the house.

8.) You make your family drive back to the theatre with you the next day so you can take photos of the marquee. You immediately post it to every corner of your blog and Facebook, clicking back to check every few minutes for comments and “likes.”

7.) You spend the next few days casually seeking out every friend who was at the show, hoping they’ll bring up how much they enjoyed the evening, and/or every detail about your stellar performance. You prompt them when necessary, justifying that it’s not vanity; it’s what friends are for.

6.) You find that the heavy-duty guilt your children dumped on you because rehearsals kept you from showing them “enough love” has been transferred into guilt because it’s raining out. Or guilt because they have to go to school. Or guilt because they didn’t have enough dessert. They duped you with nothing more than all-purpose guilt because they sensed you enjoying something other than them.  Sucker.

Read the rest of my embarrassing admissions at the —> SpeakeasyDC blog 

The super talented bad mommies: Cathy Smith, Jen DeMayo, Jessi Baden-Campbell, Amanda "Dumb Mom," Jenny Splitter & Elizabeth Kominski. Love you--mean it!

And one last shout-out to the awesome sponsors of Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling Playdate for Moms

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

I know you think I don’t understand, but I do.

I really do.

I understand that you like your definition of the word “understand” better than mine. And I understand it’s because mine has a distinct Merriam-Webster feel to it, while yours is a bisque of irritation, id, and the firstborn self-righteousness you probably got from me.

I understand that you’re bored, not hungry, and that your expression means you’re hiding something.

I understand what our night (and entire next day) will look like if I let you stay up. And that you’re stalling right now. Go to sleep.

I understand which friends are good for you and which ones aren’t. And how sharing this information has to be done in a well-thought-out, chess-like manner. (And that I’m running out of time to learn how to play chess.)

I understand how important it is to you that we make it through a middle school’s worth of kids to partake in “Free Slurpee” day (even though technically, it’s always free Slurpee day for you).

I understand that in order to be your best friend one day I have to be your mother right now, which means I often take on the profile of a perceived enemy (with the added bonus of limited personal choices).

I understand that no one sees my failures as glaringly as you do. That you find the things I hide from other people, and that you can dig up just about anything else. But hopefully one day you’ll understand that that is why I understand you.

And before you charge me otherwise, I understand what it feels like to be accused of not understanding when I totally do understand. And I understand what it feels like to be trapped in the elusive ring of hell while someone else convinces herself that I’m wrong and she’s right. And I understand why some moms drink. Early in the day. And why a mom might want to scream OH SHUT UP! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT. And how it won’t do any good. (The yelling part, not the drinking. That might help.)

So really, I do understand.

I do.

You’re the one who doesn’t.

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

Except when it doesn’t.

Like normal business hours with kids under the age of four. Or rainy weekends when you have a low threshold for television guilt. Or when it’s below 30 or above Code Orange. Or from June-August (or between 4-7). Or when they would rather die than play five minutes without you. Or when you’re waiting in the ER for someone to acknowledge their bloody body. Or when you’re stuck in traffic on 95 and the DVD player cord breaks and the battery dies. Or when you’re glued to coverage of Katrina and war and tsunamis. Or while you’re scrubbing a breast milk explosion out of your fingernails. Or when you’re half-way through the grocery store and you feel the rumblings of a class-4 tantrum. Or when there’s lice. Or your sitter cancels.

And then one day you have just enough breathing room to realize that this is probably the last year your child will appreciate a stuffed animal in her Easter basket. And she probably won’t cry when her next teacher tells her that her mom needs to drop her off at the front of the school. And your little one moans at even the idea of running errands with you. And she wants to play your iPhone while in the cart, absorbed in the same world you spend much of your time, turning you into silent companions. And you feel the need to fill the quiet. So you instinctively do it with a song, or a sound effect, because you’ve been kind of silly for the last seven years and she looks up and says, “Mama, please be serious.”

And in the middle of Costco you understand why Uncle Robert always had so much energy around the cousins at family gatherings. And why Uncle Nick reveled in calling you Cindy Bear in front of your friends. And why some of your parents’ friend never really gave up the playful talk around you, even when you were, like, totally too old for it. It was fun. It was a relief. And just like that store from ’05 where you found the best shirt you ever owned (and nothing else since), you keep going back in. Because it made you feel good. And you want that good feeing again. At just about any cost.

So you start tolerating park trips, almost looking forward to them, because you can see that your kids have almost outgrown it. And you kind of feel sad when your child sees a friend and abandons you on the spot. (No you don’t. You just say that because you feel like you should.) But you sniff out friends with babies because while you don’t want more, you get that part from Raising Arizona when Glen says, “I don’t really need another kid, but Dot says these are gettin’ too big to cuddle.” So you keep the TV on a little bit longer because the kids still argue over who sits next to you, and who gets your lap, and you’re not sure how much longer they’ll care. And you let them fight over who gets to hold your hand, making sure they’re both empty. Just in case.

And you find yourself telling your friends with small kids that this time goes by with a (((SNAP!))) just like a wise grandmother told you. And just like you, they long for the freedom you have, willing to pay the price of any silliness just to have some breathing space. And you silently barter with them. Trading them some time alone for a few minutes to be silly with their kids. Though it’s not quite the same. They’re not the little ones you couldn’t wait to outgrow.

Or the ones who are outgrowing you.

FOR MORE HAPPY CLICHÉS—> ENTER HERE

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/18/happy-cliche-it-goes-so-fast/feed/ 11 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/18/happy-cliche-it-goes-so-fast/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/WShpxT4YcVU/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/16/thestar-wars-parade/#comments Thu, 17 May 2012 02:03:30 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=17864

I’ll admit – when my daughters rushed into the room shrieking that daddy was taking them to a Star Wars parade – I was skeptical.

Why?

1) They were excited about it. Up until that point they thought Star Wars was nothing more than a Lego set in the part of Toys ‘R Us they’d yet to venture into.

2) It was being hosted by our local library.

3) My husband was behind it. You see, back when he was my boyfriend, he somehow convinced me that there was going to be a Disney parade down Broad Street in Philly on my birthday. The details are a bit foggy. Like why I believed him, why I cared, and why I left the apartment with our best friend to see it. Needless to say, the only parade that took place that day was our best friend dragging me back across town to my own apartment after I’d realized that my boyfriend was actually throwing me a surprise party. Me. A surprise party. And the biggest surprise? He got drunk and I got embarrassed. So embarrassed that the next morning I convinced him that he took his gun out during the event and pointed it at all of our friends. Actually, it’s impressive that our relationship survived the Disney parade.

Anyway, back to the Star Wars parade. Since I wasn’t invited to go with them, I kept my suspicions to myself. Because really, what did I care?

And yet I’m still kind of sad I missed it because the events that followed were really funny. Especially after a few drinks at a SpeakeasyDC event. (Yeah, it’s true. We love ourselves some SpeakeasyDC.) But I’ll let him tell it to you. My recaps never really do him justice.

©2012 WMK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

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]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/16/thestar-wars-parade/feed/ 6 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/16/thestar-wars-parade/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/s36MzpGDe2U/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/15/mama-can-i-have-my-own-show/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 11:20:11 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=17824

“Mama? Can I have my own show?” TWO hops around the kitchen, dancing with herself. “You have your show, and Daddy always has shows, and even my sister has a recital. I’m the only one without a show and I really want one.”

It’s strange how true her statement is. She’s been in the middle of our rehearsals and recitals and open mics for months, but it’s never occurred to me that she’d want a chance to perform. Which is ridiculous, since she was pretty much born stage-ready.

“Sure,” I tell her. “We can make a show for you.” In my head I picture myself sweeping into her classroom with some music and getting her friends up and dancing, generously allowing TWO the lead position. Ahhhh…Hero Mommy. And I get excited, because unlike the other requests I get for Girl Scout events, or classroom activities, this is something I can actually do. Something I’ll enjoy. Something I’m good at.

“Oh good,” TWO says, interrupting my personal revelry. “Because I already told my teachers and the kids that it’s going to be in the really big Running Room and that I get to go first because it’s my ballet show. And I’m going to show them how to dance. And I invited everyone from my class and the other classes and everyone from church and all their parents and little brothers and sisters. And you can come too, if you want. And we need goodie bags with sunglasses and stuffed animals (I told them we’d all get stuffed animals, because even though it’s my ballet recital I’ll get a stuffed animal, too, because I’m the host). And I want you to wear your hair down because I think it looks better down…”

My first response is to jump in with some reasonable boundaries, but instead the sweetest thought washes over me. Let her make it as big as she can. Step back and just support her. I don’t know if it was the sheer exhaustion and stress of my own project talking, or just the answer to some prayers I’d said a long time ago and then forgotten about, but I was able to silence myself and listen. Why bring her up as just an idea person like me when she might have some of that follow through rumored to exist somewhere along the family line?

So I contact her teacher to see if the school would let us do something like this, and the teacher immediately responds back with YES. The next morning I let TWO pitch her idea to her teacher, who sets the boundaries, and together they plan the event.

The school gives us a room big enough for the kids in her class (and their families) to dance around in for the last half-hour of the day. This gives us enough time to perform four songs and have a little party afterward. We have a few weeks to prepare. TWO gets to work on invitations right away.

She picks her songs (The Cat Came Back, Little Bunny Foo Foo, The Goldfish & Jesus is Alive), and we make up motions. She rehearses in the car,

on the roof,

and in front of the imaginary audience that my husband and I have (apparently) made our girls believe lives in our living room/studio.

Final costume decision are agreed upon (fairy for her, hair down for me), and we bake pink refreshments, and make tickets.

Finally it’s the day of TWO’s Show. I set everything up to her specifications, and other than when I accidentally kick a 4YO in the face and make her cry during “The Cat Came Back” it’s a huge success. The best part of performing with TWO, instead of my usual position behind the camera, is that I get to experience how talented she really is, and see up close what she’s capable of. Which is, of course, even more than I thought.

The upside to making so many mistakes as a parent is that when you get it right–really right–you immediately earn the right to elevate yourself to hero status. At least in your own mind. And maybe even in the mind of your budding director/performer. Because if she doesn’t naturally look back at this time in her life as the starting point for everything creative to come, you exist, along side of her, in the pictorial proof.

Which should, at the very least, tide you over for the looming summer months of whining, parenting inadequacy and hiding with audiobooks. Because remember that time we made a show for you?

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

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]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/15/mama-can-i-have-my-own-show/feed/ 11 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/15/mama-can-i-have-my-own-show/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/hARdY3Zw2sM/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/09/my-first-granddaughter/#comments Wed, 09 May 2012 11:44:10 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=17773

Technically she’s not my first. I became a grandmother at the ripe old age of twenty-nine when my two-year-old birthed her first plastic-faced baby. Since then I’ve always worried a little about my daughters as moms. Not that they’d have babies before their time, or anything like that, but they’ve always come across as a little too cheerful and positive in the role of eternal caretaker. They seemed to think that babies popped out of belly buttons (though admittedly I’ve said nothing to dispute it), and that they’d be dressing back up in their princess gowns just as soon as they buckled their (silent) new baby into a floppy stroller.

I guess that’s kind of how I always thought it would go. And then I gave birth and it went…another way. But I understand why my mom never addressed my young ideals. It’s not like you can tell a toddler to enjoy her clothes, sleep, and vagina because they’ll never fit the same again. Instead, you smile. Nod. Hope for the best.

And then last night I got a glimpse of the future. Just before bed, my 7YO gave birth to what has to be at least her 50th baby, immediately reinvented herself in heels and a scarf, and introduced me to my new(est) granddaughter. (And my daughter is looking hot, btw. Her skin shows no sign of disfiguration. Guess that’s the plus of giving birth while your skin is still technically growing.)

ONE: This is my daughter, Eleanor. I just had her. Would you babysit? 

My fears were put at ease. Clearly she’d packed up her child while she was still in utero. Like I’d properly prepared her for what she was getting into, and she decided against it. She’d even skipped right past the diaper bag and went for a box that would fit all of the essentials. Like her claw-footed tub. My daughters have been paying attention. They do undersand how to survive motherhood.

Maybe it’s her experience as a seasoned mother, or maybe just her experience as my daughter, but not only did she drop off her kid right before bed without the slightest sign of guilt, she also gave me a detailed list of instructions. You know, because she trusted me enough to leave the kid and run. But not enough to do it without her guidance.

Look at that nap schedule? My daughter even understands karma.

My job here is done.

(Unless, of course, she’s really been listening and doesn’t come back for this kid at all…)

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

 

ONLY 4 MORE DAYS UNTIL MOTHER’S DAY! GOT PLANS YET FOR THE MOM IN YOUR LIFE? IF YOU’RE IN THE DC/MD/VA AREA, BRING HER TO BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAY-DATE FOR MOMS,  A LIVE SHOW FEATURING A CAST OF MOMS TELLING HUMOROUS TRUE TALES OF MOTHERHOOD SURPRISES, VICTORIES, FAILURES, DELUSIONS, AND UNWAVERING LOVE. IT’S GONNA BE A GREAT NIGHT! TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT FOR THE 7PM, BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME LEFT FOR THE 9 – INFO –> HERE.

 

]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/09/my-first-granddaughter/feed/ 10 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/09/my-first-granddaughter/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/LNtEUMtVKSw/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/08/the-making-of-a-storyteller/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 13:27:14 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=17765

“Mama? I had ANOTHER DREAM last night,” my 5YO tells me. She paces the bathroom where I’m applying my face and peeks up to take in my response. I nod my head, motioning for her to continue. “I don’t know if I should tell you because this time it was REALLY BAD…” She likes to prepare me for the worst. It’s one of the ways I know she hasn’t really been “dreaming.”

“Can’t scare me, Pea. I’m a product of the 90?s.”

“Okay, well, this time I was standing near our house, which was on fire. And I reached out to touch it. And then everyone else wanted to touch it too. And the fire kept getting bigger and bigger…”

She goes on, telling a very coherent tale, another indication that she hasn’t been dreaming; she’s been thinking. My daughter has a lot of “thoughts” like this. Big, dangerous productions. Being kidnapped. Fires. Losing all of her family or friends. And now that we’re facing the anxiety of preschool ending and Kindergarten beginning, she’s having lots and lots of “dreams.”

This particular “dream” has burned her possessions to ashes, and left her friendless. Normally at this point we’d sit down and talk about the differences between “dreams” and “thoughts,” and decide what she’s actually experiencing and why it scares her. But before I can say anything, I remember my seventh grade English teacher, Ms. Neilson.

Ms. Neilson was the first teacher who took interest in molding me as a storyteller. At the time I was writing all kinds of angsty things that got me sent to the office for “concern.” But she wasn’t worried that I was some trench-coat kid waiting to unfurl my secret hatred. She told me I was a writer. She let me tell whatever story I wanted, as long as I did it properly, and as long as I continued to write. When she wasn’t phased by my dark thoughts, I felt free to create bigger, almost-happy things.

I look down at my 5YO, so solemn and sad. I kneel on the floor, eye-level…read on

•                    •                   •

I’m guest posting over at SpeakeasyDC today. You can check out their great blog here, including really funny posts written by my husband, Mike. (His posts always make me laugh, even though I’ve lived most of the stories with him. Except yesterday’s. Yesterday’s was a surprise…)

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

ONLY 6 MORE DAYS UNTIL MOTHER’S DAY! GOT PLANS YET FOR THE MOM IN YOUR LIFE? IF YOU’RE IN THE DC/MD/VA AREA, BRING HER TO BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAY-DATE FOR MOMS,  A LIVE SHOW FEATURING A CAST OF MOMS TELLING HUMOROUS TRUE TALES OF MOTHERHOOD SURPRISES, VICTORIES, FAILURES, DELUSIONS, AND UNWAVERING LOVE. IT’S GONNA BE A GREAT NIGHT! TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT FOR THE 7PM, BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME LEFT FOR THE 9 – INFO –> HERE.

]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/08/the-making-of-a-storyteller/feed/ 0 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/08/the-making-of-a-storyteller/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/zimpD8xIgYQ/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/07/little-treasures/#comments Mon, 07 May 2012 11:00:30 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.wordpress.com/?p=8870

Just before church started on Sunday, a woman and her daughter sat down in front of us. I noticed right away that the woman had a sparkly foam sticker on the back of her sweater. Even though I didn’t know her, my first instinct was to tap her on the shoulder to let her know it was there.

But I couldn’t. The sticker made me smile. I liked it there. We had stickers like that at home. ONE used them for Thank You Cards and art projects. I’ve peeled them off walls, chairs, and the inside of the washing machine.

It made me think of the other stuff. The bangle bracelets that hibernated in my parka last summer. The glittery lipgoss that leaked through the back pocket of my jeans. Elmo’s iPod that played from my purse when I bumped into someone at the grocery store. A handful of elastic ponytail holders in the side door of the car. Little socks wedged in my shoes. Weed bouquets.

Throughout the service I caught other people glancing at the woman’s sweater and smiling. All moms. Some with grown kids sitting next to them, others struggling with younger ones. A few new moms swaying tiny babies back and forth. I didn’t know any of them, but it didn’t matter. We were all thinking the same kinds of things…and hoping she didn’t take the sticker off.

©2010 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

ONLY 6 MORE DAYS UNTIL MOTHER’S DAY! GOT PLANS YET FOR THE MOM IN YOUR LIFE? IF YOU’RE IN THE DC/MD/VA AREA, BRING HER TO BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAY-DATE FOR MOMS,  A LIVE SHOW FEATURING A CAST OF MOMS TELLING HUMOROUS TRUE TALES OF MOTHERHOOD SURPRISES, VICTORIES, FAILURES, DELUSIONS, AND UNWAVERING LOVE. IT’S GONNA BE A GREAT NIGHT! TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT FOR THE 7PM, BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME LEFT FOR THE 9 – INFO –> HERE.

]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/07/little-treasures/feed/ 27 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/07/little-treasures/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/beTVv5zepgE/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/02/why-motherhood-is-like-an-underage-house-party/#comments Wed, 02 May 2012 09:00:09 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.wordpress.com/?p=5423

…because it always starts out with that one person. You know, the person who likes kids, but has no intention of having one themselves, but comes over to you and is all, “You should TOTALLY have a baby. You would be an awesome parent. And then I could come over and play with it and you guys could go out and stuff.”

And even though your instincts are usually pretty good, especially when this person makes any kind of suggestion, that day it just sounds like a good idea. Your better judgment is out of town for the weekend and you start to think. “Maybe I could have a baby. Maybe I really could. Our house would be the perfect place to host it. It will be great. I’m so excited!”

So you plan the whole Event. Everyone is excited. They can’t wait. They tell their friends. People who don’t know you but think it’s a great idea because they’ve heard about you. They wonder why you waited so long. Everyone contributes. You clean the house. You set up the rooms. You assemble new pieces of furniture so everyone will fit. You decorate.

So the day of the Event arrives and in no time the party is in full swing. You thought you were going to dress up, but didn’t like how you looked in any of your clothes. Everyone looks better than you. You start to get nervous. “Music” is loud. You can’t get anyone to speak at a normal register. They all want to yell.

There are cups, plates and food everywhere. People standing on the furniture instead of sitting. You can’t believe how much you sound like your mother when you tell them to get down. You wind up being the designated “hair-holder” while people vomit in trashcans, on the floor, and occasionally in the toilet.

You wander around your house, unable to join the fun everyone else seems to be having. There are unrecognizable stains on the carpet that you know you’ll never get out. There are infections everywhere, you can feel them, but no one seems interested in coming clean and admitting it.

Neighbors start knocking on the door. It’s too loud. They don’t want to call the cops, but they hear what sounds like murderous screaming. Is everything okay? Then they come in and join the party even though they weren’t invited. Around that time you notice all of the other strangers in your house. Wait? Who is that person with their fingers in the dip? And why is that other person pulling your Tupperware out of the cabinets? Who let these people in?

You cower into a back bedroom and start wishing the night away. You just want it to end so you can go home. You go to call your mother to come and pick you up. Which is when you realize that you’re home. This is your party. You want to strangle that person who thought this “party” would be a great idea. The same person, you realize, who didn’t even show up for the event.

Then you get mad. You rush out of the room and tell everyone to leave, sounding just your mother. And just like you, no one listens. You start to appreciate what it was like for her. You empathize. You get overwhelmed. You look around the remains of your house. It’s an utter mess, so you decide that if they won’t go, you’ll just ask them to help clean. Which is when the music screeches to a halt and everyone heads for the door.

So you turn the music back on, but at a lower volume. Grab a phone. Call your mom and chat her up while you start putting everything away. You think she’s amazing. You tell her again and again that you’re sorry for throwing like 20 years of destruction parties in her house. You promise to celebrate HER on your birthday from now on. You can’t imagine what it was like for her, or why she still likes you.

You can hear her smiling on the phone as she reassures you that not all of the parties were bad. Some were actually fun.

Really? you say.

Yes, she says.

You know she’s lying, but you decide to believe her anyway. You swear you’ll never have another party again. She laughs at you. Reminds you that your partying days are over. And from now on, you’ll just be on clean-up duty. But that it will all be worth it when your child calls you one day, finally able to appreciate who you are and how much you did for them.

So this is what it takes to appreciate, really appreciate, your  mother. 

You’ve got at least 20+ years before that’s gonna happen for you. Thank GOD you have your mother to talk you through it.

(Love you, Mom!)

©2009 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

ONLY 10 MORE DAYS UNTIL MOTHER’S DAY! GOT PLANS YET FOR THE MOM IN YOUR LIFE? IF YOU’RE IN THE DC/MD/VA AREA, BRING HER TO BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAY-DATE FOR MOMS,  A LIVE SHOW FEATURING A CAST OF MOMS TELLING HUMOROUS TRUE TALES OF MOTHERHOOD SURPRISES, VICTORIES, FAILURES, DELUSIONS, AND UNWAVERING LOVE. IT’S GONNA BE A GREAT NIGHT! TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT FOR THE 7PM, BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME LEFT FOR THE 9 – INFO –> HERE.

]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/02/why-motherhood-is-like-an-underage-house-party/feed/ 38 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/05/02/why-motherhood-is-like-an-underage-house-party/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BadMommyMoments/~3/HH4cKkKSEyQ/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/04/25/buttonhole-corsage/#comments Wed, 25 Apr 2012 14:04:19 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=17726

Lunches. Clothes. Doing hair. Sunblocking. Backpacks. Planning dinner, cleaning breakfast. Walking. Picking up a friend. “I’m ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-t.” Stripping coats. Holding coats. Elementary drop off. Herding three preschoolers back outside. Pulling them past the neighborhood cat. Linking across traffic not interested in stopping. Mentally reviewing plans for the day. Remembering to breathe. Shifting all three backpacks while holding three coats and the door. Looking down.

One of TWO’s friends is smiling at me. She hands me a flower she picked when I wasn’t looking and says, “This is for you.” I tuck it into the buttonhole of my jacket. “You can wear it in your hair,” she says. “I know,” I say. “It would look pretty there. But I want to see it.”

Because I do. I stare at it. As I drop the kids off at their respective rooms, I’m forgotten with a wave. But I look down at my flower. I’m someone in her little life. A moment tucked away with the wisps of traffic and classrooms and spring honeysuckle. Her smile hiding me in the quiet place of childhood memories that never completely fade.

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

 

GOT PLANS FOR MOTHER’S DAY?   BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAY-DATE FOR MOMS IS A LIVE SHOW THAT WILL FEATURE A CAST OF MOMS TELLING HUMOROUS TRUE TALES OF MOTHERHOOD SURPRISES, VICTORIES, FAILURES, DELUSIONS, AND UNWAVERING LOVE. GIVE THE MOM IN YOUR LIFE THE NIGHT OFF TO CELEBRATE AND COMMISERATE WITH OTHER MOMS. SHOW AND TICKET INFO –> HERE.

 

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