Mama Wazza Ath-O?

My husband and I both work from home. He works full-time, I work part-time and manage the family full time. This chaos inspired the question “should we send the kidlets to preschool or should we get an office?” Preschool won. The empty house allowed for more productive work, time to tidy up, and of course the occasional afternoon delight. Then, last Spring, he was invited to share an office with a co-worker. We accepted. I was suddenly Home Alone. My work was complete, the house was clean, baked goods were warm. I quickly got bored. Meanwhile, the 4-year old was suddenly refusing to nap at Preschool and would melt with violent consequences, documented in triplicate.

Coincidence? Nothing is a coincidence!

I took it as a Cosmic Sign to keep the kidlets at home with me! Had I been unconsciously preparing for this? I’ll just power through my work during their 2-hour nap. We’ll run errands together. Parks. The Pool. Playdates. Adventures. Crafts? Crafts! I can do this. Easy.

Right?

Monday morning it began: Once within arm’s reach of each other, it was all hitting, pulling, pinching, yelling. It was Thursday of the first week and we could no longer run errands. The following Monday afternoon and all the crafts had failed: Beads like fallen snow, mashed stickers disintegrating into the tile, yarn and ribbon tangled down the halls and around furniture feet and back again, water colors and marking pens made horizontal lines 18” from the floor. Tuesday, we left story-time after (The Pinch and) the bloodcurdling scream that made other babies cry. Wednesday at the indoor Play Place, parents huddled their kids to safety after my two threw all the balls out of the ball pit. (At this point, I figured if they were getting along, they could do anything they wanted. Short of resurrecting the dead.) Oh, and by now no one is napping.

Week 3 and we didn’t leave the house any more, we couldn’t. We met Daddy for a picnic lunch and they ran into a construction ditch. We couldn’t meet other kids for play dates, they unified their efforts to resurrect the dead. Except for the couch, everything else was too dangerous. Not for them, of course, but for the World. The TV turned on as soon as they woke up (so I could get them fed) (so I could finish my work) (so I could Pinterest more craft ideas, WTF?). Week 4 and they were fighting over their TV shows. Week 6 we were watching some of my shows: Walking Dead, Scandal, Star Trek. Week 10 is when I finally cracked.

It was bedtime and the kidlets were streaking post-bath. Punching and kicking each other. Punching and kicking me. He crawling over and out of his crib and she jumping on her bed. Back and forth. Yelling. Screaming. Once I realized they were starting to coordinate their efforts, simmering laughter just below the surface, I lost it. I cracked. Loudly and deeply. Irreparably cracking.

Daddy was working late at his office once again. That peaceful. Quiet. Office. Mother fucker. I caught them, wrapped them in towels, into the car, buckled them tight. I am crying – loudly, and they are laughing, which makes me angrier, which makes them laugh more. I get in the car and slam my door, one, two, three times. It feels so good to slam that fucking door I do once again. I turn up the music so loud that I can’t hear them in the back seats. At the first stop sign, I realize it’s rain on the windshield – not my tears. I start crying again.

I pull into his empty parking lot and text, “get your children. I am downstairs.” He appears in the doorway, a sweetly quizzical look across his eyes.

I scream through the rain, into the vastness of the parking lot, for all the world to hear: “Your CHILDREN are ASSHOLES. ASSOHOLES!! They don’t fucking listen. They are fucking CRAZY. I hate that I’m so fucking mean all the time. I can’t dooooo this anymore! They’re killing meehehehehheee.” I am sobbing deeply, defeated, deflated.

My husband is stunned, watching me heave and wail. He rushes over to the open window, reaches in a turns down the music. He looks at me and slowly, his eyes well up, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you felt like this…”

I wipe my cheeks and blow my nose on an old wipee. It’s soaked and spent, completely fucking unhelpful. I’m gasping through the sobs. “I thought I could do it. I’ve been holding it in. I don’t know what went wrong. Can we please send them back? I’ve cracked. I can’t. Do this. I’m so sorry. But I can’t.” I use my shirt front to wipe and blow. I can’t care.

He opens the door behind me and looks in on the kids, hesitantly. Their giggles and laughter instantly transform into words, “Daddy! Dadda!” and all eight limbs reach out toward him. He confirms that they are indeed buckled. (Safety first.) And finds them naked, sitting on their damp towels.

“OK. Let me take them. I can take them home. I’m so sorry. Let’s go home.”

Catching my breath, I have found a bit of sanity. “Stay at work,” I say. “We’ll just watch another movie until you get home. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I promise.” And then, “I just can’t do this anymore. I won’t.”

He watches as I shift the car into R and, although the parking lot was empty, I back up carefully. Thwuuunk thwuuunk of the windshield wipers. Click clack click of the rain on the car roof. I shift into D and pull forward. The headlights sweep across him standing on the sidewalk, left hand raised in a feeble wave. His short hair is dripping rainwater down his face, and the front of his shirt and shoulders are dark and wet. He is just as desperate, lost, as struggling as I am, not knowing how to Help. The spotlight was on him and I saw I was no longer alone.

My kids and I drive home slowly in the pounding, splashing rain. My muscles are sore. My eyes sting. I still can’t breathe out of my nose. My brain exhausted, I’m empty. But the children are finally silent, Finn is sucking his thumb. I could drive all night.

From the far backseat, The Girl asks, “Mama, wazza ath-O?”

“What’s a what?”

“Wazza ath-o?”

Oh. Asshole. “Well, it’s someone who, uh, doesn’t care how other people feel, so they, uh, are mean and hurt people’s feelings.”

“Why?”

“Ummm. Because sometimes they feel bad about themselves and secretly want other people to feel bad, too. Or, they forget we all have to live together happily – all brothers and sisters – and they think only about themselves and what they want.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes it’s on purpose, sometimes it’s an accident.”

“And mommies and daddies?”

“Yes, sometimes they forget about mommy’s and daddy’s feelings.”

Silence. She’s understanding! “Mommies forget and be mean, too?”

My 4-year old daughter just called me an ath-o.

Because I am.

I am the ath-o.

I am the ath-o because I lost My Self. What happened to my spontaneity? Where did my sense of humor go? When did I lose my playfulness, my buoyant curiosity? WTF, Love of Life?! Weeks before, I could’ve laughed it all off, “Baby-Daddy, I am drowning in broken toys and broken hearts. Help.” Or “Husband, tag me out!” Or 24-hour loud speaker Bohemian Rhapsody. But I lost My Self. I lost who I Am. I lost my Truth and replaced it with a tangle of Shoulds, Shame and Guilt. Every day I struggle with the expectations of what a Better Mother would do. A Better Mother would have been able to raise peaceful children. A Better Mother would have been able to Do It. And I struggle with Why Aren’t I That Better Mother. Every day I’m consumed with my failures, challenges, deficiencies. From my own mother and grandmother, from TV and movies, from other fucking mothers. I feel tied and bound to serve other people’s expectations. Every day I wish, I wonder, I cry.

I am the ath-o because it took me so long to realize I had indeed lost My Self.

I am the ath-o because I was pushing this family in the wrong direction, and then blaming my kids for their, um, childishness. They are healthy, normal 2 and 4 year olds.

I am the ath-o because I forgot what makes my kids happy. Finn loves Montessori Preschool. The freedom within the structure. The creativity. The connection. The Exploration. The dynamic social interaction. Lua loves projects, spending hours deep in bright colors, glitter and art. She wants daily girlie giggles and co-creating in the sandbox. They both love – and need – that which I, alone at home, cannot give them. It was selfish of me to keep them away.

I am the ath-o, not because I cracked, but because I was not living our Truth.

“Yes, sometimes mommies can forget and be mean, too. I’m sorry my love. I promise I’ll be nice again. Can you promise that you’ll try to be nice, too?” We’ve been talking about promises.

She’s thinking. Then, “Yeah. Why?”