This Mother’s Day, I thought that I would wax poetic about what it means to be a mother today. How important it is, possibly now more than ever that our children have good mothers at home to protect them from a seemingly escalating level of negative influences these days. And to teach them right from wrong and guide them with a firm yet soft and loving hand through all the trials and tribulations of their young lives.
I could do that, but it seemed like it would be kind of dull. So instead I thought I would write about what it means to be the mother of our three boys, ages four-and-a-half, three, and one.
Being the mother of our three boys means:
Becoming an expert on anything from dinosaurs to black widows to hurricanes, depending solely on what the oldest one is interested in at the time.
Resigning yourself to the fact that your lunch for the next five years will mainly consist of whatever the boys didn’t eat.
Never being afraid to go with chicken nuggets, even if it’s the ninth day in a row, because you know all three will eat them without complaints.
Having to constantly buy and serve sour cream, even though you despise it like the devil himself.
Having to put on a brave smile and trying to keep the horrified look off your face when your son beams at you with pride after rocketing down the driveway on a scooter at mach 3 and pulling off a turn onto the sidewalk that Mario Andretti would be proud of.
Having a standing weekly appointment at the pediatrician’s office, and a semi-monthly appointment at the ER.
Knowing when to say “No, you may not use daddy’s power tools anymore.”
Always being ready to sprint to the accident scene when you have to.
Never leaving Costco without $300 worth of stuff.
Being able to read the same book three times a day for twenty days in a row, and being able to watch the same episode of Backyardigans every night.
Being able to say “Use your big boy words” at least 75 times a day without losing your cool.
Being able to listen to nine straight hours of whining without going insane.
Sometimes having to open up a grade-A can of whoop-ass when Daddy isn’t home.
Never being shocked when one boy tries to clothesline the other because he stole his socks.
Wondering why the boys naturally love to play with guns, and having to say “We don’t shoot people. We only shoot monsters and birds. We arrest the bad guys” at least ten times a day.
Teaching the boys to play “slug bug” in the car as a means to keep them awake, but somehow miraculously training them to only lightly touch the other contestants instead of pummel them.
Rolling on the floor laughing when, out of the blue, the four-year-old says “Next time we go on vacation, I really think it would be best if I drove.”
Constantly being prepared for total rejection at the dinner table.
Always being prepared for anything from kissing a boo-boo to applying steady pressure until the bleeding slows, and everything in between.
Always having a ziplock bag of Cheese-Its. No matter what.
Being able to get three Tasmanian Devils fully dressed, fed, and in the car in less time than it takes a Nascar pit crew to change a tire.
Getting pulled out of bed at 2:30 am to help a boy go pee, even though he can do it all by himself.
Finding out what is inside snails, rattle toys, stuffed animals, spiders, and action figures whether you wanted to know or not.
Getting thrown up on, at a minimum of once a week.
Loving every minute of it, even if some days all you want to do is cry.
You’re doing a great job, baby! Happy Mother’s Day.
See you soon,
Copyright © 2009 Marc Schmatjen
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