When my children were babies, I went at motherhood on the assumption that at some point they'd grow up and my life would revert
back to the way it was pre-kid. I was wrong. While I no longer have to carry them to the car, it's become apparent I'll spend a good chunk of my adult life trying to blast the ring off the bathtub in my daughter's
bathroom or picking my way across my son's carpet, trying to avoid grinding the potato chips into the pile. This constant cleaning mode renders me pretty ill-tempered. My natural instinct when I see a
dirty room is to simply clean it. My kids natural instinct when they see a dirty room is to live in it. They are a chip off the old garbage dump. We do not relate.
So it should come as no surprise to the Lord
and Lady of the Trashcans that their mother has a an occasional tantrum whenever she finds herself ankle deep in dirty clothes and crusty carpets. But – wonder of wonders – they always look amazed whenever I pitch one.
I rant and rave a bit, telling anyone who will listen that I am quitting motherhood because, in addition to flabby thighs and a stomach that won't go away, it also means never having to say "thank you for cleaning
up your room." Face it, I'm much too anal to live in a house that would offend a dog's sensibilities.
What brings this subject to the forefront is that one day I found their laundry scattered around their rooms,
wadded into little useless balls. This was the same laundry I'd spent the previous day washing and folding. Being a mature, level-headed adult, I blew up, sending molten mama to all corners of the house. I fussed, I
complained, I threatened and I told them I was retiring from motherhood. Then I forgot all about it.
A few days later I was sitting at my desk collecting items to take with me to a work engagement that evening
when my son came running in. I'd made dinner and left it on the stove so my husband could just fill up their plates.
"Can I play before I eat?" my child asked.
"Ask your Dad," I told him, distracted by the task at hand.
"Well, can I play after I eat?" he asked.
"Ask your Dad," I said, putting things in a bag to take with me.
"Do I have to eat
now?" he pleaded one more time. I was starting to grow impatient with his begging.
"Look son, I already told you to ask your Dad," I told him.
There was a moment's silence, then he looked mournfully at me and
said, "Gee Mom, you said you were going to retire I didn't believe you, but I guess you went and did it after all."
Retirement, huh? That might not be such a bad idea. I think I'll find out what kind of pension I
might qualify for.
