Parenthood is…

Welcome to my new series that I just made up just this minute , “Parenthood is…” To me, these are the snapshots that somehow encapsulate so much of what is indefinable about being a mother.

Parenthood is . . .

Coming up with a really great idea for your child to make her best friend a bracelet as a placeholder birthday present because you haven’t had two minutes to string together (ha ha) to get to a store to buy a gift because you’ve been to three doctors and 87 extracurricular activities and 42 stores and 12 meetings in 4 days. Only, you think of the idea at 6:00 pm. And then it’s 7:45pm by the time anyone starts the project. And it’s Thursday. And your first grader decides he also wants to participate, automatically removing any hopes of this being an autonomous activity that your child could complete while you enjoy a glass of wine to the sounds of a quiet, industrious household. Also, you’ve just dosed your older child with a hefty (physician prescribed) quantity of Benadryl to address a raging hive situation that’s recently cropped up (see above-referenced doctor visits). So, flash forward 45 minutes and both of your kids are in various states of rage and tears and you’ve already scoured the house several times to source alternative supplies that you can employ to address a truly astounding array of obstacles and difficulties this adorable task has presented. And now it’s past 8:30, and instead of being asleep, your kids are digging through tiny boxes to find the correct emoji face bead and they’re weeping and you’re sitting on the floor, sweating and trying to blink your contact lenses back into place on your eyeball, threading a piece of fat elastic through the eye of a needlepoint needle. No, an embroidery needle. No, wait! The needle that came from that kids’ sewing kit your daughter cried over three years ago! Aha! Here’s the very box! Aha! It’s . . . empty! It’s an empty fucking box sitting on a shelf! An empty box in an overstuffed closet filled with a veritable museum’s worth of abandoned craft kits. This closet is a goddamn diorama of every fleeting interest and momentary hobby either of your children have ever pretended to give a shit about. Aha! Wait! What’s that ziplock bag crammed with felt that you spy behind the five slightly different fairy terrarium kits? Why, it’s the one-time contents of that empty box you just triumphantly excavated and then hurled across the room as your kids continue to weep and bang their heads and fists against the table because the fruit shaped beads are the best but the holes that have been born into them wouldn’t accommodate the finest of imaginary filaments, let alone a rapidly fraying bit of rainbow ombre-wrapped rubber that your daughter is fiercely committed to using. Look at you, you genius! You found it! The day is saved!

Anyway, where was I? I mean, you. You. That’s right, you’re back on the floor, sweating and cursing in your head even while you confidently and calmly tell your children to relax, there’s a solution to everything and you know exactly what to do, no problem! See? What good modeling you are doing. What valuable life lessons you are imparting. Look at this composed and experienced parent! Nobody’s panicked, this isn’t brain surgery. OR IS IT? Jesus Christ IT’S 8:45 WHY IS ISN’T THIS OVER YET? You’ve never possessed a craft skill in your life, but here you are wrapping tape and snipping tiny little corners into it and threading needles and stringing nanoscopic citrus slices in a neat little row. You son of a bitch, you’re actually fixing it! You really did know what to do! And you look upon your child with pity and tenderness and a bosom filled with love and generosity and say, “here, sweetie, let me help you finish this so we can all go to sleep.” You smile beatifically but instead of thanking you and collapsing into a puddle of gratitude and exhaustion, your daughter growls and her head spins around 360 degrees and she starts hysterically shrieking that she DOES NOT WANT YOUR HELP, THIS IS HER PROJECT! GO AWAY! NO!

Oh.

Kay.

Oooooohkaaaaay.

And then it’s done. It is done! And you’ve got . . . a bracelet that looks like your kid made it, because she did. And you say, “it looks great guys!” And everyone grunts. And you say, “you’re welcome?” And they say, “thanksmom,” or at least that’s what you think they said because really they were just muttering miserably to themselves as you maniacally pick a zillion beads and bits of string out of the carpet. 

And then you hug them and put them to bed, and they ask you for water and another story and to sit with them and the closet light is too bright and now it’s too dim and the door isn’t open enough and their leg is itchy and they want to kiss the dog goodnight and they forgot to eat dessert and you say “no and no and no and I love you and BYE.” 

And you give them both kisses and leave the room as swiftly as you can because the true death is lingering for even a second too long, and don’t look them in the eye or let on that you can hear their whingeing otherwise they’ll latch on and it’ll never end. Never ever ever. Ever. But somehow, by some magic/anti-histamine, they both fall asleep.

As you finish your bottle of wine, several minutes later, standing at the kitchen counter, you contemplate what just happened. Did you facilitate a memorable and creative craft project that got you and your kids off the screens and allowed you all to bank some valuable mommy-kid time in the old memory cache? Or did you . . . not . . . do any of that? Did you mostly just waste an evening and introduce a new category for strife and conflict that left everyone feeling like they’d been t-boned by a garbage truck? Should you have just let them watch a show and been done it? Or did none of it have any impact at all and will it all be forgotten in a matter of hours by everyone other than you, who is now fairly traumatized from the whole experience? 

The answer, my friends, is yes. All of it. Yep to whatever you just said. And on the other hand, also no. 

Whatever it is, it’s done. Who drank all my wine?