I do get sick to death of being a grown up. It's not so much the work, as it is the responsibility. My family is the most beautiful thing in creation, but the problem is that it all pivots on me. I am the big greasy gear that our little universe grinds about. I read once that fathers are the wild ocean and mothers are the safe harbor. Which makes my children screaming seagulls, streaking back to me with beaks bared after the thrills of the open ocean, demanding safety and comfort and rest. * So there's precious little of it left for me.
Take this morning, for example.
Wake up 1 hour before everyone else.
Clean up hair ball on back staircase.
Clean up dog vomit from trying to eat part of hair ball.
Clean off slippers from stepping in hair ball and dog vomit.
Let dogs out. Run around yard in pajamas trying to pry dogs off of hillbilly neighbors attempt at composting their leftover food stuffs by tossing it over the fence into my yard. Say prayer to the Baby Jesus neighbors die/ get arrested/ get evicted/ get replaced by charming gay couple with fetish for landscaping and home improvements.
Feed dogs. Feed cat. Scoop cat poo.
Start load of laundry.
Make lunches.
Make breakfast.
Wake children.
Listen halfheartedly to various complaints involving quality of breakfast, temperature of breakfast, location of hairbrush, shoes, refusals to brush teeth, unnatural start time of school and coldness of car.
Deliver kids to school.
Drink coffee. Sit in fog.
So, pick a point anywhere on that list, and all I pretty much want to do is fling myself at some warm, calming person and let them take over so I can get an extended hug and some kind words. Like a kindergarten teacher!
This morning we went to see the 6th grade at my son's school perform the Stations of the Cross for Easter. For those of you who aren't Catholic, the Stations is a dramatic portrayal of the last day of Christ on Earth. The children arrange themselves, statue-like and depict each scene in eerie silence, while a narrator very quietly explains the scene. It is very moving and haunting. We happened to be sitting by the kindergarteners and their teacher.
They were so cute and tiny and for the bulk of the program, sat there only wiggling slightly. Until the Station where Christ is nailed to the cross. One by one, they burst into tears. You could see some of them were trying to choke it back, but suddenly one little girl jumped up and ran to her teacher, who was right next to us.
"Why are they hurting Jesus?" she sobbed.
Her teacher gathered her into her arms and rubbed her back and said, "It's all right, honey. Don't cry." But by then the other children were jumping up one at a time, all of them sobbing...
"Make them stop, Mrs. Baker!"
"I want to go home. Is this almost over?"
"I want my mommy, Mrs. Baker!"
"Is Jesus going to be ok? My tummy hurts."
"I have to pee. I'm going to pee."
"I have to sing Hallelujah really loud, Mrs. Baker. Right now." (I about died.)
She gathered each one of them and hugged them and shushed them and let them cluster around her on the floor like little chickens, wiping tears and rubbing backs. And all I wanted to do was crawl over and say, "Mrs. Baker, if someone accuses me of hiding their hairbrush one more time, I am going to cry. And the thought of going to the grocery store this afternoon makes my tummy hurt. And someone needs to abduct my neighbors and replace them with, like Elton and David or Ellen and Portia."
That would be so great. Just every once in while. To get a hug and a smile and a little back rub and have someone just take over and make it all better until you can get a grip. I had totally forgotten what hero's and saints kindergarten teachers are until I saw her dealing with all that 5 year old insanity. Admit it! You have never once heard of a mean, heartless kindergarten teacher. I have a dear friend who teaches kindergarten, and she assures me that they are able to be that sweet and kind because they drink a great deal. But bet each one of you gets a warm, fuzzy feeling when you think of yours.
Anyway, Happy Easter! I am considering filling my darling daughter's basket with 3 dozen hairbrushes just so we never have that particular soul sucking argument again. And if anyone wants to give me an Easter present, how about some tips on how to get a large chocolate milkshake out of an expensive oriental rug? That's gonna smell great come June...
~dana
*with apologies to Allison Pearson
