I adore my son, and I take great pleasure in motherhood. It brings a sense of stability and fulfillment that I had never known before, but I’ll be damned if it is ever easy. Perhaps, at times, my experiences with parenting may be humorous, but never as they say “a walk in the park.”
Even a simple stroll through the “serenity” of nature can be quite daunting. My own child, is at a stage where it is a grave battle to get him into his stroller, after all, why sit in it when he can push it himself? Unfortunately, he cannot see where he is going, nor would he take notice even if he could. He runs down anything or anyone that should be so unlucky as to step into his path, even Mommy. I feel terrible every time I must explain to another mother at the playground why my son flattened her unsuspecting child like a pancake.All of the other mothers seem to exist in a hierarchy of cliquish communities, perhaps segregated by class or marital status or age and behavior of their offspring. They surround me, shopping in small groups or playing in large circles, yet I am always apart from them. Our contact consists only of superficial comments in passing. The other mothers love to observe the roundness of my son’s rosy, dimpled cheeks or the mysterious gleam in his wide, thickly lashed, brown eyes. I only manage to smile and nod upon such occurrences as they wait vainly for a return compliment. I can never think of any clever response. Consequently, they must think me very rude, but I would rather be honestly silent than falsely flattering or tritely ignorant. After all what am I supposed to say, Gee, thanks, I made him myself?
It may be sad that I am so unpopular, yet perhaps it is better that the “super moms” know nothing of my private misadventures. Bath time is the breeding ground for mishaps.
Just last night, not only did I fall victim to several attacks of water toys and endure an accidental bathing of water myself, but also my son felt the need to further floor me with his toddler antics. He stood in the tub and peed over the side, right into Mommy’s lap. Then, after I promptly ended the bathing/water play session, he scrimmaged past me and out the door bare-naked. No sooner than he had happily escaped, he released a traveling poop onto the freshly cleaned living room carpet. I should have seen it coming, but sleep-deprivation has numbed my maternal sixth-sense.
Ah, no wonder I am not a member of the “Super mom Club.” My fifteen-month-old can outwit and outrun me. Call me foolishly proud, but this fact is beyond embarrassing. If the other moms only knew, I could never show my face on the playground again.
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