Amy's Mama Drama

Inspected by No. 12

"FIVE MINUTE WARNING!" I shout from the bottom of the stairs. "HUSTLE HUSTLE HUSTLE."  If I drop them off so much as a minute late today, I'll be late for my work meeting.

"Comeonecomeonecomeoncomeon," I hustle them out the door.

Finally I pull up at school drop off and they jump out. I shout "love yous" through the open window at their retreating backs. Peanut turns to blow me a kiss, but then cocks her head as she looks at me quizzically.

Then her face clears and she smiles. "Nice sticker, Mom!" she shouts as the bell rings. Then she turns and she and Boo run into the school.

I look in the rear view mirror at the upper third of my face. No sticker. I stretch my neck and turn my head. No sticker. The car behind me honks and I get on my way, searching my person at every stop in traffic.

I get to my client's office and try to do a full body search in the parking lot, painfully aware of the 12 stories of floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me. I can't find the sticker.

You know how when you're meeting with someone and they keep rubbing their nose? You get weirded out thinking there something hanging out of your nose and start rubbing at yours and that weirds them out and by the end of the meeting everyone is spastically rubbing and no one is looking at anyone else? That was this meeting - but with hair, face and clothes touching instead of of nose rubbing. What a train wreck.

When I got home I took off every piece of clothing and inspected it. Nothing.

I couldn't wait for after school.I pounced on poor Peanut the minute she got in the car.

She looked at me blankly, "Sticker?" 

"You know, when you said 'nice sticker, mom,' did I have an Elmo sticker on me or something?" For some reason in my mind, Elmo is the worst-case scenario. 

"Ohhhh," she finally remembers. "No it was that thingie on your jacket. The jewelery thingie."

I just stare at her. "The pin? My stickpin?"

"Right!" She says. "Stickpin! That's what it's called. Stickpin. Right. Yours is cool," then she turns to look out the window, distracted by some kids walking their dog.

Stickpin. Not sticker. There was never any sticker.

Aquarium Dreams

Boo watches the cars passing as we drive to school. She sighs heavily and turns to her sister and says simply and without angst, "Peanut, I always wished you were a baby brother."

I snort, "Boo, that's not very nice!"

But Peanut is also feeling wistful this morning. She replies, "It's okay Mom." And turns to her sister and says, "I understand Boo. I have always wished you were a fish."

Do You Hate This?

"I hate you!"

I heard it first around age 5 with Peanut. It was about something ridiculous - having to put on shoes or the like. Her words were noted, but didn't actually hurt.

As kids get older though, the phrase gains heft. Peanut is 10 now, and pretty clever. If she wants to leave a mark, she can do it.

Which is why I decided to go on the offensive. She needs to see that when she says something mean, with heat, it can change the way people feel about themselves - the way they move through the world. So I try to provide living illustration.

Last month, when she muttered hateful words at me when I denied her something (like a sleepover on a Tuesday and a Slurpee 30 minutes before dinner), I talked in a crying wail for an hour. It was high-pitched and sobbing, with the occasional hitching sob/sigh/snort sound thrown in.

And two weeks ago when she was trying on mean-humor one morning and made a crack about my plentiful backside, I stuffed two kitchen towels down my pants, padding my already round rumpus, tucked in my shirt, and hoisted my pants up to under my boobs (my favorite look) while slumping my shoulders. The effect was sobering. Especially when I told her I was walking her into camp that way.

Now don't get me wrong - when she's mad about something legitimate, I don't belittle that or treat it flippantly.  But I can see the teenage years on the horizon - the extreme sensitivity, the weepiness, the angst and the hair-trigger temper. I know some of it is unavoidable, but I believe there is some dramatic padding starting already that I want to nip in the bud. I want her mind to go, "Hmmm, if I get all upset about turning off the TV right now, Mom's likely to eat cheese on purpose so she can fart in front of my homework partner all afternoon, so maybe I'll just live with no TV. [dramatic sigh]. My mom is SO WEIRD!"

Yeah, did you catch that? I inadvertently revealed something about myself -  my oldest is only 10 and already I've given up dreams of being the cool mom, and now I'm content with being labeled supremely weird as long as it mimizes the battles. It's a relief, actually. Being "weird" in the eyes of a pre-teen or teenager is so much easier than being cool. All you need is a full box of bandaids and some imagination.

Anyway, I'm going to try this for awhile and see how it goes. Honestly, I already think it might be working. Just the other day when I reminded her to put away her laundry, I saw her whip her head around and open her mouth. But she saw me standing there holding a pile of her father's underwear and I just knew in that split second she could imagine 100 different horribly embarrasing things I could do with that underwear, should she give me guff. Honestly, I could see the ideas run through her head, and she shut her mouth, took a deep breath and took her clothes upstairs.

Course she shoved them all in drawer instead of hanging them up, but that's a self-correcting behavior. As soon a wrinkles matter in school, she'll hang them up. In the meantime, I'm just going to enjoy the quiet, wrinkled peace that comes only to the supremely weird mama.

Is that a picture of a carpet stain?

Just so you know... I share a digital camera with my daughters. Therefore my screen saver pulls the photos they've taken as well as the ones I have.

So if you ever come to my office and see the multitude of Barbie, linoleum and rear-end pics float across my screen, it's not me.