Why Thank You...I Think

It had not been a good morning. In fact, it's possible that I had just texted my sister and told her that I thought I had the worse case of PMS ever, and I was trying to find a way to go home and go back to bed for a few days  hours.

No, in case you're wondering, I'm not delusional enough to think that I really could go back to bed. I mean, I guess I could.Theoretically. If I was willing to take a chance on waking up to a house with different colored walls than it had when I went to bed. Or to a bathtub filled with yogurt and/or toothpaste. Or to the neighbors knocking on the door, telling me to come.get.these.naked.children. out.of.their.cars yards.

Since that didn't seem like the best option, I decided that I would settle for no one talking to me, looking at me, or breathing my air.

You can probably guess how that one went.

I had decided, however, that I was not going to let a rough morning get in the way of the plans I'd made. Especially since these plans involved taking care of me. Even though taking care of me used to mean things like pedicures, and hair cuts, and buying myself a new outfit.

And now it means going to the dermatologist to get stuff frozen off my face.

And my neck.

And my legs.

(My dermatologist kindly informed me that these are "age related" something or others. Which I already kind of figured, since the moment I blew out the candles on my fortieth birthday cake, I  started sprouting stuff).

Anyway, I had decided that I was keeping this appointment.

PMS or no PMS.

Wild boys, or no wild boys.

But I was still hopeful that no one would actually try to talk to me.

We had been in the office for a few minutes, and the boys were playing mostly quietly in the corner next to me, stopping only occasionally to ask me questions about God only knows what, when I could feel the stares of a woman sitting a few chairs away.

She looked friendly, in a middle aged hippie kind of way. Birkenstocks. Braided gray hair. Laugh lines that I was pretty sure she wasn't there to getting filled.

"You are such a great mom," she told me, as she smiled.

Oh.my.gosh.

Someone is talking to me. Don't they see the PMS sign on my forehead?

"Thank you," I smiled back, thinking how nice and yet absolutely random this was.

"Listen to their questions!" she beamed. "All their questions! And your answers! You're answering all their questions!"

OK, so this part, quite frankly, just pissed me off.

Because I have been under the impression, all this time, that I have to answer all their questions. I mean, isn't that my job, to answer at least 95 % of their sometimes adorable, often annoying, unbelievably exhausting, incredibly repetitive questions?

Isn't it?

Because here this woman is, implying that maybe I don't have to answer all their questions. Like, maybe I could only answer 50% and still be a good enough mom.

And yet, no one ever told me.

I think of all the brain cells I've wasted over the years, thinking of ridiculous answers to ridiculous questions that I thought I had to answer.

Oh, I know, I know. There are no ridiculous questions. That's what we tell our kids, right?

Right. I tell my kids that, too. Ask any question you want. I will answer it. Even if I don't know the answer, I will answer it.

With some made up crap.

And I will smile brightly and say "Good question!", as inside I am thinking "This is just ridiculous".

In any case, in this woman's eyes, the fact that I answered my sons' questions made me a a great mom.

So I thanked her again, and I went back to watching them play, and answering questions, and feeling incredibly self conscious now that I knew that everything I said was being scrutinized.

And a few moments later, as the nice lady in the Birkenstocks still sat near us, looking up every once in a while to smile at us, B said "O, did you like Burger King today?"

And O said "No. I like Taco Bell better".

And B said "What about McDonald's? Do you like McDonald's?"

And O said "I like cheeseburgers. And chicken nuggets. Chicken nuggets are my favorite."

I'm pretty sure the nice lady in the Birkenstocks stopped looking at us at that point, which saved me from having to make up something about the broccoli and wheat grass smoothies we had for breakfast.

And then B and O decided to stop talking about fast food.

And started talking about video games instead.

Like whether they liked Angry Birds or Stick Man better.

And what color bird was the angriest.

And who had reached a higher level in Where's My Water.

Yes, my two and four year olds started comparing their video game skills.

I'm not sure why the nice Birkenstock lady didn't find that impressive, but if she did, she didn't feel a need to speak up about it.

For the record, the reason they brought up Burger King was because today was probably the second time they have ever been there. And in spite of talking about Taco Bell, they have never been there at all.

As for the video games, guilty.

But at least they just play the same three kids' games on the kindle over and over again for about half an hour fifteen minutes a day.

Fortunately, I really wasn't too worried about what the nice lady in the Birkenstocks thought about all of this. In fact, while I was very appreciative of her kindness, I hadn't given much thought at all to her comments about my parenting.

How could I?

She doesn't know me at all.

If I put faith in what she says, what happens when I encounter someone who's not quite as kind, and who only overhears our fast food and video game conversations, and decides to tell me that I'm a horrible mother?

Do I then have to give credence to what they say?

What if, next time, I encounter someone who thinks that my kids ask too many damn questions, and I really should have taught my children to be seen and not heard, because after all, that's the way it was done in their generation?

(Right. Is it any coincident that the generation of parents who say they taught their kids to be seen and not heard is the same generation for whom it was acceptable to down five gin gimlets before dinner? I think not).

In any case, it was very nice of this woman to reach out to us, and I was having the kind of day where her kindness really was appreciated.

The words themselves, though, well, they didn't really mean anything to me.

Fortunately, it was our turn before the people around us could hear about the toy weapons the kids got for Christmas (Oh I'm kidding. Maybe).

The boys sat quietly in the exam room while the doctor froze crap off my face, and my neck, and my legs. So quiet, in fact, that my dermatologist--who happens to be a mother of seven--referred to them as little darlings.

They smiled sweetly at her. I laughed.

Then I wondered if she ever took her own seven little darlings to Burger King.

Or if she let them play video games.

As she left, she smiled and said, "Good bye little darlings!" and closed the door.

Which B then opened, and screamed after her down the hallway, "We are NOT little darlings!"

As O, apparently intent on proving it, ran out of the room, and down the hall into another exam room.

And then another.

I stood frozen in the hallway, grateful that this was not a visit that requited a paper gown.

I knew I couldn't go in there and get him. What about HIPPA?

And yet, what about the poor person who was quite possibly half naked and being terrorized by my two year old at that very moment?

Fortunately, O came out, but then decided to run into one of the doctor's offices.

My dermatologist followed him in, and guided him out, "Oh no, honey, we can't go in there. Time to go back to Mommy".

She wasn't calling him a little darling anymore.

And I couldn't help but notice that no one, at this particular moment,was  telling me what a great mom I was.

Eventually we left with some shred of our dignity in tact. Well, OK, that's not entirely true.

But we did leave.

After we picked up N, we went to the grocery store. An elderly man that I recognized from the grocery store, or church, or well, somewhere, was in front of us in line. He looked at us and smiled and said "I love watching children here."

I smiled and said, "Yeah, cause you know you're not the one taking them home, right?"

He shook his head and said, "Oh some of them you almost want to take home". He looked at the kids and back at me. "Are they all yours?"

I tell him they are.

He looks again

"How many do you have?"

I look at the kids, making sure I haven't lost any.

Or gained any.

"Three".

"Three!" He shakes his head, "Three!" For some reason, this man who obviously grew up in a time when much larger families were quite common, thinks that having three children is something amazing.

He shakes his head again. "My, that is wonderful."

He turns to leave, his son leading him out, but turns around and adds "God Bless You".

I thank him, and tell him that I need it, which is the absolute truth.

But then I wish that I had told him the rest of the truth.

That He already has.