Take Notes!

 Let me start by saying, I think I am usually a pretty nice mom. I spend an hour tucking them all into bed at night. I often read The Very Hungry Caterpillar three times a night, even though I've been sick of reading it since 2006. I play outside with them every day. I often get up at 4 am with O, just because he wants to snuggle (Ok, fine--this is also the only way I will get any sleep. Whatever). I continue to suffer through B's swimming classes because I think it's important for him to learn to swim, though any sane person would have quit after the first week. I count to three before sending my children to their rooms, and I count to ten before locking myself in mine. What more could any child ask for?

This morning, after coming home from Church,  I decided to take NBO to the park and then for haircuts.  Jimmy was working, and it was a beautiful day for the park. N and B also really needed haircuts. Well, so do I, for that matter, but I'm sure mine can wait another year or two. We stopped at the store first, and I paid with cash. The cashier looked at the one hundred dollar bill I handed him, and held it up to the light. Repeatedly. As if he wasn't sure it was real. I looked at him, pointed to the kids, and nicely said, "Really? Does it look like I have time to manufacture money?". He looked at me like that statement was, in fact, proof that I manufacture money. Please. If I had that kind of time on my hands, do you really think I'd be making counterfeit money? Uh, no. If I had time to manufacturing something, I would be making moonshine. In my backyard. And I would not be sharing.

He eventually gave me my change, and we headed to the park. It's 80 and sunny. A perfect day for the park. For most people. For my fair skinned children, it's too hot.  Sorry, I should say it was too hot for my fair skinned whiners. Yup, I just called them whiners. Cause today, they were. From the moment we got out of the car, they whined. It's too hot. I want to ride the scooter. No, I don't want to ride the scooter. I want to ride in the stroller. No, I don't want to ride in the stroller...

We went for a walk on the trail, which is mostly shaded. In spite of this, they proceeded to whine about the heat some more, and then one over tired three-year-old decided that he didn't want to be in the stroller. Or out of the stroller. Or riding the scooter that he insisted we bring. No, he wanted to hang onto the side of the stroller, which his brother was also in, and have me push him. The stroller and two children weights about a hundred pounds. It's hard enough to push when everyone is sitting. It's about impossible to push with one child hanging precariously onto the side. I told him nicely it wasn't happening. He started to get off the stroller, and then saw that his six-year-old sister was vying for his seat in the stroller, so he decided to hold onto the side again. I told him firmly that I can't push the stroller like that. I told the six-year-old that she doesn't need a stroller. They both ignored me.

And then, I had an epiphany. I was done.

I was tired of being a nice mommy. For days, I have been having visions of me, a hotel room, and a bottle of vodka. Although that particular scenario is not an option (at the moment, but that may change. Mother's Day is coming up, after all), Nice Mommy really is long overdue for a sabbatical. I told a certain three-year-old  to get his hiney back in the stroller, or out of the stroller, but to stop hanging onto the side, or we were leaving. He ignored me, and decided to hit his brother instead. Then his sister. I turned around and headed for the car, and informed them that our walk in the park was over (haha! Walk in the park? Whoever coined that expression obviously never took a walk in the park with three kids. There is absolutely nothing about a walk in the park that is a walk in the park). We walked back to the car. B was crying, begging, and pleading to go back to the trail. "Nope. Too late", I informed him. Nice Mommy is officially on sabbatical. Now Mean Mommy's in charge. Didn't see that one coming, did you pal?

As I buckled O into his car seat, B informed me that he was staying there, in the park. Mean Mommy put on her sweetest, fakest Nice Mommy voice, and said "OK, honey, but we're all leaving, so I'm not sure who's going to take care of you. Was there any family in particular that you were thinking of asking?". B changed his mind and decided to get in the car.
"Can I still get a hair cut mommy?" he asked.
"Maybe, " I tell him. "If you are quiet until we get there and don't touch anyone."
N was mysteriously quiet at this point. At one point, she started to say something, looked at me, and apparently changed her mind. Huh.

B promised he would be good. Let me tell you, I have heard that promise before, and he doesn't mean it. Mean Mommy decided that he must learn now that empty promises are unacceptable, lest he try this crap with his wife some day, and ends up divorced, penniless, and living in our basement when he's forty.
I leaned in close to B to make sure he heard me. "Listen to me," I tell him in my calmest Mean Mommy voice, "IF we go get your hair cut, you'd better be nice. No screaming, hitting, yelling, or running. If you don't behave yourself, I don't care if half your hair is cut, I don't care if the scissors are still attached to your hair, and I don't care if you've had time to pick out a toy, we will leave. At that moment". He looks at me and nods. Nice Mommy would probably feel kind of bad. Mean Mommy doesn't.

I noticed a woman walking by. She is young, thin, and wearing coordinated clothing. She does not have a gaggle of children with her. She probably gets her hair cut every six weeks. She probably has time to take long walks in the park every day, and her walks in the park are probably really walks in the park. I finish putting the kids, stroller, scooter, diaper bag, and helmets in the car, stopping only to read B the riot act again when he hits N.

As I get in the drivers seat, I notice that the woman has now stopped, and she is staring at our car. She is also writing in a notebook. I really want to ask her what she writing. My license number? Did she think I was serious about letting B stay here without us? Is she going to report me for child abandonment? Is she reporting me to CPS for denying my kids a hair cut? Maybe she just heard the words "scissors" and "head" and thinks I am threatening them with bodily harm. Or maybe she is writing this down, so when she gets home from her long leisurely walk in the park and her husband says "Honey, isn't it time we thought about having a baby?", she can read him the list of her observations about us before she looks at him sweetly and says, "Hell No".

But no, after thinking about it, I decided it's probably none of those things. Clearly, she was just taking notes, for when she does have her own gaggle of children. 

How to be a Mean Mommy, Chapter One...

So glad I could help.



Thanks for reading! And no...of course he didn't end up getting his hair cut...but not for lack of trying.