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Posts Tagged ‘Mother’s Day’

I woke up on Mother’s Day at 6:41 a.m. Just woke up. No child screaming. No cat screaming. Just my clock, the biological one. Technically, I slept in by twenty minutes—weekdays 6:20 is my start.

I pee. The baby is up. The cat hears me and begins his morning song for food. I go feed the cat and decide to sneak a load of laundry from the washer into the dryer, grab Andy and then head downstairs before he wakes anyone up.

But Max. Max.

Max has been dealing with some anxiety lately. He’ll be looking for a toy and will full on yell at us, “Where’s the blue car!!!!” over and over again until we point it out to him. Sometimes even then he won’t go pick it up, he screams at us to get it. (We don’t, btw. He can pick up his own damn car.)

So I’m midway between my laundry task when Max bursts out of his room and full on yells, “It’s happy time! It’s happy time!” I’m like, “Okay.” He continues, “Mommy! It’s HAPPY TIME!”

“Okay, buddy, you don’t have to yell.”

“It’s happy time. IT’S HAPPY TIME, MOMMY!”

Keep in mind that this is full-on, Tori Amos’ Tear In Your Hand kind of scenario. Fonts and capitalization don’t do it justice. He is saying the word happy in a voice that is not. In a voice that says, If you don’t give me what I want I’m going to throw myself down on the floor and wake everyone in the neighborhood.

I say, “Okay, buddy. Let Mommy finish and we’ll go downstairs in five minutes.” (Five minutes is our standard countdown time for anything: five minutes to potty, five minutes to tubby, five mintutes to go bye-bye.)

“MOMMY! Happy time, MOMMY!”

“Yes, dude, I get it. Mommy has to finish this and then get Alex, okay.”

“Get Alex … HAPPY TIME MOMMY IT’S HAPPY TIME!!! Get Alex, Mommy, GET ALEX!”

“Go ahead, go get him. Open the door.”

“IT’SHAPPYTIMEMOOOOMMMYY! IT’SHAPPEEEEEYTIIIIIIIMMEEE!”

Good times at what is now like, 6:50 a.m. My mother graciously appears in the doorway of her room to find out what Mikey wants while I shove the clothes into the dryer. I tell her, “I have no idea. It’s happy time.”

“Oh,” my mom says.

“What?”

“I was trying to teach him Happy Mother’s Day yesterday. I was telling him, ‘Tomorrow we’ll tell Mommy: Happy Mother’s Day.’ Is that what you’re trying to say, Max? Tell Mommy.”

He looks at me and says, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!”

God love him.

Flowers from Ned/Thor/Gunnar and the boys.

Flowers from Ned/Thor/Gunnar and the boys.

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I’m days late, I know. It’s the curse of the new mom; I’m still on the hunt to finish buying Mother’s Day presents for my mother and mother-in-law. But I guess that makes me a bad daughter, not a bad mom.

My first-ever Mother’s Day was started with French toast, which I’m still thinking about (thanks, Ned), turned into a couple of naps and finished with chocolate. What more could a mom want?

I’ve been thinking about why it is that I love motherhood, because I am, I admit, one of those annoying women that really enjoy being a mom, about 99.9 percent of the time.

But some days there’s a living room to pick up and a kitchen floor to mop, but that has to wait until a manuscript is finished, and then I’m interrupted to answer the phone and in the spirit of multi-tasking I begin to make baby food that I’ve been meaning to get to for three days, and before I know it, there’s half a blender full of green beans on the counter, still steaming, which are abandoned to feed a hungry baby, who, it turns out, really rather just play in the high chair than eat, so I pluck him out to change a diaper instead, and immediately after getting naked he’s doing barrel rolls on the changing pad (someone must invent a diaper you can put on upside-down, or backwards), and I’m thinking, “Oh. My. God. When is my husband getting home?”

Yet once he arrives, I take one look at his face and see the headache all over it, and realize that the break I was hoping for to finish cleaning/mopping/editing/cooking isn’t going to happen.

But that’s only .01 percent of the days. The rest of the time, I’m completely in love. I love that Max has taught me that babies do indeed say, “Goo goo, ga ga.” I love the way he studies something, poking at it with his left index finger like he’s a microscopic probe, either a manufacturer’s tag on a stuffed animal, or your eyeball.

I love the way his entire body lights up when he sees Ned. It starts in his eyes and his smile, but then his little arms and legs start going a million miles a minute and I think he’s just gonna fly up to his daddy like a ‘lil airplane.

But my favorite part is putting him to bed. Not because he’s sleeping (and sometimes, he’s not), but because of the way he feels with his head on my shoulder; safe. And how I can feel, physically, how he’s slowly growing into a little boy as his limbs hang further and further down my torso and over my shoulder. And sometimes I feel sadness, putting him to bed, because I won’t get to see him again until morning.

Of course, then 6:01 a.m. comes like a bullet, and I wonder how long it will be until we can teach him the art of sleeping in.

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