My youngest kiddo, Jude (aka Juder, JujuBe, Baby Jude or Scrud), is going through the most heinous case of separation anxiety I’ve ever seen. And the object of his very intense affection, would be your’s truly.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to know that I’m so completely adored. I’d just like to pee by myself occasionally. Or, shower without him pounding on the bathroom door, while shrieking “momma” over and over, as I race to lather and rinse. There’s no time to repeat. Shave my legs? No time.
My poor husband takes a fair amount of abuse at the hands of our little tyrant. Nothing says “I love you, daddy” quite like your precious son screaming and attempting to backflip out of your arms as he tries to reach his beloved momma.
You’d think after raising five children prior to him, that I’d be an expert in child psychology and have some magical “cure” for his mommy issues. Yeah, right. You want to know how I’ve dealt with this in the past? I suffered. I waited. I let each of my little
monsters blessings work through their anxiety in their own time.
Martyr you say? Maybe. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.
Today, while I was buying kitty litter and live crickets to feed to the tarantula (yes, as in large furry spider-thing), an extraordinary thing happened to me. The twenty-something checkout guy called me “Miss”. Not “Ma’am”, but “Miss”…twice. I was delighted. I’m certain I blushed. I was tempted to fling my nasty bag of crickets aside, leap over the counter, plant a big smooch on him and ask him to run away with me to some exotic land. Bora Bora, perhaps? I refrained. My husband is thrilled, I’m sure.
Granted, I’m pretty sure this guy was aware that I am well into the “ma’am” stage of my life. Maybe he’s been told by some female relative, that women in their late thirties aren’t ready to be given such a matronly moniker. Hell, I don’t know that we’re ready for that at any age.
The thing is, in my mind, I just graduated from high school. Didn’t I? And then it hits me…my twenty year reunion is this summer. Twenty year reunions only happen to frumpy housewives and paunchy businessmen. I know this, because that’s how they’re portrayed in movies. That’s me now. Oh hell…
Thank you, checkout guy at Petco. In some crazy, roundabout way, you just screwed up my day. Nice.
Yesterday, I was informed that my 7 year old daughter, Cami, had moved to Africa. This was news to me, as the small person who told me about this situation looked an awful lot like Cami. Apparently, Cami has switched families with a child from Africa, named Alex. Alex has impeccable manners and plays nicely with Cami’s younger brothers. I kind of really like Alex. What I don’t like, is having to remember this new kid’s name. I’m a mother of 6, for crying out loud…I can barely remember their “real” names. Hell, they’re lucky if I don’t call them one of the dog’s names. But, if calling her Alex is all it takes to turn her into a sweet angel child, by golly, I’ll do it! Is it wrong to make your children wear name tags?
Please do not question why I get two pieces of candy, while you only get one. Being a grown-up isn’t “fun”, nor am I “lucky”. This grown-up gig is hard. It’s all bills, and laundry, and clogged toilets. Staying up late and eating whatever I want are the primary perks of this job. Let me enjoy them in peace.
Your exhausted mother