WARNING: If you're going to respond to this post with a pathetic moan about how angry I seem and you're sad to see me experiencing these negative emotions...THEN DON'T READ IT!
People think that just because you’re a stay at home mom, you’re schedule is free and clear, you’re never that busy, no rush to do anything, no problem for you to watch their kids, no job pressure, looming deadlines or office politics. That’s bullshit. There is a time of year for me and most of the other stay at home moms I know, that compares to working at the gift wrapping desk at the 34th Street Macy’s during the height of the Christmas rush; feels like you are the only waitress in a busy diner during a mid-week lunch shift with a 2-for-1 milk shake special; and grates on your nerves like you’re stuck driving behind a 90-year old Chinese woman, barely able to see above the wheel, chugging along at 15 miles per hour all the while a state trooper tailing the back of your car, waiting for one false move so he can fill his monthly ticket quota; this time in my job, in the job of a stay-at-home mom, are the last two weeks of summer vacation.
What really irks me is when I run into working moms, who have managed to juggle around a hectic schedule, begging their boss for just one of those weeks off so they can enjoy some down time with their kids. I run into these lovely women at the gym, beach or frozen yogurt shop; they’re smiling blissfully, saying how these last two precious weeks are flying by and then back to the grueling schedule of the fall. I have dreamed about pushing one of these women over in the midst of a complicated Zumba move because a woman that is home the entire summer with two kids that don’t go to full-time camp cannot stand a working mom’s whiny, Long Island swoon of: “Oh, I just love this time of year! Soon they’ll be too old and won’t want to be with us anymore. You better enjoy now.”
There is a part of me that wants to grab this woman’s shoulders and say, “Do you promise? Do you swear that one day they’ll actually want to leave?” And while I often look over at my children and thank God, there are many moments where I find myself desperately missing the freedom of walking around the house completely naked and not being on an around-the-clock retainer for making grill cheese. Just a side note: for those of you that aren't aware the estimated cost of full-day or sleep away camp for two children is $5,000-$20,000 dollars; unless you’re lucky enough to get hired to drive the camp bus, work in the mess hall or teach arts and crafts; then your kids attend at a discounted rate or for free. And truth be told, if I’m having trouble enduring two full months of two kids 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; how will I handle 200?
There is a part of me that wants to grab this woman’s shoulders and say, “Do you promise? Do you swear that one day they’ll actually want to leave?” And while I often look over at my children and thank God, there are many moments where I find myself desperately missing the freedom of walking around the house completely naked and not being on an around-the-clock retainer for making grill cheese. Just a side note: for those of you that aren't aware the estimated cost of full-day or sleep away camp for two children is $5,000-$20,000 dollars; unless you’re lucky enough to get hired to drive the camp bus, work in the mess hall or teach arts and crafts; then your kids attend at a discounted rate or for free. And truth be told, if I’m having trouble enduring two full months of two kids 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; how will I handle 200?
After months of therapy and the ability to finally identify the actual things that drive me crazy, annoy me, cause me to clench my teeth and want to violently lash out in rage; I have discovered that for the most part when it’s just my two kids, together, with me, we have an awesome time. The problems start when it feels like there's a revolving door in the front of my house and an incessant never ending onslaught of friends going in and out, all day, every day.
One idea I've been mulling over as of late is to hire a bouncer to assess who, exactly, should be allowed in; and who should be sent home. Because it’s inevitable that one nose picking, arrogant, tattle telling, loud mouth, aggressive, runt of a kid is going to slip through and get in; the whole time he/she is in your house, they’re stinking up the bathroom with an abnormal amount of bowel movements (in which case you have to pray they are old enough to know how to wipe themselves) and insisting on a strict every-ten-minute schedule that they are starving…eating you out of house and home until you are feeding them canned garbanzo beans and dog treats.
These two weeks turn me from someone who loves children to a person who publicly and maybe even drunkenly ponders the use of a broom handle on not just my own, but all the neighborhood children who end up on my property. And the odd thing, to me, in these circumstances is that I am the one who needs to worry about an agency such as Social Services coming into my home and taking away my kids. You know what I say? “Make the call…please.” Someone comes and picks up your kids, bringing them back a couple of months later after you've managed to calm down. Hell, in our house we call that sleep away camp.
Don’t you think there’s an injustice, a glitch in the system, that there’s no hotline for parents to call; a service unto which I—the adult—can report abusive behavior committed by the kids? I mean, just the other day I sliced off the tip of my finger while making dinner…a meal that is over rated and in recent years proven to be the most unhealthy and fat inducing yet I still feel pressure from the executives to make it each night…the blood from my finger gushing down my hand. I wrapped a doubled-up piece of paper toweling over the gushing wound, the blood quickly seeping through the paper, turning the white Bounty, red. The kids sitting at my kitchen table, partaking in their 25th snack of the day, one bite away from dog biscuits, witnessed my mishap. Not one of them blinked, asked me if I was okay or inquired about offering help; and I do recall a school assembly on safety and 9-1-1 procedures. Instead, a particularly loud mouthed girl said, “Eww, that’s disgusting, Mrs. Hanna. You never brought me my juice box! I’m thirsty!”
I’m fucking bleeding, bitch! The words I dream of saying.
And you’d think that this girl would have some empathy for me because when she gets hurt, she cries so loud I’m tempted to stuff a sock down her throat, insists on using 8 of my super expensive Hello Kitty band aids and threatens to tell her mother on me if I’m not kind enough. I want to look at the bouncer and say, “How did this bitch get in?”
When they show the fifth grade video on health and sex, why don’t they follow it up with a video featuring the last two weeks of summer vacation? This is the part of being a mother I had no idea about. The state spent more money on driver’s education and going into motherhood, I felt more mentally equipped on how to get a stain out of a bedspread than the patience it takes to weather through to the end of August. Not even one public service announcement. You’d think by now at least YouTube would have it covered.
Anyhow, if this blog post has inspired you to report me to the police, then all I have to say is, “Thank you,” because that means that I get a free hotel room for the holiday weekend.
See you in September.
