Little Broken Hearts Club Man

(Written on January 10, 2010....Don't know why I never published it.)

Oh the tragedies, the insults, the grievances, the injustices that must be endured by a beleaguered and embattled four-year-old! It is all just, well....UNJUST!

We required that Owen take ONE little bite of lasagna. Only one. Apparently, that was just too much to ask a kid who can smell a bread crumb being dropped on the floor after tea in England.  Of course, he was forced to take immediate action.

 He wails, "DADDY! YOU ARE FIRED!"

I DO NOT LIKE IT WHEN YOU BEES (THAT IS AN EXACT QUOTE) SO MEAN TO ME!!

I JUST CANNOT TAKE IT ANY MORN (ANOTHER VERBATIM QUOTE)
.
.
.
.
I GIVE UP!"
(and then he falls ceremoniously to the floor)

So up to his room he was banished with much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth (that were free of cavities on Monday, by the way).  He was hauled up there, stiff as a board, grasping desperately for anything he could reach to delay his ascent to his place of exile.

The battle lines have been drawn and we're not backing down. Little boys cannot exist on nachos, pizza, and honey nut cheerios alone! Who knew that food could be such a formidable foe?  (I, personally, like food.  Too much.)

But, oh! The gut wrenching sobs and deep-from-the-soul crying that erupted from Owen are enough for me to wave the white flag! Are the tears and night spent in his room worth one lousy bite of lasagna?

Alas, I won't back down over a request as small as one bite. It wasn't liver pate or fish eyeballs.  It was simple, delicious lasagna.  So for now he remains holed up in his room, hopefully thinking about how much easier it would've been to try just one bite.

As the day came to a close and the wails of injustice quieted to a whimper, I made my way into his room to soothe the savage beast and calm his lasagna tortured soul.  I cuddled up with him on his bed and stroked his back and told him happy things like, "We'll build a clubhouse tomorrow.  But you need to remember that it is important to eat so your bones will be strong and your muscles can grow big. When you have a healthy body it is easy to do so many fun things!"  (hint, hint, wink, wink)

And then I asked him if he has any happy things he wants to say to me.  I'm trying desperately to turn a disastrous evening into something positive so that I can once again be his prettiest princess (still without backing down)!  I even try coaxing him into an apology for acting like a raving lunatic over a measly mouthful of lasagna.  

He takes some deep and dramatic breaths, looks at me with huge tears and tells me, "I am not supposed to tell you happy things.  I am the kid.  You are the grown up.  You're supposed to make me happy!"  

I haven't been put in my place in a long time.  And I think I was just put in my place.  


And it started with lasagna.


I won't make that for a loooooong time.

Mother's Day

You know you're a mother when.....

You google "eyelash serum" and "steam mop" within minutes of each other.  When you discover they are both the same price, you realize that your dream of fuller, longer lashes is trumped by the need for your newly crawling baby to have a sanitized floor to drag her belly around on.

You have a conversation with your spouse that starts like this, "Do you think we've ruined him?"

You have another conversation with your spouse that goes a little like this, "Do you think we'll survive them?"

You feel guilty about a million and one things and then feel guilty for feeling guilty.

You cringe (and wish you could pull out your soapbox) every time you have to say "No" when asked "Do you work?"

During your relaxing Mother's Day shower you look over and discover you are bathing with 2 giraffes, one green dinosaur and a Night Fury dragon with optional flapping wings.

On your relaxing Mother's Day you....write a child's Primary talk, go to 3 hours of church, change a child's sheets who had an accident, make pancakes for dinner, fold laundry and give a laundry folding lesson at the same time, run to the store for milk and juice because you forgot them when you went to the store yesterday (ironically so you wouldn't have to go on Sunday), yell a few times at a few children, and then feel guilty about it AND the going to the store part (see above), dispense medicines, vacuum, give yourself a pedicure, and refuse to share your strawberry Hagan Daas.

The pain of a botched c-section and subsequent recoveries pale in comparison to the pain you feel when your child has a heartache, or worse, you've caused the heartache while trying to navigate your way through this parenting obstacle course.

You don't care one bit about the scar snaking up your abdomen because it means you have a happy and healthy baby.

You can't remember the last time you had 8 hours of sleep.

You drive a mini-van but pretend you are back in your convertible Mustang GT by opening the sun roof (which you promptly have to close because a shortling in a car seat complains about the sun in his eyes).

Some days you feel like Mother of the Year and other days you grasp desperately for the Easy button or wish you had a do-over.


And you know you've fully arrived to the motherhood party when someone asks you, "Are all those your's?"