Some days I get it right...

To deviate from my usual pattern of self-abuse and denigration, I have a proclamation to make. At the risk of sounding five years old:

I AM PROUD OF MYSELF TODAY.

What momentous events transpired to bring about this change in thought pattern? Did I cure a disease? Did I find a way to make donuts negative in calories? Sadly, no. What did I do? I looked for, and found, a Tasha Backyardigans sticker (yellow hippo-like being pictured, left).*

I know, pfft, big deal.


This afternoon, I found the energy, despite having been up since five o'clock in the morning, to drag all three kids to Barnes and Noble for their four-thirty story hour instead of doing what I wanted to do which is park them in front of Max and Ruby while I drink a gallon of coffee. This sojourn entails getting #1 through her homework in a timely fashion, keeping her focused, without yelling, as I so desperately want to, "If you'd stop fucking around with your eraser you'd be done by now!", stuffing a snack down #2's throat, and wrestling the baby into the car for the tenth time today which he's not at all psyched about.

Once we arrive at the book store, I have to shuck everyone of their eighty-five layers of outerwear, negotiate the girls' finding seats on the rug where twenty over-sugared-under-supervised four to seven year olds roll around willy-nilly with nary a parent or nanny in sight to tell them to sit on their ass or have it handed to them, so my kids, who are sitting cross-legged (formerly known as Indian-style for the un-PC) the way they should be, can see. Toot, toot, yes, that's the sound of my own horn.

Once story time begins, and the Storybook Lady passive-aggressively tells parents to get a handle on their kids, I undertake the Herculean task of keeping Little Man entertained in the stroller for thirty-five minutes, after which I will allow him to use the germ-laden marketing ploy, otherwise known as the train table (conveniently surrounded by Thomas merchandise). Showing him board books works for a while, but not for long, as someone who has finally just mastered the use of his legs for locomotion, he is eager to explore the terrain and wreak all the havoc he can.

Fast forward said thirty-five minutes, and I am a sweaty mess having unwisely emancipated LM from the stroller early and spent the duration of storytime chasing him around, reshelving books, and checking to be sure the girls haven't been abducted, since in this day and age, if your children are more than fifty feet from you Child Protective Services can be called. While gathering my offspring, Storybook Lady asks the girls if they'd like stickers and seeing they are of their favorite TV show, The Backyardigans, joy erupts. Stickers stuck on coats we re-cocoon ourselves and head out into the tundra of the parking lot.

Half-way through the asphlat gaunlet my oldest shreiks, "MY STICKER IS GONE!" Now the Storybook Lady gave me some extras, but I know they are not of her favorite character. I am exhausted and cold and it is dangerously close to dinner time so Little Man will be getting his crab on shortly. But I look at her face and remember how getting the exact sticker you wanted could make your day and losing said sticker could ruin it, so I turn the whole brood around and pray said prize is in the parking lot. No such luck. Shit. Now I have to drag them back into the store, through the two sets of double doors, which apparently are sight-stealing portals as no one ever notices me, or offers me a hand, as I try to hold the door open with my ass, shove my older ones through and follow them with my battle wagon of a stroller.

We get through the doors, and since I'd sooner stick hot needles in my eyes than drag all three kids through the entire store again, having them stop to inspect every book they see, I instruct the girls through clenched teeth, "Stay here. DO NOT MOVE." and park them next to the checkout comforting myself with the fact I used to walk ten city blocks on my own at my oldest's age and assuming if anyone tried to nab them , the pox-faced, nineteen year old behind the counter might look up from his text messaging and notice.

Little Man and I arrive in the children's department and right there on the carpet, face down, are not one, but two stickers. I grab them and neither one of them are my daughter's. Sweet, chocolate Christ! I have exhausted all my options and I realize I will have to deal with tears and hope the acquisition of two wrong stickers rather than one right one will soften the blow. I return to my, non-kidnapped, children and show #1 my findings, at which point #2 looks down at her coat and exclaims, "Those are mine!", never having noticed they were missing in the first place. My first-born, looking crest-fallen, bows her head in dismay, at which point I notice her goddamn sticker is stuck in her hair. I point this out, return #2's stickers, this time to the inside of her coat and mercifully, mercifully, we make our way home.

So why, dear readers, am I so proud of myself? Why? Because I didn't snap. I didn't tell my daughters to just deal with it and chalk it up to one of life's many disappointments which they will have to learn to accept. And while that is a valuable lesson to learn, I am proud of the fact that today, despite my exhaustion, despite it being the second night in row Hubby would not be home to help with the kids, and I knew another long night of baths and tooth-brushing and stories awaited me, I chose the harder of the two options and made my kids happy. And while that may not always be the case and they will have to learn to deal with disappointment, today, I was able to make it everyting right.

Today I felt like a good mother.

*I also ended the day by replacing my broken treadmill motor by myself, with no manual,which involved way more axle grease than anticipated and almost pinning myself under the thing turning it on its side, but I did it! I rocked it today.