Out of the Mouths of Babes

I really, really , did not want to write another Jesus-Christ-I'm-losing-my-damn-mind post. I had great aspirations of writing a witty review of Sex and the City 2 (FAIL!) some point during this ridiculous day, and the universe seemed to be looking out for you all, since the day's ridculousness assured there would be no writing time.

I dropped #1 at school and realized, once we pulled up, that she was supposed to be wearing her class-color shirt. After calming the I-don't look-like-everyone-else panic, I left #1 at the curb with the assurance I would be back in five minutes to drop off her shirt, which I was - in three minutes. Then, late, I proceeded to drag #2 and #3 to #2's free town swim lesson at the local YMCA, where I got myself and Little Man soaked giving #2 her required pre-swim shower (what kind of germs do they think she has that can not be killed by the gallons of chlorine in that pool?), then spent thirty minutes sitting on a bench two feet from the waters edge, trying to prevent LM from catapulting himself in to the water with the battle cry, "I WANT MY BAVING SUIT!", while watching #2 stand at the edge of the pool and cry.

Then I had to race home, bathe #2, since I could not take another communal shower soaking, this time involving shampoo, that would surely wind up in someone's eye, and drag both little ones to the elementary school to get to #1's session at the school Fun Fair. Parents were invited to watch, which really translated into futiley explaining to younger siblings why they could not go on the cool-as-hell bouncy castle, and falls squarely in the realm of "why the hell are we here" along with sitting through a gymnastics lesson and watching soccer practice. I was then suckered into bringing #1 home for lunch with us, which meant I had three kids, instead of the usual two, to cajole into eating in order to get back to the elementary school on time. Cue screaming.

I had just enough time to get back home, throw Little Man into his crib hoping he would fall instantly asleep, allowing me to do some laundry, prep dinner and put the house back together from all the racing in and out, and him enough time to get a decent nap before I had to snatch him out of his crib and wake him, to ensure my timely arrival at #2's end-of-the-year performance, where I was sure to spend thirty minutes trying to get LM to stop interrupting the performance and randomly shouting his sister's name. Oh, and did I mention H would not be home until God-knows-when since he was in Boston for the day?

Didn't I say I didn't want to write one of these posts? Oh, and did I mention I got my period?

So I get to the performance, and I settle into my tiny, kid-sized seat, in the air-conditioning-free classroom, with thirty-eight pounds of Little Man wearing his velour Diego Rescue Pack stuffed with eighty-five pounds of trains, in my lap and immediately begin to drip with sweat, while simultaneously realizing I forgot to put on deodorant this morning and change my tampon before I left the house. The whole day has been a mess. One big, the-universe-is-conspiring-against-me, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this-for-I-used-to-have-a-real-life mess. All I have done today is shout at my kids and drag them from point A to point B to point C. A nanny could do this and probably with a sunnier attitude. I am scarring them all. Do they offer a pre-paid therapy plan similar to college savings account?

The singing of "God Bless America" ends, as well as three rounds of "Take me Out to the Ballgame", followed by poetry reading, and the teacher ends with a video of interviews she did with the children. A question comes up on the black screen. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" There are the usual kindergarten choices- teacher, nurse, vet, firefighter - and some of the answers inspire indulgent aren't-they-cute laughter - a movie director, a rock star. Then #2's face lights up the screen and after introducing herself, she solemnly looks into the camera and says, "When I grow up, I want to be a mom."

And I burst into tears. My child doesn't see me as a screaming harpee who questions her job qualifications daily or who flagellates herself for the dirty kitchen floor and unorganized closets. She doesn't discount what I do with my life as I fear others sometimes do. She sees me as a woman who is lucky enough to spend each and every day caring for the beings she has brought into this world. She sees me as happy. Because what five year-old would choose a profession if she thought it was a source of misery? I must be doing OK if being me is on par with being a firefighter or a vet.

So thank you, thank you to my girl. You restored some of my faith in myself on a day when I had hit rock bottom. I walked into that classroom, carrying the weight of a family on my shoulders, not sure if I was worthy of such a burden. But I left knowing, despite what's going on inside, you, at least, see me as someone strong enough to hold up a world. Yours.