The first time I read a post by this week’s BFF, I had to stop myself from sounding like a total stalker and asking her where she lived and if we could please have a playdate. Because I just knew we would get along. We could let our pack of children run wild while we complained about how freaking hard motherhood is, without having to sugarcoat and qualify our complaints with “oh, but I love them” because we would know what the other meant.
Helene from I’m Living Proof God Has a Sense of Humor is a mom of two sets of twins. She is one of my absolute favorites of all time because of her realistic view on motherhood. I just know you are going to love her, too.
When I opened up Shell’s e-mail with the subject title of “BFF”, I have to admit I squealed with delight. Seriously, I did.
I think I even wrote her back something like, “OMG, really?! I’m SO honored!” Never mind that I sounded more like a 90210 drop out than I did a 42-year old married mother of 4. People never believe me when I tell them I’m in my 40’s…it probably has to do more with my immaturity than my youthful appearance. And I’m cool with that.
I’ve been an admirer and loyal follower of Shell’s for quite some time now so of course I was flattered that she’d want to include me among her list of BFF’s. Initially, her blog title is what roped me in…”Things I Can’t Say”. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Truth be told, I have the opposite problem. I’m more like a “Things I Shouldn’t Say” kind of person. I tend to be sarcastic with a dark sense of humor. And, sure, I can be a little mouthy sometimes. Let’s put it this way, as a young child, I fantasized that Roseanne Barr was my mother. I idolized that lady like no one’s business…and still do.
When my husband and I first began dating, I tried to keep my true colors hidden because I wanted to impress him instead of sending him running for the hills. I’d smile politely if the waitress got my order wrong, I’d grind my teeth silently if another driver cut us off…basically, my blood pressure was alarmingly high on most occasions when we would spend time together.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. As we were strolling outside the mall one day, a lady walked right into me. She didn’t say excuse me, no “forgive me”…nothing, just acted like I wasn’t even there.
My temper got the best of me and I shouted, “Excuse YOU! Did you NOT see me standing here?!” Tim thought there was going to be a throw-down right there on the spot. He’s one of the most non-confrontational people I know so all this commotion felt a little foreign to him.
Fast forward to the present time, I’d like to think that he’s more appreciative of my outspokenness. Although at times, I can see him cowering as he recognizes the physical signs that I’m about to blow a gasket…fists tightly clenched, eyes about to pop out of my head…it’s not a pretty sight, let me tell you.
I am that one person who has no problem putting a person in his place if he has the nerve to gawk at my kids while they have a tantrum at the store, as if my children just landed here from Mars and he’s never seen quite a sight before. Just like I remind my kids that it’s not polite to stare at people who wear pants three sizes too small, who pick their noses in public or who act like they’re holier than thou as they rudely stare at an exhausted mother whose children are acting like…uh, say, children.
If you just happen to be strolling by our home, you’re likely to hear me hurling the following statements at my kids:
“I don’t care if you think it’s fair or not. Do you ever hear me complaining that the Lucky Charms leprechaun refuses to tell me where his pot of gold is? NO, you don’t, do you? So quit your griping!”
“Isn’t there a plant in someone’s yard that you guys can dig up so I can read my book in peace and quiet?”
“Here’s the phone…why don’t you call the Wicked Witch of the West and tell her how horrible I am for making you clean up the milk you just spilled?! Maybe she’ll take you back to her castle, bake you a batch of cookies and force her flying monkeys to dance for you.”
With that said, though, I do have a pleasant side. I don’t want any of you thinking I’m flinging cell phones at random people or gouging anyone’s eyeballs out. And I’m not running down the street, making absolutely no sense and yelling crap like “winning” at stunned passersby.
I just wish my family could appreciate my humor and sarcasm more. Like when we were driving to Disneyland recently and one of the kidlets fell asleep. When he woke up and asked what ride I wanted to go on first after we arrived at our destination, I couldn’t help myself…the darkness took over.
I answered, “Huh? We’re on our way home! Did you sleep through our ENTIRE vacation?!” He began to cry, as my husband accused me of being incredibly mean.
Can’t a mom just have a little fun? Last time I checked it wasn’t a crime.
Or is it?
Because the idea of being locked up in solitary confinement doesn’t sound too shabby…along with 3 meals I didn’t have to cook, clean clothes that I didn’t have to wash or iron, no one else to look out for but myself. Sign me up, people.
I do realize there may come a time when my family will not know whether I’m being serious or not…and the consequences could be dire.
Like, say, one day, I’m stuffing cookies down my throat at a speed that would make Jillian Michael’s have a freakin’ coronary and I begin to choke….or I fall down the stairs and twist my ankle. I imagine myself begging for help, only to have my kids look at me with blank stares and then say, “Oh, she’s just being sargentic again…come on, guys, let’s go play outside until Daddy gets home from work”.
They can’t even pronounce “sarcastic” properly, for God’s sake.
What’s a mother to do?