11-26-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 880 words
When Your Baby Says "Mama"
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
There are times when I just adore being a mother: when my babies first looked at me and said, "mama," and meant it; when they first articulated a complete thought and I understood every word; when the teachers called to say, 'your child is the brightest and the best' and when they just need a hug. These are times when being a mother is a joy; a happiness beyond comparison. And then there are the other times: times when: the teacher called to say, 'your child has not turned in his homework in a solid week' or, when unexpectedly my toddler showed unexpectedly aggressive behavior on the playground, or...... when they are sick.
This morning, I
went upstairs to retrieve my five year old for school. Predictably, he pulled
the covers tighter around his body and mumbled, "I don't want to get
up." Used to the morning fight over the subject of waking, I countered,
"You have to get up," and pulled the covers off of him. Groggily, he
made his way downstairs where he announced that he wanted a shower. My two
oldest boys had already showered and were in the kitchen eating their
breakfasts, and I could almost imagine the door closing as they left for the
school bus...... I would head right to the computer and begin working for the
day, I imagined, as I turned on the water for my youngest son.
When he emerged
from the shower, I should have noticed that his color looked a bit green. A
better mother would have; especially since the evening before he had begged off
playing with his friends at McDonald's playland, stating that he "didn't
feel good." But nooooooooooooo....... had my sights set on that computer
and working and so I hustled him into his shirt and underwear, not stopping
until he complained weakly, "My stomach hurts."
"I think
you just need some breakfast." I replied, clueless. (I told you I was not
an intuitive mother!) "What would you like?" And then, ignoring his
paling complexion, I started outlining the choices of the morning. It was about
that time that he threw up on my sock-covered feet. For
a time, I just stared at the pile of goo on the floor (and my feet). I guess I
was waiting for an orderly to come by and clean up the mess. It was about that
time (as my stomach lurched in realization) that I remembered, oh yeah, I am the
orderly. Drats. Double drats. Stinkin' mothering job; the worst paying, most
underappreciated job in the world...... these were the sentiments I was thinking
as I took off my socks and went into the kitchen to get cleaning supplies.
"Your
brother just threw up." I announced to my two oldest sons. I guess I felt
somehow obligated to share this bit of good news, or maybe I hoped, deep inside
that they would volunteer to help clean away the dreaded pile.
"Gross,
Mom." My oldest said, his mouth full of Raisin Bran. "I hope you
cleaned it up; if I see that, it is really going to gross me out."
"Oh, poor
guy." My middle, and more empathetic son managed, between bites of
grapefruit. "I hope he is feeling better." Then a realization hit him.
"I hope I don't catch whatever it is! It is almost the Thanksgiving
holidays!"
So much for
sympathy from these two characters. But what did I expect? I had been THEIR
orderly since birth, cleaning up mess after mess daily for them, and they had no
reason to think that I did not relish the job of chief vomit cleaner,
extraordinaire. After cleaning the living room floor, washing my child and
dressing him in clean clothes, the realization hit me that I was socked in for a
day with a most likely whiny child who was probably going to be sick again......
that the work I had hoped to accomplish would have to be set aside for another
day, and that no one was going to give me a medal for doing what is essentially,
in the job description under the heading "MOTHER". Sigh.
I know I should
face my responsibilities with more joy, or at least with less dread, but I guess
there is a part of me which keeps waiting for MY MOTHER to come along and
relieve me of all this disgusting vomit cleaning duty. After all, long before I
gave birth to my first child, it was my mother who cleaned up all the really
gross messes and made MY life comfortable, and she LOVED every moment of
it............ didn't she..........?????? Most likely not, I realize now, but
she did it, as I do, out of love for the children who made her a mother,
children who most likely had as many good moments as bad (well, at least my
brother and sister did!), and who made the job of "mother" one of joy
and not of horror. In the meantime, as for me, I am
going to keep hoping that when my big boys come home from school, one of them
will have some good news- or perhaps just a hug, to help counter balance the
downside of my mothering duties for the day.