Accidents Happen

I haven’t written a blog post in 100 years.  At least it feels like it’s been that long.  I haven’t felt much like writing lately.  I’ve been feeling a little Mommy-Manic.  One minute I’m thinking, “We just assembled a pirate puzzle together!  Motherhood is the best thing EVER!” And the next I’m all like, “I’ve been singing ‘Clean-up, clean-up, everybody do their share’ for the last ten minutes and no one is helping me therefore I am all alone in this world.” 

Last week I hit an all-time low.   The Trifecta had “Hibernation Day” at school and felt excited about wearing their pajamas to school.  I selected a trio of cuteness… smocked pink pajamas.  As I started to dress the girls a riot broke out; screams of discontent and opposition.  They have a closet full of smocked threads, custom applique and monogrammed garments, and Lilly Pulitzer shift dresses.  But what do they want to wear? Hendley will wear whatever I select for the day.  Elizabeth wants mismatched leggings and torn tutus.  Mary Ellis wants shorts and MTSU and ATM t-shirts.  A harmonious parent would just go with it.  But I fight them.  I can’t tell you why.  I may live in sweatpants and workout clothes, but I want The Trifecta to look tidy and together.  So we bargain.  I pick their clothes on school and church days.  They pick the other days. 

After several minutes of intense negotiations I decided to let them select their pajamas.  I dressed them.  I put on their socks and shoes.  I announced the time had come to go to school. 

I turned off the television.

Anarchy.  Rampage. Revolt. Chaos.

I stood in silence for a solid thirty seconds as my precious angels WENT COMPLETELY NUTSO.  My heart raced.  My armpits began to sweat.  My pulse hit the roof.

I snapped.

I threw my keys and purse on the ground.  I clinched my fists.

And.  I.  Roared.

“GET INTO THE CAR RIGHT NOW!” It was one of those screams that made my throat sore and my ears pop at the same time.  Somewhere in the house a light bulb exploded (probably).

And also I may or may not have threatened to give gypsy children all their toys.

Mary Ellis and Elizabeth started to cry and ran to the car.  Hendley stared at me with her intense, honest eyes.  “Mommy,” she whispered, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

I picked her up and put her in her car seat.  We drove to school in silence.

When we arrived at school the excitement of hibernation day seemed to replace the events of the morning.  I kissed Mary Ellis and Elizabeth good-bye.  I pulled Hendley into my lap.  “Hendley,” I began, “I’m sorry I lost my temper this morning.  I shouldn’t have yelled like that.  I felt overwhelmed.  Can you forgive me?”  She smiled and shrugged her shoulders at me.  “It’s ok, Mommy.  Accidents happen.”  She wiggled out of my lap and joined her class. 

Was my temper tantrum an accident?  Accidents cause injury, harm, and damage. 

As I drove away from the school I started to blubber…a big, fat, snot-spiller, soul cleansing cry. I cried because I haven’t had a solid six hours of sleep in seven months.  I cried because a pile of clean laundry the size of Mt. Everest waited for me to fold and put away.  I cried because the dishwasher is always full of clean dishes I have to put away and the sink is always full of dirty dishes that need the dishwasher.  I cried because I REALLY want to be a patient, loving, and kind mother and at that moment I felt like the opposite of all those qualities.  I felt reckless, irresponsible, and rotten.

And then I thought of Hendley.  “It’s ok, Mommy.  Accidents happen.”  I spent summers working for State Farm Insurance in high school.  One of my many jobs required me to take accident reports for auto policy holders.  Some involved senseless drivers, another involved pit bulls, and this one time a brand new $100,000 Mercedes drove off the lot and crashed into a guard rail.  I decided to file an accident report on my own self.  I don’t have a deductible and there isn’t a body shop to repair the damage.  

I want to do better and I want to be better.  And also I hope to have less laundry to fold.