I've been informed that I am the worst mother ever.
Admittedly, my sample size is small. The Dude seems to think that my mothering skills are fine. But the Diva takes great joy in pointing out that I am a) mean, b) unfair and c) cruel. Some days, there is also option d) all of the above.
I'll be the first to admit that I should not be anyone's parent of choice in the middle of the night. Both kids have learned that they should always go to their father's side of the bed at 2 a.m., even though I sleep on the side closest to the door.
It's better for everyone that way, except for my husband, of course.
The kids know that mommy is useless when roused from a deep sleep. In the 10 minutes it will take mommy to remember that she needs to put her glasses on, to find said glasses and to actually get them oriented on her face, any late-night crisis will have already concluded. The thunderstorm will have passed. The shadows will no longer be monsters. The floor will have been peed on.
An aside _ why do my kids think they need to wake me up to let me know that they have to use the bathroom in the small hours. It takes less energy to walk to the bathroom than it does to walk to my bedroom, wake me up, then walk directly across the hall to the bathroom. Seriously. This is no longer a process that an adult needs to be involved with.
Not only is mommy useless when poked while sleeping, she can also be a big grouch once she pries her eyes open.
As much as it shames me _ deep, deep down I want to be a morning person _ this grouch extends until at least 9 a.m. Sadly, we all have to be up and out of the house well before then.
It's usually during the frantic morning scurrying that I earn my worst-mother-ever title. Even I doubt my maternal fitness at 7:30 a.m. I also wonder how much of the yelling our neighbors can hear.
I wish it were different.
I wish each respective kid and adult could do his or her morning routine in the prescribed amount of time with no fuss or hectoring. I also wish wee elves would clean my house while I slept.
No matter how much advanced planning we put into the morning _ like clothes laid out and bags packed _ the tactics fail in the face of combat. My children aren't morning folks, either, and can easily rival my grouchiness. The Boy is still young enough to be wrestled into his clothes and carried out the door. The Diva, however, is another case.
I don't think it's too much to ask that she dress herself, brush her own hair and teeth, grab a coat and put her shoes on. It's like the midnight bathroom thing; an adult no longer needs to be involved in the process.
For the most part, this works with a couple of nudges from me when we get within 10 minutes of walking out the door. Where it all falls apart is the last step, no pun intended.
My daughter has more than two dozen pairs of shoes. Most of them are hand-me-downs. And, according to her, all of them are deficient in some way. Right now, the only shoes that are acceptable are a pair of Crocs and some pink sneakers.
There have been a few perfect pairs of shoes like these. I have no qualms with her sticking with one pair for weeks at a time. I only have a few shoes that I wear, which includes a favorite pair of sneakers and a comfy pair of professional clogs. In the winter, I always reach for the same boots. I get how shoes inspire loyalty.
But my feet have stopped growing. From now until the day I'm buried with my favorite tennies, my size isn't going to change that drastically. As long as they are recognizable as shoes, I can wear the same footwear for decades.
That won't work when you're 7. Her feet change hourly, it seems. Just about the time we find the shoes that make her dogs sing, it's time for a new pair. Then the fights begin again.
Like this morning, when the $40 pair of new tennis shoes that she swore fit like gloves (so to speak) in the store were suddenly too big. Asking her to walk the few blocks to school while wearing them was like dragging her through a bed of broken glass. There was a tantrum. There were snits. I yelled.
A gentleman walking his dog past us, looked at me like I was killing her. Which was starting to seem tempting, if by "kill" you mean "take away every privilege she has and any she might earn in the future until she's 40."
When she flounced herself onto the sidewalk to take the shoes off, I snapped. "Don't you dare," I said. I wasn't certain what I had to back the threat up but was certain I'd come up with something.
"You are the worst mom ever!"
And that morning, that early and without coffee in my system, I knew she was right.
She did, however, wear the dang shoes.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott, and author of "Hillbilly Gothic," published by the Free Press.
