April 15, 2005

you drive me crazy (but it’s a nice ride)

I’ve come to realize that the moms I like the most are the ones who get annoyed with their children. Or, more precisely, the moms who will admit to being annoyed by their children. I like to think of myself as a fairly patient person, but by the fifteenth time in a row that Henry asks why Mr. Incredible can’t fly it is all I can do to keep my head from exploding. And don’t even get me started about Charlie.

I love my children, I do, and I am essentially (at my essence) so very very happy that they are here and that, through the luck of genetics, we got the kids we did. But for the love of god, can’t they just leave me the hell alone every once in a while????

And the mommies I like the most are the ones who feel the same way. I also tend to have other things in common with these women–we are all educated and relatively well off (but not so well off that we don’t sweat the last week of every month, or dread any house repair that requires a professional who charges an hourly wage). We all had interesting jobs or careers that we either gave up entirely or put on hold to have our children. We all find our–and each other’s–children charming and funny and delightful to be around. And we all seem to live very very close to the edge of Completely Beserk most of the time.

I called my friend Leslie a while ago, to check in about our playdate this afternoon. My playdates with Leslie are some of the high points of my week; we play every other or every third day, and it is often the difference, for both of us, between complete insanity and another peaceful day with our children. Leslie has three boys; the older two are Henry and Charlie’s age. The boys all play nicely together, and need very little intervention or coaching from us. Which means that we can sit and have something like a conversation, one that does NOT involve The Incredibles or Spiderman or knock-knock jokes or . . .

Anyway, we talked on the phone. Through some act of god (which I will pay for later), both my boys are asleep. Leslie’s four-year-old had decided that instead of napping or resting or playing in another room, he would stomp on her last nerve for an hour. ‘I’ve had it!’ she said. ‘I haven’t had any down time all day. I can’t take it!’

‘We’ll be there by three,’ I promised.

‘Come whenever,’ she said. ‘But please come soon!’

I had a playdate yesterday with a woman I don’t know very well, but like very much. She was marvelling at how patient I was with the boys. ‘I’m not that patient with my kids,’ she admitted. And I felt both embarassed and guilty. It’s embarassing to know that sooner or later she will see the real me, the mommy who is always saying, ‘Stop it! Just stop it!’ And I felt guilty because I hate that it takes the presence of another adult to rouse me to be kind to my children when they are at their most childlike. Because, essentially (at their essence) they are pretty damn annoying.

I think it’s time to go play at Leslie’s.

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