Mama the Monster

This morning, I was chatting on-line with a "service" representative for our internet provider. I had an email delivery problem. Namely, I was only getting some of it, not all of it -- which is maddening, to the point of feeling like a crisis.

"Monica" was unhelpful and unsympathetic.

As my blood pressure rose, my fingers clacking away with increasing speed and force, my children -- predictably -- began to lose patience with my inattention. They began to play more and more raucously. First with each other, and then by poking and prodding at me.

I was too immersed in my frustrating exchange with "Monica" to react to them -- though their escalating maniacal laughter, squealing and poking were having the effect of nails on a chalkboard. But then. Just as I reached for the mouse to send off a particularly heated reply, my older daughter grabbed the mouse and took off running.

Well.

I chased her and, when I caught her, I growled TERRIBLE growls and gnashed TERRIBLE teeth and rolled TERRIBLE eyes. I snatched the mouse from her and stalked back to the computer where I slammed the send button and then gnashed my teeth some more.

And my daughter, who requests Where the Wild Things Are nearly every night, did not take Max's example. When she encountered Mama-the-Monster, she began to cry.

To me, being a 'good enough' mama doesn't mean getting it right all of the time, but it also doesn't mean that getting it wrong is okay. It means trying, always, to weigh honestly and appropriately the importance of what I get right vs. what I get wrong -- and to keep the scale clearly heavy on "the right."

Today I got it wrong. I was in a crazy, heart-thumping, seeing-red rage. And I lost it -- with the stranger via "chat," but more importantly, with my daughter, innocent of all but the inability to understand that sometimes it's best to let Mama do her thing from a little bit of a distance.

That's not good and I'm really sorry I yelled at her. I'm really sorry I scared her.

But it isn't the end of the world for her to discover that among the varieties of normal human emotion is rage. Even mamas have it. Nor is it bad for her to see that a person can be very angry without resorting to violence.

Further, I hope she also recognized in my aftermath that when we are not nice to the people we love we feel bad.

These are lessons worth knowing.

Of course, I didn't set out to teach her any of that today, but I nonetheless hope some of that comes across in what I do get right: caring. Caring for her. Caring about being a good enough mother and person. Caring about what that means. And caring enough to keep trying to get as much right as I can, even if sometimes that means cutting Mama-the-Monster a bit of slack.

Dirty Stroller Blues

Keeping a clean stroller is not one of my strengths. In fact, I would say it's one of my weaknesses.

I remember in my life before children looking at a dirty stroller and making assumptions about the kind of home the child lived in. I went so far as to feel sorry for the child. Poor baby, sitting in a stroller with stains and crumbs and broken toys.

Now I realize that having a dirty stroller comes with the territory, especially with two children. We live in our stroller. It takes us from Point A to Point B without guzzling gas while mama gets some exercise and the kids enjoy the walk. My stroller is filled with graham crackers and their crumbs, spilled milk, dust, books, toys, dirty wipes and clean wipes, sand (and lots of it), empty Starbucks cups, straws, keys, diaper bag, blankets, jackets, lip balm, Goldfish, fruit, and a broken cellular phone. It is our house on wheels.

There was a time when I tried to keep it clean. But the reality is the stroller lives outside. And when we get back from the park or a walk or whatever the first thing on my list is to get the kids INSIDE and then FED and then DOWN FOR A NAP. Always in that order. Then it's my time to clean the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, etc. from the early morning romp. The last thing I want to do is go back outside and clean the damn stroller.

I still get a touch of embarrassment when we meet someone new who has a clean stroller. But then I realize that strollers are meant to be lived in. It shows that we have a life outside of our house. One that is filled with walks and playdates and park visits. When it is all said and done we'll send the stroller off onto a nice retirement.

One day its job will be over.