Flawed Mommy

I donated the girls’ last year’s winter coats to Coats for Kids this morning. When the guy behind the counter at Jack Brown Cleaners just whisked them out of my hand and stuffed them into a box without so much as a thank you, I was a little taken aback. These were my babies’ first real winter coats, carefully chosen for their water resistance, hood, length and perfect weight for an Austin winter. And *poof* they were gone, just like that. The other customer didn’t even cast me an admiring glance for my good deed. I left the store feeling bad for not offering the coats to a family in need in my Mother’s of Multiples club – someone with two little darlings who would appreciate a coordinated pair of perfect winter coats. Then I really started to analyze myself and realized that I probably wouldn’t be satisfied unless I personally put the coats on some beautiful needy children, basked in their thrill over their “new” coats, and then humbly accepted a tearful thank you from the overwhelmed mother.

Once I figured out that I was looking for an “Extreme Home Makeover” moment for myself, I got over it. It was a good reminder of how often I think I’m doing something for others when I’m really doing it for myself. It happens so much that I get embarrased just thinking about it. I'm guessing that about 90% of what I have purchased for the girls is my own wish fulfillment. I’ve taken the drastic measure of limiting myself to buying them exactly one Christmas present. Twin Daddy will get the rest, as he is much better at getting them age-appropriate things they actually enjoy, as opposed to what will impress other moms when they come over for a play date.

Since we are on the subject of things I do that look like they are for others but are really for myself, I’ll just put the next one out there: becoming a stay-at-home mom. I totally did it for myself, way, way, way more than I did it for the girls. But here’s the part that it soooo funny! The “easiest and most fun job I’ve ever had,” the job that made me feel like I was “on vacation from work,” is chewing me up and spitting me out. (I think I’m going through a temporary burn-out phase, so don’t freak out, just stay with me.) I swear if I have to cook one more meal, I’m going to lose my mind. I say this to myself before every single meal and I still have my wits about me, so perhaps I’m being a little dramatic. This morning Turtle sat down to the exact same breakfast we have almost every single weekday: a boiled egg and a waffle with cream cheese. She took one bite and said, “I LOVE it Mommy!” She loves it. So I berate myself for being the type of person who can get burned out from making the simplest meal imaginable for the world’s most appreciative child. But guess what else? I am tired of making lunches for “school.” Are you getting this? I make lunch exactly two days a week for Mother’s Day Out, and have done so for three months. And I’m tired of it already. I try not to think about the next 16 school years.

I walked into the perfectly neat playroom this morning after I dropped the girls off at school, and immediately became filled with rage. RAGE! I walked right back out and wondered when I had lost my mind. One day I’m showing off my new aprons and the next thing you know I’m averting my eyes from the playroom of my dreams so as to not be reminded of – what? That I have everything I ever wanted in my life?

Ok, so before you go calling CPS to stake out my house, just keep in mind that I am simply expressing, publicly and (hopefully) humorously, what I believe every mother feels at some point in her toddlers’ lives. Since I believe my experience is fairly common, I have created a mathematical equation to explain it. Feel free to pass this along to any other mother who is wondering where all her warm and fuzzy feelings went:

(((Diapers X 25 months) + (Cooking X 16 months) + (Incessant Whining X 4 months) + (Unreasonable Demands X 2 months)) X 2) + zero outside personal interests = Burn out

I always wondered why a mother would be willing to feed her daughter a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, after she’d just had one for lunch, just because the kid demanded it. Or give her other daughter waffles with honey to accompany her red beans and rice, just because the kid screamed for it. Now that I am her, I know what was wrong with her. She was tired.