I’m sorry, but I cannot accept the nomination.
For Mother of the Year (MOTY), that is. You see my cockiness over the relative success of the morning came home to roost in a serious way later in the day. Once home from church, I rushed in and completed my preparation of lunch (which I had started while still in the running for this prestigious award). I scurried to cook the chicken & rice casserole, green beans and crescent rolls like any good Southerner all the while running interference between Abraham and the cat dish.
Then I dished everything out for my kids (even separating the chicken from the rice) with a song in my heart only to hear these phrases coming from each of their sweet little mouths – “oh yuck”, “you know I hate chicken and rice”, “I don’t like this food”, “I just want snacks for lunch”, “what smells so bad”, and my personal favorite “it is NOT FAIR that you make us eat this stuff”.
Still riding the coattails of my MOTY morning & a great CrossPointe service (I’m sweet on that Preacher-Man), I simply put their plates on the counter and proceeded to eat my lunch in the company of Brad and Abraham (who, incidentally, loved his food). Within the hour, each had come in hungry enough to clean their plates. I was, overall, pleased with how everything turned out and managed to keep my cool for the most part. Another success.
Ok, pause in the story – if anyone reading this doesn’t know, the above mentioned Preacher-Man is my awesome husband, Brad. I didn’t want to appear like a crazy Preacher Stalker.
So you might ask, when did things really go south for this Mommy? It all unraveled this evening when I walked into the boys’ room and was hit by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was very, very wrong with the world. You see, it looked as if some giant hand had picked up the entire upstairs and turned it upside down, scattering all of its contents before replacing it in its correct orientation.
My head started to swell to the point that I truly wondered if explosion was not a realistic possibility. Then it started to spin on the cervical vertebrae that were usually so adept at keeping it in place. My voice began to involuntarily raise and I heard things come out of my mouth like “whatever is not picked up off this floor in the next 15 minutes is going to the trash can – and tomorrow is trash day!” Tears ensued from my scrambling children and many excuses were given as to how his piece of property arrived in this state. I need to mention also that a good hour before I had warned my precious ones that they needed to clean that room and I would be checking on it before bed – apparently, they thought I was once again talking to myself.
Needless to say, the day didn’t end as well as it began. I have 2 children in bed thinking I am treating them unfairly, one who is sad because her day is coming tomorrow due to her unwise decision to empty her toy box and one who still just uses me for my breasts (that’s the baby, by the way). I am tired. I am frustrated. And I am officially withdrawing my name from the ballot for Mother of the Year.