I need my own Mr. Mom!
Michael Keaton. He was so cute to me. If I were his neighbor, I totally would have flirted with him in my leotard and leg warmers, too. He has that infectious, charming smile that screams “Look at me, I’m so innocent – until you get me in a dark place.” (smirk, smirk) I know you’re picturing that smirk right now.
Imagine how my 18-year-old heart skipped when he came into the shop I worked at, took a liking to my candle display and offered to buy me a café mocha. I managed to get out, “Yes, please” and took the rest of the day to sip it.
Well forget his smile, now. Today, all I can think about is how bad I need a Mr. Mom.
All you Mr. Moms out there feeling unappreciated, come over to my house and I’ll make you feel more cherished than a perfectly restored classic 1961 Chevy Impala.
Every once in a while, I go through the “Poor me” whining phase. The “I do so much!” phase. Disclaimer: I am extremely grateful for my incredible life – kids, man, house, friends and pedicures.
But, then there are those moments where I realize, as if for the first time, all freedom is gone. That my life is not just my life anymore. I work and I mother. I work and I mother. I work, I clean and I mother. I work, I chauffeur, I clean and I mother.
And while I’ve had many years to let this reality sink in, sometimes it all comes to the surface again – usually not long after watching a rerun of Sex and the City, drooling with envy at Carrie’s shoes and her absence of I need to find a sitter responsibility.
That’s when the new pile of laundry that was just washed yesterday and the rush of making 4 lunches while getting hair combed, teeth brushed and a pancake shoved down their throats before school and overflowing trash cans set me off.
Suddenly last night’s dinner experience gets me bothered. You know those dinners that you cook and you’re so proud because you actually succeeded at making something gluten, soy, dairy, sugar, and corn free – your significant other says “Babe, this is actually amazing.” And for that you feel so proud. You set it at the table and then you get the first question, “Um, what is this?” Followed by, “I don’t eat green.” And concluding with, “Can you make me a grilled cheese?” And I have to be in a really good mood to make the grilled cheese for the one child who will absolutely not touch green with a 100 ft pole. Because typically, I won’t bend. And if I do cave and make the sandwhich, the next comment is “Can I have more? This won’t be enough.”
But the night before it was okay. I let it go because we have such good rules in place and such great kids that follow these rules. Yes, they know that they MUST clean up after themselves.
And if not, that’s ok because after my full day of work and running kids all around and making trips to the grocery store and pharmacy, all while getting clothes folded and prepped for the next day – I will wash those dishes. Somehow, I end up washing more dishes than we actually have. But, it’s all good because in a matter of moments after they are all showered and ready for bed and after playing referee to at least two fights, us grown-ups will open a bottle of wine and turn on Showtime.
But, the next morning, when that trigger goes off and one of the girls forgot that she had to wear shoes to school half way on our way there, I realize that “I don’t eat green” is not acceptable
And then I whine.
“I have so much to do. I clean. I do laundry. I change the hermit crab’s water! I didn’t even want the damn hermit crab! I make dinner. I give massages. I make lunches with smiley face ziplock bags! And I just went to the store yesterday, how are we already out of eggs?!!! No one appreciates me and I have two gray hairs and I just want to know what it feels like to have an expensive handbag that won’t get marker on it!!!!”
And after that rant, I take a deep breath and I ask Mr. Dad if he wouldn’t mind buying me a mocha and doing the laundry and washing the dishes and massaging my back and making dinner and playing Mr. Mom for the next two days. And lucky for me, he does it every time.