I think it was Bill Cosby who used to jest (in reference to his children) “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” I never really connected with that statement, joking aside, until one of my own little angels turned into a teenager.
Because the truth is… Sometimes I want to throttle my kids or at least shake them really hard for the emotional trauma they put me through. Like on Tuesday for instance.
I got off work, drove a delightful 50 minute commute home, picked up the baby from daycare and pulled into my driveway. As I walked up to the front door, keys in hand, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard piercing screams. It sounded like someone was killing my daughter.
Panicking, I put my key in the door and jiggled it, trying to unlock it as quickly as possible to rescue my darling girl. But my key is cranky and it sticks (and I gave the good one to the kids, because I’m a loving mom or possibly a lazy mom for not getting another one made). Of course now, in the most urgent and frightful of all moments the stupid key wouldn’t budge an inch.
The shrieks were growing in volume and the thumping of my heart reverberated in my ears. I started to pound on the door and yell at the top of my lungs for help. Tears were pouring down my face and the baby was bawling at my feet in fear. The thought flashed through my mind of someone violently attacking my baby girl.
Adrenaline was racing through my veins. I looked around and saw the front window as my only option. I furtively glanced around for something to smash the window with, when the door swung open in my face and there stood my ten-year old daughter, red-faced and laughing uproariously with her teenaged brother.
I collapsed on the front door stoop after yelling at my children at the top of my lungs “I thought you were dying. What the BAD WORD(1) were you doing?”
Their faces turned red in shame and they pointed to the playroom where the baby’s blocks were now strewn all over. There were blocks in the bookcase, on top of pictures and blocks hanging off the potted plants. “We were having a block fight mom.”
I saw an ice bag on the floor. “What’s that for?” I choked out.
“Kyle threw a block at my face,” Faith whimpered.
I sat on the floor and wept and let my kids wallow in the guilt of tormenting their mom.
Then I really let loose. I cried tears of relief that my sweet Faith was alive, tears of frustration for their utter (and very normal) childishness and most of all, I cried big gulpy sobs because the truth is I am not there for them after school to protect them from imaginary intruders.
I am at work and it kills me.
And this burden on my mother’s heart feels like the weight of the world.
My husband walked in amidst the chaos and I finally started to chipper up and then ultimately laugh.
I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a dart fight.
[1] I actually said “hell” but you thought it was the “F word” didn’t you? I’m making real progress here people!
