Wow. It’s been almost a month since we blogged! I can only say that it’s because, LIFE. Also, Lunar New Year. And oh yeah, that thing called work.
So. I want to talk about Monday. We all hate Mondays. But the particular Monday that just went past? Was good, at least while I was at work. The semester had ended so there were no classes (YAY!), I finished writing my appraisal detailing – at length – just how FABULOUSLY EFFECTIVE I have been on the work front, and I managed to squeeze in a quick report that my boss had needed at the very last minute.
I went home pumped up on good vibes, only to find myself standing in front of the mirror an hour later, doing the ugly cry.
You know, the ugly cry. The one where you scrunch up your face like how your toddler looks when you deny him his snack. The one where hot tears are streaming down your cheeks, just like your preschooler does when you tell him no, mummy cannot bring him to our “special” date because we have to go home. The one where sobs are wrecking through your body, the way they wreck through your kids’ little bodies when you tell them they have to go into the bathtub because they stink.
I locked the bathroom door and had a good ugly cry after both my boys threw tantrum after tantrum. Meltdowns that were completely illogical to me but probably meant THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD to them. Once their father got home, I slammed the door and started wallowing.
The truth was, I was tired. Not physically, but emotionally spent. At that point in time, I had gotten them fed (dinner, yogurt, fruits), fixed up and given them their TCM. They had had their playtime and cuddle time and it was time for their baths. And one after another, the screaming and crying came.
Look, in general, I have two happy, funny, loving kids. They usually know their boundaries and we try our best to be the non-screaming parents who listen, sing songs about packing up toys and are empathetic to their feelings. That evening, though, I lost all my hippie mojo and grabbed, showered and threatened my way through bath time.
I DID NOT CARE. Screw being empathetic, I was Stern Mummy and You-Do-As-I-Say-NAO Mummy. Cry all you want, as long as you get into the bath tub and is washed and cleaned.
And then I went into the bathroom and wallowed in self-pity about this thankless gig that I had literally put myself in. More than one friend has commented on how the husband is a hands-on father and how lucky I was. But has anyone looked me in the eye and said, wow, your little assholes (and husband) are lucky to have you because you are so hands-on?
No, because it’s assumed. That as the mother, I should be hands-on. Which is utter bullshit.
So yeah. That Monday evening? I was totally not feeling the maternal instinct. Thankfully, it came right back the next morning, when the three-year-old (who is turning four!!) snuggled up to me in bed and said, good morning, mummy. And then he gave me the sweetest kiss on my lips.
(PS No need to tell me that I need a break, blah blah. I know that. Thank you for your unsolicited suggestions in advance but they are self-explanatorily unsolicited.)