Children Calling Me Mom
And Still, My Children Keep Calling Me Mom
Am thinking of taking a clicking counter with me where ever I go to accurately count how many times someone I birthed says, “Mom”. I really think the number is upwards of 500/day. Why does that incessant one word start making your brain sputter and profanity bubble up in your throat? “JUST TALK TO ME!” “WHAT?” “WHAT?” “For the love of Mike, WHAT?” It’s like they have an uncontrollable tic. I love them, and they are beautiful, but “FUCKING, WHAT??”
And going to the grocery store with all three of them? My head almost exploded like an over-sexed Fembot. Where’s a breast cannon when you need them at Sam’s Club? I vow not to leave the house on an errand with the kids without proper munitions again.
I spent the most indulgent day on Tuesday, when everyone went back to work or school, hunkered down in my basement for seven consecutive hours. I spoke to precisely no one. I organized the shit out of that basement. I labeled boxes. Assembled plastic storage shelves, dusted, swept, vacuumed, organized, listened to loud music. Hauled multiple bags of unneeded stuff to my front porch for Goodwill pick-up. If you had been there, I probably would have labeled you, too. It was absolute heaven. The illusion of control and order, however fleeting or inaccurate.
Devlin had a seizure during his 2nd grade field trip Tuesday. His aide has been carrying an emergency bag every day for the entire school year, but luckily they didn’t need to use it. The teachers all did great. Dev is fine and rejoined his class later. He’s gone a long time without having a seizure, so we’re thankful for that.
Also, they found a little spot on my left breast (the other one) they want to look at more closely next week. A little surgical biopsy in the spirit of hyper-vigilance. Whoo-hoo.