So, I’m leaving for Oregon in 8 hours to meet with my Realtor and I’m still doing laundry. . . sleep is just an illusion tonight. Why is it when, what you think is the last load is on spin cycle, your
child always manages to come up with the sweatshirt that he just has to have clean by tomorrow? Hmm?? You tell me why.
I’m in constant flux with the child. Frustrated that he lost his favorite (and mine, I will admit) Gap puffy vest. Frustrated that he has misplaced yet another sweatshirt (what is this, number 6 in the past year?). Frustrated that it takes 45 minutes to brush his teeth unless one of us is nagging at him. Frustrated that he continues to “Imaginate” for two hours past his bedtime. Frustrated that he leaves rocks in his pockets that always end up in the laundry, rocks that clack away like heartbeats in the dryer, rocks that resist being found despite my unloading all the wet laundry on to
the kitchen floor. Twice. Oh, the list goes on. This, my dear readers, should you not already know, is called the blissful state of parenthood. Parenthood equals frustration.
This starts early. Frustration. It began long before our boy was even born. His hormones did not mesh with my hormones and frustration ensued in the form of continual vomiting for 16 weeks. Every hour. On the hour. Dry heaving what was left of my stomach lining. Oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve thrown up everything you haven’t eaten in days and then throw up again.
But then they are born. They are such amazing little beings. You are relieved that he is perfect, even though he is five weeks early. You are amused that he sounds like a kitten, mewing. You count fingers and toes. You notice he has his grandfather’s fingers, his great-grandmother’s ears, his father’s long feet, and his very own nose. You look deep into his little face, this angel who has caused you to vomit up 20 percent of your body weight, is here. What will he have of yours?
However, frustration is waiting just around the corner. The anesthesia will wear off and you will be compelled to take him home. All six pounds eight ounces, make that nine, now ten, of him. As if to get in on all the vomiting action he missed while en utero, he will discover the joy of projectile
vomiting three weeks later. All over you. All over your clothes. All over his clothes. All over your husband’s boss in a Starbucks one evening. All over the grocery cart just when you bump into your academic mentor (the one who thought you were going on to Grad school not having a baby!) in Safeway. No, this kid is not to be outdone. Not by you, not by any other small child on
earth. Your child is the Champion of vomiting. While he has his father’s feet and his grandfather’s hands, he has your gag reflex.
Which is why, when the boy brought home the envelop today–A golden envelop containing the news that his poem was one of five chosen in the entire school to be submitted to the State-wide anthology, to possibly be published– you grin, you shout, you jump for joy, and you hug the
kid and you say, “I’m so proud of you!” What you really think is, “See, he does take after me!” What you remember is that while parenting equals frustration, it also equals joy.
You know it’s all worth it.
