Three year olds are assholes. It’s true. It’s been documented somewhere. Probably on twitter or a wiki or something. Three year olds make 13 year olds familiar. Moody. Cranky. Angsty. Parenting a three year old (or a nearly three in my case) prepares you for the upcoming hormonal swings and mood changes akin to knife fights in gay bars.
Working gives me some perspective. I’m able to look at my adorable children and appreciate their innocence. I can hear their whines and love them because I do not get enough.
HA! Did you read that? I almost didn’t make it through with a straight face.
In reality, yes, I get to shuffle my children to be RAISED BY OTHER PEOPLE YOU HORRIBLE MOTHER GOING TO HELL HULK SMASH. And while they are gone I think of them and their soft faces and their long long legs and arms wrapping around me when I pick them up. I worry less about them than I used to but still wonder if I am doing the right thing sometimes. The Mommy Guilt: Second only to Catholic Guilt.
The other day I crawled in to bed with my son to rouse him awake and prepare for the day. He opened his eyes a slit and looked at me. “You came back!” he whispered. “You came back…” he snuggled his cheeks in the side of my neck.
And then I died.
My son and his sweet Cherub face can control me like a marionette. “Play Wiff Me, Mommy!” and suddenly I find myself playing RAUR SMASH TRAINS. My daughter looks at me with the biggest blue eyes, eyes I can not fathom where they are from, and asks me to read with her. I suddenly forget what I was doing and find myself sounding out words in amazement as she reads whole books to me.
Take that!, Harry Chapin.
Balance is elusive. It will not exist. Should I be home, I’d miss working and while I work I miss them at home. I can’t decide if this is my being difficult or truly the Plight of the working mom.
Either way, I suspect I’m in for a long road ahead. Raising children isn’t for the weak. Or the sane.