Archive | September 15, 2010

Mother of the Year

So, in one fell swoop, I earned my title.

I might have mentioned once or twice or eleventy hundred times that Tony’s at AN AGE.  And those who have two/three year olds know the age of which I refer.  It’s the age where you decide to tie your own tubes with rusty knitting needles and a plastic spork rather than EVER take the chance of have another one because HOW DOES ANYONE DO THIS MORE THAN ONCE?!

And the thing is – not that it matters, in the heat of the moment – he’s not a bad kid.  Even his tantrums are MAYBE at an 8.  I’ve seen some kids go all the way To Eleven over stupid stuff.  This kid picks his battles.. though they often make no sense to me.. and he doesn’t fly off the charts.

But that doesn’t make them less tiresome.

Monday nights are a gimme in my house.  I’m tired, Tony’s tired, we’ve all started another week and we’re just toast by dinnertime.  As a result, the ONE night I feel okay about us eating out is Monday night.  Because I literally CAN.NOT cook that night.

We went to Jason’s Deli, with the blessing of Sir Tony (“Grilled cheese sammich and chocolate milk, Momma! Is dewishious!”), and he was fine.  We sat down to eat, and he was fine.  I provided him some crackers from the salad bar, and he was fine.

THEN THE WIND CHANGED.

And, as always, I tried to not acknowledge the meltdown as it was happening, so as not to feed it, but also trying to keep my kid from melting in a puddle on the nasty restaurant floor under the table.  He squirmed his way off the booth’s seat, and without looking, I one-armed him up.  I heard a thump but figured it was his cracker under his foot.

EXCEPT? I HAD GIVEN HIM A CONCRETE JAWBREAKER.

While he was screaming, and I wasn’t looking because I was so eager to get my fork to my damn mouth with my other hand, I pulled him up and his bottom jaw CAUGHT ON THE TABLE.  And I?  Kept pulling.

“Sarah!” Bryan barked.  “Sarah, he’s bleeding!  You knocked his mouth on the table!”  There was blood.  Everywhere.

Of course, like any mother, I curled him up in my lap and ate not another bite for the rest of the meal because I was so sick at myself.  Tony was over it in 5.7 seconds and wanted ice cream.  I was not such a resilient case.

We watched The Box that night, a movie so awfully, laughably horrible that I wanted to slice open my wrists with nail clippers.  Cameron Diaz is convinced that people in Virginia .. D.C. area of Virginia, no less.. talk like Forrest Gump and no producer on that movie set had the audacity to correct her, so we spent the majority of the movie laughing hysterically at her adding syllables to words that don’t exist even here in Alabama.

But then there’s the end.  There’s the end where there’s a plot twist that is probably still awful and horrible, but after the night I’d had, it just crushed me.  And I sobbed.  I sobbed and snorfled and was generally a mucousy mess.

Because when it comes down to it, there is just nothing I wouldn’t do for my son.  Hell, for either of the boys.  I would quickly give up everything and anything .. including my last breath .. for their safety, their health.

Obviously, unless they’re throwing a fit at Jason’s Deli when I’m trying to eat my damn salad.

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