September 11, 2009
If I had to wager a guess, my posting will be really sporadic for the next month or two. I'm just completely wiped out, you guys.
I don't remember feeling this way with James, but then again, by the time I was 36 weeks I had quit my horror show of a job and my life consisted of leisurely trips to Target and afternoon walks around the park--seriously.
I didn't have a 4-year-old spewing on his walls at 3 o'clock in the morning (happened last night), a 4-year-old to lift in and out of grocery carts (listen, I'd let him walk, but the kid steals things), and I most definitely didn't have work meetings at 6 o'clock on a Friday night (bitter doesn't even begin to describe it).
My hat goes off to moms of 3 and 4 and 19 kids. They deserve all the liquor and sexy naked man calendars that this fine world has to offer.
Yesterday afternoon, when James got home from school, I declared that we would take a walk to the nearby Post Office. It's only about .7 miles from our house, and my intention was to teach James how to count the envelopes, ask for stamps, pay, and get change--all while using his very best manners. I would collect my Mother of the Year award as we happily waltzed out the door.
Well, we arrived at the Post Office approximately 3 minutes after the van from the local assisted living facility, and I was in rugged shape--temped to take a drag or two off their oxygen tanks if you know what I mean. Needless to say there were at least a dozen seniors (bless their pace-makers) waiting in line for stamps, agonizing over the bears, the balloons, or the flags when it was finally their turn.
Folks, I simply couldn't handle it.
So guess what I did...
I planted my big, fat ass on a bench next to the picture window that looks into the lobby, gave James his "Son, It's High Time You Become an Independent Man" speech a few years early, and sent him in to brave the line all by himself.
I scratched my crotch and supervised through the plexiglass--as any good mother would.
Well let me tell you, James was the undisputed belle of the ball. The seniors Ohhhhed and Ahhhhhed and rubbed his curly hair over and over again. He made a lot of casual conversation with our elderly neighbors who all (I kid you not) loitered in the lobby to watch him order the stamps, and clapped (CLAPPED!) when he did so successfully.
I swear to high heavens, if they had had the proper equipment (and were in good enough cardiovascular health), they would have hoisted him up in a throne and paraded him around like one of those native African princes.
After James took his bow, they filed out of the Post Office--with their canes and walkers and osteoporotic backs--all wearing gigantic goofy grins across their faces. As they inched back to their van most of the group stopped to thank me for sharing my son with them, and complimented me on being an excellent mother for raising such an independent and confident young boy.
I was like, "Really? I'm just huge and slow, and I only sent him in there because my nether regions are friggin' killing me! Thank you, thank you, thank you for not calling CPS."
Because of the overwhelming positive response, I've decided that today, I'm sending James in to buy the 40 pound bag of dog food while I wait in the car. He's a very determined young man, so we'll see how it goes.
And tomorrow? The financial planner.