Spilled Milk: My Parental Fail

Do you ever start out having one of those days?

I think I am having more than just a day.

Frankly, I thought I was cracking up a few days ago. Seriously, I was ready to be covered in a straight-jacket and led to my padded room in the nut ward. I mean, how else is a mom supposed to get a little free time? There always seems to be someone or something underneath my wing preventing a full breath from leaving my lungs. Heck, I’m eating seasoned lima beans from a can as I type this. Don’t judge me, I’m carb cycling. Hmmm, upon further inspection, I wonder if that’s the reason why I’ve been a bit on edge (complete and total understatement)? Eject was only a button away.

If you’ve ever read any of my jibberish before, you’ve heard me say that parenting is hard. I mean, like biting through a Jawbreaker straight-out-of-the-package hard. Where were the people that should have warned me? Did they warn me? Was I not listening? I did have a habit of not listening. Okay, I still do. All the books that I read¬†gave me no preparation for the roller coaster of parenthood that I was about to experience. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

This morning, I get my oldest off to school and it’s time to prepare for the day. It’s the first day of a phenomenal Bible study at a church thirty minutes from my house. Yep, I live in the woods. You ready for the bonus to the study? Wait for it…CHILDCARE! Score! I get one hour in the morning to breathe slowly & calmly for the duration of this study. This, I can handle.

I decide what to wear and I get us both dressed.

I look cute. Yeah, I said that. Usually, at 8:15 am, the back of my head looks like peacock’s behind so yeah, I looked cute. We’re packed, on-time (very rarely does this happen), and on our way out the door; boom, chocolate milk down the arm of my blouse. Yep, there that is. Off comes the shirt, and in the sink it goes. New shirt, in the car, and we’re ready to go. A half a mile into the journey, here comes the low fuel light. It’s all Gucci, I’ve got ways. I can run her on fumes. How do I know? You guessed it; I have. Gas and go, on the road again.

Now keep in mind, the littlest one has no idea where we’re going.

He only knows it’s a surprise. Why? Immediately, when we pull in the parking lot, he knows where we are and the separation issues begin. I opt out of thirty minutes in the car of crying. No thanks, I’m full. We’re late. He doesn’t want to go. I want him to go. I need him to go. I get out and chocolate milk goes down my arm, my pants, and the shoe this time. Yep. I’m batting a hundred at this point. He tells me, “Mommy, I want new pants.” We’re potty training, too (icing on the proverbial cake, it is). I take a quick look (just look) at his pants and say, “Mommy doesn’t have any more pants, baby. You’re okay. Let’s go.”

We stop at the potty to make sure he’s good.

Why did he want new pants you ask? Three guesses, the first two do not count. I didn’t bring any more pants. Nope, I wasn’t nominated for the Mother-of-the-Year this year. Alright, I’ve never been nominated. You know the diaper commercial where the lady is super high-strung about sanitizer for the first baby and then for the second, she hands number two over to the auto mechanic? I’m that Mom. I have all the best intentions of the cute little stickers documenting every single month. My first is now 92 months old; I’ve documented zero of those months with a sticker. The baby books are crammed full of memories that aren’t pasted in. The journals I started, are years behind.

Here’s the best part, Evan looks down at me as I try to figure out what in the world I do next and says, “It’s okay, Mommy. They’ll be okay.” The moral of story here is: it was okay. He ran around the nursery in his Pull-Ups, I got my hour of breathing time & we’re back to the grind. Carry on.

This article was originally published on Penny Lane’s blog, Because I Am Who I Am. Featured image via.

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