Today I got a phone call that cemented my status, at least in my own head.
Loser mom. Straight up.
A pinched voice said, “Your kids are in the office. It’s minimum day. They’ve been here since 1:30 and now it’s 2:00. ”
So send them to child care, I said, irritated.
Which, of course, is when that pinched, judge-y voice told me that they were no longer a part of the child care program.
And just like that, I joined the ranks of the loser moms.
It’s a long, pathetic(er) story that I won’t bore you with, but it all boils down to life being hard and ridiculously unfair sometimes.
And let me just tell you, I am all kinds of pissed off.
I’m furious that not one person had the foresight to tell me before the last bell rang that my children would have nowhere to go.
I’m irate that they walked out of their classrooms with their bulging backpacks swinging on their little backs, over to their respective childcare classrooms, and were denied. Each of them were informed that they were no longer apart of something that had been a foundation of their daily routines for three years.
That should have been me. With an explanation that they could understand.
Instead, walking out of the office with heads bowed, my oldest whispered to me, “Is it because we couldn’t afford to go anymore? Because sometimes I hear you and Daddy talking about how much our childcare costs. It’s like a million dollars, isn’t it?”
And my youngest one, tugging on my sleeve, asking why he couldn’t play with his friends anymore, and could I “pretty please, fix it, in time for tomorrows marble jar party?”
So I shuttled them back to my office, where I begged and pleaded for them to be on their absolute best behavior, because I was all out of options. And they were. I think they sensed that mommy was t-h-i-s close to breaking.
Leaving my office, two hours later, I knew I was going to need reinforcements.
Which found me, moments later, laying down my bottle of wine on the conveyer belt. Clutching their rewards, the kiddos were hesitant to let go of their doughnut holes and frosted cookies. That’s right. I rewarded my children with refined sugars and food dye. I decided to go with it. Because we’d all just suffered through a pretty awful day, and I didn’t have the energy to be constructive about it. At all.
And that’s when Mr. Triathlete joined our line. Setting down his cliff bars and peanuts-in-the-shells and artisan bottled waters and kale, he made a point to look at our pile of oozy goodness and then look at me. Hard.
And that’s when I had enough.
He had no idea about the shoes I was standing in. That I could count on one hand the number of times that I have had an Entenmann’s product in my home. That most of the time, I’m pretty awesome at this mom thing. That at the moment, I’m doing the very best that I can, thank you very much.
So I gave him the hairy eyeball right back, stuck my tongue out, and put my arms around my children.
I may feel like loser mom this week, but that’s for me to judge, and no one else.