Motherhood is not for the meek.

@postaday 128; #postaday2011

A quiet Mother’s Day at home. An opportunity to relax, call my own mother, work through piles of paperwork. I’m not complaining. I cannot stand going out to eat on Mother’s Day or Valentine’s Day. Restaurants make big money and it’s not because you’re sitting at a table for hours nursing a bottle of bubbly and delightfully savoring appetizers, soups, salads, main courses, desserts and aperitifs! Nope. Shuttle in, shuttle out. Take the order, one iced tea refill, pop out the check, bus the table. Honestly, the best way to make money in a restaurant is to turn over tables. I prefer not to be rolled in and out like that.

I am disappointed that the weather didn’t cooperate and I didn’t get to roll on my bicycle for miles and up lung-busting hills. As a result, while it poured outside, I took care of paperwork that had been collecting dust far too long. How relentless is the river of credit card solicitations and junk mail? I gleaned through stacks and stacks and then discovered some bon appetit magazines I had yet to drool over. So as soon as I’m through with this blog entry, I’ll thumb through those in search of inspiration for what to make for dinner tonight.

There’s something about motherhood, about parenting, that keeps me on the edge of my seat. There is nothing a kid of mine would do that I haven’t done already. NOTHING. I dare say neither of my two daughters will even approach the evil achievements of my youth. I wasn’t really evil, but when you spend most of your childhood herded by nuns, you start believing purgatory is the best afterlife you’ll get.

This morning I made Belgian waffles and bacon for the girls, drizzled in maple syrup. The promise of whipped cream was dashed when I retrieved the can from the garage refrigerator and found it empty. One of my littles had been hitting the sweet cream. When I was a teenager I used to hit up my dad’s cigarettes and stash of sweet vermouth. So when he wanted Manhattans… See? My kids cannot even begin to approach my lows. I knew instantly which child was guilty.  I talked to her about it, and she was appropriately repentant. But there’s sure to be something else I’ll discover. There always is, my heart will sink, and we’ll have a talk. I would have appreciated talks when I was a kid. Instead I got beaten a lot.

I shared with a friend of mine some good news about Kid2. I sometimes wonder if other people go through what we do when it comes to raising kids. He advised me to find humor in situations as I guide my children through the world. “…Love and humor, trust and optimism. Even when we get it wrong, we get it right.” No one raises children because they know how. The whole distance, from the time we conceive our children to the time we close our eyes one last time, is a dynamic, pulsating, living laboratory. I’m constantly looking for the best results possible. It is really, really nice when I get positive feedback from people who encounter my kids in the wild. Apparently, I’m doing alright. It happens more often than not. So I think it’s safe to say that I’ve earned this year’s Mother’s Day badge.

And the gang just stepped out to see “Thor.” I get a pass, FTW!

Author: lavagal

Hawaii Kai wife and mom. Melanoma Stage 3a Cancer survivor. English Language Arts teacher, English Learners Coordinator, and Paraprofessional Tutor. Super sub teacher. Dormant triathlete. Road cyclist and Masters swimmer. Gardener. Mrs. Fixit. Random dancer. Music Curator. A teenager trapped in an aging body. Did you know 60 is the new 40? It is.

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