Mother’s Day (A Day of Guilty Reflection)

This morning started as most Sunday mornings do for the Brown Family with the exception that Scott decided to skip his meetings to help get the kids ready for 8:00 church because it is, after all, Mother’s Day.

We got the table set for breakfast and after prayer, the kids started pouring their usual well- balanced and healthy breakfast of “Golden Graham, Lucky Charm, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch Blend-Special.” One of my children realized his milk was not on the table so he got up to retrieve it from the refrigerator, accompanied by my three-year-old. Promptly thereafter I hear, “Um…Mom… the yogurt accidentally spilled out of the fridge.” I got up from the table to inspect the damage. Sure enough, the brand-new 24-ounce carton of Strawberry Yogurt was spread all over the floor and slowly glopping itself under the fridge. This little guy, knowing it was Mother’s Day, said, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll clean it up.” I watched apprehensively for a brief second and then decided it would be better to try and ignore the situation until he determined it was “clean.” Then I would go and do the touch-up work.

This strategy worked for about 30 seconds. I began to hear sounds emitting from his mouth that sounded like bomb explosions. I returned to the scene of the crime to discover my son with a miniscule rag dropped in the center of the disaster and pounding his fists into it. The result was yogurt exploding all over the dishwasher, cabinets, and exterior of the fridge. Not to mention the glob was moving further and further under the fridge.

I thanked him for his efforts and excused him.

When I finished cleaning up the mess, the rest of the kids were nearly finished with breakfast. I noticed that said son had not sat down for his breakfast but was absent-mindedly dazing at the ceiling from his perch on the couch. “(said son), why haven’t you eaten your breakfast yet?” He snapped out of his trance and realized he wanted his morning sustenance. “Oh yeah!” He ran to his place at the table, grabbed his milk, poured some into his cereal, then, without watching, plopped the milk carton in the center of child X’s untouched cereal and milk for nuclear bomb #2 as I stood dumbfounded watching. I tried (ever so calmly) to ask Scott to handle that one and excused myself from dining with my children.

About this time, I glanced at the clock to discover we were now about 15 minutes behind schedule if we wanted a chance at a pew rather than the highly un-coveted hard chairs in the overflow. I set the timer for 10 minutes and told the kids if they were all dressed within that amount of time, they could get a “Sunday Treat.” I was hoping this strategy may help us realign our goal of getting a cushioned place to sit during sacrament.

10 Minutes Later: Timer beeping, no children in site, but their loud, shouting voices are carrying more than I would like up the stairs. “The timer just went off! No Sunday Treats!” I yell down the stairs. Dead Silence from below and then suddenly its all hands on deck. Then begins much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth as children begin pleading their cases as to why they couldn’t make the deadline or why they should be allowed to wear gym socks to church, etc. Said child is also a part of this confusion and I notice how the blazer he has on appears to be covered in white chalk. “Said child, you cannot wear that to church today.” After 2-3 minutes of moaning and groaning, I decide I can’t take his complaints anymore and point to the washcloth behind him. I asked him to get it wet so I could try and clean the jacket. He obediently drenched the washcloth and then proceeded to watch it spill forth water over the floor. “Said child, wring it out over the sink!” I then got another blank stare from him (maybe I really am the invisible mom) followed by him taking the washcloth and whipping it over his head in circles. The water went everywhere. All over the newly washed mirrors in the bathroom, everyone’s church clothes, etc.

Needless to say, my patience was beginning to wear thin.

After straightening up mess #3, the phone rang. My sister Cheryl was looking for baskets to put chocolate candy bars in for mother’s day that would be handed out during sacrament meeting. I told her we would round some up. At this point the clock was racing madly toward 8:00 and I still had a lot of hair to do and clothes to straighten up. (My stay-at-home husband was nowhere in sight.) So, mustering up my courage, I specifically instructed said child with the same set of instruction repeated three times, “Go downstairs to the food room. Get the two baskets that have plastic knives, forks and spoons in them. Put the utensils in a grocery bag and bring me the baskets.” Again, I remind you that these instructions were carefully repeated three times to insure they could not go misunderstood.

Well, this little helper disappeared for quite awhile. Soon it was time to get into the car and I had already forgotten about the baskets. I started yelling frantically for my son to get upstairs so we could leave. I could hear him hefting himself up the stairs with what appeared to be a 300-pound bag. Triumphantly, he dropped the enormous bag at my feet and shouts, “I finally did it!!!” I looked into the bag. Rather than bringing two small baskets that held a combined total of about 50 pieces of plasticware, he had dumped 3 500-piece not-yet-opened-boxes of plasticware that I had just barely bought from Costco into one giant gift-bag.

I lost it. I covered my face with my hands and started yelling. “I told you the baskets!!! Not the Boxes!! I will never be able to sort through that mess you have just made! We have to leave and you have spent all of this time making a huge mess!!” I uncovered my face just in time to see a once-triumphant but now bitterly dejected little boy crumble. “I’m sorry, Mom! I’m sorry! I thought that’s what you wanted!”

Feeling like a horrible mother but knowing the damage was already done, I put my arm around him, told him I was sorry for yelling and asked him to get in the car through clenched teeth.

30 minutes later, as I sat on a cushioned pew during sacrament meeting, I listened to Brother Merkley talk about how we mothers should never feel guilty on Mother’s Day. I thought to myself, “How can I not? I just blew up at my sweet little boy that thought he was doing a fantastic thing for me. And that was only one child. That doesn’t even begin to mention the damage I did with all of the other kids as they stood watching in stunned silence. And what about last night? And yesterday afternoon? And yesterday morning when I was trying to get them to do their work? What about how dirty their rooms are? What about the nutrition (or lack thereof) they are getting under my care? Is that why my three-year-old already has a cavity? My children are going to be scarred for life!” It went on and on as my guilt was spiraling out of control.

And at this same time of guilty reminiscence, a note was passed to me by said child. “Dear Mom, you are the best mom. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.” Guilt again washed over me. I looked up to this sweet little boy that I felt I had crushed a few minutes earlier. He was grinning from ear-to-ear at me. I realized that just as I love him immensely despite his imperfections, he loves me tenderly and deeply despite my imperfections. I reminded myself that it’s OK to mess up and it’s OK that I have a long way to go before I am a perfect mom– my kids will forgive me and I can take this day to enjoy and relish all of the happy memories they have created in my life.

I hope you all have a wonderful guilt-free Mother’s Day – imperfections and all – and know that I love and think of you often.