Role Reversal

Several events last weekend made me realize that my life with children has come 300 degrees around the circle.   My husband and I got up around 7:30 and were shushing each other so as not to wake the kids, because if you wake them up on one of the precious two days that they get to sleep in, well – heaven help you.  You will need full armor to protect yourself from the attack.  We went for a hike and got home before they were even out of bed.  We have reached that point that I dreamed about 14 years ago, which seemed unfathomable at the time.  I get up earlier than my kids.  For many of you with young children, this sounds like nirvana.  But it isn’t all smiles and zzz’s.  

Back in the day, I was exhausted much of the time.  Waking up drearily at 6 am or earlier and trying to find something to occupy the kids while I napped on the couch, did chores, or attempted hygiene.  If I chose the former option I would encourage them to be quiet so Mommy could get a little more sleep.  Inevitably, one kid or other would find Dante’s toy, also known as THE POPPER, that he pushed like a vacuum and was delighted by the plastic balls inside popping frantically like an endless supply of bubble wrap.  This was emphatically the plaything of choice when we were hung over.  I want to believe that Fisher Price was not malicious, and was in fact trying to instill a behavior/reward tendency in these young urchins to pick up a vacuum or lawn mower as they got older, but I think they failed.  The device met an abrupt ending, as I recall.  We would proceed with our day by taking an exotic excursion (to the likes of the grocery store or the park) until lunch and counted the minutes until the afternoon nap.  You prayed for a full two hours of time, but could never actually count on it to do anything important; it had to be an activity that could be left at any moment.  I mark this time as the beginning of the decline of my brain cell count and concentration span.  The inability to focus on anything for than 10 minutes becomes the equivalent of maternal instinct.   A few more hours of mindless alphabet play and then we had dinner, bathing and BEDTIME!  The prize being a glass of wine, perhaps a television show, and a brief view of ourselves as we used to be. 

On the positive side of these early years, while life was physically demanding, I was young enough to possess the stamina to get through it.  I could leave the kids and they didn’t remember.  I wasn’t in my car from 3 pm -7 pm driving all over town in pursuit of the next activity that will provide my child the full resume required for college entry.   I could have a glass of wine or two without my kid summarizing my consumption, and pointing out the horrors of DUI.  It was funny when they repeated the swear word I uttered by accident. I could walk around naked and they didn’t even notice – I’m not saying that it was like Boogie Nights in my home, but we did not want nudity to be alarming.  We wanted our kids to be comfortable with nudity and their bodies.   They would run around naked or in a diaper and we would chuckle at how cute they were and tickle their belly or grab their chunky thighs.  Which leads me to another weekend incident exemplifying how my life has changed.

During the week I still have to rise early – usually by 6:30 most days, so I can wake the veal (aka my son), re-wake the veal about ten minutes later, feed the veal and drive him to school.  Repeat for my daughter (who is definitely more self sufficient - you can infer what you wish from their various role models)- from 7:30- 8:10.   During the day, I have time to run errands, do chores, work, etc.  But the time goes quickly.  You wait breathlessly for the “all day” option and suddenly all day is much shorter than it originally seemed in my imagination.   After we drive around throughout the afternoon, we are greeted by the homework war.  I often picture the teachers as feebly armed terrorists persistently bombing my home night after night, chipping away at my patience and happiness.

On the weekends, our date nights are rare verging on nonexistent.  (There were a couple of nice years where my son was old enough to “babysit” but young enough not have a social life – this is bliss – enjoy it!) If we do venture out, we are usually interrupted during the course of the evening to drive someone here or there and we are generally home by 10 pm because that is when scattering occurs.  After ten there is no good place for teens to loiter legally so they tend to congregate in the home of the parents who are out trying to have a life.  Tsk Tsk on them.  I’m fine if the teens choose my home, but I feel a responsibility to be present when this happens, and so we trudge back to our abode.  Most times, we don’t go out, and there is usually a friend coming and going from the house – often at odd hours.  The play date of the past that took place from 11-1 during the day, now happens between 8:30 -11 in the evening.   You may be on the hook to drive during this time, so it is advisable that you not be lounging around in your jammies sipping a cocktail. 

Last weekend, this was indeed the case.   Keep in mind that my brain was still in a haze of foggy real estate terms and was probably not functioning at its highest level.  I was very tired and was looking forward to an early bedtime.  I was vaguely aware that my son had a friend arrive during the evening.   To celebrate completion of my real estate studies, I took a bubble bath.  I dressed in a long-sleeved cotton nightgown that came down to my knees.  Certainly not sexy, but I did break my own law of not lounging in my jammies.  I had promised my daughter that we would do our nails so I searched the house to find her.  I walked into the TV room where my son and his friend were “hanging out”  (the teen equivalent of a play date) and I called her name.  For no apparent reason, my son starts yelling in a strange monotone voice, MOM LEAVE. MOM LEAVE.  MOM LEAVE. Over and over again in the manner of a skipping 45 record.  I stood there, like a deer in the headlights, trying in vain to figure out what I had walked in on.  Thank God I was home to catch them in whatever terrible activity they were embarking on.  Were they watching Real Sex on HBO?  Playing an R-rated video game on Wii?  Drinking whiskey from a concealed flask?  Hiding a bong in the couch cushions?  Were they evilly torturing my daughter in a way that was not immediate to the naked eye?  What was going on in here that required my exit so urgently? After several awkward minutes of this, my daughter finally understood that I was not in my right brain and blurted out, “Mom, Your Boobs!”  I looked down and realized that it was not the kids, but me – a deer WITH headlights that was causing such commotion.   I made a hasty retreat to my bedroom and not finding any way to ameliorate the situation, started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stop.  As it turns out, I was the only one who found my slightly pendulous headlights to be comical; my kids had no urge to grab my thighs or blow on my belly.  They were completely embarrassed.   And so, I pretended that they were in their cribs – told my husband that he would have to do the driving on that particular evening, made myself a cocktail, watched Boogie Nights on Showtime, and wallowed in the luxury of being able to sleep in the next day.