Friends took our boys to the Brewers game last night, thanks to tickets they’d won for their MDA fundraising efforts. Thanks, guys! All week I’d been looking forward to a quiet little grocery shopping junket with my husband. I know. I need a life. It’s just that work is breaking my heart these days, and my brain apparently converts heartache into somatic symptoms. I’m really tired these days. Really tired. Blah. Plus I actually enjoy grocery shopping more than other household chores, so yeah, I looked forward to a Friday night grocery game.
Bliss ended about one-fifth of the way down the first aisle though, and I got crabby. Stupid crabby. Probably I shouldn’t even write this post because my crabby is that genuinely stupid. But since I almost never save myself from my own stupid, off we go.
Our grocer carries two kinds of pretzels vended in large vats: traditional pretzel rods, which my husband loves, and honey braids, which I prefer. I asked my husband to grab a container of the twisty kind, and he said he didn’t like them, so he grabbed the pretzel rods.
And that, friends, is where the wheels came off the bus.
In my very least adult, most passive-aggressive manner, I snatched up a container of the snack I wanted, and launched into a diatribe questioning why couldn’t I have what I wanted? Just because you like something else doesn’t mean we can’t get both! Why is that I always give up my portion or simply give you all the portion of food that I want because either you prefer something else or I feel you’re more deserving? Do you know how many times I don’t get to eat something because I know the kids and you eat more than me, so I only grab like two french fries or a teaspoonful of noodle side dishes or bananas or whatever? I always choose the ugly enchilada or make due with the broken taco shells. Why?? Why is it assumed I’ll take the corner piece?? (which is aces when it’s cake because frosting! but otherwise, corner piece of whatever is nobody’s first choice, right?)
Yes, those thoughts and words passed my consciousness, and a few even passed my lips, but mostly I just remained mute. Because crabby. And passive-aggressive quiet the remainder of the evening.
I felt like there was some big lesson I should pull together from the 2017 May Pretzel Incident, but really I’m just a jerk, and any lesson I have to teach has reached its intended audience. Me. Get over it, Wendy. In retrospect, I think maybe he didn’t even hear me. He tunes out 70% of what I say anyway, which is super annoying and frustrating in its own right, but a topic for another post. I think I might have mentioned that when I’m not mute, I talk a lot. He says sometimes I’m “quiet,” but I think that’s guy code for “I’m not actually listening, and I don’t want you to be super pissed.”
If there’s any takeaway, let it be this: Moms, you’re amazing. Of course you give up that last banana for your kids, even when you really want it. Of course you divvy up your portion of French fries when you see your kids’ plates have already been cleared of their (already much larger but who’s counting) portion of fries. Of course you forego any semblance of a social life for baseball, piano lessons, band concerts, therapy appointments, whatever your family needs. YOU’RE THE MOM! And most often you do these things happily. Within my power and whatever financial wherewithal we possess, I would do whatever I could to provide opportunities to make my children happy. There’s nothing that makes me happier than seeing my kids happy.
But it’s OK to want the nice thing, the pretty thing. Because Moms, you’re amazing! Every so often, a girl wants to be reminded that she deserves her very own enormous container of honey braid pretzels is all. Happy Mother’s Day to each of you who fulfills the role of mom. Enjoy the spotlight this weekend, and don’t forget to overlove your babies, those once- and still-slobbery creatures whose being confers your favorite-ever title and job you wouldn’t trade for all the world: Mom.