It happened maybe two weeks ago. I picked up the tiny over lord master from day care as usual. That day he had just woken up. I guess he had more excitement that day than usual or maybe lunch was just that heavy I don’t know.
It was one of those days, you know the ones, where you have to wash and cook and iron and still be mommy, all after a full day’s work. All this along with the giant swinging blade, of the expectation of a clean enough house when the chief comes home, and the “concerns” of other present but aloof family members. The pressure is real on days like these.
On this particular day the tiny overlord had had enough of me. It wasn’t about food because I fed him, or tried to over his many refusals, it wasn’t about being clean and cool, having being bathed and changed, it wasn’t about being entertained, the little man owns the TV I tell you, and his little ABC books, and his toys etc. No. It wasn’t about any of those things.
My little master wanted something and chose to articulate it with one of his evil super powers, the voice of an opera singer powered by the lungs of an Olympic swimmer on steroids. He cried, oh he cried. Nothing consoled him, no approach, stern or mild, could quell the tide of tears. And there is nothing so disturbing to a mother than her crying child, and nothing more frustrating that people who don’t understand that not only do I not speak wail, but I really really would love a little quiet too. The passive aggressive jabs about not being mother enough to comfort my son didn’t help.
So after about an hour of this torture, knowing he should be well and that ‘they’ want quiet, feeling my own emotional veneer crack at his distress, having to field inquiries and cast judgement on the other members of the tribe, and wash the laundry by hand, all at the same time. I did what any sane person would do. I started crying too. I mean serious, big wet teary, sobby, ugly-face cry.
Then it happened. My little Over Lord Master stopped. He just stopped crying, he took my hand and said.
“Mommy come.” calm and collected he was. More so that I was at this point. So I followed, curious even through my breakdown to see where he would take me. He took me to my bed.
“Mommy lay down.” another command I followed, out of curiosity. He then curled up in my arms, pressed his face to my boobs, (his boobs really, no matter what anyone else says) and went to sleep. Not before informing me, that he just wanted his mommy.
I swear my heart broke, it just tore apart. Because in truth, I want to have a moment of two to cuddle with him. I let him slide deep into slumber before continuing my chores, which I didn’t finish by the way. All the while feeling like a heal, because I didn’t have enough time in the day, in the week, or ever to cuddle with my little tribesmen.
I don’t think anyone like to talks about the heartbreak of being a modern mother, or what they mean when we have our triumphs.