It wasn’t the Boston Crab, the wrestling move, but from the looks of the other mothers around me in that small entry-way of Once Upon a Tree it could’ve been.
I was sitting on you, Baby Boy, pinning you to the ground with my knees while trying to get your coat and shoes on as you squirmed and kicked and wailed. “NOOOO!” You wanted no part of leaving. I get it. For you this was paradise: A giant indoor foam city with various rooms of fun. A fire station. A grocery store. A train room. A tree house, for crissakes. For me it was a dangerous paradise, a place I knew would suck is in forever and ever. “It’s time to leave this Bermuda Triangle of fun, buddy,” I grunted as I wrestled a stolen plastic ear of corn from your grasp.
This had been our fourth attempt at leaving.
“Bye-bye!” you two waved like the king and queen of England as I held your hands and escorted you down the hall the first time, prompting “aw’s” and “aren’t they friendly” from passerby’s…Aren’t they cute!
The second time, too…
The third time, I don’t think we were so cute anymore…
And the fourth? Well, “NOOOOOO!”
While we were wrestling, your sister was rolling around the dirty floor trying to suck a juice box dry through the tiny hole without the straw. This is a tough thing to do, especially while horizontal. The majority of the mystery fruit punch–promised to be made with real fruit, as opposed to fake, thanks!–was poured all over herself and the floor.
“Come on,” I huffed, “COME ON!,” while reaching one hand behind me and flicking the box from your clutch with my finger. It flung across the room and the hit the foot of a little boy sitting nicely on a bench getting his shoes put on by his mommy. “JUICE,” he said. “Yes, juice,” said the mom. They’re both very observant.
–WHACK! Suddenly I was clobbered on the other side of my head. You hit me with the corn, Baby Boy. How foolish of me to divert my attention. While seething in anger and pain I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye…
And there she goes…
Your sister took off down the hall like a spider monkey escaping the zoo. She was manic, running in socks with juice droplets flailing behind her, the toddler version of Jennifer Beals in “FlashDance.”
—She’s a maniac, maaane-eac, on the floor!–
And so it goes, another difficult balance as mom.
I am the magic maker. The wish granter. The cracker-on-demand dispenser, sure.
Come on, guys, we’re going to Once Upon a Tree this morning, it’s going to be the best rainy Friday ever, weeee!
I am the rule enforcer. The schedule keeper. The juice denier.
It was the best time ever, until–Come on, guys, it’s time to go.
I am the proverbial party pooper.
The one who doles out the snacks and then says enough.
Would I hurt you? as I take you for your shots and march you through the doctor’s door.
No need for a wrestling name, like the one I just got from www.wrestlingname.com (Duke Warrior): I already have one.
I am Mama.
I am the pleasure and the pain.