Our third day of Mother Words essays, this time by Betsey Matas…

My children are beautiful, intelligent beasts whom I love with a scary intensity previously reserved for Chinese food and donuts. 

This winter, however, I’m not finding them particularly enjoyable. 

At two, five and a pair of ones, my kids are adorable, but much, much smarter than I am.  During these winter months, they huddle together, conspiring on how to drive mommy bonkers, often succeeding beyond their wildest imaginations.

“I know,” five year old Brooklyn, the ringleader, whispers.  “Alex and Aiden, you two learn to walk and scream ‘Daa Daaa’ all day.  Kyan, you color all over everything.  Oh, and get up all night.  I’ll just whine and nudge all day.”

“Daa Daaa!!!” the babies screech in agreement.

Kyan giggles his consent, “Ok, Sister.  Hee, hee, hee, I don’t wanna go to bed!”

This blatant touting of intelligence along with constant fighting, crying and complaining makes me want to buy a non refundable ticket to some exotic island where my new lover Guido and I will live a peaceful existence in our mess-free villa, decorated in various shades of cream and white.

I will live a life of glamour and sophistication and never again hear the incessant, “Mama, mama, mama, look at me!”  Instead, I will lounge luxuriously in bed until fatigue is but a dream. 

When it’s above freezing, I don’t need to rely on this rich fantasy life.  In warm months, I look forward to watching my brood explore and play, with glorious sun glistening off their golden locks.  We spend most days outside exploring the creek, riding bikes and swimming—not assembling in a basement playroom to stare each other down 12 hours a stretch.  Cleaning the sand off their chubby feet or chuckling at the tan lines that cover their little booties, I simply love being with them.

But in winter I wake up counting the hours until bedtime because there is nothing to do but sit.  Until this winter, I made an effort to get out of the house every day.  I was master of indoor playgrounds, free museum days, lunches out and mall trips.  As a trio, and even in the early quintet days (quintet gives it a graceful touch), we were out daily, avoiding and suppressing the special brand of crazy I knew lurked within me. 

Now, since I can’t go anywhere without hunting for and putting on four coats, eight shoes, four hats and one special pair of pants deemed acceptable by Kyan to wear over his shorts (don’t ask), and then lugging the four to be buckled into their respective car seats—only to do it in reverse when we get somewhere, I don’t go anywhere. 

Since we don’t go anywhere, we have lots of time on our hands.  And what does this time inspire?  The kids tear the house apart, fight over everything from toilet paper to dust bunnies and, generally, annoy me. 

And me?  I obsess. I dwell on not being able to go anywhere and succumb to my inner crazy, passing days by fantasizing about the tropics-bound Guido-loving me, the powerful career woman me, the childless me, the me I would be if…

The problem with this kind of crazy is that my kids aren’t going anywhere, and I would miss them if they did.  Savvy conspirators that they are, they always seem to sense when I am searching out their gift receipts to facilitate a smooth return, for these are the times where they attack me with their trademark hugs and kisses.

Kyan, built like a line backer, endorses a bear hug with a precious touch for his chilly arms when he cuddles them straight down between us, while Brooklyn goes more for the monkey wrap, both arms and legs securely wrapped around my neck and waist.  The babies simply look at me with their identical big blue eyes and gummy smiles and say, “Da Daaa.” 

(I know they mean Mama.)

These hugs are usually enough to erase the madness of moments past, but in the rare times when the zaniness was of a higher order, they always know just when to throw in a, “You’re the bestest mommy ever.”  Combined with a little hair stroking, it is usually enough to expunge any transgressions from their record.

When it’s not enough, I make a mental note to send them a post card, assuring them that I will be back once spring comes.

Betsey Matas is a 27-year-old mom of four trying to maintain her sanity in Minneapolis. You can read her blog at http://everydayis2sday.com

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 25th, 2009 at 9:19 am and is filed under Guest Bloggers, Mother Words Essays. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.