14 November 2007

Something Sophomoric

Allow me to introduce myself: I am the smart Concordian Sisters’ dumb friend. And now it’s time for (cue echo) Something Sophomoric -ic -ic -ic. With me. Let’s begin:

One thing I have learned more or less from my children is the value of pretending. You know--the fun, fairyland-type pretending that makes us old folk feel young and blithe and makes the wee ones feel warm and fuzzy in the universe?

Yeah . . . doesn't that sound nice? I think I’ll try it sometime.

No, the type of pretending to which I refer is less . . . fun.

Consider the following from Anna Karenina:

". . . an incident had occurred which had utterly shattered the happiness she had been feeling that day, and her pride in her children. Grisha and Tanya [the children] had been fighting over a ball. Darya Aleksandrovna [the mother], hearing a scream in the nursery, ran in and saw a terrible sight. Tanya was pulling Grisha's hair, while he, with a face hideous with rage, was beating her with his fists wherever he could get at her. Something snapped in Darya Aleksandrovna's heart when she saw this. It was as if darkness had swooped down upon her life; she felt that these children of hers, that she was so proud of, were not merely most ordinary, but positively bad, ill-bred children, with coarse, brutal propensities--wicked children."

Isn't that the way it always goes? Well, maybe not for you, but nearly always for me. For instance:

In our house, days usually begin with plenty of warmth and kisses. I love to see my children at the opening of a new day, their skin fresh from sleep and their hair in little tufts. I like to hear them talk ever so seriously about their dreams. I really like their little footie pajama-ed snuggliness and that funny stumbliness that hits once gravity takes effect.

But it doesn’t last, neither their cuteness nor my ability to enjoy them. They don’t spend the early morning hours pummeling one another like those Aleksandrovnawackanawabo children (they save that for just-before-supper-time). But they are wicked in other ways, devious ways, deeply ingrained ways, and the wickedness has a way of flashing out too suddenly, well before we’re much done with those could-be charming “good mornings.”

In turn, I melt down into my selfish, whiny, lazy, slimy, and crazier-than-ever-before self. They had to learn their wickedness from someone, right? And when I forget myself (or rather, remember too well) and stop pretending to be good, loving, wise, fun, compassionate, and motherly, all bleep breaks loose.

See, we moms are privy to people at their worst almost all the time every day. Those who go to offices regularly have the lovely and enviable cushion of social mores to keep people’s wickedness at a relatively low din. Sure, the co-workers may be monsters, but they have to keep it down or they lose their jobs. And no one ever screams that high-pitched, blood-red scream while throwing punches just because the copier is out of toner. (Right?)

Here at home, not so much. These people let it all hang out. They hold no punches. They fear not the reaper. They tell it like their pea-sized little child brains see it. And we moms, sitting innocently or not, doing our work (or not) have to contend with their outbursts all. the. time. What is more, we can’t (shouldn’t) go bezerk and start telling it like our, let’s say, lima bean-sized brains see it; that is not good people-making. It’s our job to see that the outbursts wane, if not stop altogether. To be (Erch! Eck! Gak!) role models. Benevolent queens. Gentle hands, gentle voices, gentle eyes, gentle words.

Thus, I work hard at pretending, at putting on my happy face and repeating: 1. “These children are NOT anarchist, armed, rebel baboons;” and 2. “I am a good mother.” While I am pretending I use a script (and sometimes costume and props) which finds its origin, expectedly, in Proverbs 31.

More on that some other time.

5 comments:

Rebekah said...

If it makes you feel any better, our mornings start off with me growling at everybody about how they're all up too early.

I was just thinking along these lines that the patience children require in adults is not due in greatest part to their incompetence. I understand that it takes an 18-month-old five minutes to figure out exactly what I'm asking her to bring me, or that a 3-year-old struggles to get his pjs on. It's their vices that make my already abnormally limited patience disappear instantaneously. If you really can't tie your shoe: patient, gentle, helpful. If you're too lazy to even try: LOOK OUT

The Gauntlets said...

Preeeecisely. It's the whining, crying (CRYING), and sheer willfulness that makes me want to dig a hole in the basement and hide. This morning:

"Hey, kids! We have to go get Dad. Get on your shoes!"

"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaaaa! I WAN'T TO PLAY!"

"C'mon, buddy. Do as you're told. Get on your shoes."

"NO! I WAN'T TO PLAY!!!"

(my skin stretches and bursts to reveal a wild-eyed harpy, fangs bared.)

"ROAR! I WILL EAT YOU!"

(child's skin stretches and bursts to reveal a tiny replica harpy, little teeth sharpened to points.)

"ROAR! I WILL RESIST YOU!"

(struggling ensues. child is carried bodily to familiar yet unfriendly corner and left in a screaming heap. I replace my skin, bundle up the girls, and DEAL WITH THE BOY. We are late picking up Dad. Cool life.)

Reb. Mary said...

Regarding mornings: Does anyone else think Daylight Savings Time is a device of the Devil?

elephantschild said...

My Dd had been sleeping gloriously late (i.e. 8 am) until the time change. Now she's up before 7 every. single. morning. This morning, 6:30.

I despise the time change.

Reb. Mary said...

Does anyone remember seeing the new (as of a couple years ago) Pink Panther movie? Completely unworthy of the originals, but Steve Martin had a few good moments. Applicable here is the good cop/bad cop scenario, where Martin, alternating between being good cop and bad cop, is interviewing a suspect. His partner asks, "Doesn't that work better when there are actually two cops?"

There are moments here when Bad Mom rips off the Good Mom costume and I'm positive that the slightly frightened wonderment on my children's faces is expressing exactly that sentiment--"Wouldn't that work better if there were actually two moms?" Well, there are. At least. So there.