Because someone ran inside screaming after she stepped on “a sharp stick” 30 seconds after ignoring Mama’s 47 warnings not to play on the driveway without shoes on, and sipping sauvignon blanc is more satisfying than telling a crying three-year-old, “I told you so.”
When mama loses it, everyone suffers. This is why God invented wine. A cool, crisp glass of sauvignon blanc prevents a myriad of mama meltdowns in my house. Kids doing something dangerous? Grab a glass. Siblings physically assaulting one another? Tip the bottle. Someone’s melting down? Sip that sauvy b and pretend it’s not your problem.
Mama Tries Blog is beginning a new series called: Why Mama’s Drinking Wine, which will capture all of those parenting moments you dreamed of when you were checking your basal temperature and tracking your ovulation all those years ago – like your kids sketching a poorly executed illustration on the dining room wall or sobbing because you gave them the granola bar they asked for. Instead of melting down along with my children, I’ll be pouring myself a glass and taking a selfie to capture the moment. I hope you will too.
This is what it looks like under our dining room table. Unidentifiable crumbs and toy bits from all walks of life living together in unity. It’s what I imagine the secret community that lives in the Parisian catacombs is like.
I recently lost a bout with a stomach bug that attacked me out of no where. My husband and I were out on a date night and we had to leave the restaurant before our entrees even arrived. Tragically, also left behind was my full cocktail. This alone should paint a pretty clear picture of how poorly I felt.
About an hour after arriving home, I came down with a raging fever, complete with chills and body aches. This was followed by perhaps the most violent vomiting episodes this gal has ever experienced. And I once (twice?) did a shot that was lit on fire before I drank it. By the time my husband had to leave for work the next morning, the barfing and fever had subsided, but my body was ravaged by the fever dreams and retching. My husband took the girls aside, letting them know they should “be very good for Mommy,” and then he left. Good they were. As I lay on the couch, I hardly heard a peep from them all day. I should have known it was too “good” to be true.
Below, find a photo map of the destruction they left for me to find once I found the strength to peel myself off the couch for some ginger ale.
The carpet was littered with pistachio shells. I found myself slightly annoyed, slightly impressed that they got them open, and fully grateful that I noticed them before stepping on one of their sharp edges.
Entering the kitchen I discovered where they put the rest of the pistachio shells. I also came to realize that the girls need a refresher on what items go in the disposal, and what needs to go in the trash or recycling bins.
So dedicated to leaving Mommy undisturbed, they attempted to use the saran wrap without assistance. Apparently this task was so frustrating that they needed to both destroy the container and leave it on the kitchen floor. I’m still uncertain what they were trying to seal, and I only hope it was not one another.
Who needs Mom to help with arts and crafts? Not my kids. They know how to find tissue paper typically used for boring old gift wrapping, and slather it with paint and glue, all on their own. Look how generous they were to leave it all out on display so that I could see their handiwork!
Some people do hot yoga, some practice Hatha. Well, my innovative children have created multi-room yoga. If you’re completing your daily practice in one room only, you’re depriving your chakras of fully transcending in two places at once, and I basically just feel sorry for you. My kids are about to be very big in Portland.
The front porch solidified the fact that my children are brilliant. They left the most destruction in the room furthest away from the couch I was comatose on. Well played girls. Well played.
Once the tour of downstairs was complete, I figured I’d better find my children, who had convinced me, in my fragile state, to let them play outside unattended. I found them on the driveway with a bucket of soapy water they were using to clean off whatever it was they had on their hands. Impressed at their responsibility, I felt it safe to return to the couch.
I’m not sure how much time had passed until I heard the crash, but I awoke in time to see my five-year-old standing on a stool, reaching into the spice cabinet, a look of fearful horror on her face. Apparently, a jar of bay leaves attempted to make an escape, shattering the glass bowl on the counter below. And with that, Mama was officially back on duty.