Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Virgin Territory

As a parent of a preschooler, I'm a virgin.
Yep, me and my cherry farm have no idea what we're doing.
Being a mother to an almost five year old is a daunting task.
It's akin to having Bug and being handed this newborn with no real instructions and no way to back the hell out of the deal.
No. Strike that. It's a hell of a lot harder.
I mean really, shouldn't there be a lemon law? So the kid could look at me, declare me not a keeper, and return me to the pool of people who might one day make good parents?
I had a panic attack and PPD when I was given Bug, and I'm still having panic attacks today when I realize I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FRACK I'M DOING.
Bug is my test child, the one I try out new parenting tips and styles on. the one who does everything first, dragging me along with. I drop to my knees every day and pray I'm not screwing him up too badly because I can't afford the therapy bills.
Some days, I look at him and know I'm a big, fat failure. I'm short on time, patience, and parental skills. I'm not what he needs. If the Man hadn't hidden all the damned towels, I'd be throwing one in.
Others, I go in after he's asleep and curl around him and apologize for not being good enough, patient enough, just enough.
And some days, when I outsmart him, I congratulate myself with chocolate and liquor.
That doesn't happen very often.
Bug, and my other two heathens, rolled the dice and got me. Teach the kid not to bet in the future.
I understand babies now. You feed them, hold them, change them, and talk to them (or in their general direction since they can't see clearly for a while) and they are happy. Been there, done that. Babies I can handle.
I'm fairly adept at toddlers. Chase them. Keep them from killing themselves. Keep their cage locked. Yep, got that down pat.
I don't know shat about preschoolers.
So I sit here, staring at my oldest child, and wondering what sort of torture we will go through next. He's given up peeling the eyebrows and blood curdling screams. He's moved onto psychological warfare now. He plays games with my mind, loving and obedient one day, toilet papering his bedroom the next.
There is no rhyme or reason except that of an all too smart almost five year old bent on world domination. He's already conquered The Man and he's moving on to me.
I am the last barricade keeping him from the world at large. If I fail, you're all screwed.
Just remember that I tried.
Just remember that I stood firm on my bed of quicksand.
Until some dumb shit unlocked the door and I escaped, crying, "He's all yours now!"
I am mom.
Watch my ass jiggle as I run away.

1 comment:

Tara said...

I can't wait for the day when he says to his teacher: hey babe, why don't you get me a drink of water. Or something to that effect.