Let’s clear up a few lingering misconceptions.
I do not say “No” all the time.
I think you’ll find that if you take into account the number of questions fired at me on a daily basis the percentage of questions answered with ‘no‘ is actually quite small. In fact, my life would be immeasurably easier if more of my daily questions could be answered with a simple ‘no’ as opposed to reading between the lines, teasing out sarcasm, making educated guesses as to where homework was left, having to Google it, or remembering where you last put the overdue library book.
Speaking of, while I am thrilled that you all put so much faith in my aging, faulty memory, even at my best, I wouldn’t be able to recall where you put the slanted, four-by-two Lego piece that’s missing from the Death Star or the drawing of Phineas you made two years ago after binge watching he and Ferb for a week. It’s why I direct you to look under your bed, with the dust dinosaurs–the ones that I valiantly attempted to evict last week but had to retreat from in the interest of safety. Actually, that leads me directly to my next point.
Contrary to what you all seem to believe, I don’t enjoy cleaning. Or cooking, food shopping, dusting, laundry, turning socks the right way out, meal planning, mopping, or folding clothes only to find them rolled and stuffed into drawers. On occasion I don’t mind baking brownies, but as a general rule of thumb, it’s work for me. I don’t do it out of love for you or to make your life easier. I do it because the idea of living in squalor grosses me out enough that I’ll drag the vacuum out once a week and chuck some cleaner in the toilet bowl. When you track in your muddy boot prints, leave your clothes in a heap on the floor, or generally leave a breadcrumb trail of male detritus for me to follow, it just makes more work for me. I don’t ask you to pick up after yourselves to be mean, I do it because I don’t want to have to clean more than I already do.
And for the record, I did not receive a pamphlet entitled How to Make Your Family’s Life Miserable in 10 Easy Steps upon your birth. I did not receive one in the mail called 101 Excuses When “I’ve Got a Headache” Stops Working upon taking my marriage vows. Despite what you seem to think at times, I’m not a Mom Dementor, intent on sucking all traces of happiness from you and leaving you empty, withered husks. For one thing, guess who’d have to clean them up?
So see, despite winning the contested crown of worst mom in the galaxy not to mention the worst toast-cutter in the world award, I think I’m doing ok. Despite being told on a daily basis that I never let you do things, that I suck all the fun out of everything, that I’m always making you do boring things like get dressed and go to school and that there are too many green things on the plate, I usually let it roll off my back (which is sore from looking for lost Lego pieces).
I cross my heart/hope to die/stick a needle in my eye that it is not my sole goal in life to make sure you are drowning in misery or missing out. I’m not plotting a convoluted Game of Thrones worthy plan to deny you all the things in life that are going to make it more meaningful or happy. Promise.
It would take far too much time to plan that sort of mayhem and mischief.
I don’t have that kind of time. I’m a mom.