I was terrible to the boys this morning. Huffy and impatient and mean.
They've been rehearsing their tails off, 4-8 every night, for their play that opens tomorrow. They are working so hard, and growing so much, I should be cutting them ribbons of slack, but for some reason, in the mornings, I just. Can’t. Stop. Being. Such a grumpy McBitcherson.
(I also can’t stop stepping on Legos. Or picking up clumps of garbage they leave strewn on the floor. Do your kids throw their garbage on the floor? It’s bizarre to me. My boys will tear open a popsicle and just chuck the wrapper over their shoulder while I glare at them from across the room, breathing into a paper bag.)
We’ve been late to school two days in a row.
Homework is not on time, if it’s getting done at all.
And a situation at work this week has added an additional layer of mental illness to the usual patchwork quilt of crazy I’m forced to use as a brain, and I am just generally amped up to eleven at all times.
Plus my hair looks like shit right now. And all my clothes are stupid and ugly. So.
This morning, I was trying to keep my cool, but when Gus called to me from his bed (25 minutes after I’d told him to get up and finish his homework) and said “I’m still waiting for you to bring me a piece of paper”, the hem on my brain fell out.
I started to mutter like a homeless person.
Noonerespectsmeinthishouse ifeveryonewouldjustdowhatitellthemtodo whenitellthemtodoit everythingwouldbefine BUTNO NO! THATWOULDBETOOEASY. Noonelistens noonecares and wearelateagain alwaysalwaysalways fuckinglategoddamnsonofa EVERYONEEATYOURBREAKFAST WE’RE LATE.
I looked at little Patrick eating his oatmeal to the tune of my tirade, and I stopped to apologize.
"I'm sorry, buddy. This has been a hard week, and I'm a little stressed about going to work today. But you're a good boy, and you are listening and doing what you're supposed to be doing. I got upset because we're running behind schedule."
Next thing I know, Gus slides into the breakfast table, and gives me a thoughtful once over.
Then, in a very calm, very adult voice, he says, “Mom.”
“What is it, Gus?”
“Now, this is a compliment. You know how you always wear black clothes?”
“And you’re like, so, so good at picking out black things that go with other black things? And you just have such great style with that? I was thinking, you could totally be a clothing designer. Like designing clothes for an evil person.”
I don't think I've ever loved Gus more than I did in that moment.
If you could have seen how kind and sincere he was being, trying to get me to hop off the crazy train for a minute and take inventory of my talents.
Like "picking out black things that go with other black things."
I am so so good at that.