Once or twice a year I find myself having a day when I hate everything. I mean, hate it. It’s sort of a blue mood which has snuck off and let someone inject it with the kind of performance-enhancing drugs that make you have the C.R.A.Z.Y.
It takes a lot of variables adding up to put me on edge like that, but three days where three children consecutively came down with pink eye, after two snow days and two rainy days? Uh huh.
And it’s not so much the pink eye, it’s that my children are way too communicative. I have three children who feel they must tell me everything at all times. While I love that they feel close to me, and I love that they believe I am that interested in their lives and feelings, and their forthrightness and honesty, I wish they would just zip it sometimes. If they could be quiet with pink-eye? Bless them. Pink-eye with no voice boxes? Perfect.
“Mom, my left eye feels better, but my right eye just had a little bit of that stuff in the corner. Not the outside corner, but right next to my nose. You know that spot? Right here. But Mom? My left eye….it’s not better, you know what I mean? I mean, it’s better than yesterday, but now it just feels weird. Like someone is pushing on it. Weird. ”
Three children. Updates all day.
Throw in overdue bills and a studio day yesterday wasted when everything went wrong, and I’m cooked.
I believe strongly that parents do their children an injustice by denying the truth when their kids see it. My boys are not the savviest bunch when it comes to deducing social cues, and I’m certainly not going to deny it when they are right about what they are seeing.
“Mom, you look angry. Are you angry with us?”
” No sweetie, I just hate everything.”
On these twice-yearly times when I announce I hate everything, it’s as if I’ve signalled the games have begun. Hate is a word I always question when the boys use it, and so my use of it signals that I’m completely irrational. Now, there is a challenge to see if I thoroughly hate everything, as I’ve claimed.
“You hate EVERYTHING?”
“Everything? Do you hate tea?”
“Do you hate chocolate?
“You hate chocolate. Really?”
“I hate it. I never want chocolate ever again. ” Giggling. She’s talking the crazy.
“Do you hate your hair?” Ah, they’ve been listening lately.
“Hate it! I hate bangs. I look like an eight year old. I’m frumpy.”
“Do you hate jewelry?”
“Oh my gosh, yes! Yes! I HATE it. I HATE gold, I HATE metal, I HATE it like it’s my job.”
“It is your job.”
“I know! And I HATE it!”
“Then why don’t you get a different job?”
“Because I looooove it.” More laughter, because aren’t ladies silly?
“Do you hate us?”
“NO! NEVER! I love you with all my heart! You are the loves of my life! I could never hate you, I love you so much sometimes it feels like my heart is going to burst!”
And with this I have the two smaller boys tucking themselves under my arms, giggling and telling me they love me, too, and a teenager asking, would a cup of tea make me feel better? Yes, it would.
And the blue mood on performance-enhancing drugs fades away, and I’m kind of glad they have pink-eye and can’t go to school. Kind of.
“But Mom? Can you look at my eye? It feels tingly, and it didn’t feel tingly before the medicine. Do you think I’m allergic to the medicine?”