I lead him down the hall to the bathroom.Can I make it a latte using espresso and vanilla syrup? “Mom! Is quiet time all done?” he asks for the third time in five minutes. But as I look down at these blue eyes staring back at me, I remember: only three people in the world can call me “Mom.” And he’s one of them. I’ve heard my name thousands of times today, or at least it feels like that. My annoyance melts, and I can’t help but smile. He grins that mischievous grin that allows him to get away with nearly anything. “I’m coming!” I meet him at his bedroom door. I set my book on the side table and take another swig of coffee. Potty accidents often interrupt my own agenda these days, and I’m forced to give into his calls. After a few sweet moments of silence I hear, “Mom! I peed in my undies!” I take a sip of my coffee and pick my book up again. Yet there they sit, soaking in the fact that only a few can call them by their most beloved name. They’re household names and the best at what they do. These two grown men get almost teary-eyed. But then he says, “But at the end of the day, even when so many people know me by name, there are only three people in the world who can call me Dad.” Short remarks about the fame and the joy of performing. In one particular scene, Seinfeld and Martin Short sit in a booth sipping demitasse cups of espresso. By dinnertime, can the blanket just sit unneeded on the couch? She’s tired, stained with coffee and toddler snot, and could really stand to get washed.Ī while back, I watched an episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, Jerry Seinfeld’s show where he literally drives around with comedians getting coffee. Hearing calls for mom again and again, being needed and beckoned every hour of the day, makes me come apart at the seams. I feel like a favorite blanket that’s nearly threadbare. It’s the main reason why I keep enforcing an afternoon quiet time, although that’s proving to be an exercise in futility.Īfter just a few years, the role of Mom has worn me down. I’m exhausted from three tiny humans needing things from me, wanting to know what we’re doing today, and asking, “Why?” incessantly. Sometimes I can be all the way upstairs while they’re in the basement with their dad, and they’ll yell for me. Even on weekends when he’s home all day, the kids often call for me. I said to my husband a few days ago that if I hear, “Mom!” one more time today, I’m going to lose it. “So much for quiet time,” I mumble to no one in particular. I opt not to answer and stay in my chair, rereading the same three sentences. “Mom! The timer went off!” (No, it definitely didn’t.) “Mom!” I clench my jaw at the sound of my name and wait for him to continue. I let his questions hang in the air, because I know answering them will lead to more. “Mom! Are there monsters in my room? Mom! I found a monster on the wall! Mom! Is it LEGO time?”
“Mom! We didn’t do our reading lesson!” (He’s two. I settle into my chair, a blanket pulled over my lap, coffee at the ready, and a book in hand. I also explain that it’s Mommy’s quiet time, too. So just like with his older siblings, I tell him he doesn’t have to sleep, but we’re going to have quiet time. He’s dropped his nap over a year earlier than my other two kids. I sit in my office upstairs as my youngest rolls trucks around his room and presses buttons on an electronic book.
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