Mean Mommy Syndrome

Loud is different than mean. But, being loud is kinda mean sometimes. Yes, I was having a mild anxiety attack. Maybe she had picked up on that? She was innocently sitting on the toilet. The perfect 2 yr old with her simple mind. I hollered out the door some instruction-rule-reprimand to the other members of my tribe, and she looked up sharply, "You mean, Mama?"

Who me? Your sweet Mother that cleans your messes, makes your meals, holds you and sings to you, wipes your fat spaghetti covered cheeks (and the other cheeks)...NO, I am NOT mean! But....I had been annoyed, under gunned, out numbered, hormonal, and depleted of patience before noon. In some cultures that could probably be considered "mean".

Some days it's SO easy to be nice. I WANT to stop doing dishes to run and kiss her little knee when she trips. I want to read that Curious George book for the 100th time. I want to patiently listen while she tells me all of her little secrets. But, that week...the week my 2 yr old dubbed me as MEAN....I didn't want to do any of the things I was supposed to do. I don't particularly like myself on those days. The kids are looking at me like a boiling kettle that's gonna start screaming at any second. The school gets done at a frantic pace and they are looking for the door! Everyone has bad days. But, for some reason, when MAMA has a bad day...watch out!

It's because I am the support beam for this unit. I am made just perfectly to fit under my house of Hollons, and never let them drop. I know this. It all rides on Mama's mood. But, instead of an intricate part of construction, some days.... some rare-windy-snowy-wet-live-in-a- camper-with-three-kids days....I feel a little more like that brown rug that lays by the front door. I catch most of the dirt before it becomes part of my floor. I need shaken and beat out just to look like I'm doing my job. I am the mess protector. And, no I'm not complaining. It's simply true that to be great you have to be small. And to be small you have to realize you are great. I'm doin' a GREAT job.....that's my mantra that goes through my head on a reel.

If I could turn back time I would not change ONE thing in my life. Not one. I used to have a list of things I would change. But, you know what? It's all part of this beautiful mud rug that makes me and I'm keeping it all. I have always been where I am supposed to be. If it wasn't a success I learned that I didn't want to do that again. And maybe I would do it again, anyways. Life is short and we are people that are in need of change, challenge, and excitement.

I LOVE my job. The beam and carpet thing. Love it. I cannot blame my bad mood on my three kids. They are still doing what they've always done. It just happened to be getting on my nerves more during Mean Week. They laugh, run, spill, draw, cry, fight, eat, spill, potty, create, sing, talk, love, read, play, and sleep. They are imperfectly perfect.
























I cannot blame my bad mood on my Man. I know I'm the lucky one. He is trustworthy, honest, and fun. I look in his eyes and see that 18 yr old that drove too fast and smoked Camels, two at a time, and I know that we are meant to be together through the rain and the shine. No, it was not my sweetheart's fault that I was in the funk.

When the wave of blah hits and I feel like I will literally explode if another thing goes 1/2 inch off my controlled little train track of life then I really only have one person to blame. Yes, it's me. Wow, it sure feels good to admit that. There is something nagging at the back of my mind when the mad Shoshee rears her head. It could be lack of outside time. Overindulgence in the bacon products and needing a cleanse. It could be rest. But, somewhere in my subconscious I know what I need to do. It's just a matter of DOING it. Making the change and standing strong.

So, to ease the pressure of being everything to everybody I took a trip to the Main Street Hair Salon. I know, I'm not a salon kinda girl...but somewhere inside of every woman is a princess waiting to be pampered. I suppose I should have gotten a massage or a hot oil treatment or a trim...but I went for the waxing of the facial hair. It kinda fit with the week I was having. No kids. No questions. Just me and the warm wax and laughs with those fun ladies that make all of Riggins beautiful. Aaaaah, what a treat.

It's not politically correct, AT ALL, to write about your bad week WHILE you are in it. It's okay afterwards because you can laugh about it. When you are IN it, nothing comes to mind but the negative without the kiss of witty sarcasm. It's just plain "whining" and that's all there is to it. So, as the Mean Week moves further back in time and as the 2 yr old has decided I must be nice and isn't asking if "You mean?" 5 times a day, then it must be okay to write about it and laugh.

If I just take some independent moments to realize who I am, not who I was or who I want to be....but who I AM, then I can see where I need to be headed. I am the me that I am supposed to be. Only the drive within can push me to greater heights. I awake in the wee hours thinking of all of the things that I want to do. All of the songs I long to play on the guitar, all of the books that I want to write, all of the new things I want to teach the girls...all of it just courses through me. Then I turn back into the butterfly I am instead of wallowing on the ground, a fat old caterpillar.