All in a days work

Disclaimer: Lest you think I am someone I’m not, I need to assure you I am not “all that.” By definition I am what is known as a “slacker mom.” Even still:

In the past 48 hours…
I spent an hour and half getting splattered by hot bacon grease so a band of high-school kids would enjoy a more affordable week at band camp.

I stayed up till well after 12:30 a.m. packing son #2 off for band camp, rising at quarter after five the next morning to take him to Provo High for his departure. Within the next half hour we made three trips back and forth in order to make sure the band had all the supplies they needed donated and my son had his cell phone so he could contact us if needed. I laughed at this son as I asked him to come to the car so I could hug him good-bye but he gave me a hug and a big grin right there in front of all his friends.

Later and after a full-day’s work at the office I withstood (not entirely gracefully) an hour and a half being the target of hormonal pre-teen angst/anger while helping my daughter get ready for girls camp (and that was just round one).

I later spent two and a half hours at Wal-Mart trying to outfit said daughter for her camp. (To be honest it has taken me less time to outfit an entire troop of boys for a week at scout camp in days gone by.)

I then stayed up till well after midnight make sure she was packed and to complete round two.

I woke up at 5:15 a.m. this morning (even though I could have slept in until 6:15) in order to take myself to the doctor.

She wants to know why I’m not feeling well and why I haven’t felt well for months. I want to reply, “Because I am a mom.” But she is a mom, too and an excellent doctor, so I keep my words to myself. (She probably has a clean house, too, but that’s a topic for another day.)

I went straight to work except for a quick Jamba Juice run for some breakfast. As I waited in line I looked up at all the available “boosts” and found myself spending an extra dollar for “snake oil” that I desperately pray will at least put a dent the deficit of my “bucket.” “I’ll have the energy boost, the protein boost and the immunity boost, please.” I stopped just short of asking the cheerleader at the counter to make them all double shots.

I left work long enough to throw a few things in a bag for son #4 who will be spending the night with his grandmother because there is too long of a gap between when my husband and I will pass the baton from his duties as camp chef and my duties as choir chaperone. Someone needs to keep an eye on the little guy.

Finally I turn my attention back to my only daughter. She has packed all the spoils of last night’s raid on Wal-Mart and she’s anxious and ready to go. She wants to go early to wait for girls camp with her friends. She phones a friend, finds B~ has already left, so I take her to the church parking lot. She offers me a tender embrace on my wrist when I tell her she will hug me good-bye. I grab her around the waist and give her a side hug as I kiss her on the cheek.

Two of my four are affectionate. The other two are not. Most times I respect that (although I have been known to sneak into their bedrooms and night and hug the “porcupine” kids while they are sleeping; because I believe all kids need a little lovin’).

I drive off but then circle back around because I see a stranger slow down a little too slowly and take a little too long of a look as he drives past where I have left her with two of her friends. I want to make sure the girls will be safe until their leaders arrive.

I get home long enough to hear the phone ring again. “Mom, I forgot my camera and will you bring rubber bands so the girls can braid my hair?” Knowing the braiding of the hair is a necessary ritual of camp I oblige.

As I return to the church and drop off the requested items three of her friends walk up to the car complaining I had forgotten to give them a hug good-bye. “These are to make up for all the hugs that L~ won’t give to you,” says one.

Bless their sweet souls. My heart is touched by their awareness that I might somehow be hurt by my only daughter’s aloofness. Usually I am not, but their kindness–though it touches my heart–manages to nick my tough skin and I find myself surprised at both the depth of the nick and the quantity of feeling that bleeds out.

As I return home I glance at the clock. If if hurry I could grab a 10-minute power nap before returning to work at 11:30. But there are other things that need my attention and I have a compelling need to write down what I am feeling. I try not to edit too much because I still want to explore all the directions my thoughts and emotions want to carry me.

I will work longer today even though my house needs extra attention after 48 hours of neglect and I still have to pack for myself and help son #1 get ready to leave at 4:44 a.m. for a retreat in St. George.

I laugh aloud and mockingly at the word retreat, knowing it is a bold-faced lie.

To tell you the truth part of me wishes I could find someone to take my place because I have a nagging worry about the responsibility of driving myself, my son and other mothers’ children when although my car’s gas tank will be sufficiently fueled I know my personal reserves are about dried up. But I want to go. Even better, my teenage son wants me to go. I realize by this time next year he could very likely already be in the MTC and that the dynamics of our home and family will have changed irrevocably.

I am a mixed up puddle of fatigue, even exhaustion, hope and fear, sadness and happiness. Contentedness and discontent. I look forward to half an hour while everyone is gone so I can just sit and rest my weary head. I look back and see how fast time has flown and notice right this minute how fast they are growing up and away. I both dread them leaving home and anticipate what it must feel like to get a good night’s sleep.

I am not complaining.

I am a mother. This is just what we do.