Sometimes I wish my kids had a different mother.
I don’t mean this in the (darker) way it may sound–I certainly don’t actually want anyone else mothering them, particularly in my absence, and I have cancer nightmares to that effect frequently in both wakeful and sleeping hours. What I mean is that I often wish I were a different kind of mother to them: a more consistently patient and tender version of myself. A version not prone to peaks of anxiety, whose skin didn’t crawl when she is surrounded by the cling-wrap “vacation” versions of said kids.
Let the records show that this trip? Has been difficult.
We are nearing the end of it–hopefully, Covid-tests-pending. I’ve got a rapid one processing upstairs just for kicks before the highly sensitive airport version we’ll be taking tomorrow. I don’t know what I’ll do if one of us is positive. Have a panic attack, for starters. Family and friends notwithstanding, I am ready to get the hell out of this country that birthed me. It is crowded, and agitated, and aggressive, and really super cold right now. The boys and I are itchy all over with dry skin patches. I’ve had too much wine over the past month and not enough water. I’m tired and want to sleep in my own bed. I’m irritable–PMS for the second time this trip, along with the usual flare-ups of temper compounded by all of the above.
Even as we are surrounded by familiarity, it is time to go home.
I miss the ocean–our side of it. I miss the hill runs I know, and my ocean swims. I really miss my dog. I miss having my own space, and my kids having theirs, rather than being crammed together and sharing a toilet for a month.
I will miss, once we leave, my sister’s Peloton, though. Oh, and her. And the others. But it’s time to go home.
I’ve learned some things, though. About myself, and just how much I can take. Turns out that I can keep running further in Anaheim than I think; that I no longer like roller coasters (farewell, Space Mountain); that Disneyland is both magical and a fever dream and that after an exhausting day there when all I want to do is leave, an Elsa- and Anna-laden float might wheel by and as both women sing “Let It Go” while looking directly at my children, I may cry when no one is looking.
I’ve learned that one reason mothering is so hard is that there is no limit to my love, and this is awful and beautiful at the same time. Like all the most important things.
I’ve learned that my children never stop asking questions, even as they’re falling asleep, and that while Little Brother thinks himself into unconsciousness beside me, The Kid’s own brain is seeking assurance by repeating queries he already knows the answers to. I officially have nothing left at this time of night–I’ve been out of steam for hours, actually–so when he wants to know, again, how long it would take to drive from LA to Chicago, I tell him I don’t know even though I gave an answer earlier in the day (one that was apparently wrong by, like, half). So he answers: “Twelve to fifteen hours, I think.” Drawing on all the patience I have left, I tell him that sounds right, and that he’s pretty smart to know that. Or remember it, as it were.
He thanks me. As if I’ve done anything. As if I’ve done everything.