The Mean Mommy Monster


This morning the sign on our door should say BEWARE OF THE MONSTER.  The monster in our house is not in the closet or under the beds.  She doesn’t appear in the dark at night, but sometimes it’s sleepless nights of restless dogs and whiney toddlers that lull her from her cave.

The dreaded Mean Mommy Monster, everyone beware when she raises her fearsome head.  Husbands run, toddlers hide; the She Beast is ruthless.

She appears harmless, hair pulled back in an unwashed ponytail, yoga pants, and a t-shirt. You might notice she needs a pedicure, a pluck, and a wash.  Sometimes she can be appeased with successive cups of coffee or a couple extra hours of sleep, but other times there is no escaping her wrath.

The Mean Mommy Monster likes to sleep until seven a.m., but becomes fierce when she starts the day before six a.m.  She often emerges during the morning rush, clothing two toddlers, packing lunches and attempting to leave the house.  She snaps, biting words “Help Me please… We are late again! Listen! Girls!”  She speaks in cutting phrases.  She is short on patience and her temper is even shorter.

Toddlers beware! Disobedient dogs better scramble.

Today she appeared when the dog started having panic attacks at 3am.  He jumped out of bed and the mommy jumped out after him for fear the dog would wake her daughters.  The mommy tiptoed down the hall, silently shutting her three-year-old’s door and snuck back to bed.  Dog returned to bed too. 30 minutes later the dog was up, click clack nails on the hardwood floors. The mommy was up too – the dog lay down.  Hit repeat, the same scenario every 30 minutes until five a.m. when the dog jumped from bed, click clack down the hall, scratch-scratch on the daughter’s door. The mommy held her breath, praying for more sleep and that her daughter didn’t hear him. But then, “MOMMY”, and the Mommy Monster slowly crept out from under her down comforter.

“Our dog needs Xanax,” she muttered to her husband. “We have two kids under three, why is the dog keeping us up all night?”  She glared at the dog, “BAD DOG!”

Husband nodded in agreement, “We can try to keep him downstairs, but he’ll probably whine.” Quick kiss on the monster’s head and the husband escaped to work.

The Mean Mommy Monster was tired, but she wasn’t ghoulish yet.  Coffee could only do so much.  Swim class at 9am, an insulting email and the baby’s new favorite game of stripping nude after Mommy finished dressing her, unleashed the perfect storm.

The play by play, she dressed her girls, swimsuit for the big girl and a clean outfit for the little one.  She slipped out of the room to dress herself. Shrieks erupted from her children.  The baby tore off her pants, shirt and diaper. Big girl squealed, “She’s naked!” The Mean Mommy Monster emerged from her cave, half naked chasing the baby around the room as the baby screamed, “No Mama! No Diaper! No Mama! No Diaper!”

Around the room they ran, the shirtless monster yelled, “Help me pleeeease. We are late.”  They circled the room, shrieks and giggles further enraging the Monster.

Big girl munched pretend food, “I want to play,” she responded.  The Mean Mommy Monster fumed.  The Mommy Monster pulled on big girls’ clothes as big girl sat limp on the floor.

“Help Me, Please,” the monster snapped repeatedly. “Swimming is for you, it’s supposed to be fun.  We don’t have to go.” The baby pulled off her clothes for the third time and big girl laughed hysterically.

Finally downstairs, the Monster began the arduous task of putting little feet in little shoes, the baby screamed again. “I want crocs,” hysterics, “I want crocs,” at the top of her lungs.  These two-year-old tantrums pushed the monster’s limits.

“Stop,” screamed the Mommy Monster, “No Crocs, snow on the ground… No Crocs.”  Baby screamed and hit the floor in a ball of anger.  “Screaming doesn’t get what you want,” the Mommy Monster screamed back, clearly not listening to her own message.

The Mommy Monster snapped.  She tried to control her fury.  Her yelling made her kids feel bad, but she felt worse.  Her short temper ate at her on these days.  She pleaded, “Help, please, help…” but she knew her expectations were unrealistic for her two kids under four-years-old.

She strapped the baby in her seat as the baby yelled repeatedly – “Stuck, stuck, stuck!”

“That’s the point,” the Mean Mommy Monster muttered, “car seats make you stuck.”  Baby screamed and the Mommy Monster drove.

She wanted to turn around.  She wanted to go home, give up on swim class and the outside world, but she pulled into the YMCA.  They sat in the parked car. The Monster took a deep breath.  She felt bad.  She felt sad.  She felt guilty.  It had been a hard couple of weeks.  She apologized to her little girls strapped into their car seats, “I’m so sorry Mommy was so grumpy.  I was too grouchy this morning.”  She meant it.

In class, the Monster and the baby sat together on the bench, watching the big girl swim happily.  Another mother sitting nearby asked about the morning.

“It’s been rough,” the Monster replied.

“I hate those mornings,” the other mom stated.  “The mornings when you snap and the children should just get out of your way.  My acupuncturist told me that we all have these moments. Moments when we don’t like who we are or how we behave.  She said our moms had these moments too and typically we don’t remember them, so we shouldn’t beat ourselves up about them either.”

It struck me – this could be my new friend.

Her words, a relief, like ending a yoga class – Namaste – the divine light in me in me honors the divine light in you.

Or in this case, the Mommy Monster in me honors the mommy monster in you.  We are all okay.




    I Guess Some Days Are Just Like That


    It’s been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

    I wake up this morning at 5:30am, my daughter tugging at my arm, I roll over and see my husband lying on his side, pretending to be sound asleep.  I change diapers. I wipe bottoms. I make coffee.  The coffee over-flows, spilling on the counter, burning the underside of the pot, a puddle on the floor.  My husband says it’s my fault that I always over fill the coffee grounds.

    It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

    It is spring, April 16th, snowing, not a pretty snow, but a slushy snow that looks dirty before it even hits the ground.  I get my daughters dressed and ready for school.  I remember her boots, snow pants, hats, and mittens because God forbid, I show up without them. (Yes, I’ve gotten the yellow sticky note inside her cubby, preschool’s Scarlet Letter, stating my daughter was dressed inappropriately for the weather).  TODAY I remember her snow clothes.  I squeeze two bundled toddlers into their car seats.  Pull two toddlers out of the car, holding one in each arm so their feet don’t get wet in the slush.  I carry them like packages down the sidewalk under my arms to school.  I enter the classroom, unloading snow clothes into her cubby and realize where is her backpack? No backpack. No lunch.  No snack. I am defeated, I drive home in the snow to retrieve the forgotten goods, buckling and unbuckling and squeezing my little one from her car seat again and again.

    It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

    A gloomy day with gloomy thoughts.  Dad in the ICU. Boston. Aurora. Newtown. Guns. Bombs. Parents, their core-beings amputated in a flash of violence as their children are senselessly ripped from their lives. Enough is enough. Gun control legislation shot down.  Where is our country’s common sense?

    Self-doubt, my mind is a house of mirrors, reflections distorted and unclear.

    It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

    But then, my husband comes home. “I’m sorry you’ve had a hard day.  I wasn’t mad about the coffee,” he returns to work.  My Dad is moved out of the ICU.  A message, “I love reading what you write.” Two hour naps and I write the entire time.  I am fueled.  Girls bounce from bed full of joy.  Bookstore. No tantrums.  No tears. A new chapter book.  A new Snow White princess book (with stickers). Excitement. Cold wind. Snow pelting our faces. Alive. Pizza. A phone call from husband, “Babe, the meeting was canceled, I’ll be home soon.”

    A dance party. Arms outstretched like airplanes, a mom with her two girls, flying through the living room, spinning, and singing at the top of their lungs, “I PRETEND THAT AIRPLANES IN THE NIGHT SKY ARE SHOOTING STARS, I COULD REALLY USE A WISH RIGHT NOW, WISH RIGHT NOW, WISH RIGHT NOW … ”.

    My youngest arms spread wide shouts, “I fly Mama, me an airplane,” as she circles the room at full speed. We are sprinkled with magic pixie dust and happy thoughts, soaring through Neverland.

    Big girl orders, “Mom, you pretend you’re making the wish and we’ll be the shooting stars.  What do you wish for?” The snow is no longer dreary and the music swallows us on this unusual April night.

    “Health and happiness.” I tell her.  A selfish wish, but it’s my wish all the same.

    “I wish to enter the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” She exclaims, (like the Magic Tree House books we read at night where the kids are transported into the pages of their stories).

    “Yeah, that’s a pretty cool wish.” I smile.  We fly. We dance.  We sing.

    It has been a wonderful, magical, complex, very good day.

    I guess some days are just like that.