Happy Mother's Day to "The Worstest Bestest Mom Ever!"

"You're the meanest, worstest mom, EVER!” my 7 year old son announced. “You don’t ever listen to me. You don’t ever care about me.” He screamed and stomped up the steps to his room. Over the slam of the door, I vaguely heard him shouting something about how I was ruining his life. I stared up the darkened staircase, sheepishly sighed and thought, “And the award for most dramatic response to the question, ‘Did you do your homework?’ goes to….”

By now, the baby was crying, as the noise and commotion had woken him from a very brief nap. On to the needs of the next one…because just a squeaky wheel gets the grease, the child who screams “MOMMMEEE,” the loudest and shrillest, inevitably gets the pleasure of my undivided attention and/or disciplinary wrath.

Motherhood is definitely not for the fragile of ego. With four children in my house, ages 12 years to 6 months, the pendulum of emotions swings in an instant from “I love you! I love you! I love you!” to “You don’t understand me! I hate you!” or in the case of my tween, in an eye roll.

I fully realize that just as the storm clouds gather and erupt, they quickly dissipate. And as I feed the baby, my 7 year old will quietly come back down, apologetic, with hugs and kisses. Once an evil ogre, I am again the White Queen of his small world. (Though, when straightening up his room a day or two later, I will undoubtedly find an angry crumpled note, in which he vents “Mom is mean. This is a story of my Meanie, Meanie Mom!)

As Mother’s Day approaches, I haven’t, to date, ruined the lives of my 12, 10 or 7 year olds. I know this because Sunday will bring a small stack of handmade cards, each stating that I am “The World’s Greatest Mom,” or “I love you Mommy, because” or “U R Awesome Mom,” and possibly a random shaped pasta necklace or coupon to ‘help fold 1 load of laundry.” Small consolations for 364 days of misbehavior and mayhem, but I’ll take it. Along with the burnt bagel, my daughter will say she toasted, but did not, and the afternoon of quiet that ensues after my husband loudly wrangles all four kids into the car under the auspice of “OR ELSE!” I will sit back, reread the “Meanie Mom” story and laugh…..then call my own mother and apologize.