Cooked and Burned

As you might have gathered from my last post, I am not exactly going through a season of bliss, motherhood-wise. I have been feeling quite overwhelmed by the demands of June, even though I’m not moving (I’m not moving!) and therefore should not be complaining. June has this way of making everything feel frantic and out of sync, at least for mothers. And for mothers averse to transitions and change, who are dreading the upcoming eight to ten weeks of summer vacation (what mother doesn’t, might you ask?), those floating days when the usual schedule is waning, but summer travel or routine hasn’t begun yet, can literally be madness-inducing. At least it is for me right now. And this past weekend did not help things. In fact, it might have pushed me towards a point of no return, where I fear I may not be able to enjoy motherhood ever again. Call me grandiose, but this is certainly how I felt by midday on Sunday, and so far, my week hasn’t given me many reasons to have a different perspective on my four children and my ability – or inability - to raise them.

It all started innocently enough, with a rather packed weekend. But I have seen those weekends before, as you can imagine. The usual activities on Saturday – soccer, piano, dance, swimming ! Then, on Sunday, my daughter’s dance recital in the morning, and my youngest son’s birthday party in the afternoon. Easy enough. Except that I also needed to have two camp bags ready by Sunday evening for early morning pick-up by a delivery service the camp is intent on having parents use. Accordingly, most of Saturday afternoon was spent organizing and labeling various items of clothing and equipment worthy of a six-month trek in the Mongolian desert. More on this camp madness in my previous post. All that needs to be said at this point, is that by Saturday evening, I was already cooked, swearing not to send any children to camp ever again. Or at least to seriously consider the bare-bones Scout camping trips recommended by my friends in France. Three hundred euros and a single backpack, for two weeks. We are not a catholic family per se, but extreme circumstances require extreme measures.

All of this to say that when I woke up on Sunday morning, I did not have the level of energy required to face the day. Which I thought I had planned perfectly, for once. I knew exactly what time we would be back from the dance recital, what time we would need to leave again and when to call the Uber accordingly. The day’s schedule was crystal clear in my mind, after the dance recital. What I had failed to take into consideration, however, was the time BEFORE the dance recital. I knew we had to be there at 11 am, and my daughter at 9 am. It seemed easy enough, and, my daughter being almost fourteen and capable of getting herself ready, not an obvious source of concern. After all, she usually enjoys trying out new hairdos and putting make-up on, and I knew she had her costumes ready. However, as some of you might know, if being almost fourteen generally means more independence in costume readiness, it also means that all kinds of costume-related drama can, and probably should, be expected. Afterall, it had been impossible to ask her anything over the past couple of weeks, and her camp bag was packed without her trying some of the things she wore there last year, because no matter how many times I asked, and how nicely - or not so nicely, - she wouldn’t try them on. So, I should have put two and two together and figured out that getting ready for a dance recital at 8 am on a Saturday morning might not go as smoothly as my naïve and exhausted mother’s mind would have expected or enjoyed. But I did not do that, because I was mostly focused on my son’s birthday party, which itself was capping three weeks of unexpected six-year-old-boy drama.

So, the Sunday morning storm took me by surprise, as most family storms do. I was barely out of bed and knocking on my daughter’s bedroom door at 7:45, asking if she had everything ready and knew what type of make-up to wear, when I knew I had made a mistake.  This question should have been asked the night before or not been asked at all. Either way, all I got in response was a grunt, followed by a strident “I don’t know, just leave me alooone!”. And later some shuffling around, exasperated observation that some bright red lipstick was needed but we never have it in the house because I don’t wear that kind of lipstick. It’s true that I never wear any kind of lipstick, let alone some bright red lipstick. You’re more likely to find six different types of similarly pale or translucent lip balm in my purse and drawers. Clearly my daughter did not want anything to do with me at that point, but when the time came for her to leave – late, of course, - she asked if I was dropping her off at the pre-show rehearsal. Which I wasn’t, since I would then have to wait there for two hours when I had two camp bags to finalize and an afternoon birthday party to get ready for. More disappointment and exasperation and eye rolls ensued, and I think I yelled once. Or twice. It was not even 9 am and I had already been triggered beyond what I would have ever expected on a Sunday morning. I was also exhausted and the marathon that the day promised to be had not even begun.

It turns out the rest of the day went fine. The recital was lovely and seeing my daughter in her white and blue hip hop outfit brought tears to my eyes, before she even started dancing. She looked so grown up and mature on the stage, it was almost unbearable. By the time the little girls dancing tap came on the stage I was actively crying, because my girl had been one of those deliciously cute tap dancers in a sparkly outfit, not that long ago. Two hours before, I was ready to strangle her, and now I could have run onto the stage and hugged her so tight she might actually have choked. The highs and lows of motherhood, I tell you. One second, all frustration and rage. The next, a crying mess who can barely contain her love.

I guess switching back to love helped me get through the birthday party in the afternoon. It all went well, and according to plan. Although a boy did show up quite pale after being sick in the taxi and had to leave the party after thirty minutes. This reminded me of when my middle school’s toxic best friend came to stay with us in Biarritz and demanded to leave after two days. I was sure it was because my family was too weird, and I was probably right. This time it had nothing to do with anything but it’s funny how the smallest event in your children’s lives can revive old wounds you didn’t even know were there.

I was reasonable enough not to listen to my own crazy mind, though, and I let go of the sick boy story. But that night, my daughter was sick herself and stayed home the next day. It was going to be my last normal week before all the kids were done with school, and things were not off to a good start. On Tuesday everybody was back in school (except for the 16-year-old of course), but there was the 9-year-old school show in the morning, followed by a parents’ late breakfast in the classroom. And on our way back in the afternoon, my six-year-old complained of a stomachache. By the time we got home he fell asleep fully dressed on his bed and never woke up for dinner. I was myself feeling quite run down at that point and could barely make it through dinner preparation. I lay down next to my sleeping boy and forgot about the chicken in the oven. Or to be exact, I turned off the timer thinking I was turning off the oven. The easy, foolproof dish that I often make on Tuesdays turned out a charred mess, and I spilled most of the burning olive oil when I retrieved the cooking sheet from the oven. It seemed like a good summary of my week, and a fitting reflection of my inner pre-summer state.

Later, my teenage son asked if we could watch Andor, but something in my stomach felt off and I had to excuse myself for a minute. I proceeded to have one of the worst nights I can remember, mostly stuck in the bathroom, and the next day I stayed home with the six-year-old, who needed to be entertained while I could barely stand up straight.

Cooked and burned, I tell you.

I can’t wait until September when the children go back to school.