$20 To The Therapy Jar

When my husband and I thought about having children we joked about making a Therapy Jar.  A jar in which we'd input $5 anytime we did something that would be the catalyst to send our at the time hypothetical children into therapy.  Then we actually had kids.  And I actually made a jar.  And money was deposited.  And then it got robbed...by me.  And an IOU was written.  Needless to say, I owe the therapy jar unquantifiable amounts of money.  For my own therapy, here's my most recent need to deposit...

I have the utmost respect for single parents.  I was raised by one.  I do not want to be one.  Every now and then I get a small taste of what it might be like, as my husband travels for work.  No thank you...even for a week.

I'm not sane normally, but when he's gone I become something else.  Something...terrifying.  I have zero patience.  I have no tolerance for shenanigans.  I have negative time to myself, and those brief moments before falling asleep, I many times just lay in bed and cry.

Isn't being a parent grand?  Thankfully, I've found I'm not alone.  It's that one dirty secret that most parents will keep from everyone - you know, that you occasionally turn into a psycho-hose beast.  Most recently, my oldest was getting ready for bed.  The youngest had to go potty.  In the two minutes they were alone in the bathroom, one had screwed around, kicked the other (who was seated on the toilet) in the throat hard enough to break skin.  To say I lost my shit would be an understatement.  To say I went bat-shit crazy would be putting it lightly.

By the end of my tirade, I had not one injured crying child, but a second crying child from what will probably take years of therapy to undo.  In one brief moment, I realized what I'd accomplished, immediately sent the oldest to bed.  Then onto the youngest.  I bathed her in silence.  I tucked them in.  I bit my tongue and stifled my tears.

Then onto my middle.  Somewhere between the shampoo and hair rinsing, I put my head on the side of the tub and just cried it out.  I was tired.  I felt alone.  And most of all, I needed a hug because I remembered that I was human and for the past 45 minutes, I had sucked being a human and I lost control as a parent.  Two scrawny, wet, bubble covered arms encircled my neck.

"Mommy, why are you crying?  Are you sad?"

"Yes I'm sad.  Tonight I failed as a Mom.  I didn't think before I spoke (or hysterically screamed as it were), and I acted in a way that didn't make me proud.  I hurt your sister's feelings and I can't undo that."

He looked up at me with his big kind eyes and proceeded to tell me all the ways that he didn't think I was a flop.  "I love you.  You are fun.  You keep me safe.  You hug me.  You love me.  You protect me.  And I'm always proud of you."  It's hard to explain to a five-year-old why their sweet words made you cry even more.

I didn't deserve any of that tonight, but this tiny voice inside me told me that to keep what he said true I could never give up.  I have to remember to kneel down to their level and talk softly no matter how much I want to yell.  I have to remember to grab them and hug them when I'm so frustrated I'm going to break.  And I have to remember I'm human, and that when I flounder next (as I'm sure to) that I don't let it beat me.  I wrote my daughter an apology and I said a prayer to God that when they're older, all my hugs are what win out in their childhood memories...

Psst...My Soul For Your Snickers.

Lately, I've been contemplating what my soul is worth.  See: I would love to be thin.  I yearn to be thin with the zest of 1000 lemons.  It makes me do crazy things, I want it so badly.  I'm forced to eat raw squash & zucchini for an afternoon snack when what I really want is a Whatchamacallit.  I've contemplated knocking down small children to steal their cake, and I've actually thought about accosting the ice cream man.  I'm obligated to get on some stupid machine and jog in place, pedal while going nowhere or row myself into oblivion.  I find all these things to be deplorable.

So, while rowing away, cursing up a storm in my head...F#CK this and SH!T on that with every pull, I wonder.  Hmmm: what exactly would I barter with the devil to be thin?  Is my soul merely worth being a size 6?  Or should I add stipulations?  I want to be thin, and have chocolate never count in my diet again.    Could you imagine being able to have limitless quantities of chocolate with no recourse?  Of course I can!

In my mind, I'm whisked away to the land of Willy Wonka.  I just licked a wall!  I'm floating in his chocolate river (please though - minus that creepy boat ride).  Crap, who is that fat chick in the black bathing suit...Jesus - it is me: Row harder, row harder!  Suddenly, my vision of a candied utopia vanishes and I hear the sweaty guy next to me grunting away.  God, I hate this.  I want to give up.  I swear again - this time might have been aloud.  I receive a few stink eyes.

Row, Row, Row your boat...Although, it's not a boat.  If it were, I'd have a nice sea mist on my face.  I'd be in the sun.  I'd have a cool breeze ruffling my pink hair.  Instead, I just angrily jerked on a handle bar and dropped the F-bomb in at least five different languages.  UGH!  I think about the watermelon I ate for breakfast.  The large salad I had for lunch.  The granola I had for a snack and I pray that my @ss doesn't explode on my next pull...No wonder most vegetarians I know are pale and unsmiling - they must poop 30 times a day...

Once more I day dream, "Dear Mr. Satan - If I give you my soul, would you allow me to be thin yet still retain some womanly curves, allow me to eat copious amounts of chocolate, and make it so I never have to work out again?"  It's right about then the sweat rolls into my eye.  This time I know I cursed out loud.

I stop for a moment and wipe my brow.  It's about then that I realize that I don't REALLY want to make a deal with Lucifer.  I can do this.  I CAN!  I can be proud of myself for making healthy choices.  For teaching my kids what hard work & perseverance will get you.  For doing it even though I'd rather have dental work done (yes, seriously - dental work).

So, for the countless people I have offended with my mouth in the wonderful family establishment I am a member of, please accept my sincerest apologies; now get the FOff my rowing machine.  I'm on a mission...