This morning I yelled. In true momzilla fashion.
‘How many years is it going to take you guys to finish up?’
You see, the time was 6.55am and I was
half-dressed (for work)..shoes playing ‘hide & seek’ somewhere under the Pressing Board…as I swept the entire length of the corridor with my eyes, searching for my jacket…the wine/black colored hairnet still perched sloppily on my head and I bustled to pack my brunch while trying to simultaneously zip the already-packed school bags leaning lazily against the cream wall of my passage-way. How possible is it for all these to be accomplished at the same time?
Again, I yelled.
‘I’m going to have to leave you guys at home today because it really doesn’t look like you are ready for school’
‘Now, who’s making that noise there?’
‘And I can see YOU playing with that cookie can while you’re meant to be eating your food’
‘Do you even know what the time is?’
‘Now, why on earth did I get up early only to be late for work, all because you decided to turn to snails with your food?’
The ‘guys’ were having their breakfast prior to leaving for school.
The ‘having breakfast’ in itself was alien considering that up-till last week, we always packed all the meals (2 ‘proper’ meals and a bowl of cereal) to be taken at school so that we can meet up with leaving the house by 7am.
We did that for 7yrs straight.
But then, they found a new way of playing ‘big’ by insisting on having breakfast at home, every morning.
That wasn’t completely true. They previously complained of being sometimes late for ‘assembly’ because they had to finish up their breakfast. Hardly my fault considering that they usually use mealtimes to ‘explore’ and do stuffs other than eating, thereby lengthening the supposed-to-be short meal exercises. So they suggested
insisted on having breakfast at home.
This particular morning, they’ve (thankfully) had their bath (handled by DH before he left for work) and were sitting in their pants and singlets as they ‘battle’ to scrape the last bits off their plates of plantain and egg (they dare not waste ‘my’ food).
PS: It’s all of 5 minutes to 7am (our leaving-home deadline)
PPS: We can leave home 7.05 or 7.10 and I’d still get to work before 8am, barring traffic gridlocks.
PPPS: I’m a confirmed momzilla on Monday mornings.
A quick run-through on the word – momzilla:
She is that mom who is (lovingly) mean.
She is that mom who might have flames darting from her tongue and ears in anger but inwardly, she is all squishy soft and scared of what could go wrong with a particular situation.
A momzilla is that person who could scream, yell, bring the roof down, set the alarm button off just because of a harmless (not-threatening-world-peace) detail that is in danger of unraveling.
But I digress.
5 minutes later, ‘big guy’ is
hurriedly fully dressed (leveraging on being ‘advanced’ in age), and the ‘lil’ (age-disadvantaged) guy still battling with the buttons on his less-than-crispy-by-now white shirt, shorts nowhere within sight.
I yanked the net off my hair, slipped on my shoes and picked my bag from where it was nestling and
pretended made to leave with big bro (leaving lil bro).
‘Mummy, please..help me with my button’
‘And please..remind me how old you are again’
‘Good, I’m not helping a 5yr old boy do his button when we are running late already’
Plain wickedness, I know.
‘Please wait for me..’
‘Nah, I’m not waiting…I’m leaving right now’. (Of course I’m not leaving, yet..just needed to drive the point home some more)
‘Sorry about what?‘ (switching on my ‘I-don’t-have-time-for-this’ mode)
PS: Is there a contest going on somewhere to discover the meanest Momzilla ever liveth?
‘Please don’t leave me…mummy’
And my momzilla ice castle crumpled as I beheld the plain fear in his 5yr old eyes…fingers frantically fumbling with his shirt buttons, still shorts-less and shoe-less.
Down went the bag as I stooped before him.
Yes, I stooped…not to say I love you and I won’t / can’t leave you…
…but to finish doing the buttons (he missed one as usual) on his shirt, to help him fish out his pair of grey shorts and to pull on his white socks for him…and then, I left him to handle the easiest task of all – slipping on the black Clarks school shoes.
I cringe inwardly.
Even though I want these little guys to be grown and independent in order to ‘relieve’ me a bit, yet…I cringe at the thought that a day would come when these boys of mine would stop needing me and I’d have nothing to do and nobody to yell at.
It’s of an alien proportion but I still cringe at the thought of the day when I may have to say audibly or silently..
At the thought that a day might come when I may have to say..I’m sorry..for not having enough time to help do your buttons..pull out your shorts…tie your shoelace..listen to your tales of how the day went for you..help out with relationship issues, etc.
cringe-worthy days never come upon me.
Back to the present: Isn’t it amazing how we are able to swing modes and moods in true parent-fashion at the flick of a switch? Like how I was able to go from
raging yelling in one second to being an all-mushy-emotional-internal-wreck the next minute. Isn’t that one of the perks of momhood / parenthood?
Maybe that is why there is a ‘mom‘ in ‘momzilla‘, who knows?
However, I cannot promise that I won’t yell again but I can get better at this. We all can get better at this.
To become better, I promise..to try to KEEP CALM always and..
To always stoop to help, every single morning, noon and evening…
To always give a hand if and when needed…because I love to and because I have to.
To always pause in the midst of all my hurrying and savor the joy that comes from dependency a la doing buttons, straightening shorts, brushing hair while keeping an eye on the clock (and trying hard to not herald them down the stairs, half-clad)
To always try to-not yell where just stooping to help could help. (Pun intended)
To above all try to be more of a mom than a momzilla.
Who else has been ‘momzillious’ lately?
Tell me I’m alone (or not alone) and spill it out in the comment section, tell me how to get better at this…I’d really love to swap tales with you.