I love being a mom. It’s truly amazing—all the warm fuzzy
stuff is real.
But equally real is the pressure that forms in my head every
time we have a rainy weekend. My lovely two-year old has entered into a bit of
a whiney phase.
“Uhhhhhh,” is not a
word, I told her recently.
“Sweetie that’s verbal clutter,” I said. “Let’s use words.”
Um, yeah, Saturday morning she didn’t want to “use her words.”
And mommy quickly felt like her head was going to explode. I knew Althea was
tired and just needed to run out some energy and then take a nap. But where was
she supposed to run it out?
The nearest McDonald’s didn’t have play place. (Seriously.
Get it together McDonald’s). Then my boyfriend uttered a word that always makes
me cringe.
Chick-fil-A.
The nearby Chick-fil-A has a play place.
Are you fucking kidding me? Is what I
wanted to say, but I knew little ears were listing.
Instead I said, “Uhhhhhhh.”
Althea gave me a knowing look as if to
say, “Mommy uhhhhh is not a word.” And then started whining and clinging to my
leg.
I packed the bag and put her in the car
to go to Chick-fil-A. I usually don’t go to Chick-fil-A because they have
donated money to campaigns against marriage equality, amongst other things.
I programmed the GPS in my phone to Chick-fil-A
and as I drove there I added this to a list of my recent moral failings.
After two years of cloth diapering I
switched Althea over to disposable pull ups. The potty training process is
taking longer than anticipated and it’s like I can just see all those pull-ups piling
up in the landfill. And that’s nothing compared to the months of unsorted
recycling that never made it to the recycling plant. Some days I feel like I should
walk around with a sack cloth over my face.
I grew in a very legalistic church and
home. I was taught to walk the line. And during my transition to liberalism I discovered
a whole new line to walk. Sometimes it feels as though my carbon emissions haunt
me way more than the idea of Hell ever could.
About two blocks before we got to the
Chick-fil-A I saw the beloved McDonald’s golden arches and a play place alongside
it.
“Thank you Jesus!” I silently declared. “It’s
an Easter miracle.”
Because, you know, I don’t to be one of those moms who eat
at Chic-fil-A just for the play place.
My therapist has informed me that anytime I use the phrase “I
don’t want to be one of those…..” I’m likely being a judgmental bitch. I mean,
she didn’t use the words judgmental bitch. She didn’t have to.
And the person I’m usually judging is myself.
By the time I pulled into McDonald’s Althea was already
asleep. I drove around for about a half an hour to let her sleep. As I did I
thought about the Chick-fil-A, the diapers, the recycling, and my toddler.
Some days I walk in the living room to see Althea walking
around in my shoes. She is literally following in my footsteps. And as she
does, I want her to know that it’s not a tight rope that we are walking—it’s a
dance.
Convictions are good. It’s great to be led by your convictions.
It’s horrible to be drug into a state of shame by them. Next time I’m feeling
like I “don’t want to be one of those…..” I will remind myself of this.
