I scurry to the car. We’re late again. I promised myself this time we would be on time. This time, we wouldn’t be late. We’re late.

I’ve never really cared about my clothes, but today it shows more than ever and frankly, I’m embarrassed. I look at my outfit and I’ve got leftovers enough to eat another entree. I try to scuff off the crusted carrot baby food, but it isn’t budging. The specks of orange just rearrange themselves. I look down at my shoes and my tears start. Today isn’t my day.

And them my hand fumbles for the mirror. Why did I ever think that was a good idea?!? I get even more discouraged at the face staring back. My cheeks are wet. The hair that topples down my head looks more like I slept on it wrong than as if I actually tried to roll it in curlers.

When we get to the party, I wonder why sometimes my children act as if they’ve been neglected their entire lives, void of any motherly influences.  And, child, have I taught you to eat that way or did you pick that up when you were being raised as Mowgli’s sibling in the jungle? Instead of making excuses for my kid’s poor manners, I remain quiet. Explaining the atrocious behavior won’t sway anyone’s assumptions anyway.

Son, should we get your hearing checked at the doctor’s this week? You must have hearing problems because today I’ve set a new record for how many times any mother has ever repeated herself–and my repeat function is now broken. If there were a Guinness record for that, I’d own it and it would have been shattered by noon.

And son, have you forgotten that throwing books isn’t a good idea? Didn’t we just have this conversation last night? Oh no, maybe you have memory loss. We’ll get that checked out too. Today isn’t my day.

What’s that? Pierson said “Doopy?” As in “Get your ‘doopy’ feet out of my eyes?” I’m sorry–I must have missed when tattling over made up words became vogue. Today isn’t my day.

I’m starting to fade. My resolve to make it calmly to bed time is waning. But thankfully, the end is in sight. We sit down to read the Bible Story and my son leans over his bed rail and spits on the floor–a full-fledged, without abandon, SPIT. As a mom, I wish some days came equipped with a renege. Then, today would truly be my lucky day.

*In fairness, I wrote this post a while back and my days like this are more rare than commonplace.  I most DEFINITELY love being a mom, but on these doozy type of days, I have a strange urge to suggest a long game of hide-and-seek.  I envision it’d go like this: I’d be the first to hide.  And maybe, just maybe, I’d stay hidden for, oh, say 12 hours.

“Momma, will you read to me?“

Everything in me wants to ignore the question and carry on with business. I’m on my way to tackle the boatload of dishes that are piled in the sink and on the counters more expertly than a hundred clowns packed in a VW bug.

I want to say, “I’ve got dishes to wash…  I’ve read that book a thousand times already…  That is the dullest book on this planet…  I can’t for the life of me understand why you like that book so much….  No.  No.  No.”

But as quickly as the ‘NO’ thoughts enter my head, they are overrun with the reminder of the great privilege to read to my son; and with thoughts of gratefulness that he loves books; and also mixed with thoughts of how these these types of tender moments disappear as fast as they have appeared.

One day, I know he’ll sit down on that couch and won’t need me to read because he’ll be able to piece the words together on his own.  I stop. And though my actions don’t wholly reflect my impatient thoughts, I turn and with a smile and say, “I’d be happy to.”  And after obliging my son with the most BORING book on the planet, I realize, it truly did make my heart happy.