A Mommy Fit

It's 5:00 pm and I am directing the after-school homework session.

There is resentment, frustration, an inability to understand basic math, and a decided lack of love for the written word.

The kids aren't happy either.

We make it through four sets of spelling, math, silent sustained reading, handwriting practice, and research on the planet Jupiter. All the while listening to the small planet researcher explain how unfair it was that her teacher wouldn't let her research Pluto. And "isn't it unfair that Pluto was unceremoniously stripped of it's planet status". And when she is President, "her first official act of office will be to reinstate Pluto to the family of known Planets, 'cause who cares if it's spinning on a weird axis."

Meanwhile all of the children who are finished with homework would now like a second snack/to play outside/to play the Wii/to watch a movie...all at the same time.

It's enough to make me begin to spin on my own weird axis.

Then the baby starts to throw a fit because I say she's had enough juice for today and needs to drink water or milk.

As I watch her temper tantrum unfold, for a moment I am jealous.

Right now, I would love nothing more than to throw myself to the floor and begin to flail my arms and legs around with little regard for what gets in the way.

I play out the scene in my head.

The kids would stand horrified at the fit their mother was throwing. They would cover their ears in amazement as I screamed out,

"I don't want to. I don't want to do homework. I don't want to make snacks. I want to take a nap. I want to take a shower. I want to read a book. You can't make me make dinner. I won't do it. Never, ever, again. I'd rather eat dirt than wash laundry. Laundry stinks. You can't make me do it. I'll never drive anyone to another practice again for as long as I live."

The tone of my voice would reach a fevered pitch just as Daddy walked in the door.

But, I would just continue banging my head on the floor and grunting complaints into the carpet.

In desperation my family would call in the big dogs.

Fire rescue, police, and ambulance EMTs would crowd into the room shaking their heads, unsure of their next move. In disbelief they would stare.

Meanwhile I would crawl on my back and continue shouting at the ceiling and everyone within a 4 block range, causing a crowd to gather, "You don't love me. If you loved me you wouldn't make me do math. Math is too hard. I just want to eat chocolate. I'm never doing math again."

Finally, they would turn to the only source of help they had left. And in the door would walk...my mother.

She would take one look at me and nod her head knowingly. With wisdom she would shoo the extra people out of the room, disperse the crowd, and shut the door.

Turning to my husband and children, she would tell them gravely, "It's a Mommy fit. They are rare, but the only cure is to let her cry it out, and then give her a hug and cookie."

Then she would hang up all the backpacks, put the lasagna in the oven, and direct the kids out the back door to play. After a few minutes, the lure of her chocolate chip cookies would coax me up off the ground, where she'd be waiting to give me a big hug and then be on her way.

I smile as my "all in my head fit" comes to a close and I contemplate how un-grown up I looked in my daydream. The baby stops crying, and I realize that the kids have actually put away their own backpacks for once and are all reading on their own for fun.

I hug each one and pass out the cookies.

We've all earned them, and just for good measure, I have two.

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