I have no good reason to be grumpy, exactly. I just spent three nights–THREE–with just Sam at a hockey tournament, where I cooked nothing, cleaned little (our room was knee hockey headquarters for a while, so some cleaning was necessary) and put up with very little in the way of whining or complaint. (They lost. Lots. But we expected to, it was in MA and while we here in Hanover take our hockey way too seriously, we look like dilettantes compared to the Mass folk, who play year-round).
I DID miss them. So I thought I’d come home all refreshed and ready to rock.
I did not. By late last night, I was cleaning with a garbage bag (never a good sign for anyone’s belongings) and cursing them all, all, all, spoiled brats who don’t care about their things or care about me enough to even put the Wii remote down and say hello when I come in. I took most of this out on my husband and not them, but they didn’t get the best of me last night, that’s for sure.
This morning the hallway, living room and kitchen counter are cleaner (and no one will miss any of what I threw away, me least of all) and I am marginally more prepared to face after-school pick-up time. One lovely side-effect of it all was that Rory was able to retain equanimity in the face of my grumpiness (usually she picks up my mood and carries it to logical, horrible extremes) and another is that lots of Happy Meal style toys are no longer cluttering my home. I’m still grumpy. If no one bothers to do much of what you spend your time doing when you’re gone, doesn’t that mean there’s no real reason to do it unless you want to? That’s semi-rhetorical question number one. Here’s number two:
If your friend checks your kid’s head for lice when he comes to your house, does that really mean your friend thinks you are a terrible, slatternly, neglectful mother?