I hate kid shaming. I hate when kids are heartbroken and you post their pic crying. But I had to take this pic and now I’m posting it for you. You’re welcome.

This pic was about three minutes into an approximately 15 minute full meltdown. Last week I was sick off and on and we watched far more TV than usual. And by TV I mean back to back to back (to back to back to back times infinity) episodes of "Mickey freaking Mouse Clubhouse." (Who’s with me on a petition to kill off Clarabelle Cow? I hate her guts.)

So today I decided we would have a day filled with enriching and stimulating activities. This weekend it became clear my kid was obsessed on another level. He did the thing like when I’m reading Facebook and Mike is talking about the Mississippi State baseball schedule. Zoned out. All about the mouse. I had visions of ADD and ADHD and his sharp little brain growing dull by the second because of my slacker momness.

He wakes each day for the last week saying Bickee?! Bickeee?! and tries to change the channel if you dare to watch something unMickey. On commercials he brings me the remote. Before they finish the hot dog song he’s bringing the remote with a frantic and distressed look like the box of wine is getting low.

It was time for detox. Do they have Mickey rehab?

I knew better than to try cold turkey. Didn’t want to give the kid the shakes. So this morning we watched a few episodes. And then it was cut off time.

And this happened.


For 15 minutes. 15. Minutes.

He would start to ease up then it would all coming flooding back ... The joyful clubhouse and that cranky but endearing Donald and that sneaky but endearing Pete and that vain but endearing Daisy and that horrible Clarabelle Cow and he would whimper again. So I danced and I sang. I offered food and paints. To no avail. The rage finally subsided and we spent the morning painting and eating peanut butter.

It was a Terrible Two moment I think. I’d hashtag it #battleofthewills #hardknocklife #meanestmomever. I love to post cute pics of my kid. I tend to break phones and hard drives corrupt and I hate downloading real camera pics so I tend to take pics on my phone and post a lot for posterity’s sake. I think there’s the strange unreality we live in thanks to all this pic posting. I hate to air dirty laundry but I also hate the idea that everyone looks so perfect all the time thanks to Instagram filters (hello Hefe if you need a tan). But I’m sure not willing to post pics of me with my mascara from yesterday and messy bun and sweatpants. So I’ll throw my cute kid under the bus with this reality pic.

Today I’m feeling good in the mommyhood. But there are days it feels like everyone is having an "Under the Tuscan Sun" moment with their kid but you. You’re about one projectile vomit from Ya Ya sisterhood nervous breakdown. One of those days where you say things like "I’m lucky! What if I couldn’t have kids!" (Like when you’re fat and remind yourself at least you have money for food and not some terrible disease that makes it impossible to eat.) Hard days where it’s all work and no play. And then more work.

Motherhood is a big beautiful complicated thing. Some days you want to know someone else has a screaming kid and dirty hair and a grudge against Clarabelle Cow. So today I’m that mom. You are not alone. There’s always a mom out there with a screaming kid and a deadline. Never fear, mom, none of us are doing it perfectly. And this too shall pass in a blur of peanut butter and finger paints. And one day I really will wish that Mickey overdose was the great hardship to face. And I will long for Wilder to tell me so unashamedly what’s wrong and seek me for comfort. But today we paint and I’ll find my dry shampoo and I will win the battle against the mouse.

To post a comment, please log into your IND account. If you do not have an account, click the "register" button to create one. Facebook comments can be used as an alternative to creating an account at theIND.com.

feed-image RSS Feed

Read the Flipping Paper!

Click Here for the Entire Print Version of
IND Monthly