Parenthood ain't for Sissies

© Dee Gatrell 09/25/2012

Parenthood Ain’t for Sissies

My husband was serving in the Air Force when our first three children were born. When Chris was three and Michelle two, we rented a nice two bedroom house with a basement.

In the winter this made a good place for the toddlers to ride their tricycles. The basement door was off the kitchen, and I could cook or clean and listen while they played.

It was a snowy day and I was pregnant with baby number three when the toddlers walked up the steps rather quietly.

“Hey, are you finished playing?”

They nodded.

I looked at Chris’s mouth and it didn’t look right. I bent down and asked what happened.

“Sissy made me drink something.”

“There’s nothing to drink down there.” His lips were blistered. “Come on, show me what you drank.”

We went downstairs and they took me to the trashcan. Michelle pulled out an empty bottle of ammonia. I looked at the bottle and it was empty, except for a few drops. Then I panicked. “You drank ammonia? Come upstairs.”

I called the base hospital and was told to bring my son right in.

“His lips are blistered, but it doesn’t look like he drank any amount of the liquid. He’ll be okay. Here’s some ointment to put on his mouth,” the doctor said.

I thanked him and once more scolded the kids about touching things they shouldn’t.

The next few months went well.

Until Christmas Eve.

My husband worked the four to midnight shift that day. I decided to take Chris and Michelle to Christmas Eve services at our church. In my head I saw myself as this perfect mom with perfect kids, sort of like June Cleaver. We’d go to church and when we came home I’d read them a story, and let them put milk and cookies out for Santa. Then I’d make them hot chocolate and they could eat  cookies while I so sweetly read to them. Visions of sugar plums danced in my head, so to speak.

I bathed the kids after dinner, had Michelle’s hair rolled in spongy pink rollers, and then I filled the tub for me to take a relaxing bath before leaving for church. I left the bathroom door open so I could keep an eye on the toddlers playing in the living room. I hadn’t been in the tub for more than five minutes when Michelle came running into the bathroom, pink rollers bouncing on her head.

“Mommy! Mommy! Chris has fishies on the floor.”

“What do you mean he has fish on the floor?” I crawled out of the tub, wiped myself off and wrapped a towel around myself. I walked into the living room and there on the floor were three of the black mollies flopping around on the carpet. I’ve never been a fan of touching wiggly fish, but I managed to scoop them up and get them back into the fish tank.

“Christopher Todd! You know you aren’t supposed to mess with the fish. Now go sit on the sofa until I get dressed.” I looked at the fish and hoped they wouldn’t die. Flushing them down the toilet and having my friend Rosie come over to do the burial prayer for them didn’t sound much like fun on Christmas Day.

Finally, the kids were dressed and we made our way to church. I let Chris take a matchbox car and Michelle took a baby doll. Things were going okay until the sermon started and Chris got bored. I looked at my son sitting beside me and there he was, running his car up and down an elderly lady’s leg. I pulled him closer to me. “That isn’t nice. Leave that lady alone.” I smiled at the lady and mouthed, “Sorry.” She gave me half a smile.

Michelle crawled into my lap and turned backwards, which I thought was okay until I realized she was sticking her tongue out at the people behind us. I turned her around and told her to sit still.

At last church ended and we headed home. My little darlings fought in the car all the way to the house. When we got inside and I got their coats off, took them to their rooms and got them into their pajamas.

My good intentions of being the perfect mother went down the drain. All I wanted was for the kids get into bed and go to sleep so that Santa could arrive before my Santa got home from work. I put them to bed, sat on the couch and took a deep sigh.

When I knew they were sleeping, I went to the closet, pulled the gifts out  and put the presents around the tree. Half way through it dawned on me. I forgot to read to my children or have them eat cookies and drink milk. What a horrible mother I was!

My in-laws had sent two rocking chairs for the kids, disassembled. When my husband got home after midnight, he got the tools and went to assemble them. Except there were parts missing. He called his parents in another state and told them about the chairs. It was days later before he could find the screws and bolts needed to get the rockers together. But with their other presents they didn’t miss a thing.

Several years later when my husband was out of the service and we bought our first very small house, I listened as my three children sat in the small bedroom playing while I mopped the floors. I heard a thump and then a screaming child.

I raced to the room and looked in to see my youngest daughter, Diana, lying on the floor wailing, while Chris and Michelle stood wide-eyed staring at their sister. “What’s wrong?”

“She fell off the bed,” my five-year-old son said.

I went to pick Diana up, but she screamed that her shoulder hurt. “How did she fall off the bed?” I asked.

Four-year-old Michelle said, “She climbed on the rocking chair and fell off.”

Diana continued screaming in my ear and I patted her back. “What do you mean she fell off the rocker? Did one of you put it on top of the bed?”

They both pointed their fingers at the other one. “He did.” “She did.”

My husband had been working in the basement getting it fixed so the kids would have a play room. He came upstairs to see what the fuss was all about.”

I explained what happened. “I think she may have broken her arm. I’ll need to take her to ER.”

The 20-month old didn’t break her arm. She broke her collarbone. She spoke pretty well for someone her age and told everyone who would listen that Sissy and her brudder made her fall off the rocker.

Being a mother and now a grandmother, I realized June Cleaver and Harriet Nelson were figments of someone’s imagination. Men must’ve scripted those shows. All moms know being a perfect mother with perfect children just doesn’t happen.

We managed to raise four children who turned out to be good people. But I laugh when I hear what their little darlings did to drive them to despair.

Being a parent just ain’t for sissies.