A Weekend State of Mind

“Bye!”  I yelled after Stancey as she stalked down the driveway and descended the Morgan Street hill.

“You guys are the worst!” she had called back without even looking to see if I was still standing there. 

But I was still there, holding the shovel I had been using to scrape chicken poop off the bottom of the chicken coop floor.

“And you are demanding and ungrateful!”  I hollered after her.

With a freakish smile on my face, I began to seriously question my ability to mother these children of mine, as were the handful of pedestrians who carefully crossed to the opposite side of the street hoping to avoid eye contact with me.

Max, nonplussed, stood at my side and waved a cheeky goodbye to his sister, before heading back to the chickens and their semi- clean and nearly poop-less hut.

This particular Monday happen to follow the longest weekend imaginable.  A Friday sick day chased by two longer days mostly in and out of the car made me grateful I had a job to head back to when the Monday morning alarm went off.

Not helping my weakened and weekend state of mind had been Saturday night’s homily where Deacon Tom fondly recounted his youth as the middle child in a family of eight.  He appreciated his mother and he proved it by forcing himself to stay awake on nights when his parents had entertained.   Helping his mother had been his privilege.

Somehow, my kids waiting up past their bedtime to help me seemed more farfetched than my chances of winning the Mega Millions.  If my kids happen to cross my path during the night, it would be on their way to the fridge for a midnight snack.

It was pretty clear that I was annoyed with my kids, and I was pretty confident that they were annoyed with me too.  How, I keep asking myself,  have I raised six only children?

While I have learned that even though I can say goodbye to my children (sometimes secretly hoping they run away) I still love them unconditionally.  Conversely, my children only seem to love me when conditions are right.

Have I failed them as their mother or have they failed me as my children?

When Stancey finally returned, just around dinnertime, the chicken coop was no longer clean and the remnants of a homemade dinner made by my loving hands lay on the table awaiting her return. 

One look and the chirping of the microwave to the tune of a Stouffer’s frozen dinner made me believe all was not forgiven.

Maybe one night, without prompting, I will find her at the kitchen sink, waiting for me.  

But if not, I hope one day she'll at least appreciate me enough to pay for housekeeping services to cover all the nights she never came down.  Because, although I may be the worst, I am her worst.  And she, mine.