Why would God dump a grande, nonfat, two Sweet  & Low, latte right on top of my freshly washed and carefully coiffed hair?  Does (s)he hate me, or was (s)he trying to get my attention because all the other times (s)he tried to make a point I didn’t listen? 

Earlier in the morning I had ignored God when (s)he made me bump into the kitchen counter and bruise my hip, or when (s)he jammed my finger into the chair and bent my fingernail backward.  Possibly by flooding my hair with hot sticky coffee God made me breakdown and scream,

“I can’t do this anymore!!”

It was a typical morning. The children wouldn’t wake up, despite the fact they had slept for 11 hours.  There was whining about the cold house; complaining about the bed-hair that wouldn’t lie down; and rejection of all breakfast offerings. 

Happy, perky me had gotten up early to pack the backpack with supplies that would get me through the day with no car and no trip between offices:  computer, assorted cords, phone, low-calorie lunch, shoe change, cash and credit, and the ever present notebook.  After three days of being forced to drive the car – which makes me angry – I was going to ride my bike to work.

Flat tire. Fixed! 
Lost sunglasses. Found!
Spot on shirt. Cleaned!

One by one I swatted problems like mosquito's.  Then, the problems ceased being solvable.  My offer to help with unruly hair was rejected with,

“Stop, Mom!  You’re doing it wrong!” 

Fine. Deal with it yourself. I’m off to scramble the eggs.

After a large expenditure of my positive energy, the other child was cajoled into eating and dressing.  Then, Crabby Child entered the room spouting venom about my abandonment during the hair crisis.  In a flash, a memory of Crabby’s nasty spew over last night’s dinner entered my mind. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” I call into the air.  Jesus answered.

Picking up my ceramic coffee cup I am motivated to heave it across the room in a fit of anger.  However, my monitor kicks in and insists I refrain from throwing breakables (that I would later have to clean-up.) Instead I attempt to replace the cup back in its spot on the counter.  Somehow my wild wielding of the cup sloshes the liquid in such a violent manner that a large wave of coffee finds its way onto my head and soakes my hair in nonfat, Sweet&Low latte.  The remaining coffee galoshes onto the counter and runs down the cabinet onto the floor.

The physics of this 6-second incident escapes me.  All I know is that my carefully planned biking-into-office outfit was moist and my styled hair was drenched in coffee.  The shock of coffee dripping from my hair found me repeatedly chanting like a psycho “I can’t do this anymore. I can't do this anymore” while I mopping 16 ounces of coffee from the floor.

Perhaps I should have listened when my son expressed,

“Mommy, I don’t want you to do that job anymore. I want you to pick me up from school, but not with the car.  Walk home from school with me and love me like you used to.”

EEEEE. It’s the old “working mother” dilemma. What more is there to say?  I would feel guilty not working. Why?  Because all the mothers for whom it is a necessity to work should not be forced to work.  But me, I can do it – I’m strong enough and organized enough to work and be a good mother. All I ask for is the occasional bike ride.  Right. Then there is that question about what God is trying to tell me and why I answered, “I can’t do this!”

Comments

[Shelly]

Lately Drew has been telling me that I should be a teacher when I grow up so that I can be with him in his class every day. I should be flattered, but of course it seems like one more way that I am going to disappoint him. I don't think this is a race we can win. And everyone wants to stop running at one time or another.

Then again, maybe spilled coffee is just spilled coffee. Get back on the track . . . but watch your step.

[hokgardner]

I can't do this either. Perhaps you and I should run away for a weekend of lazy nothingness and pedicures.

Over my husband's objections, I've hired a babysitter one morning a week with the justification that if I don't get some sort of freaking break, I will absolutely lose my mind.

I think when baby four arrives, I'm going to quit working for a while.

[Shelly]

HOK, when baby four arrives you should hire that sitter full-time!

Nothingness and pedicures all around for Mother's Day!

[austin homeboy]

The logistics you describe here are quite amazing, Bitsy. How you got the coffee that high defies the laws of physics.

I guess I'm lucky I haven't permanently damaged myself with the anger I've expressed towards certain former clients. (Though I did chip a tooth once when a client I'd had for twenty-six years blew me off with a flippant comment in the parking lot outside his office. Out of respect for the safety of the motorists of Austin, I waited til I got back to my place to blow up.)

You have my sympathy. I don;t know how you do it, pal.