It occurred to me this week that it doesn’t matter what good I’ve done as a mother, if I have no cash on me when the ice cream truck swings into the park, I’m as good as … mommy dearest.  I am constantly reminded that my kids seem to have shockingly little institutional memory — at least as far as my good deeds are concerned. But ask them to rattle off my crimes and they can go back in time. There doesn’t appear to be any statute of limitations on my wrongdoings. Lucky me.
But, summer is here… and I’m trying as hard as I can to keep my voice out of the shrill zone, and to spend as much time with the kids as I can without going ape-shit. I made it through week one. I’m a little broken out. Okay, I look like a teenager — at least as the kind of teenager I was, not the kind of stunning, flawless teenager I seem to notice everywhere I go. I assume that’s all the repressed yelling — I keep my voice down and my frustration just bubbles away under my skin, coming up at the least opportune times, sending me rifling through my medicine cabinet for anything I can put on the giant red spot.
Today’s pimple (and many, many others) courtesy of Mr. Bennett who accompanied me to Costco today, and was so helpful he even took Fiona to the bathroom while we were there (toilet training = visiting the nastiest bathrooms imaginable; yesterday I spent 45 minutes in a state park loo (ugh) only for Fi to finally do the deed two hours later at our very own dodgy Chinese joint, Bamboo Garden). But I digress: we get home, unload the car… and hours later I discover that Bennett has taken one bite out of each of the beautiful, ripe twelve peaches I bought, and then put each one back, bitten side down, in the giant Costco-size flat. I asked him what he was thinking when he did this, and he replied, “Oh, all sorts of bad things, but I don’t remember any of them now.” I punished him by banning him from the kitchen for the rest of the evening – no food of any kind. I congratulated myself on what I considered to be an in-kind punishment, and any parent will tell you that they are rather hard to come by: you waste food, you lose food.
But, I was out for much needed drinks with friends later that night, and two of them asked why I hadn’t sat the little bugger down and forced him to eat all 12 peaches.”Yeah, ” one friend said, “My dad would have made me eat all twelve until I was puking peach.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Instead, in a fit of anger, I frantically pureed the entire dozen and made some baby food — more work for me. But at least I didn’t yell.
Good morning, pimple.

Posted in Uncategorized on Jun 28, 2011