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boysMotherhood is an adventure that not one writer has ever gotten exactly right. Motherhood is an adventure that the poets, the men, the children, even the mother herself can never prepare for.  It requires patience, love, loyalty, lies, deception, stealth fighting, hand-to-hand combat, snotty spots that last all day, laughter, giggles, snuggles and numerous and octave changing words that are synonymous with the word “mom”.

I love my children.  I would and have done anything that is required of me for my children. And if you have ever taken the time to read any of my posts then you will know this is a feat of God himself.

I am a bipolar mom.  Motherhood is the hardest and easiest job that you will ever have. Having a disease like bipolar in the mix creates obstacles that will either buoy you up or drown you. There are moments that are required of a mom and moments that a mother is required simply to be wholly present.  This means as a writer, as a patient, as a mother of two intelligent children, I haven’t known real peace in seven years.

If I actually sit down and think about everything in a selfish context, I wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning.  If I sit and think about the sacrifices, the times of sheer nerve and literal guessing, I probably would cry.  And I haven’t cried in ten years.

I don’t think about it.  I don’t listen to my favorite songs that are playing on my personal radio right now as I type this.  I compartmentalize, I hide, I throw a blanket over my shoulders and pretend to have nothing.  In my writing, in the course of this disease and now perfected in motherhood I literally can have fifteen things happening and only know of one.  Not because I can’t be aware, but because I choose not to be aware for my own sake.

One of the biggest things my children have taught me is that for love I will do astonishing things.  A mother’s love for her child will compel her to do almost anything. And if you don’t believe me, ask all the mothers who stood in the way of a bullet to protect their children.  For some it may be instinctual, for others it is just the way they are built.  Of course, there is the other side to all this but I choose not to be aware of that either.

For the love of my children I have gone to two year old, three year old, four year old, five and six year old birthday parties.  I hate parties.  I hate having to talk to the rest of the mothers, I hate having to pretend that I care in anyway about either the child or the child’s reaction to the hoopla. I hate birthday cake and I hate having to sit there with a smile on my face while the forty-sixth present is being opened.  But I do it; I do it despite all my loathing because my children want to go.

I eat pizza a lot. And I mean a lot.  And I hate pizza. All pizzas. Every kind, every sauce and every crust, I hate pizza.  I have never met a pizza that stood up for me and said oh yeah, I want this; I like this.  Pizza and I do not get along.  It simply tastes like what I imagine cauliflower tastes for others. But I eat it because it is my children’s favorite food.

This is the lot of motherhood. While I never signed on for it when they gave me that beautiful baby after twelve hours of hell;  I was probably so out of it from the drugs it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law anyways.

Tonight is another example of doing things that I absolutely hate.  I have to go, again, to my son’s boy scout meeting.

Here is the truth, I don’t mind taking my kid to boy scouts.  I don’t mind listening to the parent portion, and I really don’t mind sitting in my car until he is done.  I don’t mind making sure he is in his uniform and that he is as ready as I can make him.  That is okay with me; part of motherhood.

But having to go to these meetings with twenty to thirty boys after getting their “Good Manners” badges behaving like monsters afterwards is a problem.  Having to go to these meetings where the boys deface church property because no one is stopping them is a problem.  Listening to the ‘Den Masters’ make up excuses, and pretty much deal with these kids in no way whatsoever gets to me.

I hate children who are disruptive to others. I hate children who literally skip around in circles around me while I am trying to walk.  I hate children who run up and down halls looking for their buddies.  And I hate that these children are doing what their doing for one simple reason – there isn’t anyone to stop them.

Despite the fact the ‘Den Masters’ are typically fathers, there is no telling of whom. They spend just enough time to get the boys their badges and then they flee like rats on a ship.  They watch their children run around while they sit there with their arms crossed in front of their beer bellies and pretend to be someone life has never granted them the right to be.  I despise it all.

Last week I actually got into it with one of the fathers which should make this week even more fun.  I won’t bore you anymore and I will try to now control my ranting. Let’s just say the gentleman in question was one of the ones I was describing above.

I love my son so I will continue to go until he makes the decision not to participate in this organization.  I will continue to do everything in my power to support my son’s endeavors and for the most part try and keep my opinions to myself.

Apparently it is what mothers do.  And it sucks sometimes.

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