“Why doesn’t my step mom like you?” He asks me from the backseat. The question posed was so out of context that it startled me. Unfortunately this isn’t the first time nor anywhere near the last that my son will question the dynamic relationships in his life. I gulped down the desire to list a few thousand reasons why she would and should dislike me, but opted for the truth instead. “There are a lot of emotions that you have when you are an adult that you may not understand when you are a kid. Your step mom is good to you and good to your brother and that is all that matters to me.” I tell him, hoping that he will drop it. We have had such tension with my children’s other parents lately that I have had to squash the amount of contact with my children in order to protect them from unnecessary drama. I love being a mother more than anything in the world, I absolutely loath being an ex-wife. It comes with its own set of ridiculous crap. I am not very good at this, but I am trying. “I know why.” he matter-of-facts. “she says we just get dirty and hurt here.” He says, referring to the dirt on his hands and pants from the past three hours we spent playing around at the skate park. I reached into my purse and hand him a handi-wipe to tide him over until we get back to the house. It is true, my children get dirty and sometimes in the process they get hurt. Activities that involve movement and children generally pose some risk of a minor scrap, a bonked head or a ripped up pair of levis. This doesn’t deter me from being an active parent, and it doesn’t deter my children from loving every minute of it. My son is seven, but an ancient seven. He is a little sponge absorbing everything in his surroundings and taking it in to use later. This is great, in most cases not involving misplaced swear words. He is very aware of what is happening in his home, even if it goes unspoken. When baby daddy and I got into a disagreement over the toaster oven, This little genius calmly told us both that we may need to take a break from each other and take a nap. He was right, we did. I mull the words over in my head. Do I tell him that I think their other parents standards are somehow misaligned with my own? Would this solve anything? No, it would not. Do I explain to him that playing in the dirt will in fact get you dirty and that we do it anyway because it is fun and a bath is just the icing on the cake? Naw, defending myself or my parenting tactics is a moot point at this juncture. I think for a moment, before telling him that I love him. I remind him that our family is our family no matter what and that even if some people don’t get along, he is the most loved little boy I know of. I tell him that I want him to be comfortable and if he ever feels uncomfortable in my home that he is welcome to discuss it with me and we will fix it. I glance in the rear view as he is comfortably picking at the rocks between the sole of his shoe. He looks up and smiles at me. He is a child. He may be smart and aware and relatively logical when it comes to the people around him, but he is still just a kid. He is a boy from divorce with an affinity for inciting hot topic discussion when all I want to do is spend time with him and see him on his skateboard. So to answer the question he posed. Why does his step mom hate me? I am sure that I know why. I am sure that part of it is well deserved and I am certain that it doesn’t matter one bit to how we live, how we love, and who we are.

Whats the most frustrating part of being a parent for you?

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

I always wanted to be a mom, at least I thought I did. Back in the days when being a mom meant wearing the prettiest dress to church and having the perfect children neatly standing in a row and smiling like they just won the golden ticket and were off to see willy at the chocolate factory. I always thought that being a mother meant combing their hair and smiling Miss America style at the tiny tantrums every toddler is prone to. I never thought it would be this… hard. Being a mom is akin to being the CEO of a company craddled in the arms of bankruptcy. The title might be a little glamorous, but anyone that has ever been there knows that the glitz is only vinyl siding deep, and the reality is much…. much more interesting. We have a coffee pot, but the coffee is never fresh unless you make it yourself. We have windows, but you can’t see out of them unless you have a bottle of windex and your own rag in hand. The bills keep coming in, but no one is paying them but you. I love being a mom, but days like today really don’t make me feel any better about it. Yes, it was mothers day. My dreams of waking up to a lovingly made breakfast in bed with all of my favorite foods had somehow morphed into a horribly uncomfortable brunch with a frazzled mother in law who’s distaste for me can easily be seen in her consistent disapproval of the way I live my life (and the way I chop fruit.) The fantasy of waking to three boys dressed in their Sunday best was a reality of two children caked in pancake syrup and one that had stripped all of his clothes off entirely and was running through the house screaming about naked time. I took my three children and their dumbass father to his mother’s house, like a good mom would. I presented a gift to her, like a good daughter would. I didn’t say a word when I was referred to as “girlfriend” (twice)even though its been so many years and so many children and so many discussions about why I do not believe in marriage. I did my part, though the rest of the family did not. And I suppose that is what being a mom is all about. It isn’t glamour, except those few times I get to put on that hot little red dress. It isn’t fun, unless you count the times we giggle to exhaustion about fart jokes and nose picking. It isn’t a good time, unless you count every single waking moment. I could list all of the things I didn’t expect to encounter upon becoming a mother. I could cry in exasperation for the insensitivity to the man who went this morning to get himself fresh coffee from the nearest starbucks, and though it was mother’s day (a tribute to mothers everywhere) he forgot to ask if I wanted anything. Being a mother is the only consistent part of my life. I may want to strangle the people around me, but I can always find a giggle in one of my poorly dressed-syrup covered children. So happy mother’s day. To you and to me.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.