So on Saturday night I had one of those dreams. Not sure what was happening exactly but I was trying to run away and could not get my feet to move. It's as if they were in quicksand. Try as I might to pull them free I could not. As I started to panic, I awoke. My feet were still completely stuck though. Except now I was wide awake.
Come to find out our 11 year old had decided to join us at some point during the night and was laying across the bottom of the bed on top of my legs. All 100 pounds of him! Other mothers might have gently moved him and walked him back to his bed. I, on the other hand, started shaking him. Shaking probably isn't the right word - more like I practically shoved him off the bed getting him off of me. My kids say I lack that motherly instinct. Just because I don't like them drinking after me, eating off my plate or touching my stuff doesn't mean I lack motherly instinct, it just means you have to draw the line somewhere. For me, I've drawn it in a two foot radius all around my body.
I will admit, however, that there a few motherly instincts that have never kicked in. First of which is the vomit factor. I just can't watch it happen or clean it up after. When I see it, I start to gag and have to run from the room. Motherly instinct would have you believe I can get myself together and go right back in there. But truth is my overriding gag reflex has beaten my motherly instinct to a pulp and at this point - they don't even wake me, going straight to their Dad. (You're welcome, Brody.)
And then there's the whole medical attention premise. I come from a long line of "shake it off" folks. I don't ever remember band aids with cartoon characters gracing my skinned knees. What I do remember is straight alcohol, on a cotton swab, and the searing pain that ensued. Thus I kept my mouth tightly shut whenever I hurt myself.
My children, however, insist on Neosporin and a band aid for any type of trauma. Be it a hang nail, paper cut or broken bone, I'm expected to stop everything to tend to their ailment. And that broken bone thing, well, that has caused a few hard feelings. Seems telling my eldest to "walk around and shake it off for a while and let's see if it gets better" wasn't one of my finest motherly moments.
But I'll tell you the real rub is having to hide my secret stash. I think we can all agree, kids should not eat dark chocolate. That is an adult acquired taste if ever there was one. Given my generous nature, however, at some point I must have shared a square with my middle child, causing us both to make mad dashes to the cabinet most evenings, looking for a little pick me up. And I think we can all agree, as a parent, nothing makes you madder than when you know there is one square left, it's got your name written all over it, and your kid eats it!
So now I've taken to hiding my stash, which infuriates my little one to no end. "You are supposed to let your kids eat before you," she protests. "That only applies to leafy green vegetables," I explain, "not to pricey delicacies! Go find some M&M's. I'm sure there is some Easter candy left somewhere."
So, back to Saturday. After my son squarely landed on the floor, he looked up at me, with those soulful eyes and said "what happened?" Feeling somewhat guilty, I fibbed and said, "I don't know. You must have had a bad dream. But here, climb back in the middle with me and Daddy and go back to sleep." I may lack some motherly instincts but there are some things that still melt my heart -watching him sleep beside me is one of them.
"Just stay more on your Dad's side," I said, as I nudged him over a bit.
To read more of Angel Kane's or Becky Andrew's columns go to www.wilsonpost.com