Dearest Bart, Enzian, Ludwig and Johann
I guess you will never understand why I get grumpy at times. Why I can’t always be happy and humming merrily; why I lack the energy to keep up with your activities; why I only appear to be able to manage your most basic daily needs and anything more than that is a luxury; why sometimes running 100 metres under 9 seconds is more achievable than asking me to bend the rules a little.
This morning, after making you a good breakfast (toast, cheese, bacon, eggs, warm milk), I proceeded with preparing your snacks (cut apples, nutella bread, bread rolls) for snacks in school and Bart’s food (2 packs Milo, ham, cheese and egg sandwich, cut apples and tidbits) to take along for his bus ride to Port Dickson for his 3 days, 2 nights class trip. After seeing you guys off, I went upstairs and entered the bedroom. To my disappointment, it was not made-up even though you do it every day. Because I had more things to prepare this morning, I could not stay upstairs longer than usual with you, I was not there to remind you to do it, it was not done. So I picked up the scattered football stickers, the bags, some trash, the unfolded blankets, the out of place pillows and bolsters, the sketches of the FIFA logo and a few pairs of shorts and a t-shirt. One of you simply transferred the goggles from the dining table to the coffee table upstairs, in response to my request to keep them. In one bedroom, I saw shorts all over the place, soiled laundry from the previous day (or days?) on the floor here and there, and in the bathroom.
Yesterday, I admit I was tired, I was making a much bigger effort than normal to contain my impatience. You did what you would do on any average afternoon after you returned home from school. I did not make a big fuss when you filled up a small bucket of water to wash the stones and seashells you collected from our Thailand trip. I did not complain when you started also to fill up your water guns, causing a trace of dripping water from the kitchen sink through the living room to the front porch. I only told you not to shoot at me and Heike when she so graciously dropped Bart off at our doorstep from school. I allowed you your own time and space because I know this is what I would appreciate too when I just returned home after a long day. But I couldn’t suppress the crankiness in me any longer when you continued to flip through the pages of your FIFA World Cup sticker album and ignore my reminders that it is time to start packing, clean up, shower, have dinner, wash up and go to bed. If only I had half your focus from that sticker album for listening to me, things would be much easier. But I suppose you have a different plan for me. A much bigger plan with much tougher challenges, challenges that I think I will crumble under the weight of them. And crumble did I. If you were observant enough, you would have smelled the smoke of a soon-to-erupt volcano. It was quite natural you could feel the earth under your feet rumbling minutes after. Then you see fire sparkles just like fireworks from me, you hear my grunts that easily reached 180 decibels (okay, I am exaggerating, that’s the decibel of an aircraft taking off), you can literally see your mom transform into a fuming, mean, green monster.
In your eyes, all these are so unimportant, so trivial and easy-to-accomplish-tasks. But are you aware that these so called unimportant chores can be accumulated over time and become the reason why some mothers just drop everything and leave their children? Please believe me, boys, that I despise myself for treating you this way more than I am mad at you. For each angry word that spills from my mouth is a knife that stabs into my heart.
If anyone of you were to think that a mother's job is easy, I would ask you to think again, again and again. This is especially true for someone who has dedicated her heart, soul and mind to this most ridiculously demanding profession, above all and any rankings. By virtue of that, I feel I have some rights, not excuses, to grunt, to nag, to shout, to be grumpy when I am repeatedly slapped with so many show-stoppers every single day.
Your mother might appear like a tough nut to crack, but do you know that after each blasting, she would hide in her room and sob when you are all asleep? The pain tugs at her, the guilt lingers. But even after that, she will dry her tears, pick herself up, and brace herself for the next day with her never-give-up attitude “let’s make today a better day”.
I know, with confidence, that one day you will understand why I get grumpy at times.
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