Happy Mother's Day, Punk!

I spent Mother’s day 2009 much the same way I’ll probably spend this one: Pregnant, fat and exhausted. What I’m hoping, however, is that my children will spare me the antics of last year’s holiday for the 2010 version.

As I lay in my bed on May 10, 2009, weary from the grueling ritual that was taking care of two toddlers, I tiredly asked my children to just sit and play in my room while I laid down for a moment. Nadjah was 4 at the time. Aya was 2 and a half. I only had 2 weeks left to deliver what I assumed at the time was my last child.

“Mommeee, can we watch TeeeVeee?” Nadjah asked in her shrill, sing-song voice.


“Can we build a castle?” she asked again.

“No.” I was bone tired and irritated. “Just get some toys and play on the floor.”


The sound of my two children’s chatter filled the room, and I sunk my head deeper into my pillow ignoring the roundhouse kicks that my son was delivering to my abdomen. Nadjah and Aya cackled and guffawed, delighting one another with the playful gibberish only understandable to two sisters so close in age. 10 minutes into my slumber, I felt a gust of wind come through the window and hit my back.

“It’s chilly and windy all of a sudden,” I thought.

Then I heard thumping against  aluminum. Next, a tiny voice said “My turn!!!”

My turn? My turn for what?

I rolled my pregnant, obese body over and to my surprise and horror, my children had pushed the sliding glass window up, removed the screen and were running full kilter across the top of my carport. A 15 foot drop onto unforgiving asphalt awaited them below if they slipped. Nadjah was closest to the window, and Aya was gingerly walking towards the edge, giggling the whole way. In the calmest voice I could muster, I commanded them back into the house.

“Git yer Black butts back in here NOW!!!!”

Stunned, Aya stopped in her tracks. Nadjah climbed back in and her sister followed. I surveyed the room around me. My screen lay on the floor, two screws lifelessly on either side. A collection of leaves and pine cones was on the floor. My children stood looking sheepishly at me.

“What the—??! How the—?!?! You—?!?!?!”

My inability to form complete sentences was disconcerting to my youngest and she began to cry. I reached for a wooden spoon and prepared to deliver the World’s Greatest Butt Whoopin’, but I thought the better of it. I was too angry and I might hurt them too much. Visions of a home visit from child services darted through my head. I called my husband who was sitting in an elder’s meeting at church.

Marshall. You get home right now and you whoop these kids right now, you hear me?!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” he was laughing.

I quickly gave him the short version.

“I’ll be home in 15 minutes.”

When my husband walked in the door, I had already put both kids in bed where they would be safe from my wrath. He called them out of bed, explained why what they did was wrong (“and dangerous!” I screeched) and smacked them both on their bottoms. Thoroughly chastised, they went sobbing back to bed.

I’m overcome even as I sit here writing about that ridiculous day. Lets hope Mother’s Day 2010 is a little less eventful. I’ll take the pancakes and flowers in bed any day over my kids trying to play me like a punk.