I am grateful, every day, that I get to be a mom to two pretty awesome little humans. But there are moments in which I fantasize about pre-parenting luxuries. And I don’t mean the obvious ones, like sleep - I mean the lesser-discussed tidbits of extravagance that I took for granted.
Boredom. Wow. The thought of genuine “boredom” sounds as indulgent as lounging in one of those infinity pools on a Greek cliffside hotel overlooking the turquoise Mediterranean. Imagine having so little to do you’re literally longing for responsibility. The mom equivalent of boredom is standing in the middle of a filthy room that smells like powdered cheese, overwhelmed by all the things you have to do, but unable to accomplish a single one. So you just stand there. Drowning in all the things you aren't accomplishing. Makes the golden 20s day spent boiling and napping sound downright productive.
Spontaneity. I’ve heard of people who just go to the airport with their passports and wallets and hop on the next available flight to we-don't-even-care-where! Those people are unicorns to me. I never realized how impossible such notions are with young kids. Every off-property endeavour requires tools: buckets and snacks and books and sippy cups and Tylenol (and don't you DARE think you won't need the Tylenol because that is precisely when mystery ailments strike). Even spontaneous grocery shopping trips end in tears and/or injury.
Don't get me wrong, I've tried throwing caution to the wind and just hopping in the car with the family without a strategically planned suitcase of supplies. Take Mother's Day - nothing was to be stressful about that; it was MY day afterall. So I opted to drive the fam-jam 40 minutes outside of town to the nearest DQ. The 27 car drive-through line-up stretched to the highway. As we killed time with soul-crushing quizzes about Pokemon characters from the seven-year-old, the three-year-old reminded us every 17 seconds that “this is taking sooooo looooooong” and insisted that he only wanted “animal” ice cream. But as this was not Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and “animal ice cream” was likely not an option, I approached the speaker, ready to improvise.
- DQ Speaker Voice: "Hi, can I take your order?"
- Me: "Hi, can I have a small Oreo blizzard and a small animal blizzard." *whispers* "Oreo."
- DQ Speaker Voice: … "OK, so a small Oreo blizzard, and what was the second item?"
- Me: *looking around the car nervously but grinning like everything is fine* "Oh sorry, a small animal blizzard?" *ghost-whispers* "Oreoooo."
- DQ Speaker Voice: "… OK, so two small Oreo blizzards?"
- Me: "Yes." *rolling up window* "BUT THE SECOND ONE IS AN ANIMAL ONE!"
We “spontaneously” drove to a nearby lakeside parking spot for the kids to eat their ice cream with a view. The middle-aged folks making out in their car to our left were matched only by the seagull that kept dive-bombing my window. We left after one-and-a-half minutes. My capacity for ongoing “spontaneity” with kids was quickly trumped by my desire to get the blazes home.
Restaurants without kid menus. Oh, so you go to restaurants where the menus aren’t also a) colouring sheets or b) jungle masks? Well. Isn’t that fancy. I remember frequenting restaurants in my 20s, when ketchup was on the tables ironically or as vintage decor because I was going to cool, hipster restaurants with vegan menu items named after indie movie characters.
Don’t get me wrong, I still want ketchup, I’m not an animal. But maybe I want it in a little dish. With a tiny spoon and a dash of paprika. And not next to a filthy cup of broken crayons with Peppa Pig secretly playing on my phone so I can have one moment of peace to enjoy my previously-frozen meal.
Suppertime. As a twenty-something single dame, my coffee/dining/only table was a large Rubbermaid container with a funky table cloth draped over it. I remember cozily watching Netflix shows and sipping wine and eating whatever the hell I wanted (I recall there being a lot of sushi and a lot of those Greek rice thingies wrapped in grape leaves; I even remember knowing “obviously” what they were called, because I still had brain-power to be cool and cultured). And I remember thinking, “man, I can’t wait until I have a house and a family, and it’ll be just like in the movies: a big, shellacked turkey on the table, surrounded by every colour of veggie dish - probably veggies from my yard.
In reality, twenty-something me had it MADE. Are you kidding me? Wine and neverending laptop episodes of Community at 6 p.m.? On a random Tuesday? That sounds like the best time ever.
Nowadays, I cook two suppers, because my children refuse to eat food with flavour and I refuse to compromise. After they push their custom-designed meals around their plate, disgusted, and repeatedly ask for toast, and I try not to cry, and they refuse to talk about their day as my husband desperately tries to break the tension with light-hearted questions… we eat in silence.
It’s fine.
We’re fine.
I miss listening to the unedited versions of albums, with all the best curse words. I miss cursing all willy-nilly and not having to mid-word paraphrase nonsense, like "holy shhhhhrapnel!", or "what the fuunnn house" or "that's bullsh...na...that's bullsha. Yes, I said bullshna. It's Welsh."
I miss the occasional opportunity to lie in bed all day during a snowstorm and watch nostalgic movies or mind-numbing videos. That sounds like a lottery win. I honestly feel like, if this wasn't 2020 (i.e. I wasn't going to get sucked into a sink-hole or be attacked by pervert parakeets or contract fungal face rot 3000), and someone said, “you can go on an all-inclusive vacation to a resort of your choice, or you can stay in bed wearing oversized clothing and binge-watching BBC shows”? I would yell, through tears of gratitude, "NO CONTEST" and immediately start taking my bra off.
Yes. I miss the liberties of childlessness. But I am grateful. I recognize the privilege of having a happy family whose members love each other unconditionally. And, much to the shock of 20-something me: most days, I’d pick calamity and soggy toast crusts for lunch over an impromptu craft beer and plant-based Jesse Eisenburger. Because it comes with a side of two very cool little humans who make the whole mess worth it.
Heather Huybregts is a mother, physiotherapist, blogger (www.heatheronarock.com), YouTuber and puffin whisperer from Corner Brook, NL.
