Throwing the Refrigerator

“Abe, come over here, please.”

Pause.

“Abe? Come here, please.”

Zero response.

“Abraham. Please come right here.”

“What mommy?”

“Come here, please.”

“What mommy?”

“Abraham. Come here please.”

“Noooo. Why noooot?”

“Abraham, come here before I start counting.”

Aaaand he arrived in the kitchen so I could give him the food and water he needs to SURVIVE. Isn’t that kind of him to allow me to keep him alive?
Today was one of those days when my child didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t throw a tantrum in public or hit me or refuse to clean up after himself. He was just a two-year-old with selective hearing and a general apathy for responding to me when I tried to do things for him.

“Abe, are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Do you want a snack?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. What can I get you? Some strawberries? Blueberries? Banana?”

“No.”

“What do you want for a snack, Abe?”

Silence.

“Abe? Child who is 10 feet from me? What would you like for a snack?”

Silence.

“I’m just talking to myself in the kitchen about snacks and feeding you and THIS IS HOW MOMS GO CRAZY AND START POPPING PILLS AND DRINKING WINE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY.”

Silence.

“Blueberries it is.”

It’s what my mom calls “throwing the refrigerator¬†out the window” days. The days when you realize if you don’t count to ten, go for a walk, practice deep breathing, or drink something with alcohol in it, you might throw the refrigerator out the window. It was not a bad day, zero catastrophes. Not a stain on a couch, not even a door left open for the Florida air conditioning to escape. Just the same, invisible experience over and over again, wondering if I was talking to myself or if possibly my son might also, in fact, be in the same room (he was).

“Abe, do you want to go for a walk?”

“I’m playin’ trains!”

“Yes, I know. I mean after that. When you’re finished. Do you want to go for a walk?”

“I’m playin’ trains!”

“Right. I got that. Want to go for a walk later?”

“I want cake.”

“No. That wasn’t one of the options. Do you want to go for a walk?”

“I’m playin’ trains.”

“Yes I KNOW THAT, ABE. WHEN YOU’RE DONE DO YOU WANT TO WALK OR WOULD YOU PREFER CONTINUE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION UNTIL IT’S DARK OUTSIDE?”

Guess what he said? “I’m playin’ trains.”

Now, these taking up many days ¬†in the life of a mom, it’s no wonder vicodin was so popular in the 60s. And why few people understand what’s so maddening about being a mother. Most days there are no major, life-altering meltdowns or trips to the ER. No, most days are fine. It’s just that some days are just a long and windy road full of being completely ignored or actively agitated. We’re tired for no visible reason by the end of the day when our husbands come home and ask, “What’d you do all day?” or “Why are you so tired, what happened?!”
“Nothing happened except for me keeping another person alive for this, the 967th consecutive day, while he paid little to no attention to my requests, offers, or questions. Nothin’ happened.” Men have a hard time understanding this.pony pictures

But today, Abe made my point for me.

“Hi, Abe!”

“No, Daddy! Get out!”

“Um, no. I live here.”

“GO GET IN YOUR CAR DADDY.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“NO!”

“Do you want a snack?”

“NO!”

“Do you want me to play trains with you?”

“NO!”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I want a pony.”

Check. Mate.

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