Super Mom

Ding dong, the doorbell rings as I’m putting the finishing touch of candy eyeballs on hotdogs wrapped in crescent rolls, transforming them into mummy dogs for my son, Rowan’s, Halloween party. I’ve been up since 3:15 am preparing for 15 Kindergarteners and their parents to swarm on my 1960 tri-level. Rowan is as sociable as any five-year-old can be, requesting playdates with all his friends.  Instead of scheduling playdate after playdate, my bright idea is to host one massive playdate celebrating Halloween, so I don’t have to have another playdate for at least a year.

The backyard features games galore: mini golf, pin the eyeball on the zombie, suction cup archery, monster cornhole, a mini roller coaster, and a Halloween egg hunt using recycled Easter eggs plastered with Halloween stickers. The snack table is an explosion of Pinterest ideas. In addition to the mummy dogs, there are teeth made of apples, almond butter, and marshmallows; bagel bites with spiders made from olives; and graveyard dirt cups with Milano cookie headstones. To top it off, I arrange for Rowan’s best friend to surprise him from out of town. 

The party goes off without a hitch as we unleash the children on their quest to find the Halloween eggs, and then commence partaking in the lawn games. The ravenous children devour my thoughtfully crafted appetizers, as their parents comment on my creativity and attention to detail. As I wave goodbye to the last guest, I proclaim to myself, “I’m never doing that again.” Robert, standing behind me, chimes in, “of course you will; you are super mom.” I, however, feel more like a Zombie given the pure exhaustion consuming my body. 

The next morning, the aftermath of throwing the party of the century hits me like a bulldozer. Exhausted, I nap for most of the morning while I depend on the subsidized babysitter—the television—to entertain Rowan. As I’m entering hour four of my comatose nap, the guilt of being a “lazy” mom begins to gnaw at me.  I drag myself out of bed, apply concealer to disguise the bags under my eyes, and take Rowan to his favorite place on earth—the jump park.

This child, with boundless energy, sprints once his feet hit the bouncy floor. “Mom, I’m going to be brave,” Rowan declares as he climbs into the daunting net tunnel. As he lowers himself down from the tunnel into the foam block pit for the first time, Rowan proudly announces, “Mom! I did it! I’m super Rowan!” “Yes, you are, baby,” I reply wearily. “Time to go; this super mommy has a headache.” 

As I escort him to put on his shoes, Rowan demands I buy him a snack. Feeling the hole where a $20 bill previously resided, I exclaim with frustration: “Absolutely not! I already spent a lot of money on you and I’m not buying snacks here that we have at home.” With a visceral noise rising from his gut, Rowan screams,“that’s not fair, mommy, Aagrah,” and proceeds to hit me. On my best of days, I am a gentle parent, leading Rowan through processing his emotions. This, however, is not one of those days.

Instead of raising my voice, I simply say with disappointment exuding from every word: “I can’t believe you would intentionally hurt mommy after everything I do for you.”  “Put on your shoes, and let’s go,” I state in a matter-of-fact tone, void of warmth. Rowan follows me, exclaiming, “I’m SORRY MOMMY,” in a pleading tone. “No, you’re not,” I retort. This dynamic continues on our drive home until Rowan remarks in a precocious tone: “Mommy, you’re frustrated with me; say the three things you taught me and take deep breaths—I am okay, I am safe, I will get through this. 

His words strike me like lightning. I remind Rowan of these three affirmations almost daily. These messages of safety are essential in helping heal my mind and body by rewiring my brain from a fight or flight mode. Yet, with my fixation of throwing the “perfect” Halloween party and being “super mom,” I’ve lost focus on what truly grounds me—patience, unconditional love, and forgiveness.  I realize this ideal of perfection that I hold both myself and Rowan to is not only unattainable—the pursuit of it is detrimental to our very souls. 

I pull the car over in a grocery store parking lot. Breathing in comfort and truth, I say a message of safety, and then exhale lies and pain. I repeat this process until the authentic truth sinks in that the burden I place on myself as a parent is simply too much. Being a super mom does not require extravagant Instagram worthy parties and never losing my cool. Rather, modeling emotional responsibility and humility is what truly transforms a child. I climb into the back seat and pull Rowan into my lap. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say with the warmth of a mother giving up control.