I get frustrated A LOT.
Before I became a mother, I am pretty sure I never used to get this frustrated.
I can’t help it! My 4-year-old daughter is “people-stop-us-in-the-street” adorable, but she is precocious, incredibly stubborn, verbal beyond her years and quite defiant. So yes: IT’S FRUSTRATING!!!
A few days ago, I took her to Children’s Hospital, Los Angeles for yet another check-up with the ENT: we have gone every few months since she had tubes put in her ears two years ago.
While en route, I found myself complaining – silently – about what a schlep it is to get there from West L.A., and how much time it takes out of the day, and how it sucks that she had to miss dance class this morning…
Then, once we arrived, I found myself complaining – out loud — about how impossible it was to find a parking spot, and how long the line was at the Starbucks kiosk when we already were running late!! And once we were with the doctor, I was frustrated by my daughter’s behavior. All he wanted to do was look in her ears, but she cried as if he were about to chop them off! Then we got the frustrating news that she probably would have to get tubes put in AGAIN this summer.
So as I sat down in the lobby/children’s play area to call her Daddy, I started to observe the people around me.
And it was humbling.
While my daughter climbed and jumped and ran and laughed, most of the children around us could not. Everywhere I turned there were children with Down Syndrome, broken bones, various deformities, mental health issues, physical disabilities, cancer… Then we both noticed the wheelchairs. There were SO MANY children in wheelchairs who were just trying to be “normal” kids – with Hello Kitty backpacks, Disney Princess jackets and Sofia the First lunch bags, just like my daughter. But they were nothing like my daughter, who – thank G-d – is healthy.
And then I got frustrated again. At myself. How DARE I get upset by so many stupid, meaningless little things that do NOT matter? What right do I have to complain about my daughter’s minor outpatient procedure when there are so many children who might never live to see another birthday?
And at that moment, I made myself a promise. Instead of amassing frustrations, I will choose to count my considerable blessings.
Here is my Mother’s Day promise:
When I’m frustrated because my child runs away when I tell her it’s time to leave the park, I will think about the mother whose child will never walk again.
When I’m frustrated because I am cleaning (or throwing out) yet another pair of soiled underwear, I will think about the mother whose child wears a colostomy bag.
When I’m frustrated because I am chasing my child around at bedtime when she refuses to let me brush her hair, I will think about the mother whose child is bald from chemotherapy.
When I’m frustrated because I am lying in my child’s bed AGAIN at night – way after bedtime — and she won’t stop making up silly songs and telling stories, I will think about the mother whose child will never be able to speak.
When I’m frustrated because I have to interrupt my work to schlep 20 minutes for preschool pick-up, I will think about the mother whose child will never be able to go to school.
When I’m frustrated because my very picky little eater suddenly decides she no longer likes one of the foods in her vast 10-food repertoire, I will think about the mother whose child must get her nutrients through a tube.
And when I’m frustrated on the days when motherhood sometimes just seems too hard, I will think about all of the women who are so desperately trying to become mothers…
… because no matter how frustrated I get, being a mother means more to me than the air I breathe.
… because no matter how frustrated I get, I am so blessed to be my precious little girl’s mother.
(Happy Mother’s Day to all of the amazing moms and their huge, huge hearts.)
