A Mom’s Slow Death Over Breakfast

25 years. 25 flippin’ years. That is how much I aged over breakfast today. My slow death over breakfast begins, once again. Why? Because I attempt to get my three kids through one meal in a timely manner. Today it happens to be breakfast. But really, it is any meal with them on any day of the week. Oh. My. Sweet. Mother. Can anyone, anyone, relate to this? 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my three kids. I have two girls and one boy, all under 9. And I felt all the feels when they were born in that ridiculously painful thing called labor; I survived all the nursing and sleepless nights; I watched them knock down seemingly impossible milestones and run to me in victory to embrace me in a big, sticky hug. We tackled attitude problems, potty training hell (ok that is a lie—still dealing with this one) and even picky eating habits. But we have yet to—nor do I see an end in sight—-to overcoming inefficient eating skills. 

This morning I woke up early—before anyone else—and worked out. Not only did I get my two-sizes-too-large tush (thanks, sweet children) out of bed in the pitch dark to work out, I showered too-—even put on makeup and straightened my hair! How do I feel about that accomplishment, you ask? Like I have just taken on the freakin’ world, baby. I really do need a shirt that says:

Take it in people. It doesn’t look like this often. 

I also deserve a medal for my achievement, obvi.

But seriously; since kids, waking up early is one of the hardest things I do on the daily, and I used to consider myself a morning person. But today I owned it and worked out—hoping I can channel this same energy tomorrow with can’t-even-sit-on-the-toilet legs and don’t-think-of-asking-me-to pick-you-up-arms. Oh lawd…

So, back to today, Tuesday morning, the day I feel like a badass, full of ignorant bliss unaware my slow death over breakfast was imminent.

My kids all sleep in pretty late—but jump up fairly perky for school and fall in line getting clothes on, teeth brushed, you know the drill. This is actually a very welcome surprise. I totally credit my warm, motherly ways to my early morning rule-the-world workout routine, because again, obvi. I was so in control because all my tension and frustrations were unleashed in my workout this morning (did I mention I woke up early??)

In my loving, nurturing way, I prepare my kiddos a fresh, healthy breakfast. Well, a hard-boiled egg cooked yesterday, raspberries and strawberries, with the incentive—yes, always have an incentive when feeding the minions, mommies—of picking out some carb-loaded yumminess upon completion. Most school mornings I try to avoid cereal—that is our special weekend treat—so that I can feel superior to others in regards to my kids’ eating habits (please insert sarcasm here). So they usually pick out something like toast, or yogurt with a little granola sprinkled on top. But really, an egg, a few small pieces of fruit—we should be done with that first part in at least 10 minutes, am I right? 

If you answered YES right there = you are not a parent; or you are a parent that should very much feel superior to my motherly ways. I bow down.

If you answered NO right there = you get me, and obviously suck at parenting. No judgement—me too!! 😉

25 years later, I am here to tell you the rest of the story. Now, most mornings—because this happens EVERY MORNING, I run around like a chicken with her head cut off, saying, every 5 minutes,

“EAT EAT EAT. PICK UP YOUR FORK, PUT SOMETHING ON IT, AND PUT IT IN YOUR MOUTH.” 

Y’all, I can’t even tell you how often I say this. It is exhausting. But, instead they sit there and tell jokes to each other ( honestly, the jokes don’t even make sense), stick feet on each other, argue about what day it is, or tell Alexa to tell us 52 more ridiculous jokes, or….the list goes on. 

Today, I give up. My perfect morning starts to crumble right into the granola bag as I tell them again:

“Y’ALL NEED TO EAT NOW; WE ONLY HAVE 10 MINUTES!!!””. 
(I never yell.)

My royal crown of owning the world falls off and I am frustrated and mad, my more usual self (haha I joke, kind of). As I pack their lunches, I decide this is a teachable moment. (Uh, oh. These are FUN.) I stop reminding them of the one egg and a few bites of fruit on their plate, and the dangling prize of a yummy carb treat afterwards. We have about 8 minutes to go. I am DONE. 

7 minutes. 6 minutes. 5 minutes. 4 minutes. 3 minutes. 2 minutes. 1 minute…

“Alright. Put your plates up. Grab your lunches. Put on your coats and get in the car!”

I say this as if I think this would go off without a hitch. My littlest one (age 2.85; third child. Need I say more?) is undeterred—honestly she could care less about much it seems lately, and she really didn’t want her fruit anyways. NBD to her to see mom spazzing out. But ohhhhhhh boy you would think my older too had been given the death sentence, with no opportunity to finish their plate and get their carb-fest on this morning. 

The crying. The moaning. “More time more time!’ they call. After the amazing and super healthy, mind you, breakfast, the constant reminders of how much time we had, and the complete disregard for my sweet motherly warnings, they still fail to complete their mission. Yet, who is the one feeling awful about the whole thing?

My kids? Ohhhhh no. It’s my medal tainted, my crown knocked off. I am the worst mom ever. We take off to school with my “no you don’t get any carbs” stance unshaken.   

I know sometimes you have to stand firm—and today I was over it and ready for the tough love (I woke up early this morning and owned it….) but really y’all, Mom guilt is just the worst. Well, the slow death thing is bad too. But the good news? The good news is I can do this all over again, tonight, at dinner. I’ll be back in 25 years to tell you all about it. 

Enjoyed A Mom’s Slow Death Over Breakfast? Be sure to check out Dear Husband, I See You.