Why Real Moms are Superheroes

I should begin by saying that despite wanting to be a mother from the time I was very small, I know nearly nothing about parenting small children. I have never changed a diaper. I have never sat awake holding a baby who wouldn't stop crying in the wee hours of night. I have never developed a system for potty training and method for time outs. In fact, I have never been even been a babysitter.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday I watched my best friend's children. When I showed up at her house she handed me the smallest one (hereafter #4) and announced that she'd forgotten two important pieces of equipment: the pack-n-play and the stroller. I assured her (with a confidence I now find laughable) that it would all be fine, took the drooling child, loaded up my coffee, crammed my blankets into the already overstuffed bag, and was soon walking happily down the sidewalk toward the park with the other 3 munchkins trotting in front of me. After settling our little party comfortably under the shade of a small tree, I pulled out the snacks that Best Friend had packed for us (and admittedly avoided disaster when #3, who IS 3, informed me that #4 does not eat almonds because she's too little), and engaged the tiny people in conversation. Oh, I was so smug as I sent the upwardly mobile ones off toward the swings. In fact, I distinctly remember smiling as I looked after them thinking "I have got to compliment Best Friend on these wonderfully perfect children. Look how well they play. Thy are so inquisitive, and sweet, and obedient, and..."

Then it hit me. Literally. A half-chewed projectile pretzel flew out of little #4's mouth and landed smack on my shoulder. Disgusting. I used her hat to get it off of me, as my environmentally-minded friend would have never included paper towels in the bag of tricks. In the process of gingerly removing the nastiness (while #4 laughed), my coffee cup met its doom (whose idea was it to take a cup of coffee?), and as I jumped off the picnic area trying to escape the advancing mess of brown liquid, I spied the beginnings of what to me, the unpracticed babysitter, appeared to be chaos. #1 and #3 were fighting over a swing. Why? I had no idea, but Big Sister #1 was definitely doing the pushing and screaming. #2 was dangling from one arm like a little monkey from the top of the swing-set. (How on earth did he get up there?). After rushing to little Monkey Man and being assured that he was far stronger than I thought he was, I solved the swing battle adeptly by directing #1 onto a nearby bench to wait just a minute while #3 took her turn on the swing. #1, who had been my best friend moments ago, spent her time on the bench glowering at me unceasingly, condemning me for "choosing favorites," and reminding me (every 10 seconds) that it had already been "a minute" while I held onto #4 with one arm and pushed #3 with another. 

It's okay. I can handle a 7 year old's grudge. I got this, right?

Wrong. 

#1 then came over and offered to take #4--an act of benevolence that I did not consider suspicious, until #1 took #4 into the "shade" and proceeded to bury her with mulch. (Sorry, #3, swing ride over; #1 victorious!). As I went to rescue #4, #2 and #3 (apparently bored) started fighting over a baseball hat that not only had we begrudgingly brought but that they apparently now both wanted to wear, and I was starting to think to myself  "Oh, My God. How in the hell do people DO this everyday?" Ugh. But again, still thinking myself clever, I decided to address #3's chokehold on the hat individually by sending the older two ahead of a walk in the woods. The minor crisis was at least temporarily averted and within minutes I had loaded the entire picnic, plus wet clothes (I didn't mention that, did I?--Yes, there were puddles, and they found them.), plus my stupid ass coffee mug into the bag again and started to lecture #3 as we followed after them.

"Jackie, I have to potty."

Oh God. I was not prepared for this. What do I DO? I looked after the increasingly distant little people, decided they were content, and quickly ducked into the park bathroom. #3 had already started to disrobe and was staring at the disgusting porcelain feature. I needed to help her. Shoot. What do I do with #4? Put her in the sink? Stick her outside on the grass? Try to do the one arm lift of the small child onto the toilet and potentially miss? No. I strapped the smallest child to the changing table and got busy helping with bathroom duty (Have I mentioned that I have not changed a diaper?). Five minutes later we'd escaped. Baby was unstrapped and okay, pants were pulled up, bottoms were wiped (I think...Sorry, Best Friend, if I failed), hands were disinfected, and we were okay. But no other two children. I screamed their names, scanned the arena. No small children. I couldn't move quickly with a (now painful) bag on my shoulder, a #4 on my hip that had gained at least 20 pounds in the last hour, and a #3 who insisted on holding my hand after picking up "Squirmy Wormy" and carrying him around for 5 minutes. Eventually, after a period of total panic that I do not believe I handled very well, the two missing children emerged from the trees with...oh God...another adult. Disapproving glances and glares were all mine to receive as I apologized and thanked simultaneously and, covered in sweat and projectile pretzels, and in fear that my arms and shoulders were going to give out any minute, told the kids that it was time to head for home.

Ninety minutes, MAX, and I needed a nap. And I think I could do the "mom thing," huh? All I know that if I am ever to do the mom thing, I am hiring a nanny, investing in cheap t-shirts, and never forgetting the stroller. Oh, and I am drinking my coffee before heading to the playground.

To all of you mommy friends out there? I owe you a glass of wine. You people are superheroes.

And Best Friend? I think you know how much I love your children. I will babysit for them again--as long as you leave me the stroller, the pack-n-play, and a Valium.

And Mom... I love you and I owe you a vacation. Thank you for not handing me off to a street peddler in infancy.