Sorry Mom...

Looking back, I think I might have been an ungrateful Brat. I was respectful most of the time, rarely got in trouble, and was up to my neck in extracurricular activities. But now that I am a grown up, I am certain that I wasn't all that great.

It hit me this week. Jamie had to fly to Toronto due to the loss of a well loved Aunt. I didn't hesitate to book the plane ticket, help him pack, and drive him to the airport. But once he had passed through security and I was left standing in the airport with a cranky pants toddler, I suddenly felt very alone.

I have always been afraid of the dark, and I was never keen on staying home alone. I knew when I booked the ticket I would have to face 5 nights of sleeping alone in the dark. But that was just the start of my heart palpitations. The stress was already closing in on me, and I had yet to find the car in the parkade, and wrestle a screaming toddler into the car seat.

Driving back from the airport, I was filled with determination that I could get through the coming days. How hard could it be? I just had to get Daniel up, fed and out the door to school, then play with and care for Bridget all day, then transport the two of them to hockey practice, where he would skate and she would act like a tiny terrorist who drank too much coffee, then go home, cook supper, do homework and fight with everyone to get to bed at a decent hour, so I could do it all over again. With Jamie, it's only half the battle- or at least I have someone to help hog tie Bridget at hockey when things get out of hand.

I wasn't far off my initial predictions of how the week would go. However, I didn't accurately foresee the demise of my beloved dishwasher, the clogged toilet or the two nights of washing sheets and blankets because Bridget threw up a strawberry coloured mess all over my bed, after we were all sound asleep.

I can tell you truthfully on the second night of blanket washing, I started thinking about my mother.

You see, my parents got divorced when I was 13. I wasn't sad for a minute when it happened because oil and water mix much better than the two of their personalities and therefore, they got along with the relative success of the ever restless Middle Eastern countries that are always in the news. It wasn't that I was happy about the breakup of our family, but I knew that it meant that both of my parents could find someone better suited to their personalities; which, thankfully they did.

In the interim though, my Mom was single for quite a while, and my sister and I both lived with her, in a cute little house in a good neighbourhood. My dad lived close by, and I saw him every day when he picked me up for school, we went skiing or to do activities or to visit my Grandmother. I still loved both my parents very much; I just needed to love them separately.

But it was this week that I realized how much Mom probably needed my help. When I was bellowing at Daniel to switch the clothes or grab Bridget a bottle, to sit down and do his homework, to pack his hockey gear and get it in the car, I got to thinking. It's wasn't the having to ask that made me think of Mom. It's the asking twice, or three times and then finally losing my cool that made me feel bad.

You know, I remember Mom nagging me to do things. Like clean the bathtub. If I had ever cleaned it the first, second or third time she asked me to do it, she might have appreciated it. But the thing is I never did it without being asked ten times and I don't ever remember her losing it. In fact, I actually don't remember cleaning the bathtub at any point, which makes me think she was very good about keeping her cool, even when she did end up having to everything herself.

She could come in the door after working a full day and find the house full of my friends, and not a math equation of homework completed and she would ask my friends how their day was. It's like it rolled off her back.

I can't quite figure how she managed to pay for everything, drive me everywhere, and still keep the house clean when I wouldn't do anything to help; without wanting to lob my head off. I am not saying my Dad wasn't around. Couldn't have been further from the truth, but the fact of the matter is, Mom was in the trenches, dealing with two pain in the wazoo, lazy teenagers, who wouldn't clean the bathtub if their brand name jeans lovin' butts depended on it.

So, to my Mother, I am truly sorry for being a pain. I knew enough not to bring trouble to the door, but in all honesty, I could have managed to vacuum the floors once I was inside it.

And to all of the single parents out there, kudos to you- I wish I had your moxy. Those of you who manage to not only pay for the expeditions but also steer the ship and swab the decks, I salute you. If your kids don't appreciate you right now, just you wait. Some night, when they are cleaning strawberry puke in a dark house all alone, they will think back on all of your hard work and realize just how good they had it. They might even look back and wish they had scrubbed the bathtub.