Nice Work If You Can Get It

There are a few jobs where you are hated for just doing them. Those that come to mind are prison guard, dentist, guillotine operator, proctologist and mother. It's cliche to whine about, but we maternal types often feel like we're in a godawful, thankless profession. If you're a stay-at-home mom, the fun doubles because there's an unspoken assumption that because you are always there, you are always there to serve.

It's not that I don't like serving, I actually sometimes do. It's more the hatred that drips from my children's eyes and voices as they interact with me.

Mom: (In a cheerful voice) Don't forget to make your bed before you come downstairs.
Child: (In angry and desperate voice) Gosh! I don't have any time and NOW I'M GOING TO BE LATE! THANKS A LOT, MOM!
Mom: (In a soft direct voice) Well, if you got up a little earlier, you would have time.
Child: (In angrier voice) I can't get up earlier because I'M SO TIRED.
Mom: (In a softer voice) Maybe you should go to bed earlier instead of staying up to watch DeGrassi.
Child: (Fuming) I can't go to bed earlier because I HAVE SO MUCH HOMEWORK. SCHOOL SUCKS.
Mom: (Irritated and catching on to the distraction) Then skip TV and JUST DO THE HOMEWORK.
Child: (Whiny) You're SO MEAN MOM. YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING.

Some days go better than this. Most do not. It's an endless stream of pleading, begging, nagging, reminding and, eventually, scolding often escalating into yelling. Some days, I can't stand to hear my own voice. If I could only drop a few choice F Bombs, perhaps my point would be taken more seriously. For example:

Mom: Pick up your fucking dirty clothes. Do you know how much fucking laundry I've done this week?
Child: (Fearful and speechless)
Mom: And another thing, if I have to tell you one more fucking time to make your fucking bed so I don't have to look at your bedroom with the crap and shit everywhere, I'm going to fucking scream.
Child: (Quivering and whimpering)

Alas, only in my dreams. I'd resort to profanity if I didn't know that it would be ineffective after a day and word of it would travel around the school faster than the speed of light. There's no magic pill. Every day it's a new method of persuasion, a new theory, or another veiled threat. And just when I'm ready to blow my brains out, they turn around and do something nice and ruin my mojo.

Sometimes during the day I daydream that the cookies that I baked will be met with a Lassie-like response: "Golly mom, you're the BEST! Thanks for making cookies and doing my laundry and everything you do all day long. Here's a big hug." Instead, it sounds more like: "How many can I have? You forgot to sign my test and I got a demerit. Did you wash my read shirt yet? I need to buy a poster board, can we go now?"

Reality bites.