For the Love of Hangers, WHY?!

I asked my sons (15 yrs. and 12 yrs.) to "Please, grab all of the empty hangers out of your closet so that I can hang up the clean laundry."

A few minutes passed. I called downstairs to the boys again, "I need them TO-DAY, please."

"I'm getting them. Hang on," is yelled back at me, as if I were tasking them with something truly difficult that requires me to wait patiently, all afternoon, while they assemble the necessary tools needed to complete the arduois task and then execute it, and not simply gathering empty hangers.

My grumpy teenager emerges from the bottom of the stairs with four hangers. FOUR.

To which I replied, "Where are all of your hangers? I just bought, like, 50 new hangers."

He made no movement to leave. He did not make eye contract. He shrugged his shoulders and then he just stood there.

So, I just stood there back.

After a friggin' eternity, he finally asked if he could leave.

"Sure, but first, tell me where all of those hangers could have gone in the short amount of time that we have owned them? I mean, how can you possibly just lose hangers? I'm so confused."

I got another shrug followed by a grunt, and he turned and sulked away to return to his foot-fungus-sweat-laden-lair formed from mostly empty Gatorade bottles, popcorn kernels, deflated soccer balls, and most recently, 46 white plastic hangers.

Today, I put on my adventurer's cap and braved the monster's fortress in search of the elusive hangers.

You will never guess what I found — just hanging there— in his closet?

Yep.

WHY?

Please, Don't Eat Your Young.

I have four children.  Before having the four children, I assumed, as most naive idiots without children tend to do, that parenting was largely instinct driven, based on common sense, and, if the correct skills were employed, fairly easy to manage.  I knew that it would, at times, be difficult, but I could not have possibly envisioned a reality in which the uncomplicated task of getting a five-year-old into his bed and keeping him there for the duration of the night, would eventually drive me to depths of sadness, rage, and exhaustion that I had not previously even read about.  As I write this, my sweet, but often, simple teenage daughter is causing the door chime of our home alarm to shout at me in five second intervals.  No amount of verbal coaching will help her manage to shut the back door completely, and I will eventually tire of the incessant chiming "back door open," and will rouse myself to my feet, and storm down the stairs in a tizzy yelling profanities while slamming the damn door closed.  

I never thought I'd be the cussing, roaring mother that I have become.  I was sure, in the beginning, that I would handle motherhood with grace and patience.  I should have known by the extreme waddle I developed, the pre-term labor, and the horrible morning sickness I experienced in every pregnancy, that I had no clue what lay in wait for me as a mother.  Parenting is not instinct driven.  I don't care what those fluffy books claim.  In fact, if I had listened to my instincts, I would have eaten my young on the 114th day that he refused to sleep more than two consecutive hours.  

The new school year is here.  August always brings relief and fear.  I feel elevated by the fact that the kids will be away from me for a few hours a day, but I also fear that I will not be able to handle the pressures of having them back in structured environments where people, mainly their teachers, expect me to behave like an adult and do adult-like things such as pack lunches, drive car pools, and attend parent-teacher conferences.  Today, as I made my way through the labyrinths of four different schools in an effort to make a connection with my children's educators, I realized that I had lost the battle to remain in control.  There is no way humanly possible to balance the needs of two high school students, a middle schooler, a kindergartner, and a job with any type of dignity.  I carry my day planner like a shield, hoping that by writing down every detail of our lives, I might be able to control some part of it. When the teachers in room 118 of the middle school asked if I needed a pen to sign away my pension in the event that my space cadet of an 11-year-old loses his new personal computer, I was, for a brief moment, proud of the fact that I had two black pens, one blue pen, an orange sharpie, and a dull pencil in my purse.  I was prepared for all manner of signing stuff and things.  Immediately, I realized that moment with all of those writing utensils would, in fact, be the highlight of my parenting career this school year.  I will inevitably fail to remember an early release day. I will receive a call from the school secretary instructing me to pick up my abandoned child in the front office.  He will appear dejected and embarrassed.  I will apologize profusely.  I will forget him again the next time even though it's written in that stupid planner in bright orange sharpie.  

You see, parenting is just a series of attempts to stay upright while stumbling forward towards raising half-way decent human beings.  I can testify, based on my many drunken adventures attempting to move forward, that the process of getting though that dizzy haze of confusion is never graceful.  It's loud and ugly sometimes.  The parenting journey is riddled with opportunities to test your limits as one of the smartest, most evolved species on the planet.  The truth is, if you haven't eaten your offspring yet, and are still getting up every morning and making sure that the little demons are fed, clothed, hugged, and educated, you are winning at parenting.  Those books with all of the "good advice" on how to handle a mouthy 16-year-old daughter, or the pamphlets chocked full of tactics for "winning the bedtime war" are full of shit.  Every kid does things his own way, and no amount of prep work really arms you with the knowledge you need to handle this parenting thing.  Parenting is hard.  It is so hard.  So, if you made it through this week of open houses, Crayola markers, new $95 Nikes, and the struggle to get the kids "back on a routine," CONGRATS!  Go have several glasses of wine and a good cry, because it's about to get a whole lot harder.