“I’m Done”

I remember being a kid and my Mom telling me that she was going to run away so she could be left alone. She also told us that she was going to change her name to a four letter word so we could no longer scream for her. She would say “My name is now shit, so if you call my name you will be smacked in the mouth for cursing.”  I remember thinking how awful that was and why on earth she would say such horrible things to her loving children. 25 years later I now know why she said them and I find myself doing the same thing. My key phrase to my children is “I’m Done!” I find that I say this several times a day, and the frequency increases throughout the week. I was talking with a friend of mine in front of our kid’s school today and she is also a card carrying member of the I’m Done Club. I have a feeling that there are millions of us out there. Saturday, marked the 50^th time I said “I’m Done” this week.

I woke up to the television blaring an awful cartoon theme song and asked the kids to turn it down. After six requests I jumped up and went into the living room to turn it down myself. I found a blanket and pillow fort that could rival the pyramids. They had moved all of the kitchen chairs into the living room and gotten every piece of fabric we owned to build this monstrosity. It wasn’t even 8:00 A.M. and I was already done. “Are you guys serious?” I asked. “What? We didn’t want to wake you up to ask” was the response. I turned and walked back into my bedroom to try and center myself, as to avoid beginning the day with a series of flip flop beatings.

Later that afternoon we went out to run some errands. We went from Wal-Mart to Target where we made three separate stops to use the public restroom. We then proceeded to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I asked number two and number three to sit in the cart so I could move quickly through the store. They did not want to sit next to each other in the cart and as I went to pick up my daughter she pretended to be a limp noodle. If playing dead was an Olympic sport she would be wearing gold.  She instantaneously becomes 65 lbs. of pure pain in the ass. As I was standing there cursing under my breath I quietly whispered to her, “I’m Done, get in the cart.”

We left Publix and stopped at Subway to pick up lunch. Once again I find myself in a public restroom with the kids. I asked each to wash their hands but the youngest one kept pushing the soap dispenser until there was a pool of soap on the floor. I grabbed his hand and rinsed it. I pulled a piece of paper towel and handed it to him so he could clean up the mess. Once he was finished I took the paper towel to throw it out. “I want to throw it out!” He shouted. My reply, “Let me do it please we need to go.” That was the beginning of the end. He threw himself to the floor, in the public bathroom mind you and began to scream as though I was poking him with scalding hot iron rods. I picked him up and walked him through Subway to order the sandwiches. He began to whale and moan like he was being scalped. I knelt down and whispered “You need to stop. I’m Done.”

We made it home and started the bed time routine. I sent all three kids into the shower at the same time because I was prepping for dinner. I heard the water turn on and for about five minutes it was relatively quiet, then the screaming began. I ran in to see who had been attacked by a bear and found all three covered in bubble bath spraying each other with the shower head. WTF! There were bubbles everywhere and the bathroom floor was soaked. This marked the 50^th time I WAS DONE this week. This event proved to me that my kids know that I am full of shit. They know by my current track record that even though I say “I’m Done”, I continue to live here and take care of them. They continue to be fed and clothed each day, and I continue to drive the Mom-mobile to school each morning.

So from this point on I think I’m going to leave when I’m done. I am going to walk out of the house, start the car, and drive away. I have no idea where I will go or what I will do, but when I’m done, I will be done. I am going to peace the fuck out and hit the bricks. It’s going to be an epic event.

I wonder if they would be upset. I wonder if they would cry and call for me to come home. My guess is that they would sit and stare out the window calling my bluff as I drive around the neighborhood aimlessly cursing and crying. “You think the bitch is gonna come back?” One kid would ask to the other. “I hope so, Dad isn’t going to feed us or wipe our asses.” That conversation would go on for about five minutes until I returned home because as a Mom I don’t get to ever be done. Done is a mythical universe that only exists in books and movies. Done is like Disney World, most likely the happiest place on earth. Done is nowhere near my zip code. So from this point forward I am working on a new phrase. When I am at the edge and I can go no further I will quietly recite “Get over it Bitch, you don’t get to be done.”