I got hit with the Momanoia last weekend.
A very dear friend of mine invited me to her son’s 3rd birthday party. Other than cousin-parties, this was going to be Charlie’s very first kid-friend party.
I’m not going to lie, I was pretty nervous about it.
Let me stop here and say that, Dear Friend (if you’re reading this), none of this is your fault. I’m so incredibly grateful that we were invited, and all of this insecurity is self-inflicted. Writing about it simply serves as a reminder to me to “STOP MAKING YOURSELF FEELLIKE CRAP.”
(I know that the me/yourself grammar isn’t right there. It works in my brain.)
Anyway, I haven’t really talked about it yet, but one of my biggest insecurities involves domesticity. I feel that I totally fail in the domestic department. I’m bad at getting out Thank You’s, I’m bad at remembering to buy presents, and I’m not awesome at social get-togethers where kids are involved. So, basically, this party was kind of a (again, self-created) big deal for me.
Here’s the thing about Charlie:
He’s almost 21 months old. He has the energy of 3 cement trucks full of Mexican jumping beans, and he loves, I say, LOVES to throw things. And climb on things…and then jump off of them. I’m considering turning in our wood flooring for an apartment-wide trampoline.
Holy crap, that would be awesome.
Anyway, here we are, wielding our last-minute birthday present, wrapped in scrapbook paper, because I had no wrapping paper…or boxes. We then walk into one of the most fantastically beautiful houses I’ve seen in awhile, and Charlie heads straight for the toys. This is a good thing. They had a great selection of toys that I thought Charlie would love, but of course, he’s only interested in the balls.
I spent almost the entire time following Charlie, praying he didn’t launch the balls: A) into the fireplace B) into the photo display C) into the face of the cute 15 month-old and D) off the loft and onto someone’s head.
There was a brief, 11 minute block of time in which Charlie ate 4 tortilla chips in the high chair while I got to eat some lunch.
Charlie’s all about nutrition right now.
Needless to say, we left early. It was past his naptime and he was starting to get screamy. Nobody wants to video tape a present-opening while a toddler screams bloody murder in the background.
When we got home, all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and purposely watch something that would make me cry. (Why the hell I do that to myself, I have no idea…but, well, you know.)
I felt like crap. I felt like everyone in the world was a better mom than me. I found myself wondering why I couldn’t find that magical switch…you know, the one that makes your kid sit and play with all the other kids? Carry on meaningful conversations with the other kids…discuss things like the benefits of Baroque music when coupled with green vegetables and fresh spinach?
Now, I know that I’m being ridiculous. I know that Charlie is in that in-between stage where he’s just not a Little Dude and he’s just not a Big Dude. I know that he’s just a super-energetic little guy and he’s got to get outside and run before we try to do anything civilized.
I also know that I’m doing the best that I can, and that I love him like crazy, and that’s what’s important.
Sometimes, though, I get the Momanoia…and that’s pretty powerful stuff.
Am I the only one who’s felt this way!?
How do you deal with the Momanoia? Or Dadanoia?