Too much work

I did a silly thing today. 

I left the house. Which was silly in itself because it's perfect couch weather 'round these parts. But sillier still because the impetus for leaving the house was this: I fell into the trap of caring what other people think/say and I started to feel a bit bad about my kid not leaving the house in a while (I know he stepped outdoors this week, I just can't remember specifics). So I told him we were going to the park. And I invited some friends so I would be forced to follow through. 

And forty seven minutes later the three of us were bundled up and ready to go, ish. As I was buckling the children in I realized the wheels of our stroller that I had mistakenly recalled as "a little low on air" were in fact what one would label as, what's the word, ah yes, "flat." 

So I was stuck in a lose lose situation. Either I unload the tiny ones, scrap the park trip and deal with the certain meltdown. Or I push the stroller in its current state, which seemed possible but not enjoyable. (Putting air in the tires was not on the list as I am 86% certain we don't own a pump.) 

I chose the latter. And pushed the flat tired stroller to the park blocks away. One might think I have the upper arm strength of, let's go with, Michelle Obama (because she is the first good armed human that came to mind, and googling "Michelle Obama arms" proves me correct) as I do lift a 17 pound baby and a 27 pound toddler on heavy rotation, sometimes at the same time, every single day. But pushing this stroller proves that all that lifting is for naught. 

I took frequent breaks on the short walk, utilizing that downtime to text everyone I know in a one mile radius begging them to deliver me a bike pump, and stewed in the stupidity of leaving the house. 

My kid was satisfied with a mellow, warm morning indoors. He just got a haul of new toys to play with and is lucky enough to be born to a mother who believes a movie a day is nothing to be ashamed of. He was cozy and happy and riding a Toy Story high, about to build some magnatile homes for his aminals. And I had to go and ruin all of it by thinking none of that was enough. 

Cementing my point, we arrived at the park and my kid immediately states, "I want to go to my home." 

And he was a miserable, boogery nosed wreck for almost the entire trip. Because it's 43 degrees out and my kid is a Californian through and through. We stayed for a bit, thankful for the company of friends who braved the elements with us. 

And then we went home. (With much ease and gratitude after roadside tire assistance from one generous mama in my tribe.) 

We sat in our heated house. On our couch. Exactly where we were supposed to be. And I watched my kid return to his normal self, enjoying a cinnamon roll, laughing, singing and watching a show before his nap. 

And I thought, this is the last time I'm giving a fuck what a different better mother would do for my kid.

(Okay first I thought, as I labored to lift a glass of water to my mouth, I must start working out, stat.) 

In reality, it probably won't be the last time. (And chances are slim on the work out front, too.) I'll try to knock it off though, because my kids are awesome. And I'm a great mom. And giving a fuck is just too much work (about as much work as pushing a double stroller with flat tires and two cold, crabby, kids, I'd say). 

One thing is for sure though:

I will be buying a pump for those tires.