I Don't Hate You

While transporting children, the Matron overheard the following between two strapped-in five year olds:

Friend: "My mom doesn't like taking care of me."

Merrick: "My mom hates me."

Friend: "My mom doesn't hate me. She just hates taking CARE of me."

Merrick: "Well. My mom hates me."

Merrick, the Matron understands that she should whisk you to your room each and every time this phrase flies off your lips. Should children utter these words to one another, they are punished.

Occasionally, you hurt yourself. Your mother will rush toward you.


"Go away! You hate me!"

Or, you request an ice cream cone at the very moment the Matron is setting the table for dinner. She must say no.

"You hate me!"

The Matron is fairly certain she knows the origins of the phrase, the emotional kernel of the sentiment (which she understands is not hate).

Because frequently, you will rush into the kitchen holding your penis, requesting an audience to watch that instrument do its work, just as the Matron is in the midst of complex culinary swirl. She will roll her eyes and sigh in exasperation-- and then go with you.

"You hate me!"

Or she is carrying two backpacks, one purse, one stuffed parrot, three books, bag of Cheetos, and one grocery bag from van to care and you yell: "Mama! Help me find my sword!"

When she alerts you to the fact that she is otherwise occupied and that once this load has been lightened, she must let the barking dogs back in and immediately turn around and drive Stryker to baseball, you say this:

"You hate me!"

You see, Merrick, your mother doesn't hate you. It's simply that-- from your perspective--she must be so astoundingly frequently unavailable to you. She's right there! Why can't she throw the ball, find the doggie, fix the turtle or find the baseball bat?

So when your friend says his mother hates taking care of him, it's just that we--the Mamas of the world -- would love nothing more than a wide landscape of time, money and psyche that would allow us to be with you in ways that are bigger, better and more interesting than wiping butter off your face or watching you brush your teeth.

If the Matron didn't have dinner to make or Scarlett to transport, yes, she'd play with you. If she didn't have to go to teach Saturday mornings, she would not mind finding Freddie the Frog in your toy chest. Better yet, she would prefer to go on a bide ride or read a book.

Today, Merrick, your mother has 50 people coming to her house in under three hours. She's sorry she doesn't have time to paint that bench purple or braid string.

But she doesn't hate you. And she will stop her party preparations to take you to the bathroom, find the cream colored socks, and even read a book, once. Just a fraction of your requests, she knows.

But she's trying.