As the school year kicks back into gear, my daily routine has returned to the familiar grind of 3 p.m. pick-ups, transporting kids from one place to another.
My youngest, a lively little girl named Emma, hops in after a day of preschool, bubbling over with stories about a mischievous raccoon named Chester who is supposedly roaming her school, handing out candy and causing chaos. I suspect Chester is a figment of her imagination, but I don’t dwell on it. Nodding along, my focus drifts between her chatter and the road ahead, my mind racing through a never-ending to-do list. I’ve become a mere “Robot Mom,” mechanically fulfilling my role.
When she asks, “Isn’t that so funny, Mommy?” it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking to me. My response is a half-hearted laugh, “Oh? Yes, it’s so funny!”—though I have no clue what I just agreed to.
As I navigate our route, which passes by the local grocery store and playgrounds, I hardly notice the “For Sale” sign at one neighbor’s house or the newly built porch at another’s. Pulling into the next school, I pick up my son, Jake, who slinks into the backseat, adopting the classic slouch of a middle schooler. This time, I take the lead in conversation, firing off questions that are met with brief, almost dismissive responses.
“Did you hand in your notecards?” I ask, receiving a nod. “Who did you sit with at lunch?” “The usual.” “Did you have a good day?”—a slight smile is followed by an eye roll. It’s clear we’re both annoyed, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, turning up the radio as I slip back into the robotic routine.
Soon, an argument erupts between Emma and Jake over the volume of her singing. He complains he’s heard the song too many times. I stare ahead, having heard it just as often. In a lackluster attempt at mediation, I mumble, “Oh, just stop it, you two.” Did I even say that out loud? The preschooler continues to belt out tunes while Jake frowns, ignoring my words.
Next, I head to pick up my oldest, Mia, from her second-grade class. Unlike her brother, she bounds into the car with enthusiasm, fastening her seatbelt and tossing her backpack aside. “Hi, guys! Today I learned about sharks!” she announces. “Did you know sharks have rows of teeth? Some eat flankton, or maybe it’s plankton?” Jake interjects from the back, correcting her, “It’s plankton.”
Mia continues, “Oh good, plankton! And guess what? A shark can have 100 babies and it makes poo! Did you hear that? Poo!” Laughter erupts in the car as the mood shifts dramatically. Suddenly, the preschooler has stopped her singing, and Jake’s scowl has vanished. All three children are now giggling and sharing shark facts, completely engaged in the moment.
As I listen and encourage their conversation, I realize how easy it is to become “Robot Mom” amid the chaos of schedules and sibling squabbles. With my children older now, they don’t require the same level of physical care as they did when they were toddlers. There’s a certain freedom in not having to hover over them constantly.
Yet, in this fleeting moment, it’s crucial for me to be present. Motherhood is not simply about transporting them from place to place; it’s about building connections and engaging in the little joys of life. I’ve fought hard for these kids since before they were born, through countless challenges and milestones.
I might sometimes feel like just their chauffeur or chef, but it’s vital that they know I’m their mother, and that I am there for them. Each moment we share is precious. One day, this backseat will be quiet, and I won’t hear their stories or laughter. But for now, it’s vibrant, chaotic, and beautiful.
While I know “Robot Mom” will resurface on particularly exhausting days, I hope I will catch myself in time to engage, because otherwise, I might miss another delightful fact about sharks or a shared laugh.
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Summary:
As the school year resumes, the author reflects on the challenges of parenthood and the tendency to slip into a robotic routine. However, moments of joy and connection with her children remind her of the importance of being present. She acknowledges the fleeting nature of childhood and the significance of engaging with her kids, even amidst the chaos of daily life.