Weathering My Moods

My Grandparents had a “Mood Barometer” hanging in their enclosed breezeway. It was a round, wooden plaque, about six inches across, decorated with cheerful, tole painted flowers. The names of several different moods were written around the outer rim and a little red arm fixed to the center could be rotated to point at any of the moods.

I don't remember if it had Grandma's name on it or not, but it was understood that the barometer showed her mood just as it was understood that the quarter affixed to the glass in the window of the door next to it showed Grandpa's sense of humor. He had won the quarter in a friendly bet, and glued it there as a constant reminder to his unlucky friend. The Mood Barometer may have been another example of his mischief, but given the longevity of their marriage, I doubt it.

By the time I came along, Grandma and Grandpa were in their late 60s (which isn't nearly as old now as it was then), and babysitting me was quite a change from their regular routine. After getting on Grandma's last nerve, I would head out to the garage to bother Grandpa.

As I passed through the breezeway I would usually stop and move the barometer hand to “Grumpy.” If Grandpa caught me he'd chuckle and say “Ohhhh, we can't leave it that way. That would make Mommy cross.” This only supported my assessment, but I would dutifully move the little red pointer back to “Happy” or “Loving,” as Grandpa suggested.

I thought of that barometer as I was driving in to town this morning.

The long, long list of things that I need to get done was running through my head, at odds with the limits of a 24-hour day. The more I thought about it, the bigger the black cloud of crabbiness surrounding me grew. I really should warn people when I'm this crabby, I thought. I need Grandma's Mood Barometer, or maybe I should just wear a button that says “Warning: Crabby.”

I imagined how my kids would react to this idea and started to laugh. The high pressure system moved out, crabby clouds parted and all murderous thoughts cleared. The arrow on my mood barometer swung to “Happy.”

When I picked up the Princess after school, I told her about my idea for the warning button. She didn't say anything.

“I figure you and the Little Prince would probably make me wear it all the time,” I laughed.

She didn't answer.

“Um, so, what do you think?” I asked.

After a long pause she looked at me, sighed, then turned her attention back to the road.

“I was thinking you should have it embroidered on all your shirts.”

I'm sensing a drop in barometric pressure.

Just Another Service Moms Offer

Dear Princess,

I know that I have annoyed you. Yes, despite your best efforts to hide your feelings this morning as you stomped down the stairs, then turned to glare at me before slamming the door, I picked up a subtle vibe of unhappiness.

By the way, the foul cloud of doom that followed you as you drug your backpack to the drive way left scorch marks across the lawn. A skull and crossbones is permanently etched in brimstone where you stood and grumbled while waiting for the bus. I can only hope the heat of your ire didn't permanently weld the doors of the bus shut.

I know you think I'm being unreasonable. You can not understand why (yet again!) I have not given in to the argument that "everyone else gets to." Or its corollary, "no one else has to." Or the "no one else's mom does that" argument. Or the "that's so unfair" argument. You have yet to play the "I hate you" trump card (out loud), but let me advise you, that won't work either.

I annoy you because I love you. There are spoiled-rotten children everywhere who would love to have a Mom that annoys them. No, I don't have any proof of that, but my "Mom-sense" tingles whenever I see a pack of teens roaming the mall texting the person walking next to them because they can't carry on a conversation with ear buds in and the volume turned up so loud I can hear it over the music pouring out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Sure, they're all giggles and smiles on the outside, but inside they are crying out for a Mom Who Says No.

I took the full series of "Annoying Mom" classes at Mom School: "Annoying Mom 101," "How to Annoy Simply by Breathing," "Advanced Annoyance Techniques," and "Annoying Moms in History" (George Washington's mom annoyed him, and look how well he turned out! On the other hand, the vast array of current pop culture "celebrities" is evidence of a decline in the ranks of Annoying Mothers.)

I graduated at the top of my class. SummAnnoy Cum Laude. The Queen Mother, an Annoying Mom herself, was so proud. We come from a long line of Annoying Moms. It's that strong German heritage -- big butts and Annoying Moms.

All those tales you've told me of other people who have "lost this expensive, electronic gadget," "broken that expensive, electronic gadget," "had such and such expensive, electronic gadget taken away," have put me on High Annoyance Alert. I never got to take even a single expensive, electronic gadget to school. Granted, that was because the carrier pigeons weren't housebroken and the console stereo didn't have wheels.

Some day you'll thank me.

No, not really.

That's just something they taught me to say in "Annoying Mom 101."

Some day you will forget about this. Yes, really. Of course, it will be only because I will have moved on to bigger and better ways to annoy you.

But I hope you will remember I only annoy you because I want you to grow up to be responsible and well adjusted, without having to mortgage the house or sell your little brother to help pay for repairs and replacement plans.

And because I love you.

What could be more annoying than that?