Mixing Fruit

Let's do a comparison, shall we?

Growing up, I had a best friend-- let's call her Lori (because that was her name)-- and our lifestyles couldn't have been more different.
I had a Mom and a Dad.
She had a Mom, but not really. Her Mom had become an alcoholic after her dad had shot and killed himself when Lori was very young. Lori drove a car way earlier than 16 because she had to get her Mom home from the bars.

Once, I was really freaked out when I went to make myself some canned green beans because there was NOTHING on the can that told me what to do. Nothing people. Were you supposed to put them in a pan with water? Drain them? How long do you heat them? I'm not psychic here!
Lori would put the roast and vegetables on before school so that she and her sister would have dinner that night. She also did the shopping.

I can compare son #1's childhood with my four remaining at home, his younger siblings.

Son #1 had an energetic woman who only needed a few hours a night of rest, had a clear mind, a quick, sharp wit and a future that glowed with possibility. But she worked long hours and put herself through school, so he didn't benefit from any of those traits. He only knew his daycare workers and had a full belly and a warm bed. As a teenager, he took pride in the fact that other teens loved his Mom.

These other beings in my house have a tired mother. Physically and emotionally. She doesn't bounce back quickly when knocked down-- in fact her motto could be: "When the going gets tough, the tough go to bed". They have everything they could want, participate in most of the things they would like (we're not over-schedulers here), have meals I could only have dreamed of, fresh smelling clean clothes, and if pushed to admit it-- will probably tell you they don't like their Mom very much.

Which leads to the next comparison:

There's a dad who plays football on the lawn, allows them to eat macaroni and cheese five times a day if he's out of french fries and chicken nuggets, and doesn't care if they're out in the mud in their good clothes. And, oh... "Is it really three hours past their bedtime?"

There's a Mom who insists they finish their veg., will not let them leave the house in what they originally put on, questions the completion of homework and makes them stay inside if they spent the night throwing up. Bad Mom. This same Mom was called "an idiot" the other day by one of their friends. Do you know what these loyal kids did in defense of the woman who nurtures them? They went on playing football with him.

I shouldn't have been surprised. There was one kid that came to J2's 7th birthday party that informed him that his "Mom was fat"-- even though the kid's mom easily had 20 pounds on me!
Did J2 punch him in the nose? Nope.

One last comparison:

A few weeks back, I went to bed after 1 am --no, it wasn't because I was blogging. I painstakingly designed 24 cupcakes to look like Pikachu faces-- I hate Pokemon-- for A1 to share with his classmates. I awoke to find some little finger has slashed through the row closest to the counter's edge ("Yum! " must've said a little voice as he left the crime scene). I started a new batch since I was already cutting it close with 24. They had to be delivered by noon.
I baked, cooled and decorated the new additions. I wrapped them carefully and set out in the wind to get them to A1's classroom, with a toddler in tow. I completed my errands, did laundry, picked up our groceries, got dinner in the oven, retrieved children from their bus stops and football practice, fed and bathed children, watched over homework, endured tantrums, butt wipings and nose blowings.

My hubby came home thrilled with the report of his day. "I did five hundred push-ups today."
He and his coworker were shooting for a thousand, but thought they should start out easy.

Whose life is tougher?

It's all apples and oranges.