Mirror mirror

Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the best mommy of them all?

Why is it that when you stand before that all-telling Mommy Mirror, you never see your own, true reflection?

It’s as though there are a hundred other women shoving you out of the way, eager to mark up the glass with their own fingerprints, until you can’t see yourself at all.

First in line is that mom who bounces into school at 8:00 a.m. with flawless hair and makeup, looking like she, and those little designer-backpack-toting duplicates of herself just stepped out of a photo shoot.  She dutifully counts heads, as well as lunch bags, mittens, and science projects, while you’re still yawning and wondering if you left one of your own kids at home in the bathroom.

Her best friend is over-achiever mom.   This woman’s children spout scripture like it’s a second language, speak a second language like it’s their first, and have a thorough knowledge of sign language ... just in case.   She’s doesn’t have time to talk to you.  She’s got places to be, 19 to be exact.   There’s soccer, ballet, choir rehearsal, gymnastics, karate, Bible study, historical reenactment, softball, drama practice, archery, track meet, spelling bee finals, fund-raiser merchandise pick up, cheerleading try-outs, homeroom party committee, library drop off, Mommy & Me, Yoga and PTA.    And she has to bake 132 cupcakes before tomorrow morning - from scratch.  

High-tech mom is just as bad.  She’s everywhere - at school, in the McDonald’s play area, sitting in the stands at Little League practice - because there’s nowhere all her gadgets can’t go.   She can chat on her Bluetooth, sway her hips along with her iPod, update her Facebook status and whip an email off to her CEO without ever missing a moment of her children’s lives.   Every time you see her, you desperately try to remember if you even took pictures of your kid’s last birthday.

Then there’s homeschool mom.  She’s the calm, collected one whose genius IQ children are creeping quietly around the yard with metal detectors and archaeology tools while you smile sheepishly, flushing mud pies out of your kids’ mouths with the garden hose for the fifth time. 

If that weren’t enough pressure, you’ve also got to contend with happy-homemaker, next-door neighbor mom, whose aromas of home-cooked meals waft into your open window at precisely 6:00 p.m. every day, while you’re still standing in front of the open fridge, trying to decide between hot dogs and pizza rolls.

And who could ever live up to bath-every-night, brush-three-times-a-day, early-bedtime mom?   Her squeaky clean, sparkling, well-rested children never have a virus, cavity, or mid-day meltdown.   Not to mention her smiley, smitten husband who gets to watch Prime time tv in peace, still has time to hang the Do Not Disturb sign and get eight hours of sleep before the kid-alarm goes off in the morning.  

With all these women and more vying for a spot in front of your mirror, it’s very easy to get lost in the crowd.  To lose sight of yourself.  

But let me tell you a little secret.   Shhh... don’t let anyone else know.  

Stand on your tippy-toes.

That’s right, you heard me.  

Right there, in the middle of the crowd, just rise up. 

Now, look!  Down there in the front, going against the crowd, are your children.   They’re not looking at all those other moms; they are looking for you.  For they remember something that you’ve forgotten.

They are your mirror.  

It doesn’t matter that you’re not like all those other moms.  You are their mom.  And the only thing you’ll see reflected in them is love. 

You love them.   They know it.  And that’s more than enough.

The mouse trap

The night before last, I got three hours of sleep.    The Little Kid’s vomiting started at midnight and I didn’t drop into bed until 4:00 a.m.

Round and round I went - drying her tears, calming her fears, changing jammies and sheets, cleaning the carpet, wiping down the mat I had now limited her to sitting on, changing jammies again, calming her fears again, drying tears again, rinsing more clothing, cleaning her up again, drying tears again, wiping down the mat again, rinsing more clothing, then back to change jammies again.    It just seemed to go on forever -  1 sheet, 1 mattress pad, 5 pairs of jammie pants, 3 jammie shirts, 2 pairs of socks, 3 blankets, 2 diapers, 2 washcloths, and a truckload of disinfecting wipes, paper towels, carpet cleaner, stain remover and laundry detergent.

When I finally collapsed into bed it was like a boulder hitting the ocean floor.

The day and a half since then have not been much better, since I have not fully recovered from the sleep deprivation, but then, as moms, do we ever?

While I’ve known for a while that sleep deprivation is a continual state of being, I’m starting to see another pattern emerge.   It’s the Mommy Maze.

You know the one; it’s just like that little box the mice run around in.   You think you’re getting somewhere, but then you hit a dead end, so you double back the way you came and you end up running the whole stupid track all over again.   Once in a while, you take a different path, thinking you’ll surely get further along this time, but then, BAM, you hit another wall and before you know it, you’re back at the starting line again. 

My days are like this so often that I can almost feel the eyes of some group of unseen spectators.

Just as I went round and round cleaning up after my poor, sick little one, I spend the rest of my waking hours feeling like I’m not getting anywhere.

No sooner than I sit down at the computer, I hear, “I need help, please”, so I jump up.  Not just once, but every two minutes, or every time I start to put a coherent thought together, whichever comes first.

If I try to rinse bowls and load the dishwasher, I will inevitably have to dry my hands fifteen times because there will be something that requires my urgent attention every 6.8 seconds.

If I finally get a chance to put lotion on my aching, dry hands, there will surely be a poopy diaper that will require me to wash my hands and thus, wash away said lotion.

If I pick up a trail of toys at 12:30 to get ready for naptime, by the time I return with the blanket and pacifier at 12:35, there will now be a pile of books on the floor instead.

By the time I can sit down to my own dinner, Big Kid is already handing me his dirty dishes and Little Kid is asking to be cleaned up and freed from the high chair.  

And if it’s not the kids, it’s the Other One.   You know who I’m talking about.  The one who is supposed to help you get out of this maze alive, but instead just barrels ahead, kicking more roadblocks into your path. 

The wrinkle-free laundry that was wadded up and thrown into the basket.    The laundry that was never supposed to go into the dryer in the first place.  The laundry that was so considerately hung up to dry, but never shaken or smoothed out, so you now have to decide between ironing or just washing again.

And then there are the “clean” dishes.   You know, the ones you pull from the high-end model dishwasher he must be fantasizing that you own.  

Or it’s the shoes leaving black streaks across the kitchen floor before the mop has even had time to dry.

Path after path after path, they all hit a dead end.   I retrace my steps, I try again, I double back.   At first I hit my head on accident.  By the end of the day, I am bashing it in a conscious effort to free myself from this torture, one way or another.

But once in a while, I get to feeling bold, so I stand up and peek over a wall.   I am astonished to see other women who seem to be able to navigate this maze with such ease.    They are racing along running businesses, completing their master’s degree, marketing inventions, winning awards.   They are reaching for the stars, while I lay sprawled out watching stars dance around my throbbing head.

I just don’t get it.  I don’t understand if this success is just a lucky combination of genes, some trial and error concoction of ingredients they drank, or the good fortune of bashing their head against a secret passageway.

All I know is I’m not getting anywhere and I’ve got a giant headache.

A dollar only goes so far

Right now, there are fifteen things on our have-to-have list, and I have only one dollar in my wallet.

The credit cards are maxed out, and payday isn’t for another week.

And even then, I have to pay the mortgage and the car payment.

I get so tired of waiting for a miracle.    I get so tired of looking into my children’s adoring faces and knowing that I am “mom”, the one who is supposed to keep everything running smoothly, the one who is supposed to have all the answers, and the one who is supposed to be able to automatically dispense whatever it is they need.

But sometimes I can’t, and it makes me angry - not at them, but at our circumstances.  And I get crabby.  Of course, they don’t understand, and then I just get sad.

If only motherhood came with a $100,000 sign on bonus.

Then, we wouldn’t have to make the hard choices. 


Do we look into that excited little face and tell him that he can’t go to the birthday party because we can’t afford a present, or do we buy the present and skimp on groceries instead?

Do we skip a fun day at the festival or the zoo because even if there is free admission, there will be pony rides, activities and refreshments that aren’t in the budget?

Will Santa have to bring a little less this year because we’ll soon have to replace coats and snow boots, or worse yet, the furnace?


There just seems to be a never ending line of decisions to make that are all tied to money.    If my children were just spoiled and suddenly money became tight, I wouldn’t think twice about cutting back and making them do with a little less.   But when you have sweet children who have never thrown a tantrum in a store and rarely ask for anything over a dollar, it’s extremely hard to figure out how to give them a normal, happy childhood with fun experiences and fairy tales to believe in while they’re young - when the money just isn’t there.

And aside from just trying to preserve the innocence and fun of childhood, there are the bigger issues, the ones you talk about late at night, or when they’re out of ear shot.  

How are we going to pay for the life insurance, car repair, new washing machine?   How far can we stretch the tax refund? Will one of us have to take on an extra job?   

And then there are the emotional issues, the ones that a Mommy has rooted so deeply in her heart that she can’t bear to think about them.    Will we have to move? Change schools?  Babysitters?  Cancel plans and break promises?  How can I bear to look into my children’s eyes and tell them that everything they are familiar with, everything that gives them security and friendship and a sense of belonging could change?

How is a mother, who loves all her children equally, supposed to make a choice between them?  If I choose to change schools and cancel plans, it hurts Big Kid, and tears my heart out.  If I choose to take an extra job to keep Big Kid’s life humming along smoothly, I lose these precious toddler years with Little Kid that I can never get back, and that tears my heart out.   It seems no matter what choice we make, somebody loses, or everybody loses in some way.

But if I just bury my head in the sand, eventually there will be a foreclosure sign staked next to it. 

Still, the choices are too hard.  A mom should never have to choose between time with her children, making her children feel loved and connected, giving them memories with her or taking a job to pay for their basic needs.  How do you choose between food in their bellies or love and security in their hearts.

And every moment that I don’t decide is another moment of their childhoods spent in worry, stolen from me forever.  It’s a vicious cycle in my head.

Maybe you’ve got the same heaviness in your heart right now.  Maybe there are impossible decisions to make and not enough time to make them.  Maybe they’re being made for you and you’re angry. 

Or maybe you’re like me, just closing your eyes, trying to drown out everything but your children’s laughter, and praying for a miracle.

Taking naps and prisoners

I put the little kid down for a nap, though she has yet to fall asleep, twenty minutes later.  In fact, quite the opposite.  She’s been singing, talking, and listening to two different dueling music boxes, not to mention screeching some gibberish at the top of her lungs, all of which is piped through to me via the baby monitor.

So much for my quiet writing atmosphere.

So, I sit here looking around the room.   Without even moving from my chair, I see four books, a baby doll stroller, an empty cardboard toy box, a game with scattered bean bags, four puzzles, a long-outgrown push toy, a mini frisbee, an upside down baby doll plate, an upside down baby doll potty, a baby doll bowl, a baby doll visor and bow, two containers filled with put and take toys, fifty or so toy magnets, a basket of crayons, stacks of half-colored papers, a half-eaten bowl of Goldfish crackers, a toy remote control, a toy shopping cart, a pretend kitchen with baby diapers on the stove burners, a toy boombox that needs batteries, a baby doll high chair, a pretend dishwasher, a face-down baby doll, and about four items that actually belong to an adult.

And now the baby monitor is screaming, “Mama! Mama!” - only thirty minutes into the attempted nap.

It’s no wonder that I feel so uninspired.   Everywhere I turn there is a reminder that I am one thing, and one thing only, a mom.

Just a little bit ago, I watched my neighbor back out of her driveway.  She appeared to be leaving without kids.  It was all I could do not to run after her, latch onto her bumper and let her drag me halfway down the block before she realized I was there and let me get in beside her.

Now I see that the same neighbor’s husband is outside, doing yard work.  The children must not be at home.  I marvel at this for a few minutes.  How does one accomplish such a feat, I wonder? My children are always home!

In fact, I just bit the bullet and opened the forbidden nap time door to see what all the “Mama!” yelling was about.  It seems the little kid wanted me to help her pull her sock onto her hand, a task she could not perform on her own due to the other hand already housing the other sock.

Seriously? This is what my life has boiled down to?   Pleading with someone who is not even a tenth of my age to lay down and close her eyes, so that I can go back and live vicariously through the neighbors out my kitchen window?

Oh sure, I could do laundry, pick up the afore-mentioned littering of toys or sort through the basket of junk mail, but how is that any more exciting?

I need something.  But what?  Excitement? I’m not sure that’s it.  Excitement wanes quickly.  To talk to an old friend?  That’d be nice, but probably a bit one-sided since I have nothing to talk about.  To spend time with Big Kid and appease the left-out feelings of late?  Sure, but right now he wouldn’t take too kindly to me interrupting his computer game.  To talk to hubby?  Yeah right, like he’s going to wake from his sofa coma after working extra hours all week.     To do one of the countless projects I’ve been putting off since the birth of Little Kid?  Most definitely, but seeing as how nap time is short and my attention span for projects is long, I’d only end up frustrated that I couldn’t finish.   So what then?

It makes me realize why so many of us turn to food.  More calories - that must be it!

And yet my bulging belly and lonely exercise equipment tell me food isn’t the answer either.

So, what is it then?

What is it we moms are looking for?

Purpose.  Fulfillment.  Validation as a unique person.

Now I think I’m on to something.     And yet, how do you accomplish something profound in the span of the two hour - or less the way it’s going today - nap time?

And what happens - gasp- when they stop taking naps altogether?

Even as I write this, and know full well Little Kid is on her way to two and a half, then three, I am in denial.  She will take naps until she is thirty-two. 

If she doesn’t, I may start taking them.

I may start today, seeing as how it’s now been sixty minutes and she is not only still singing through the baby monitor, but making the most obnoxious commotion turning her music box to full volume.

There will obviously be no nap today, which means by 6:30 when she truly is worn out, the naughty behavior will begin.   After two hours of dealing with discipline issues, I will be worn out as well, which in turn means no profound writing at bedtime either.

I will remain frustrated the entire day, possibly carrying over in to tomorrow, since I will feel that I’ve had no break at all.

And speaking of no break at all, here comes the big kid, in search of a snack, but first barging in to tell me the full details of something unfolding on his computer game, completely unaware, it seems, of the keyboard at my fingertips, or that I may be trying to concentrate on something.   But as quickly as he blew in and interrupted my thoughts, he is gone again, back to the solace of the basement and Drowsy-Daddy.  Everybody but me is far, far away from the chaos on the other end of the baby monitor.

I think back and I try to peer into the past, before I had kids.   I try to see myself young and full of ideas, dreams, possibilities.  I try to figure out what in the world I was thinking motherhood would be like.   Ah yes, I can picture it now.  I see my young self coming into focus.  And then it hits me.  I know what I will do with my two hour nap time.   I will build a time machine so that I can go back to that younger me and smack myself upside the head.

A broken record still spins

“You sound like a broken record.”

If you’re in the over 30 crowd, you probably know what that means without even hesitating to think about it, so bear with me a moment while I clear this up for the younger generations.  

Before there were iPods, there were CDs.
Before CDs, there were cassette tapes.
Before cassette tapes, there were 8 track tapes.
Before there were 8 track tapes, there were records.

If you’ve ever seen the Toy Story 2 movie, it’s that thingamajig that Woody and Jessie are running around and around in circles on in the Woody’s Roundup merchandise scene.

Well, we older folks used to watch those records spin round and round, waiting for the needle to hit the right groove and the tunes begin to fill the air.   But ever once in a while, that needle would get stuck and the same lyric would repeat over and over again until you manually lifted the needle arm and repositioned it.  It was kind of like the “antique” version of your computer not buffering a video online, and you keep trying to refresh the page or restart the video.

Until now, I’d always thought people used that phrase, “You sound like a broken record” when another adult was nagging them or telling them the same information over and over again. 

But now that I have kids, I’m realizing that the person who first coined that phrase, must have had a two year old in the house.

I know because my entire day pretty much goes like this:

Where my Daddy?
At work
Where Big Kid?
At school
Where’s the cat?
On the bed
Where my Daddy?
At work
Where Big Kid?
At school!
Where’s the cat?
On the bed!
Where my Daddy?
At work!!!
Oh.

Baby Tessa (at the babysitter’s house) eat toast and banana
She does?
Yes, Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s good
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s a good breakfast
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s great.  That sounds yummy
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s wonderful, Honey.  Mama’s head is going to explode now.

Plode?
Yes, explode
Mama’s head, 'plode now?
Yes.
Mama’s head, 'plode now again?


There isn’t a migraine pill on this planet that is big enough...

Oh, but my favorite moments are when the record gets stuck, but instead of somebody repositioning the needle, they just rip the record off the player altogether and put a new one on, spinning your brain off into confused rotations that never quite catch up. 

That goes something like this:

Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes
Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes, Mama is going to cook the chicken
Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes, I’m going to make the chicken in just a minute
Me eat chi-.  No! I not wear my red jammie pants for night night!
Yes Sweetheart, the chicken will be ready in a few jammie pants...wait a minute... WHAT?

Oh sure, you moms of infants and one year olds, just sit there and chuckle.  Go ahead and think to yourself, why don't you just ignore it.  Trust me, your time is coming.  

There is something about turning two that enables the voice to reach a whole new decibel level.   And they are not afraid to use it. So go ahead, try to ignore it.   Yeah, good luck with that.  It will only get louder, and Louder, and LOUDER. 

You will be expected to comment. Not just once.  Every single time.  When you are in the bathroom.  When you are on the phone.   When you are walking the big kid into school, talking to the teacher.  When you are cooking, driving, balancing the checkbook, emailing your boss, reading a legal document or doing your taxes.  If you are clipping your toenails, unwrapping a tampon, vomiting or gargling mouthwash - doesn’t matter.     When the needle is stuck, you either have to sing along to the same thing over and over and over again or whack that thing off its axis.  

Since it’s neither legally nor morally acceptable to let your mind wander down that path, you comment.  Every single time.  Every single time.  Every single time...