Shameless men and one shocked Mommy

I am a happily married woman.  Well, maybe not always happily, but definitely always married.    I do not look at the other fish in the sea, I do not flirt and I’m old and wise enough now to know that the grass is not greener on the other side.  

No matter what phases we go through or spats we have, I love my husband.  I’m not looking to trade him in or set him aside while I dabble in stupidity with somebody else.   When I got married, I went into this with the attitude that it is for a lifetime.

Now, in today’s world, I know I may be in the minority, but I still wish that the men out there would at least have the decency to respect my marriage until I’ve given them some sign that I don’t.

It never ceases to amaze me how desperate some men are to find a woman.    It should be an encouragement to us that we really are fine the way we are, that is, if it weren’t so doggone creepy.  We spend so much time worrying about our weight, our hair, our adult acne, the jagged scar down the center of our face, the hair growing out of our chin, whether or not our adult diaper is showing through our pants - and yet, some guys don’t even seem to notice any of that stuff.

Or, the fact that we’re pregnant with one child and holding the hand of another. 

Seriously.

Seriously?

I was once shopping for party supplies with my then preschool age son, when a store employee approached us and began to flirt with me, shamelessly.

I made every polite effort to make him aware of the child I had with me, the child I had in me, and the husband I had at home.

But this guy was not easily deterred.   When I mentioned the husband, he became even more shameless and told me I could call on him if my husband wasn’t satisfying.    Excuse me, my four year old child is standing beside me!  Shameful.   Plain and simple.  Shameful.

That’s when the protective Mommy mode kicks in and this guy no longer has a snowflake’s chance in July to get away from me fast enough.   I was not going to have this person, no longer deserving the honor of being called a “man”, stand there and model this behavior for my little boy.

No matter how far we’ve fallen from our marriage vows in today’s society, I still can’t believe the audacity of some people.   

But as much as that guy was desperate in a creepy sort of way, there’s another one whose desperation would surely make the top ten list, but is much more laughable.

When I go in for my Cancer follow ups, I have to go to a department called Nuclear Medicine.   They do all sorts of things there, but namely conveyor you under a high-tech camera for 45 minutes while they search for tumors or other signs that your body is turning against you.

Well, the last time I went in, I had to be verified in their computer system first.   I was escorted to a desk by a very well-dressed, professional looking man.   Now, let me remind you, I’d been without my regular medication for nearly a month, which means I’m pretty much fatigued, in a mental fog, hormonal and ready to beg, borrow or steal to get that tiny little pill back into my system.   But, I can’t do that until the giant camera says I’m all clear.   So, for the time being, I have to trudge through life like a sloth on Valium.

And yet, even in that puffy-faced, exhausted, glassy-eyed state, apparently, I’m attractive.    To think of all the money I could have saved on cosmetics if I’d known this before I had Cancer!

This man, who you’d never think to be anything but completely professional by his appearance, turned out to be another shameless flirt.   As he verified my existence in the computer, he noted with dissatisfaction that I am married.  In my slowed brain activity state, it took me a minute or two to realize he was flirting.  My first thought was something was wrong with our insurance and so help me if it screwed up my getting that beloved little pill back into my system, heads were going to roll! 

But as it turned out, no one was in danger, and to his dismay, not even my marriage.

Not only was I not interested, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

I mean, come on.   You want a woman in your life so badly that you’ll not only take one who looks like a bloated fish, but who could also potentially have a giant tumor eating away at her insides?

I guess that’s one way to avoid a long-term commitment.  

I think when these things happen, I am, at first, dumbfounded that these guys, who you know at some point were gangly, awkward teenagers scared to death of rejection, now approach me with such gall.   But then, it’s just plain bewildering to have been married two decades and spend your whole day tending to messy, whiny, naughty or otherwise needy children and then to suddenly be faced with how to respond to another man’s interest.  Shoot, you’re usually so exhausted, you don’t even know how to respond to your husband’s interest!

If you think about it long enough though, it is kind of funny.   As much as we feel like we’ve got a giant sign around our neck that reads, MOMMY, and that’s all we see ourselves as, there is always somebody out there who didn’t get the memo, or I guess, in this case, the birth announcement.

I guess I should be thankful.  As a busy mom, this is just what I needed!   I’m going to have so much time on my hands from now on, now that I know I don’t have to worry anymore.   As soon as I finish off this package of Girl Scout cookies, I’m going to pull on my “fat” pants and toss out my mascara.  

And if my husband takes issue with that, I’ll just send him out to look for pregnant women and Cancer patients.

Oh wait, he’s already had both of those and he’s still here.  Wow.  I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

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...

Life beyond the splinters

In this day and age of Oprah, Tyra, Dr. Phil, and a host of other tv talk shows, you hear such a range of shocking confessions, that it can make the average mom feel a bit lacking if she doesn’t have something dicey to tell.

But the fact is, there is a “dirty little secret” that many moms have and are afraid to share with anyone.

Boredom.   That’s right.  Nothing juicy.   Just plain, uninteresting, nothingness.  Boredom.

But there is a never ending list of things to do.   So, how, you ask, could a mother ever be bored?

Well, back up a minute.  Read what I wrote - carefully.    

I did not say she wasn’t busy.  I said she was bored.   There is a huge difference.

As a mom, we have long lists of things to do.  Sometimes we are actual list-keepers, dutifully checking items off, then rewriting the remainders of the list on a new sheet of paper  for another day.  Others of us just fly by the seats of our pants and do as much as we can in a day, sort of reorganizing our to-do list in our heads as we glance over our shoulders to see the wake of what’s already been done.

No matter which method is more your style, no matter how busy your day keeps you, from time to time, maybe even daily, it creeps back in...that little secret that you’re so afraid will find its way out.

Sometimes it comes up when you’re invited to a party, or gathering of some sort.  The panic strikes you as real and painful as the sudden scorch of your curling iron.  What on earth will you talk about?  When the other people there are prattling on about their careers, investments, vacations, hobbies, church functions, sports teams or bridge clubs - or even the extra curricular activities of their children, you can already picture yourself shrinking back, silently praying that they won’t ask what you’ve been up to.  After all, isn’t that the standard question, “We haven’t seen you in so long.   So, tell us, what have you been up to?”

Gulp.   

How do you possibly make laundry, bill paying, chauffeuring and cooking sound exciting?  Um, let’s see, I tried a new laundry detergent this week because I had a coupon, but I found it didn’t really perform as well as my previous one.   LOSER!   Those high-interest credit cards are tough, huh?  BORING!   Little bit’s sporting events and ballet classes are killing my gas tank, but uh, no, they haven’t won any games, trophies, medals or had any real accolades for me to brag about.  WELL, NOW THAT’S JUST AWKWARD!   We had lots of pasta noodles to use up, so it’s been nothing but spaghetti and mostaccioli  for us this week.  FASCINATING STUFF!

Other times, that little secret is just there, nagging only you.   How long has it been since the phone rang?  Why don’t people call me anymore?   How many times have I checked email and Facebook today?  Good grief, get a life already!  How many hours until hubby gets home?  What does it matter - what could he possibly see in me anymore anyway?

Boredom, for all it’s nothingness, is a very big something for a lot of us.

We love our kids.   We love them more than anything.  But we are well aware that even if we spend most of our time doing things for them, they are not our whole life.  They may require a lot of our time, but they don’t necessarily fill us up.  

Before motherhood and beyond motherhood, we are still women.  We are still human beings, longing for purpose and a sense of accomplishment and worth and self-respect.

It is so easy to become a mother, and nothing else, that by the time the little secret starts to reveal itself, you are so entrenched in your daily duties that you have no idea what to do about it.  And you certainly can’t tell anyone.  

Well, unless you’re a blogger, that is.

All blogging aside though, you’ve got to break outside that boredom box before you suffocate.   The problem is we spend so much time thinking that we “just need a change”, but we either don’t know what that change should be, or we mistakenly think it has to be some big event akin to busting the sides off that box we’re in, like a stick of dynamite roared through it.   In reality though, sometimes the only way out of that box is to peel back one little splintered piece of wood at a time. 

It’s been said that you will never see anything change if you do everything exactly the same.  There is so much truth in that!   So today, do something differently.  It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant that something seems.

Put a different kind of syrup on your morning pancakes.  Wear your hair up instead of down.  Drive a different route home from school.  Peruse the library shelves or online catalog, browse the craft supplies store, paint one small daisy on your kitchen wall, join an online game group such as Scrabble or Chess, type something into Google that you’ve never tried before.  

The smallest tweak in your daily routine could prove to change your entire life.   Sometimes the smallest steps can lead to the biggest inventions, a whole new business concept, recognition of a need in society that isn’t being met, or your own personal makeover.   You just never know where inspiration will come from.

Even if your little tweaks don’t lead to huge, world-changing events, they are sure to lead you into, at the very least, a different outlook on your otherwise boring life.    You may discover a new hobby, a new group of friends, or a new passion, but you’ll never discover anything if you keep tuning in to the same daytime tv and eating the same bag of Oreos.

Wipe those crumbs off your mouth and get out there.   There is a whole world to explore and a whole new you to create.   Stop being afraid of the splinters in the box.   Break out.  Today.

Then, the next time you’re invited to a party, your splinter-bandaged fingers will be a reminder of just how far you’ve come and how much you have to talk about.

You can do it.  But you have to start - somewhere, anywhere.   Today.

Little sponges

I’m all for children being little sponges.  Go ahead, soak up that knowledge.   Become so sopping wet with it that by the time you’re of college age, the possibilities will spread before you like the ocean and the learning will lead to earning -  big bucks to take care of Mama in her old age, that is.  Oh yeah, and a few nice little amenities for yourself, like not living paycheck to paycheck or worrying how you’re going to pay the mortgage every time you buy a cheeseburger.  Yeah, that too.

But for crying out loud, while you’re soaking up all this knowledge, visit many different bodies of water.  Mama is only one small, bubbling brook, and you’re drying me up!

I don’t know how I got one overly curious kid from our gene pool, let alone two, but it’s enough to drive a person straight up mad some days.

I distinctly remember when this stage hit with my big kid, around age four.  I couldn’t walk through a room carrying a Dust Vac, envelope, tape measure or post-it note without getting the third degree.

What you got, Mama?
Where did you get it?
What’s in it?
What does it do?
What are you going to do with it?
Why are you doing that?
What does it say on it?
Who made it?
Why did they make it like that?
Where did they make it?
How did they make it?
Do you have another one?
What color is it?
Can I see it?
Where are you going with it?


Good grief!  It could be a rock from the yard and the child would think of a way to ask 52 questions about it.   And around, oh, the fifth one, you just want to scream, It’s a rock! Get over it already!

Now that he’s seven, the questions are still there, they’ve just become more intelligent, and filled with lots of frustration in his voice as the two year old interrupts twelve times per question.

And why is she interrupting?   Because, God bless her smart little brain, she has decided that she can not wait until age four to get a jump on all this knowledge.   Her vocabulary is already five times that of her brother’s at this age, so it’s no wonder she’s two years ahead on the barrage of questions as well.

But really, how many times can one woman answer “What, Mama?” in a day and not just come right out and ASK for a padded room.  At least there, it would be quiet.

I open a cabinet.
“What, Mama?”

I retrieve an object.
“What, Mama?”

I place said object on the counter.
“What, Mama?”

I move a second object.
“What, Mama?

I sigh.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to sound just a wee bit irritated.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to pace like a caged animal.
“What, Mama?”

I get out the Yellow Pages.
“What, Mama?”

I pick up the phone.
“What, Mama?”

I program the asylum into speed dial.

So help me, if she says it again, my finger is poised above the button...


Oh, but wait.... she’s distracted. Thank you, Jesus!   I turn to see what the distraction is, but before I can even spin the full 180, I hear her brother say, “Mom, can I ask you something?”


Whoever said children are like little sponges never had mine.  There are sponges and then there are alien creatures sent here from the planet Why with the sole purpose of sucking every trace of moisture from your brain.   Oh, but just between you and me, be careful who you tell that to.  The white coats will be here in twenty minutes...