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...

Outnumbered

I remember walking through a hospital corridor several years ago and seeing a woman pushing one baby in a stroller, while a young toddler walked alongside.  I didn’t have children of my own yet, but I somehow knew, in that instant, that having children that close together would absolutely drive me mad.

I’m just not cut out for it, the constant changing of diapers, the trying to bottle feed one while spoon feeding the other, the overnight feedings combined with teething woes, hoping beyond hope that they will both take a nap at the same time, so that I could cope through the rest of the day. Day in day out, needs needs needs.   It just wasn’t for me.   I have got to have some down time or I won’t be very pleasant to live with.

And thus, my children are five years apart.

Little did I know that there would be a whole different set of challenges with an age spread.  The first of which was just agreeing to try to get pregnant with the second one.    Going in to motherhood, you have no idea that by the time you have survived the sleep deprivation, the weaning from breast or bottle, not to mention pacifier, security blanket, and numerous annoying habits, potty training, bouts of crying when you leave them at preschool for the first time, tantrums, discipline, getting them to go to sleep by themselves, the year or two when they insist on waking you in some bone-jarring fashion, and five birthday parties full of sugar-hyped screamers, the thought of starting all over again at square one sounds about as enticing as standing in front of a freight train.

And yet that sucker is barreling down on you with its big biological clock plastered right to the front of it in plain view.

So, after a few weeks of either feeling renewed newlywed bliss or more often, the freakiness of being the subjects of some carefully-watched clinical research study, you find yourself staring at two pink lines, saying, “Yikes! There’s no going back now.”

Oh sure, you calm down, you smile, you rest your hand on your belly and think, wow, there really is a little one in there.  But then the nausea sets in and you begin to recall the so-called bliss that got you here and begin to seriously question whether it was worth it.   If you’re lucky - if he’s lucky, and the nausea goes away in a few weeks, he’ll begin to look like your Prince Charming again.  But if that nausea decides to stay the entire nine months, or, in other words - it’s a girl, that man better find a really good place to hide because if your paths cross again there’s going to be a whole different kind of fireworks between you.

But then, as life happens, that nine months is over before you have fully accepted what you’ve gotten yourself into.   You see them place that baby in her Daddy’s arms, a love in his eyes that takes your breath away, and the hostility of the last nine months drains away in the time it takes her to wrap his heart around her little finger.   

Later, when big brother caresses her little cheek and softly sings to her with that same adoration, you finally relax.  You just know that all will be okay.

Then she learns to crawl, then walk, then run, then worse....jump.   And it’s not until you’ve rearranged the furniture to accommodate the hamster Habitrail of huge indoor toys to keep her entertained, or just somewhat contained, that you realize what you’ve done.    When the entire family sits glassy-eyed, tazered to their spots like blue silhouettes on a downed electrical wire, just watching her bounce off the furnishings like a squirrel whose acorns were laced with something a little nutty, you just know that surviving the first five years with this child will pale in comparison to what you thought you’d survived with the first.

And no matter how vastly different the older child is - or maybe because you realize how different they are, there is a moment when it hits you like a lightning bolt between the eyes, oh my goodness, there are TWO of them now!

I’d venture to guess that moment came when the little one started talking, in our case, paragraphs, entire dissertations, a full eight months ahead of where her brother was when he uttered a few grunts that could pass as “airplane” or “train”, and from that moment on, your previously quiet, joyful house, was filled with whining, arguments and eardrum-piercing screaming matches that were surely the cause of the rash of For Sale signs going up in your neighborhood.

Ohhhhh, the headaches of having an age spread.   The repetitions that you are sure you could continue to recite without interruption, even from a comatose state.   Please try to remember that she is only two.  She really will outgrow this, I promise!  Seriously, I can not take another minute of that whining - just let her have the toy already!  I know it isn’t fair, just do it anyway.  What is going on in there?  She was happy a minute ago, so what did you do????   Leave her alone.  You have got to stop trying to be the parent.  We are standing right here.  We will take care of it.   What on earth is wrong NOW?  Okay, that’s enough! Just stop!   No hitting.  No pushing.  No grabbing.  No throwing.  No, no, no, NO!!!!  If you keep whining and fussing like that, I will put you in time out.  I didn’t ask you if you wanted to, I’m telling you to.   We are NOT going to start our day like this!

You would think that by now, after all the hard work you put into “raising” the first one, that they would have some iota of self control, some inborn first born thing that tells them how to deal with issues the same way you do, but nope, as it turns out, they are still just kids themselves and now, on top of everything you thought you’d already perfected in this parenting thing, you’ve got to learn the toughest performance of all - the balancing act.

It’s hard enough to figure out how to care for their individual needs when they have similar personalities, when they are both compliant, quiet children who smile pleasantly  and have little imaginary hearts and halos floating around their heads at all times.   But when that second child comes along and sets ablaze everything you ever thought you knew about motherhood, and you now know how deceived you were by that first child’s quiet nature, keeping your balance between them is like walking a high wire with a purring kitten strapped to one leg and a bucking bronco strapped to the other.  All day long, you try to shift your weight so that the whole act doesn’t come crashing down.  

With each step, you are trying to manage opposing forces - Logic and reason versus simple commands, moral lessons versus basic etiquette, encouraging independence versus total dependency, quality time versus quantity time, paying attention versus the center of attention, reassurance of your love versus acceptance of your love.     It’s dizzying on a good day, a long way down on a bad day.

For on those days when it all comes crashing down and somebody winds up in a heap of neglected tears, you remember the original lady with the baby in the stroller and the young toddler walking alongside, and suddenly, you’d give anything to be able to just toss a couple of squeaky toys in their direction and watch them both giggle with delight.