Mommy Crisis or What Was I Thinking?

Hey, Moms out there, do you ever have a moment when you wished you weren't a mother? Oh, come on, admit it. This is a Mommy-guilt free zone. I've been a mother for 10 years now and have wished several times (too many to even count) that I wasn't one. Sometimes it is for a moment, sometimes a day; I've even had a few months in a row before (that is a long story for another blog). I FINALLY admitted my secret wish the other day to a friend of mine. It was just "one-of-those-days": "I know this sounds awful," of course I had to preface what I had to say with that so I didn't look too evil, "but there are times that I wish, really wish I wasn't a mother." To my little selfish surprise, she grinned and said, "Me, too."

Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't trade my kids for anything...well, at least at this moment I wouldn't. Ask me another time and you might get a different answer! I worked so hard to have those babies: four miscarriages, months of morning sickness, fat ankles (although more than my ankles were fat), not to mention the money I spent on ovulation kits and maternity tests. Truly, I love them deeply and, as all Mothers know, I would eat dirt for them if need be, but there are also times that I would love to take that dirt and shove it right in their little foul mouths.

So, here goes: I wish I wasn't a Mother when....

• My child says, "Mom, I hate you....you are the worst Mother in world. I wish you weren't my mother!" Or any other variation on a theme. When I was little, my Mom used to threaten to sell me to the gypsies. When I was quite small, I believed her a bit. Then when I realized it was against the law to sell children, she was toast! Even though I knew it was eventually coming, the first time my sweet child assulted me, I was aghast! To think that I actually created this little monster who stood there, verbally abusing me. My mental reaction is "What was I thinking when I decided to have a baby? So you can yell nasty things at me? If I wanted that, I would've just rented a kid." My actual reaction: "Believe me, buddy, I wish I could send you back right now, but that it impossible! Now, go to your room."


• I am trying to change my tampon and my children keep coming in to ask very inane questions or to tattle on each other. Sure, I should lock the door, but the lock it broken. So instead I have to figure out how to simultaneously block the door with my foot while taking care of business. At the same time yelling "Mommy needs her privacy!! I'll be there in a minute!! Go downstairs and get yourself some candy!!!" Thank the good Lord for yoga (or should I be thanking Buddha for that?) My rule now is that if the house isn't on fire and if no one is bleeding, then leave me alone when I am in the bathroom. Remind me to get that lock fixed!


• I have a hangover and someone wants pancakes at 6:30 a.m. This does not happen often, but when it does, man, oh man, do I wish I was back in college with a day ahead of me with nothing better to do than lay in bed, eat saltines and sip Sprite in the dark. I always tell myself: "I will never do this again." But sometimes it just creeps up when you're with your friends, and the music is playing and you are living for the moment. Then the sun comes up and all I can hear is "I'M HUNGRY!! I WANT PANCAKES!" Oh, for the day when they can make their own damn pancakes.


• A toddler throws up on me at the beginning of an overseas airplane ride. I have the flight attendant yelling at me something about germs and food. I have the baby screaming, crying and heaving. I'm standing there literally head to toe in vomit, chunks in my hair, drenched in the foulest smell without a change of clothing for myself (but I packed 3 for him!) Passengers are looking at me in horror. This is a Dorothy moment where I desperately click my heels together and wish, oh wish, I was back home---or at least single, sitting in first class with my cocktail, magazine and fresh baked cookies. Somehow, that doesn't work.


• The doctor told me that the only way to get my stomach back would be to have a major surgery. You know those women who are "all belly" when they are pregnant. That was me with both babies...although I was also all ass. When most women aren't wearing maternity clothes until after week 16-20, I was in them almost immediately. Seriously. At 16 weeks, I had a lady ask me when I was due, and when I told her, she looked at me like I had 10 heads and said "Honey, you look like you are about to pop." Thanks, lady, who I don't know. Now I feel REALLY good about myself. So, I learned to start lying about my due date so people would tell me how good I looked. Bad, I know, but I do have an ego to nurture. My expectation are not that high. I know I won't have the pre-baby body I had in my 20s, but I would like one that doesn't look so lumpy and saggy.


• Trying to change planes while flying home to Texas. I have got one in the stroller who can walk and one walking who doesn't want to walk. We have to go from one terminal to another in less than 30 minutes. I have a backpack that the walker refuses to carry, my bag with all-things-mother in it (so you know it weighs a billion pounds) and I have to keep picking up the bottle that the rider keeps dropping on the floor. I'm sweating. I'm thirsty. I have to pee. The one in the stroller is crying because she wants out and the one walking is crying because he wants to ride: "It's NOT FAIR she gets to ride." "But, honey, she doesn't know how to walk!" "I don't care, it's NOT FAIR!" I am literally dragging (picture child on floor flailing and me pulling an arm) the non-walking walker down the terminal with one hand and trying to steer a stroller with the other while hundreds of travellers stare at me in disbelief. Click, click, click those heels....damn, they're still here.

In the grand scheme of a lifetime, these difficult times are fleeting and far between. The clock hands seem to a crawl when I am in the midst of a Mommy-crisis. Then, once the air clears, I take a breath and we are back to the same ol' routine of snuggles, giggles, ruffled hair, grass stained knees (the sign of a very good day) and words of love. The bad news is, time truly does fly when you are having fun.

Four Lessons I've Learned from My Children

I Am What I Am: You'd think I would learn this lesson from the hundreds of episodes of Popeye the Sailor Man I watched as a kid, but the "I Yam What I Yam" song didn't quite sink in until it was one of those days when Dakota and Audrey just couldn't get a long. She would whine, he would growl and then it would all end up in stomping feet, streaming tears and slamming doors. In exasperation and desperation to find meaning to the madness, I grabbed Dakota by the arm and said, "I just don't get it. Why do y'all have to fight non-stop?" He looked at me in a blaze of confusion and replied: "Mom, we're brother and sister. Duh!" Duh, is right. He's the big brother and she's the little sister and big brothers and little sisters fight. A lot. I know this because I am a little sister of a big brother. I have Top Honors in sibling rivalry. They fight. Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes just to pass the time. Sometimes because she got a bigger piece than he did. Regardless of the reason, the fact remains that Dakota is who he is and Audrey is who she is. And, you know what, I am what I am, and I what I am is a mother who wants peace and quite! So, the majority of the time, I no longer get in the middle and play referee or talk about feelings like a therapist; I let them work it out in all their glory by themselves in their own time. So far we've only had a couple of scratches and a bruised arm...that I know about.

It Is What It Is: My mother always taught me that I had a guardian angel or two watching after me. If I was afraid in my room (thanks to my brother), had a nightmare (thanks to my brother) or nervous about being someplace alone (thanks to my brother) my Mom would always tell me that God's angels were watching over me. Now, as an adult, sometimes I smell my great-grandmother's Chantilly Lace perfume or my great-grandfather's Juicy Fruit Gum and I know they are right there at my elbow. The other day, we were having dinner and Audrey said, "Oooo, what's that smell? It smells good." The rest of us couldn't smell anything and we couldn't figure out what it was after sniffing all around like a pack of bloodhounds. "Well, Audie," I said, "maybe it was your Guardian Angel. " I continued and explained to her as my mother did to me. "Can Garden Fairies talk to you?" Garden Fairies?? I explained again that the term is "GUARDIAN ANGEL" pronouncing each syllable while she watched my lips. The evening continued and it was time for her to go up and get ready for bed, which is usually a pretty fearful time for her. She started up the steps and turned around, "Mom, I'm OK tonight. I have my Garden Fairy with me." Garden Fairy it is. As Juliet said of her beloved Romeo: "...that which we call a rose//By any other name would smell as sweet".

If It No Fitta; Qutta In September 2005, Audrey was three and she wanted to try to play soccer like her brother. I signed her up, got her a #3 pink soccer ball and her tiny shoes and shin guards. We went to the first practice and she sat through the first half and then decided to run around during the second half. She laughed a couple of times. The next practice was a bit of the same; pretty tame with eight little kids trying to maneuver several out-of-control soccer balls. Then we had a game: she sat on the bench and cried. Then we had a practice: she hysterically cried and wouldn't get in the car with her coach. Then we had the second game and she sat there with arms folded and tears streaming down her face. Dakota was all decked out for his game so he went over to give her a pep talk, to absolutely no avail. Finally I knelt down to speak to her and in her sobbing, speech delayed way, she said "Momma, socca... no... fitta me." She didn't go back to soccer. Like a too small scratchy wool sweater, it didn't fit her. I didn't see it as teaching her to be a quitter; I saw it as allowing her to make her own independent life decision. She had (and still does) so many things she had to do and had to follow. Soccer didn't HAVE to be one of them. Her brave decision taught me that it is OK to say things "no fitta me". This mantra became very important to me in 2008: My Year of Saying No. It was time for me to lift some unnecessary burden off my broken shoulders and give myself a break. With Audrey's example and my utter exhaustion from doing everything everyone asked of me, I finally decided it was OK for me to say "No." No to hours of volunteering. No to committees and counsels. No to trying to have a perfectly neat home. No to pretending that I felt great every day. No to feeling guilty about occasionally feeding my kids nutritiously lacking dinners of buttered noodles or frozen waffles. So now when my head is inches from going under, I take a breath and think: "No fitta: I quitta."

Show Me the Love It is an amazing turn of events when your own child can actually express love back to you. After endless moments of rocking, singing, snuggling, nuzzling and saying "I love you," to have that reciprocated made up for all the endless poop, pee, crying, throw up and sleepless nights. When Dakota was about 2 1/2 years old, he got his big boy bed. Audrey was on the way and I didn't want him busting his head open hurdling over the side of his crib. At night, when I put him to bed, he would hold out his little arms and say: "Smuggle wit me, Momma." So I would snuggle in, we would listen to classical music and tell each other how much we loved each other. Now, at 9 1/2 (I can't forget the 1/2 or he gets mad at me) our "smuggling" isn't as often but the love is all there. He rarely leaves the room without hugging and kissing me. He tells me he loves me "so much" several times a day. And just the other day, in a random two seconds of love, he hugged me and declared me "the best Mommy in the world." I have to tell you, I was having a really difficult day and that short interaction dissipated all my ill feelings. Now, I know I am not the only mother to receive such accolades, but, believe me, I will take it. I realized that all it takes is 2 seconds to make someone feel good. All it takes is 2 seconds to say "thank you," "I really appreciate you," "have a great day," "I love you," or any other phrase to soothe the daily grind. You know about the "trickle down theory" in economics; well I call this Dakota's "Smuggle Down Theory." Give one person a "smuggle", a word of kindness or love, and you will set in motion an unstoppable force of good will that will multiply and spread way beyond your intention.

Occupation: Mother

The following is a speech I made at my son Dakota's christening in 1999. It was Labor Day Weekend and the pastor asked several people to talk about their professions. Among the executive, the fireman, the accountant, there I was with leaking breasts and spit up on my shoulder. Though I am terrified to speak in public, I was proud to do it on such a special day for our family. Through streaming tears and shaking hands, this is what I said:

When I filled out my son Dakota’s information sheet at his first pediatrician’s visit, beside the words “Mother’s Occupation” I carefully printed “M-o-t-h-e-r” without a moment’s thought. The Doctor, upon reviewing our records, commented that “at-home-moms” usually write N/A or the word “none” in that space and that I was the first to write “Mother.”

What more of a nobler and prestigious profession is there other than Mother? Without Mothers, none of you would be here. There would be no Abraham Lincoln, no Mother Theresa, no Frank Sinatra, and no Pastor Linda. Every world or religious leader has a mother. Every policeman, actor, teacher, CEO, nurse has a mother.

Each day I look at my son’s hands and think of how much potential they possess. I watch him learning how they work, how he can hold things and manipulate toys. Each day I tell him that he will do great things with those hands—wonderful, beautiful things. He can bring peace with those hands, write the next best novel of his time, hold his baby with those hands—and if my husband has anything to do with it, be the next Tiger Woods.

In Gensis 1:26, God says, “Let Us make man in Our image according to Our likeness; and let them rule over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the sky, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” A perfect job for a little boy don’t you think? Like God in many ways “Dakota, has the whole world in his hands”—the power to create and destroy, the power to love and nurture. And I, his mother, with the hand and grace of God, am there to help guide and direct those little fingers to greatness.

So for me, my boardroom is the nursery, my bargaining table is the changing table. I negotiate nap times, schedule feedings, and stock up on diapers. I’m honored to have the profession of Mother.

Audi-isms

Audi-isms are things that only Audrey says and only the people who love and know her understand. For a silly list of real sayings, read on:

“Soccer no fitta’ me!”

“I wanna paint my facing.”

“I forgot my mind.”

“I drinky. I want chaw-kit milk, pweeeze!”

“Skatch me.”

“Where my pack-pack?”

“You bwessed youd, so bwess you, Mom.”

“Dat’s spar-kitty! I wike spar-kitty.”

“I need sun scream for my body.”

“I wuv wosted smushmellows!”

“Wed Sox won de World Serious!”

“He stuck my tongue at me!”

“Dakota goes back horse ridin’.”

“Do I have to go to da hasstibal?”

“I frushsurated!!”

“I can’t go to Kinnergawden. I don’t know how to weed!”

“We had a pepper alley at school today.”

“I eat Frosted Lakes with milk.”

“Change the lightball. I no wike da dawk.”

Big Girl Haircut

Yesterday, I took my son, Dakota, to get a haircut. He is 9 1/2 (don't forget the 1/2) and recently decided that he needed a "real" haircut. Not one of those quickie hack jobs at a kids' place painted with primary colors and loud Kids' Bop tunes. My girlfriend, Meg, suggested I take him to Les Mages in our little downtown area where she takes her little girls and herself for haircuts.

Audrey's (she is 6 1/2) eyes glistened at the 2 well placed, large crystal chandeliers. You know, all girls love anything shiny and "spar-ki-ty" as Audrey says. As Dakota was being transformed from his Zac Ephron-esque mop head to a Chace Crawford chopped top, Audrey insisted that she, too, get a cut. "OK," I said, "Just a trim though," remembering her desire to have short bangs like all the girls in her class. She's always had a shag of random waves and occasional curls. They blow in the wind and become a veritable bird's nest. We brush them out several times a day. I just couldn't do the bang thing. I love the glory of her face and the gleaming smoothness of that young forehead. It makes you want to just kiss it every time you see her!

I watched as she got her hair scrubbed and combed. I tried to eaves drop on her discussion with the stylist whom I had warned about our "no bangs" rule. Of course, mainly I was struggling with trying to force Dakota to keep the sound turned off on his Nintendo DS. After all, he was the one who wanted to frequent a "real haircut place," and I can assure you, the lady getting her roots touched up had no interest in listing to Mario Party 8. Or was it Kirby Superstar?

Before I knew it, Audrey was getting her first blow out--in a salon with a French name and TWO chandeliers no less! The smile on her face was beyond priceless. She had reached the pinnacle of beauty treatments for 6 year old girls. She announced that she was "now a wheel big grr." (She has speech problems and can't say"real" & "girl" very well, but that is for another blog.) I blinked once, twice, three, maybe four times. I caught my breath & hugged her tightly. It was as if Father Time decided to run a marathon. I could see her little body, her grubby chocolate hands, & her mud stained pants, but her face and hair looked so much older, refined, & smooth!

She's been bit by the blow out bug big time! I woke up this morning to the sound of my hairdryer in by bathroom blowing a hurricane. Without looking, I knew what was happening. She had my big round brush and was doing the best she could to smooth out the damages of bed head. It was then I knew: I've lost my little, scraggly head girl forever. It is one of those bittersweet moments. You want them to grow but just not too much!

She told me she wasn't going back to our regular kids place again and she couldn't wait for her friends at school to she her big girl style. "They gowna be so surprised, Mom. My hair is so pwetty! I wheelly a big grr now." Sniff! Sniff!