**major hijack ** A glimpse into a mommy’s brain.
Another note, having a baby is not just planning a pregnancy and birth…it is the rest of your life.
It is a huge commitment.
Parenthood - and lets not kid ourselves - Mommyhood (as we tend to do most of the work no matter how hands-on our spouses are) is not all about sunshine and butterflies and sitting together in quiet little moments of perfection.
Those moments are exactly that. Fluttering by for a stop like a butterfly. Then a big gust of wind comes along…
The rest of the time you or your child are either in moments of constant stickiness, crabbiness, whininess, stinkyness and if you aren’t you are *constantly * looking for matching shoes, socks and clothes ( and that is just theirs, your’s, incase you are wondering what happened to that Oh-so-
Fab wardrobe you use to wear is obsolete either by tits to big because of breast feeding, or droopy becaouse of breastfeeding.
The pants don’t fit ( maybe after baby #1, but after the second child, fergetaboutit) because you now have a bouncy chunk cottage cheese that no matter how much you suck it in it pooches out. Your thighes look like a pro-speed skater gone to seed.
Your upper arms, on the other hand, are in such superb shape from lifting kids all day long that you could arm wrestle a truck driver and win.
You don’t have time to work out and if you do have time to work out, you don’t have the money. If you have the time and the money to work out you feel guilty about leaving the baby ( again, 1st) for a nano-second. So, you are content to go for walks pushing the stroller with your perfect baby, stop to get ice cream and eaten up by mosquito’s along the way. Eventually you just drive to get the ice cream because, well, it’s easier and you have to conserve your energy for those long nights of room service.
You don’t have time to get a hair cut and if you do, you feel guilty about spending the money on something for yourself. ( never mind the fact that your husband, Mr. Perfect, will buy tools or go golfing or hunting - needing assorted newer things for his manly pursuits - and spend five times the amount on than your basic upkeep that he will never really use but had to have ) and so to cut corners from your $40 hair cut ( tip not included) you downgrade to cheaper salons ( whilst hubby buys/golfs/hunts more) eventually ending up at some plebian salon where they advertise ALL-HAIRCUTS- $10.
There is a reason why every haircut is $10. These girls are fresh out of beauty school and learning the ropes. So after one or two not-exactly-what-you-want-cuts, you decide you are going to grow your hair out…and you do, it will make you feel young again and you will be able to wear a pony tail.
Then after awhile, you notice all the other moms with kids in your age range have long hair, pulled back in a pony tale. And bad hair days are covered by baseball caps, not curlers, like our mothers wore in public.
It is the new uniform of the Millenneum Mom. Jeans. Sweat Shirt. Baseball cap. Minivan. Cell Phone. Gone are the days of curlers, bathrobe, station wagon with wood paneling.
And you realize, one day, as if coming out of a fog, whilst standing there looking at the sticker selection at a scrapbook store ( fercryingoutloud) in your elastic waist pants, oversized sweatshirt, baseball cap on, that one day without being aware
*you became one of them *.
The Invisible Mommy Brigade.
Everything you use to mock you have become.
You go to home parties to socialize. You drive a minivan. You scrapbook, you! someone who’s photographs are always a shade off of the subject and some what unfocused. You have nothing in common anymore with your old unmarried or no-kids friends and find yourself enjoying your time at McDonald’s Playland ( also known as McPetrie Dish)
You are too old to be hip. You are too young to be taken seriously. Good looking younger men see right through you. Older men are charmed by your kids, but never notice you. Men your own age are exhausted ( like you) from the same ol’ same ol’.
Going out to the bar to tie one on and try to recapture your salad days is a wasted effort. Those days are wilted, not as palatable and the next morning is a pisser with kids running amok in the house. Concerts, fergetaboutit. The cost of two tickets at todays price and a babysitter puts you into the doghouse quickly.
So you compromise and buy the CD and then feel guilty over buying the CD because it costs more than your $10 haircuts you are not longer getting and besides you can still stay hip on by listening to the radio, so you do that. Until your children are introduced to the *Wiggles * and there goes all your music time. Car, shower, kitchen. All Wiggles. All-The-Time.
But it ain’t so bad, you say, after your 900th playing of “Captian Feathersword” ( Who likes to dance in his pirate pants) kinda catchy… Could be worse. could be Barney. You say.
And another MB of mental hard drive is lost.
This doesn’t include sickness, boo-boos and the ever popular tattle taling. Or the midnight terrors, bedwetting, and general nepotism over appliances that you bought and paid for before they were an itch in your pants. Watching your children stand before an open refridgerator door *every time * in a state of utter and complete awe as if it were Ali Baba’s Cave opening up will cease to be amusing when you realize your precious little angels have eaten their weight in butter that morning.
And if your husband gets sick…hooooboy…it’s worse than if the kids are ill.
And meal times are the worst. Nobody wants to eat anything you prepared, except the dog. (The only time that the dog is on your side. The rest of the time they are on the wrong side of the door waiting for you to open the door for them.) so the dog eats the mac and cheese, the kids polish off a yogurt and salami sandwich ( no bread), you take comfort in a bag of chocolate chips and hubby gets a TV dinner. If cattle prods could be used on children, it would be at meal times.
And what is possibly more horrifying than that is you find yourself at a party. No kids. All adults. Big People Conversation. You can relax and sharpen your brain with intellectual conversation like you use to have.
And then it starts…
*My baby this…
My husband is such an idiot…
We are so broke…
I don’t know why this always happens to me…*
The exact same conversation every time. The players may change, but they are always the same: Boastful, Whiner, Dumbass and Co-Dependant. The Four Dwarves, and you are the Fifth, Crotchety. But it is the exact same conversation.
And you realize…
OHMYGOD!!!
These people, your * friends,* your *family * are so far in the box that they are just *one of them * now.
And then you worry…
The worst possible worry…
The worst worry imaginable…
*Have I turned into my mother? *
You have been tuning your mother for so long that upon investigation, under the guise of *quality time * you are stunned to realize that your Mother has become *one of them * too.
So you vow that you will be different.
You will raise your children to think for themselves.
You will keep things fresh in mind, exept you can’t remember anything but Wiggles lyrics; spirit (if you weren’t so tired.) and …uh…body.
You will learning something new every day. (Like the hiding places where you kids hide your keys, remote or your shoe.)
You will take your kids to new and exciting learning experiences to help them grow.
Like soccer and baseball to show team work ( and to tire the buggers out).
And Gymnastics. To learn how to focus ( and to tire the buggers out.)
And ballet, so they learn to be graceful and have rhythm. ( and to tire the buggers out.)
Swimming. (essentially to tire the buggers out.)
and horseback riding because your parents never did it for you.
Doing it all in your minivan. Wearing a sweatshirt. Baseball cap on. Wiggles blaring over the wails of your fighting children strapped in the back.
Vowing to be different.
Just like everyone else.
*Hey kiddies! I’m Captain Feathersword! I love to Dance! In my Pirate Pants! *
