The title of Tiger Mom is often used about many moms around my neck of the woods. Amy Chua revealed this revolution of mothers who will stop at nothing to ensure their children’s success in the book The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. But, what about the other stereotypical Moms? The ones that hover over their children like fallible superheroes with a “Type A” sewn onto their sweatshirts, but in a comic sans font? The ones that want to ensure their children’s well-being without being verbally abusive? The ones that care too much about the outcome of their child-related decisions, but want to sustain a nurturing and caring environment, sometimes ad nauseum?
I decided Hubs was right. I was just tired and the headache I was experiencing was from a lack of sleep. I felt extra fatigued. If I posed a mental question for why I was feeling a little cuckoo, I could always find a quick answer. I could always rationalize the symptom. People simply don’t hit their heads on shelves and suffer concussions. Case closed.
The next day I woke up feeling like one of those car crushers in a dump had squished my brain to 1×1. The sun beaming around the edges of our blackout, honeycomb shades was blinding.
Before June 7th, I could stare at my computer for hours. Sometimes, I keenly spewed my motherly adventures to the Unmuted. Other times the words just floated around in my head without any rhyme or reason, but never reached the tips of my fingers or the computer keys to share.
I had a “choice”. I could write whatever I felt and hit “post”. There was no deadline. Some days the stories were good. Others, it was just as sour as the overdue, milk carton date I now stretch my eyes to read. I could still write garbage, if I felt like it.
Why men refuse to understand the concept of a belt, I have no idea. If you go to Target, you can probably buy a belt for less than the cost of a twelve pack. If you can’t afford a belt, then I’m sure Home Depot sells some rope that’ll work just fine. Creativity to save others from nausea seems a small price to pay, right? Selflessness without a side of stench and vulgar, right?
Today, I did a lot of waiting. Waiting alone with a good magazine, book or movie is one thing. Waiting with a four-year-old for a service man to make their appearance is shear chaos.
Five years ago, if you had asked me whether I needed a cell phone to feel connected to the outside world, I would have said, “no f#^*ing way!” If you had asked me whether I needed a cell phone to feel safe or when injured, I would have said, “I can walk to the local hospital or run to the nearest police station and, if not, I know how to hail a cab fast.” I would have said, “If someone really wants to reach me, then they can call my home phone and leave a message. If it’s not a medical emergency, then it’s not that important.”
Then, I had a kid and my cell phone became a necessity.
When I was packing a week and half ago, I felt the work just wouldn’t be worth it. It had been 9 months since we had traveled for pleasure and I had forgotten how much the calm, stress-free relaxation could soothe my soul. It has the power to erase the previous world around me, the minute the ocean is in sight.
The other day, Babyface took a nice, big spill. Her private parts landed on top of her foot. This would never happen to me. I’m envious of her flexibility, but who ever thought it could cause pain. Sometimes, I wonder if her entire body is double jointed, she’s so flexible.
She never cries when she gets hurt, unless it’s really bad. She often fakes a stomach ache to get what she wants, but isn’t a good enough actress to fake tears. There’s some whining. There’s some hugging. But she gets to the real point fairly quickly. Her patience is short, so I always know what she really wants in under a minute.
Prior to giving birth to Babyface, ballet was never at the forefront of my mind. It wasn’t even settled into the white matter somewhere. I would pick a great rock concert, the opera or a musical over tutus and leotards any day. In fact, the word “ballet” was synonymous with “snoozefest” for me.
The music was great, but the movement simply bored me. That was until Babyface took a princess ballet class and instantly fell in love with it. At first, I thought it was the gaudy tutu and end-of-class sticker that captured her heart. Then, I signed her up for a real ballet class and realized, for her, it was so much more than that.
I like to separate my opinions about an actor’s professional prowess from their personal stupidity. I’m afraid if I read the tabloids and let the information seep into my view of their performance; I would never see a movie again.
Tom Cruise is a great example of this. He’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs on a personal level, but also a great actor. If he jumped on a sofa in a movie, he might even gain an Oscar nod for his performance. But, jumping on Oprah’s couch was like watching my 4-year-old slip into a sugar high on Halloween, running around the kitchen island screaming, “Trick or treat.
I am a pack rat. I find it hard to throw things away, wondering whether I’ll need them in the future. That old, half-used, work notebook will come in handy someday, right? After all, there will be a day when I’ll need paper and it will be my savior, right?
That old, half-used bottle of straightening shampoo has a shelf life of forever, right? Keeping my old laptop from six years ago will make sense someday, right? What if we lose our back-up, hard drives and I need to re-download the pictures, right? Those old, worn-out, platform sandals will come back in style someday, right?