I choked up at the gas station today when I heard the Graduation March. Is it possible to dread empty nest syndrome, when my daughter hasn’t even graduated preschool yet? I’m such a sap. And, the sap is now seeping out of my pores, since we cut the cord. Somewhere Kleenex is making a killing off of all of the new, crying Mothers out there. We have to shop at Costco, just to keep up.
Gas pumps are getting really high tech. They play videos and music. When I was a kid, if you filled up your tank at a place where there was a promo going on and after standing in line, you were lucky if you got a free doll whose dress was a toilet paper cover.
Is it possible to have post-traumatic stress syndrome after a ship that I wasn’t on sunk? I’m having a reoccurring dream that my daughter is hanging from the railing of the Concordia and the ship is about to hit 90 degrees and slide down into the sea. I’m watching her from a distance [I must know how to fly in this dream] and she’s screaming “Mommy!” but I can’t reach her.
This is where I wake up and can’t figure out whether I’m having a hot flash, night sweat or I’m some sort of superhero who doesn’t know how to use her special, super powers and I’ll keep reliving the same nightmare over and over, Groundhog Day-style, until I can save her.
I asked my husband, who hates the grocery store as much as I hate it when someone starts screaming in the middle of the night and wakes me up demanding water, to pick up a gallon of milk the other day on his way home. When I opened the fridge to pour some in my daughter’s sippy cup, I found a sealed, but partially full container with white, sticky goop coating it.
This quick honey–to-do task turned into an hour ordeal. He had to go back to the store to exchange the milk. If he didn’t hate the grocery store so much, I would think he was plotting to keep me from asking him to make more purchases on his way home.
As stay-at-home mommies we get a lot of slack. The day of the quintessential housewife is here no more. I mean, we have The Real Housewives who bring out the bling, and their nannies are there to nurture their children while they go out and stir up drama. I never see them cook or clean or care for their children when they cry, but that just wouldn’t make for good TV.
We have a real job. Probably, the toughest job. It goes far beyond cooking and cleaning. We teach our children to count to six, but we never get six figures.
Play-Doh Magic Swirl Ice Cream Shoppe
Me time: 102 minutes
Effort time: 22 minutes
Replay value: 30 minutes
I’ll take a little Borax, Petroleum and whatever else in my ice cream sandwich if it means I can sit out back, enjoy a little classical music, a classy magazine like US Weekly and sip on some Cabernet. I’ll eat Play-Doh, mud and most anything else my little pretend chef can concoct. Even 10 minutes of this can help me relax and refresh.
Due to the state of the economy, a lot of our husbands work long hours. Then, there are those husbands that don’t even help when they are home.
“Mommy, what’s on the cow’s pee pee?” asked my daughter, pointing to a puzzle piece. I was putting the dishes away when my daughter had the gall to ask me this question 6 months ago. To some, the answer is simple, black and white even. So-called perfect mothers would say, “it’s an udder, sweetkins. It’s where the milk comes out.”
For me, it evoked a wave of nervous nausea. How dare she ask me this question at 3? She’s not supposed to make me sweat like this, until she’s at least 12, right? Then, since she’ll be able to read, I can just hand her copies of Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret and Our Bodies Ourselves and be on my merry way.
I’m addicted to Dateline, 48 Hours Mystery and 20/20. Not available to watch? Snapped will work just fine for my fix. That’s the Oxygen show where the husband kills the wife or vice versa and they deny it regardless of a black eye or bruises and scratches all over their body. I mean, how many times can “I fell” be a legit excuse?
No, I am not a “serial mom”. I used to be a horror movie junkie. The kind that involve the unknown. The slasher flicks didn’t do it for me. Blood and guts just made me sick.
Whatever happened to birthday parties where pin the tail on the donkey and piñatas were rad? All we needed was a turntable, some tunes and a disco dance party. We would binge on juice packed with nutrients like high fructose corn syrup. We would chug Hi-C and CoolAid until our tongues were beet red for at least 24 hours. Cool whip was a staple, topping ice cream, pies and even cake.
Now, parents come up with elaborate crafts and hire a Jedi, princess or even a petting zoo. The goodie bags are almost always better than the birthday gifts. Simple sugary goodness has often been substituted with Splenda, gluten-free or, if you’re lucky, fruit salad.
Pre-child, I used to look forward to Friday nights. Maybe I would grab drinks with the girls and go dancing or check out a concert at the Fillmore. I loved to collect the custom-made, band posters at the end of the night. Now, I look forward to mommy and child playdates (especially, when there are libations involved) and collecting my daughter’s latest artistic creation. Her pictures are abstract and there is always a lot of glue involved, but to me they’re masterpieces.
Well, I just discovered recently that I’m quite the picky-playdate Mommy. A mommy snob to the core. My daughter’s teacher summoned me again.
Hospital gowns always trigger my PTBS, Post Traumatic Birth Syndrome. 8/8/08 was the date. For some it was auspicious, but for me it meant 3rd tier nurses, 3rd degree tearing and attention starvation.
Some mothers out there swallowed spicy foods, walked miles and indulged in other R-rated activities, just to meet, greet and count their little one’s fingers and toes. I asked to be induced two days early, just to beat the rush.
27 babies were born that day. My daughter was born in under 27 minutes. I was in labor for over 27 hours, 34 to be exact.