There's a container of neon pink Silly Slime dumped in my purse
and a half-eaten, squashed strawberry Pop Tart in my jacket pocket. I wear baggy sweats with elastic waists.
I know every Raffi song by heart. I LIVE for nap times. My heart pounds for Mr. Rogers -- he likes me just the way I am,
and I'll now gladly admit that Barney is my best friend.
At any given moment, I might be carrying a wad of ABC gum
("already been chewed") or the remains of whatever's yucky
from a child's mouth -- or nose.
Small children throw up on me regularly.
I wash my children's face with spit and my thumb.
Show their rashes to ANYONE and EVERYONE who'll look.
Wipe their noses with my shirt.
I'm sure you've seen me at the market.
I'm the one with the permanent stain on my shoulder
from baby spit up.
The one with dirty footprints on my shirt
from nonstop kicking in the stomach
by the child sitting in the grocery cart. The one who didn't have an answer
to the (loudly) asked question,
"Do we HAVE to eat dog food again tonight like Daddy said we did?"
You've probably seen me at the mall trying to maneuver a stroller
with a crying baby who's struggling to get out
while I'm chasing the only child in history
who can be in 12 places at once. I'm the one carrying the worn-out blankie
and Cabbage Patch doll,
the one I warned I wouldn't carry.
The one shouting, "Don't touch!" I said, "DON'T TOUCH!"
The one with the red face after discovering that it is MY child
who's using the display toilet at Sears.
The one muttering, "I'm NEVER doing this again."
You know who I am.
I'm the one with the glazed look on my face
after answering for the millionth time, "I don't know what worms eat."
I sniff at a baby's diaper -- on purpose.
Eat leftover baby food smeared on toast for breakfast.
Consider myself lucky to get a shower by noon.
I eat standing up.
I drink leftover milk with graham cracker crumbs floating in it.
I eat the crusts nobody wants.
Once upon a time I had a stomach that didn't fall to the floor.
Once I had hips that didn't serve as a baby saddle.
Once I even had breasts that weren't on call 24 hours a day --
and "will it show milk stains" wasn't my criterion
for choosing an outfit.
If you emptied out my purse, you'd find:
diapers (new and used), a plastic bag of Cherrios,
a leaky Tommy Tippy cup, a handful of napkins from McDonald's,
a sandy pacifier, a soggy piece of bagel, a bottle of baby Tylenol,
and a rectal thermometer.
You know me.
I'm bleary-eyed from being up all night
with a teething baby
and teary-eyed from worrying about a toddler that refuses to eat.
I'm damp with baby drool, and I have oatmeal in my hair.
(I think my sweater's on inside out, but hey, at least I'm dressed.)
I can't remember the last time I had a whole night's sleep
or a HOT cup of coffee.
The only book I've read in the past 6 months is "Good Night Moon."
I never get to finish a senten....
I love my husband, but (yawn) ... zzzzzzzzzz.
Don't ask me if I've seen any good movies lately. I have if you count the Little Mermaid, Pete Pan, and Cinderella.
I know all the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles by heart,
AND what color each of them wears. I say "Cowabunga, dude," when the pizza's delivered.
I used to be reasonably intelligent,
pondering the deep secrets of the universe. I spent many years in college preparing myself
for the great challenges of life.
Now I find myself wondering such things as:
If Bert and Ernie aren't related, why do they sleep in the same room? And, where are their parents?
I remember when getting together with friends
meant stimulating conversation about current events,
love and the meaning of life. Now we talk for hours about the color of the contents
of our babies' diapers. Should we go from breast to bottle to cup? Skip bottles altogether?
Which is better, cloth or disposable? Pacifiers or thumbs?
Know any good potty-training tips?
Maybe you've seen me at church.
I'm the one with my skirt on backwards,
or the entire inner-facing of my dress hanging out. In my rush to get everybody else dressed, I often forget to check my own appearance.
(Oh, I want to thank you for not laughing at my one eye made up and my other one bare.
In the middle of doing my make-up, someone emptied the flour canister
onto the kitchen floor and I never got around to finishing my eyes.)
I know you don't know my first name-- I don't have one anymore.
I answer to my child calling Mom, Mommy, Mama, or WAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! To be honest, I don't even remember my first name --
I've stop using it myself. When speaking, I simply refer to myself as, "Mommy."
"Mommy says to stop poking the cats ears."
"Mommy's ears can't hear whining." "Yes, Mommy's wearing her angry face."
"If you don't stop kicking Mommy, Mommy's going to lose it."
Maybe you saw me lose it one day in the Toys R Us parking lot.
With one child kicking the back of my car seat,
and another one chanting "I wanna go to the park! I wanna go to the park!" I lost it.
Slammed on the brakes and ran out of the car screaming,
"Calgon take me away!" The kids still refer to it as "the time Mommy went cuckoo."
But I have my good days, too.
Days when we get through breakfast
without Cream of Rice on the wall.
Days when the cat doesn't end up in the toilet.
Days when everyone takes a nap at the same time. On those days I feel powerful. In control.
On those days, I can do it all.
I am MOMMY, hear me roar.
I can nurse a baby and cook dinner at the same time. I can nurse a baby, read a magazine,
AND tie shoes at the same time. I can even nurse a baby,
AND talk on the phone, AND fold laundry
AND watch Oprah all at the same time.
You know who I am. I'm a Mommy.
And I don't even need an American Express card to prove it.
