As my mother was quick to remind me, I have never dreamt of days as a stay-at-home parent. I loved my career and all that came with it – business trips and team building and hiring and employee development – because I was good at it. I am not a confident person by nature (although I fake it well) but I am confident about my job skills. These were my people and I could always find a niche.
Full-time motherhood is a whole different ball of wax. These are not my people and there is no niche. I’m a good fifteen years older than most of the parents I meet at school events. I also wear the same clothes now that I did when I was working, so I look basically the same. I’m just not gonna jive with a 25 year old mom in sweatpants with JUICY emblazoned across the butt. Juicy is not a word I want associated with any portion of my body.
These moms are a different breed, man. You put me in a flannel and a pair of boots and I look ready to audition for the next Brawny Man, not like an adorable wood nymph waiting in the drop-off line. I don’t do messy buns and I have never, not once in my life, left the house in pajamas. I’m pretty sure these women shower and make-up before re-donning sweats because I have also never rolled outta bed looking like that. I know I’m capable of the things they do, and probably more because no mom of two has to juggle this many schedules and complications, but I just can’t find my mom friends. I love my kids to the moon, but I’d also mortgage several appendages to jump on a plane to anywhere with a laptop in hand. I don’t miss Careerland with it’s politics and drama, I just miss having a guaranteed place to fit. I miss knowing I was good at my job. Working is a thousand times easier than this.
This morning Melissa had an early interview so I had all the kids for school drop-offs. I was standing in the bathroom drying my hair with Pook and Boogie next to me fighting over my toothbrush (Whyyyyyy has no one invented a cordless blow dryer?!?) when Pook got sick of it and shoved Boogie off the stool. He grabbed and thereby unplugged my cord on his way down and I muttered a bad word. Boogie stood up, looked at me and said, “Mama say shit?” I said, “No Boogie, don’t say that.” To which he of course nodded and replied solemnly, “No shit.” Pook looked at him sternly, shook her finger and shouted, “NO SHIT!” Boogie ran out of the room hollering shitshitshitshit! with Pook on his tail because he’d stolen my toothbrush in the meleé.
Messy Bun Moms don’t have kids who curse. Yet another reason we don’t jive. No cursing, no JUICY on my bootie. What can you do?
Happy Thursday. I have to pick the boys up for a pediatrician appointment in a half hour so I’m downing an extra cup of coffee and half a Xanax so we don’t terrify the new doctor. Welcome to the shitshow, Doc. Hope you don’t expect me to wear flannel or a messy bun. You’ll be able to spot my kids pretty easily – they’ll be the ones shouting swear words.
My Five Ring Circus 