First I must confess that I should probably be doing something besides writing right now. I’m sure my husband will read this and grumble that I couldn’t get those shirts dried but I had time to blog today. Every now and again I need to stimulate that blobby thing in my head…what’s it called again? Oh yea, my brain. The occasional blog post reminds me that I am an intelligent human being capable of sentences that aren’t cooed or yelled. Now, on to the deep dark secrets of a stay at home mother of three under 6.
I fall asleep burping my 6 week old in the middle of the night. Night feedings with my first were like a Pampers commercial, caressing and singing her into a peaceful slumber. This time around I don’t have the luxury of stored up naps and there’s nothing on TV thrilling enough to keep me awake. I open my bleary eyes at five am to realize there’s a drooling human on my chest like a college girl who makes poor decisions.
I wear yoga pants out of the house, but not to a yoga class. I never thought I’d fall into this stereotype, and it took me a few years to get here, but I’m here. My pre-baby pants no longer fit nor do my maternity pants. I tried the belly bandit corset type thing, yikes. Here’s the thing with those contraptions: ever squeeze a water balloon? The water goes up or the water goes down but it’s gotta go somewhere. Same concept applies to anything tightly wrapped around a squishy mid-section. Yoga is all about flexibility and relaxation which is just what these pants are giving me.
I hate when people ask me if we’re done. Though it seems an innocent enough question I’m a bit of a prude and I hear “So, will the rest of your sex life be for procreation or recreation only?” It’s just not something I feel like discussing with the acquaintance at story time. I’m actually uncomfortable when people I barely know proudly proclaim to me that their husband has been snipped or their tubes have been tied. I don’t know your name but I know that your husband is shooting blanks…awkward.
I forget Ice Cream Friday. And Hat Day, and Picture Day and Dress Like Lyndon B. Johnson Day. Twice now I’ve had to wonder what my child was wearing when I find out last Tuesday was Picture Day and wait for the surprise when the proofs come in. And my child is only in kindergarten. I’m forgetful and elementary schools have far too many “Special Days”. It’s a combination that leaves me feeling terribly guilty. I think we should scale back on the number of Dress Like a ____ or Bring Money for ___ days. Sorry kids, sometimes it’s just Thursday.
I say things and I don’t follow through. Oh, all the broken promises made when I’m on a conquer the day coffee high. “Today after school we’ll go for a hike in the woods, make a puppet theater out of this old cardboard box and finger paint seasonal decorations!” I mean well, I really want to do all these things with my kids. Then they pee their pants, the baby refuses to nap, the dishes have to get done so we can eat. Real life gets in the way of the life I wish we lead.
I have no idea what’s going on in the world. That Malaysian airplane was missing for 6 days before I knew anything about it. They didn’t ask the PAW Patrol for help so I hadn’t heard. My lack of knowledge on current events leaves me with very little to offer in the way of adult conversation. It’s probably a good thing my husband isn’t big on chit-chat because once I cover the dinner plans I’ve exhausted my resources. There should be a CNN ticker across the bottom of Nick Jr. to keep moms in the loop.>
Sunday night television is often the highlight of my week. Yea, yea sweet baby cuddles and the wonder of watching my children grow and change…those gems can be overshadowed after a week of spit up, PB&J and level 3 readers.
I once hit a hobo in my mini-van and kept on trucking. Okay, that didn’t happen but I imagine “Taxi Cab Confessions: Horse and Buggy Edition” would pick up more scandalous dirt than I have to offer.