Cheers to Hump Day!

Last Friday as my eldest enjoyed his morning cereal, he brought a smile to my face and boggled my brain with his insightful early morning line of questioning that began like this:

Son:  "Mom, when you were little did you have a table?"
Me:   "Like a kitchen table?"
Son:   "Yes, a table."
Me:   "Yes, we had a table."
Son:   "Oh, that was a long time ago I thought maybe they weren't invented yet."
Me:   "I wasn't a cave child."

You can imagine my worry as this questioning came the morning after he received this at a baseball game:

Yep, those are stitching imprints.

He's one brave catcher who fearlessly went right back in the game.  I wish I had 45% of his energy.  He's fine now, and I've since explained the various eras of our history...

 

Our weekend came and went and was full of our children's extracurricular activities including a t-ball game played by the 2013 Bad news Bears and a glitzy, sickeningly sweet dance recital, a visit from excellent houseguests, and next to nil extra time for much needed relaxation let alone conversation with dear hubby.  My week began with a case of the Mondays worthy of BJ's Wholesale Club, and until tonight the week hadn't shown much promise of betterment. 

 

It feels as though the shuffling never ceases -- the shuffling of my feet, the shuffling of my duties, the shuffling of dust bunnies, and the shuffling of my bus.  I wonder how many times per month I shuffle along the same stretch of road - add to that the fact that said road has been undergoing construction for next to a year and is now being paved with nauseating tar, and I'm one grumpy shuffler.

 

For this reason I became somewhat disoriented on Monday and even after looking at my calendar and seeing an important scheduled event I simply failed to attend it due to mommy brain.  I MISSED MY DAUGHTER'S PARENT/TEACHER CONFERENCE!  ACK!!!  I am embarrassed to admit this, but I feel I deserve to be publicly humiliated.  I realized this as I casually strolled into her Preschool to pick her up on Monday, and I was beyond mortified.  I was THAT parent and was quick to award myself "Worst Parent of the Day."  Maybe it was the fumes from the tar...yeah, I'll blame it on those...

 

Whilst venting about this to a friend she simply said:   "You've just got too many balls in the air."  Well, ain't that the truth?!  Don't we all, moms?  Ay caramba! [shouted in my best Bart Simpson].  Which ball is the next to get dropped?  I am proof that not all of America has Got Talent as I am one sorry excuse of a juggler, and Piers Morgan would definitely give me the big red X with a look of utter disgust.

 

It was just another "Manic Monday" as later that night I stealthily added my son's TEN new belt loops to his uniform and dragged all three kiddos to his Scouts' meeting only to arrive last at 7.5 minutes tardy.  Thus, we missed his name being called and the awarding of more belt loops to make for an even dozen.  I guess it's as the Mamas & Papas so insightfully belted out ages ago - back in the days of no tables:   

 

Monday, Monday, can't trust that day
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

 

Ba-da ba-da-da-da...then comes Tuesday...I'll save you all the gory details, but I'll just say that it ended with my need to bleach a bathtub thanks to a little 10-month-old sidekick who timed his #2 with bath time.  Again - Ay caramba!  I think that was my actual response to discovering the floaters.  That, of course, was proceeded by incessant commentary and giggling from my 5 & 6-year olds who were in hysterics and streaking through our home.

 

 

Then, I arrive at the hump.  Ah, Wednesday....Here are a few snapshots from today in time order...

 

Ay, CARAMBA!

My Linner - Moms don't eat lunch.
Deserved - or so I tell myself.

 

 

 

 

Sitting here receiving my blogging therapy I must say that I am so very happy that I have successfully climbed the proverbial hill this week.  It's all downhill from Wednesday, right?!

 

Lastly I must add that this is all in jest - I am right rosy when it comes to life.  I just feel like it is literally passing me by lately.  This rainbow made me pause, smile, and give thanks for the beauty in this crazy spinning world full of tar.

Taking It to Church

No, I'm not throwing off my heels Jerry Springer guest style and plotting to destroy someone in a cat fight so they're terrified into changing their life (as an urban dictionary would define "taking it to church"). 

 

The phrase has two meanings, and as for the second: 

No, I'm not going to start shouting from a maple pulpit 'bout the devil, driving home points with inflected "hmm-hmm's", wiping my brow, hitting the brave folks in the front row with flaming spittle, pounding said pulpit, and expecting you to shout "Amen."  That kind of 'taking it to church' ain't my speed either, and I'm just not that confident of a public speaker, nor do I like the sound of my own voice. 

Yes, I'm generally the silent prayer type, preferably seated about four rows back, left of center (slight reflection of my political views perhaps...), near a window...I've grown fond of the easy feel of our church.  A place I never really saw myself getting comfortable, but once I entered I quickly abandoned some of my ingrained perceptions of the necessity of things like a steeple, hymnals, immovable wooden pews, non eco-friendly lil plastic communion cups, stained glass, a robed choir, and proper maple pulpits.  I'm not knocking traditional churches; I'm not a snake shaker either.  I'm merely sharing that I've accepted our Church as it is, and as I am approaching mid-life I'm trying really hard to accept who I've come to be.  Sometimes simpler is simply easier, and at this point in my life ease is invaluable.

 

Today I am at a mid-week place of calm thanks to the lingering effect that the words of our Church's benediction has on my overworked firing synapses.  Anytime I question things, these words are there, and they do help.  They've been there since my first visit and are as powerful to me today as they were then.  They've become memorized (something that's typically tough for me to do), and thus, I carry them wherever I go.

 

No, I don't make it to Church every Sunday, and no, I don't believe one must do that to profess Christianity or to be a good person.  I cannot even recite scripture - chalking that up to my bad memory.  My throat has gone dry when I've prayed out loud in front of others, and in another life I taught Public Speaking.  I try not to judge, but two paragraphs ago I showed that I am 100% incapable of this (chalking that up to human nature).

 

Yes, I am going to share the words of that benediction with you.

 

Yes, I hope these words linger into your brain, plant their little seeds, and grow when you are really questioning the lemons, bumpy tree root ridden paths, and unexpected curve balls that life's handed you.

 

Yes, I've been handed lemons from time to time, and I pretend to be "rosy"- peachy keen even...

Yes, I've tried to make lemonade.

Yes, most of the time that lemonade turns out too tart.

 

So, when things are tart, broken, questionable, inconceivable, overwhelming, crushing, mind-boggling, staggering, perplexing, shattering, paralyzing, unfair, mixed up, unglued, any horrid adjective (& expletive) imaginable - I try my best to tune in and hear these words in my head on repeat play.

Yes, I hear a voice in my head.  No, that shouldn't deter you from reading any further.

 

This benediction is like my secret peace keeper (a.k.a. missile), and when I hear the voice speak it in my noggin' I am thankful, hopeful, grateful, peaceful, soothed, calm, content, relieved, whole, satisfied, joyful, blessed, captivated, centered, delighted, even *gasp* "rosy," but most of all - humbled and all of those horrid adjectives are blasted into oblivion for at least a moment & sometimes for good.

By typing all of this and putting it into cyberspace I am breaking a rule I've upheld for years.  That rule is that I refrain from discussing politics and religion with friends and family whenever possible.  Today I feel compelled to toss that rule into the trash along with my squeezed lemons.

 

So without further ado, regardless of your religion or lack thereof - sample this. 
It's simple, sweet & light on the lemons:

Wherever you go, God is sending you,

Wherever you are, He's put you there;
He has a purpose in your being there.
Christ who indwells you has something He wants to do through you, where you are.
Believe this and go in His grace and love and power.



 

~Richard Halverson, former Chaplain of the US Congress

 

 

And all God's people said:



I'm ba-aackkkk...

I'd taken a hiatus from blogging about my life, because well, free time isn't something that's been on my plate post-introduction of a fourth dependent (three children and one lucky, limpy geriatric dog) in our home.  In fact I've blogged once in the sweet seven months that our new addition has been adding to the crazy contents of our home, and even then I'm certain that post was typo-ridden and incoherent, due to my extreme sleep deprivation which hasn't gotten much better since.  After some introspection and Jack Handy-style "Deep Thoughts", I've come to accept that this blog is mundanely monotonous and the only people who are kind enough to feign interest are those that are unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of my ramblings or those dear to my heart that indulge me.  You, dear reader, are way too kind to be here.  Thank you.

My brain is swimming - swimming in a sea of motherhood.  Motherhood, I've decided is actually what I like to call a "sanity sabbatical."  Once one becomes a mother, she is forevermore destined to be this side of sane.  Which side, you ask?  Well, that can vary depending upon the locale of the mother (for instance -  Is she in a Walmart? Or a Pediatrician's office awaiting shots?), the temperament of her children (Are they repeatedly arguing with each other?  Or incessantly begging for things at said Walmart?), the support in her peer network (How many days until Book Club? Sadly, I do look forward to "Book" Club.), and the beverage in her glass at the end of the day (Is it a Winesday?). 

All jokes aside, I wouldn't change who I am at all.  I am happy to be a mom - quite proud actually -  Even when my oldest is over-tired, over-extracuricularred & embarrassingly tantrumming on the sidelines of a basketball game, because he wants the coach to put him "BACK IN NOW!"  Competition is in his Killer Rose's maternal genes and Orange Blooded paternal Clemson genes, and he can throw down some defense, y'all.  Even when I assist my darling diva daughter with her third costume change of the hour, because she's done being a princess and "wants to be a 'cheetah cat' - GRRRRR..."  Yes, anyone lucky enough to witness her Abbeytude in high gear will tell you that she does in fact growl.  Perseverance is in her genes which will someday make her a strong willed woman fit for the role of first female President.  God bless her future husband's heart.  Or when I'm about to put my baby in a shopping cart and as I pull him from his car seat I discover he's ripe with poo and must be changed in the chilly parking lot first as he's too good for those public changing stations which means he'll be hungry in twenty minutes which means my shopping trip has just been reduced by at least ten minutes...doodie IS what's in his jeans, and thanks to Stage 2 foods, it's fantastic. 

My poor kids have spent way too much time with their Type A mama who is desperately trying to uphold and exhibit patience daily.  Any pointers on the matter from other mothers (or from fathers that try to understand us mothers but never will) would be greatly appreciated.

See, rambling - I'm good at it.  Lately I've even cast aside my English major and accepted tangents and run-on sentences as acceptable communication (the above paragraph is proof).  One of the many nicknames given to me over the years was Ramble On Rose, and I actually like that one.

I believe these ramblings are therapeutic for me.  They're much like exposure therapy.  I put myself and my ramblings out here so you can laugh along (or laugh at me) & hopefully get some free therapy, too (or you can silently judge me) whilst I get to the right side of sane.  Or is it the left side?

Taken post-diaper change - ripe diaper is on lower right next to Mom's treat from Starbucks bound for the trash
He sure looks happy to be going to Walmart.  That's one of us...
Thanks to his charming Walmart guests on every aisle I am happy to have survived this one of many shopping trips with him in tow.  If it wasn't for the one old lady that touched his arm, it would have been a truly peaceful excursion. 
Rambling.  Again...

Jerry making sense of my rambling: "The grass ain't greener. The wine ain't sweeter - either side of the hill."



Mombie & The Force

This little flashback circa 1996 always makes me smile. 

So, let's start with something mindless before getting to the nitty gritty.

As I type this there is a Boppy pillow in my lap containing my sleeping baby, because these days nearly everywhere I go he can be found.  He's a sweet little sidekick to have around, but he has turned my world (& my older kids' world) upside down.

He's on a definite schedule now, so the stress that comes with a newborn has been slightly alleviated.  He likes to do the following things in a repetitive cycle:  Poop, eat, and sleep.  This pattern repeats itself roughly every three hours, although sometimes the poop part is multiplied, usually just after a fresh diaper has been secured on his bum...

My day revolves around maintaining his schedule while entertaining, caring for, and giving undivided attention to a needy four and a busy six-year-old, caring for an elderly dog, cleaning a neglected home, providing meals for my family, somehow caring for myself & supposedly taking time to recover from childbirth which ain't fun, entertaining visitors, smiling at my husband yet rarely getting the chance to really speak to him as sleep is more important to both of us right now, juggling everything, grinning and bearing it, missing the order that was once my life as a "homemaker," and just being "rosy."  According to Merriam-Webster, as a rosy homemaker I should be "promoting optimism."  Right...

People always say, "Be sure to sleep when the baby sleeps."  Right.  I try, but it's not that easy.  There's too much for a mom to do in one day.  If my baby is sleeping during the day, most likely I'm trying to maintain some sort of order around here, because if I don't we'll end up starring on TLC's Hoarders: Buried Alive. 

Thankfully thoughtful friends and neighbors spoiled us rotten by feeding us well for several nights when we arrived home with our new addition.  I would have definitely burnt the house down in a tired stupor if I had tried to cook, especially during the first LONG week.  The frozen pizzas and hot dogs I will now serve are like a Ford Pinto compared to the generous four-course Mercedes meals we received.  Friends also generously chauffeured our kids to camps, Vacation Bible School, the neighborhood pool, etc., and thus, my kids have thankfully endured some sort of normalcy in their little upside down worlds.  I can't even begin to explain how truly blessed we've been in the friends' department.  We'd do the same for anyone we know...time and butt wiping permitting, of course...

I am not complaining about having this little guy in tow or my new role as a Mom Zombie -- a Mombie, if you will.  He's awesome, absolutely amazing, in fact, and now that he's here I wouldn't have it any other way.  I am fully aware that  I have zero room to complain  as my girlfriend (mentioned in a previous blog post) had triplets the same day that this bundle arrived.  I feel like bowing Wayne's World style when I am in her presence, because "I'm not worthy..."  I don't know how she functions. 

Giving up my undiagnosed OCD tendencies has been one of the biggest challenges since departing the labor and delivery room.  I don't have time for them anymore.  I'm the kind of person who prefers her sandwich on the right side of her plate, side item on the left, and drink to the top right.  I also have an order in which I prefer to ingest Peanut M&M's:  Green, Yellow, Orange, Brown, Blue, and lastly Red as myths once claimed those cause cancer.  Dishes aren't allowed to sit in the kitchen sink.  That's why we have a dishwasher.  It's a place to hide the grime until it can be cleaned.  Everything has a place, and I know where that place is.  Beds must be made every day.  Mine is typically made with me partially still in it.  This is a faster method - trust me.  There was once a method to my madness in this house.

If you came to my house today, then you may find a dish - or seven - piled in the sink and a trash heap worthy of Fraggle Rock (as long as it doesn't don glasses it's okay, right?), floors that need to be vacuumed, and kids with crusty faces.  You may see me eat on the fly, not even use a plate or place a napkin over the baby in my lap so I don't dribble crumbs on him.  My kids are allowed to occasionally eat in front of the television, and yes, they've eaten bacon on the couch.  I'm lucky if I even remember to eat something resembling lunch.  Bed making has  most certainly moved down the priority totem pole, but laundry has risen to the top of the pole. 

I now find myself doing laundry everyday, because I don't want to find myself with a laundry Everest that takes hours to fold.  Forget ironing; I've always detested it anyway.  The reality is that it took me years to perfect those silly OCD tendencies and seconds to cast them aside for something much, much more important.  Life's such a mind boggling miracle and indeed, way too short, and I'm going to do the best that I can to enjoy every second of my life and my kids' from here on out.  Kids, that doesn't mean that you shouldn't keep your toys in the proper receptacles...

So, this is the new me; I'm a Mombie.  I'll smile at you, but beware, I may appear mute, listless, automated, and will-less as if I'm controlled by a supernatural force (a.k.a. a baby).  As Darth Vader would say:  "The force is strong with this one."  Perhaps I'll nickname him Young Skywalker.

The Good, The Bad, & The Preggo

As I reflect on the last thirty-eight weeks of this pregnancy, there's a poem ringing in my ears. Written by Langston Hughes, Mother to Son, begins like this:

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners...

While my life hasn't been as full of strife as this poem conveys, I wouldn't call pregnancy a "crystal stair" & it certainly is full of corners that we preggos have no choice but to turn.

In the beginning the kids weren't too thrilled with the news of our family's new addition.  Our son even whined saying, "Ew, babies stink.  I don't want a baby at our house."  Then, as the weeks passed the acceptance stage slowly crept in, and once the kids found out that the bun in the oven is in fact a  Little Brother, they were on board.   

Of course a baby on the way meant our family needed to upgrade our gas guzzling boat of an SUV to a sensible, safe, practical ride...While some have accused me of now "living the mini-van dream" I do not drive a VAN (I'm not in denial); I drive a BUS & it's freaking awesome.  So awesome I, in fact, may never own another type of vehicle again.  Yes, they say that happens to van owners:

Thankfully I have a dear friend who is a fellow preggo that is expecting triplets, and when I feel down about my ill-fitting wardrobe, my cankles, my restless nights, and my overactive bladder I think of her & the three amazing blessings filling her uterus & riding around town in her van.  Thoughts of her quickly humble me and lead me to realize that I have no room to complain about my state.  She is truly incredible...maybe even legen {wait for it} dary. 

The two of us have treated ourselves to a handful of pedicures for our weary, widening feet followed by lunches where all judgment was cast aside as we ordered and ate whatever we wished that day & occasionally topped it with yum-yum sauce.  We have been spoiled by caring girlfriends (some of whom just may catch the contagion that is baby fever - MU-WHA-HA-HA-HA). We were blown away by the outpouring of love and gifts from friends, family, and neighbors at joint baby shower worthy of Martha Stewart Living.

My #1 Craving - so sinful they
 must be hand rolled by the devil.

 It has been awesome to commiserate with her about unstoppable body changes, diapers, willy nilly doctors, our poor husbands, numerous cravings, and the harsh things strangers utter to us preggos without thinking. Yes, cashier at Food Lion, I am "ready to pop," and thanks for noting that when I still had two+ months remaining until the pop - grrr...and to the stranger who one month ago asked when I was due and then idiotically stated, "Well, at least you won't be pregnant during the hottest part of the summer" -- please know you should never consider being a meteorologist and this pic's for you:



Dang, my bus is dusty...

It's been hot, too hot to really enjoy trekking to the neighborhood pool with small, water gun armed children, laying around on a chaise feeling like a beached Shamu while onlookers gawk at my chips and I, and sitting in the torrid, stagnant water is far from appealing.   I've given up trying to win the friendly monthly electric bill competition with neighbors. I prefer to dwell in an icebox, and I guess I should count my lucky stars that our a/c units haven't crapped out. And as for the sheets and comforter - "Uh, buh-bye."

A few weeks ago I was stuck indoors beating the heat & fighting a nasty virus (the "everybody poops" kind), and I had to send my poor hubby on a dignity-aside-store-run for meds and Gatorade, per the doctor's suggestion. He returned from the store, set his purchases on the kitchen counter, knocked on the bathroom door to tell me where to find the goods, and politely gave the kids a bath & put them to bed.   Here's what I found on the kitchen counter:

What would I do for a Klondike Bar? 
I'd take on a virus.

He's a keeper, and his sweet gestures didn't go unnoticed by the teen male Food Lion cashier who said, "You must be in trouble" as he scanned the roses, chocolate, etc. (guess he didn't notice the anti-diarrheal tablets).  My husband explained that in fact he wasn't "in trouble" but that he had a sick, pregnant wife at home that he was trying to cheer up. A meddlesome granny behind him in line piped up with "Oh, hon, you better make sure your wife can have that medicine." Poor hubby got a sampling of a judgmental, nincompoop stranger (they seem to lurk around every corner that a preggo goes).

All complaints aside, this pregnancy hasn't been horrible.  Sure, it was an adjustment at first as the news of our family growing was quite a surprise.  Yes, it's been bad to be preggo at times (like when I try to sleep, eat without dropping bits onto my beach ball, etc.), but a lot of good has come along for the ride, too. 

I've been blessed with zero morning sickness, minimal nausea, an acceptable weight gain [SIGH], my sweet children who now know my belly cannot be safely used as a slide, friends keeping me emotionally in check when my hormones spiral to the Kleenex box, friends fighting for Godmother status & offering to get baby fixes via free babysitting services, grandmothers stockpiling our arsenal of diapers, our Church congregation & neighbors already planning post-delivery meals, a closet full of sweet, tiny clothes and much needed items for the little man, a thoughtful husband who tolerates my mood swings and will go to the grocery store for me and return with chocolate, flowers, and medication, a geriatric dog that hasn't tripped me once and that we all think is clinging to life just to meet this baby, and a faith that's grown stronger by the day as I plainly see that life is indeed good.  I'm thankful.  Our family is so very blessed, and this baby has no clue what he's being born into - it's going to be great.

And when I hold him for the first time, I know that my heart will grow 'three sizes that day'.

...whenever that day will be...

As Tom Petty sings, "The wai-ai-ting is the hardest part..."

Adrenaline Seekers Stop Here

Parenting is not for all, but it may be for you.  As a parent you are usually faced with a daily dichotomy that is easily likened to the fight-or-flight response.  On a day that you as a parent are not faced with this (a day when your air passages are not dilated, blood vessels are not constricted, and your heart rate remains safely steady), you can honestly say that you've had a good day (or a boring day depending upon your thrill seeking needs).  When your central nervous system isn't working overtime to fire neurons, when your anxiety level is at the smiley face standard, when your head doesn't feel like it belongs to a bludgeoned Rocky Balboa, when you don't find yourself hiding out in your phone booth (a.k.a. closet), and when you don't mutter "Calgon, take me away", then you, my friend, deserve a cardboard cookie and some ice cream (or a glass of wine - or two).  You can have those goodies once the kids have completed homework, been fed, been bathed, their teeth have been brushed, stories have been read, and they've drifted off to dream land; that is, if you're not catching Zzz's in dream land, too.  Parenting is, as my wise Dad would say, like eating a ketchup popsicle while wearing white gloves.  It's a job like non other and a job that must be done by only brave beings for it is next to impossible, yet more rewarding than any other job when done right. 

It's a miracle that I survived the sneaking out, crowd surfing, bruised mosh pitting, sky diving days of my youth, the time & place for everything called COLLEGE, and my relatively care-free twenties.  Today when I compare that blissful me to the me that now holds a stay-at-home-mom status, I still see the same person at the core, and it's still a miracle that she survives each day.  She really looks haggard sometimes, and sure, she's not as cool as she once *knew* she was, but she tries in her own spazzy way.  She no longer dons her bulky, rebellious Doc Marten's, but she does wear sensible shoes and keeps a freezer stocked with Pop-Ice, an abundance of Capri Suns in the fridge, and microwave popcorn is a staple in her pantry as one never knows when an impromptu play date may arise...and those are just as cool and welcome to her kids as they are to her. 

I've traded in what seems like a chill past life for years of surreal, heart palpitating adventures including tantrums, potential broken bones, ambulance ride(s), allergic reactions, weekly grocery shopping with tots in tow, sleepless nights, The Wiggles, hospital stays, unwanted advice, finger pricks, immunizations, tantrums, falls, face plants, scrapes, criticism, festering wounds, wrinkles, bug bites, bounce houses, tantrums, judgement, projectile Exorcist-ish vomit, seeping blow outs, diapers, sheer perplexity, public humiliation, birthday parties, tantrums, piercing words, more diapers, overwhelmed thoughts, body aches, heart aches, frustration, fear, doubt, stress, endless worry (did I mention tantrums?)...Yet I have been granted the title of "Mom," a lifetime of free hugs, complimentary kisses, endless love, giggles galore, and innumerable proud memories including so many joyful triumphs and firsts:  first smiles, coos, rolls, babbles, crawls, words, steps, friends, bus rides, school days, sports teams, goals, trophies, stories, dances, dates, etc. (the thoughts of which still - and forever will- lead me to tears).

I have also gained daily doses of pure goodness, and I am so fortunate to have nearly three little beings  that are true blessings in my life.  Some days I feel as if I don't deserve them.  They're so impressionable, so innocent, so genuine, so very sweet, too perfect to be from me, and simply angelic when they're sleeping.  Best of all  --  they're my whole world.  So when petty things pass my way or I am feeling beaten and beyond weary, I must remind myself of these blessings, be thankful for my role as a parent, ask for patience, and thank God for my babies and for the gratuitous steady doses of the free drug that is adrenaline.  It keeps me going, and going, and going....

Mommies' Magic Secrets Revealed

Some words that come to mind when I think of a magician are entertainer, illusionist, performer, charmer, escape artist, wizard, and occasionally genius.  After pondering all the things we mommies do to survive just one day, I firmly believe those words describe us, too. 

Mommies are most certainly entertainers.  In fact we spend roughly 90% of our day entertaining our children, significant others, our neighbors, co-workers, the general public, etc.  Face it - we're funny, unpaid comedians.  We are diversified actors that can take on any genre from drama to suspense to action.  We consistently play the role of alien in our own sci-fi show and sometimes venture to the horror realm as zombies.

We just may be the best illusionists to have walked the planet.  We are walking, talking optical illusions.  We spend the brunt of our day in an exhausted haze while attempting to take care of our own needs when those of others naturally come first, multi-tasking between chores, errands, parenting, discipline, and yes, indeedy - entertaining.  We amaze all with the visual phenomena that we epitomize.  Some of the secrets to our illusions include:

• Eyes in the Backs of Our Heads:  It's actually a sixth sense.  We just know when something bad is about to occur.  We sense it when Bobby is about to get out of time-out to push his sister...again...we simply visualize who stole the cookies from the cookie jar (we are experts at determining guilt & innocence).
• The Extending Arm:  While listening to screams with a smile, we can extend one arm at least 6 inches to reach the fallen paci stuck in a car seat, catch a cup before it spills, and we may nearly tear our rotator cuff, but we can wrangle the legs and arms that are flailing at our driver seat because we refused to buy the Fruity O's.  Standing our ground is imperative, & it's something moms do best.
• The Button:  We manage to hold things together.  Where there's a hole we promptly patch it up.  We do this by casting all of our other tasks aside and handling the matter at hand immediately.
• Departing Fake-out:  "Goodbye, Bobby!  I'm going home!"  We use said phrases when a kid has gotten out of control or is refusing to listen & leave when we say it's time to go, but we don't really mean this.  Unless...the kid is uber head strong...which was the case when my brother demanded a pretzel at Richway at the age of 10.  My mother pulled the Departing Fake-out and he absolutely refused to follow.  She left the store, calmly directed her two scared yet obeying daughters into the back of the station wagon, and circled the parking lot until he ran out of the store crying for her.  Sometimes this illusion must be grandiose to be effective.

Combine a stay-at-home mom's roles on a salary calculator, and she'd be worth more than some of the highest paid CEO's and should certainly be considered worth more than Oprah.  Working moms are champs, too, and I'm amazed at the order in their homes.  Moms are performers.  We perform numerous roles all day long from nurturer to enforcer, cop to attorney, cook to janitor, facilities manager to teacher, chauffeur to psychologist...the role play is dauntingly never ending.  As wives we also role play, but those secrets are only shared in the inner sanctum of book clubs, play groups, and other places where men are absent. 

While performing, we moms must also be charming.  We are expected to rarely let the public see that we are coming apart at the seams.  When our child throws itself down in the cereal aisle demanding the box with the toy & most sugary contents inside, we are to smile at any and all passersby that ignorantly make snide remarks.  The one remark that leads me to envision knocking said passerby's teeth out:  "Looks like you've got your hands full."  Don't say that.  Don't ever say that to a mom.  She may be on the edge, and you may find yourself needing dentures.

Hence, we are escape artists.  Given situations like the latter moms must escape and be creative in planning  routes.  Sometimes this means a full grocery cart is left behind for some poor store clerk to discover, grumble over, and restock, but there's always an escape route.  Most moms seek it as they enter any retail store and know it like the back of their hand.  Even in the confines of our homes we are escape artists.  My cherished, secret hideout is my closet.  It triples as my phone booth, occasional safe house where my tension breakers can  be safely unleashed, and sadly it's become sanctuary.  It's where the tiger disappears to after "Abra Cadabra" (or some other choice words) has been exclaimed (muttered...).

Our wizardry is unparalleled.  We have amazing skills.  We are excellent jugglers.  We consistently astonish crowds with our clever feats.  On occasion skeptics may even refer to us as witches (or worse), but once again we simply smile and disregard their blatant disrespect and idiocy.  We can gracefully emulate the octopus.  It's too bad that evolution hasn't yielded more arms to moms over time.  They invisibly seem to grow as our families do though.  History has shown that moms can silently treat just about any bad behavior, and they don't need a wand to do it.  The Silent Treatment has proven to be more effective than displaying anger by yelling, etc.  At times, our children observe us and must imagine us wearing dark, sparkly cloaks and pointy hats (our husbands probably do, too). 

Lastly, we wizards can cast a spell sure to change any child's future.  It consists of ten little words:  "Someday, I hope you have a kid just like you." 

This powerful curse has been time tested & handed down from mother to child for generations.  It works.  My kids suddenly become nudists after bath time just as I was as a child.  They are neurotic about their territory and overly protective of their things.  They fearlessly seek adventure and enjoy jumping from furniture and other heights.  Their shins are covered in bruises as they've inherited my klutzy propensity.  They have the ability to be deaf to my demands just as I did to my poor mom.  It's the magically perplexing circle of life...

Now that I've revealed some of this mommy's magic, I hope fellow mommies will share their tricks, too.  Pass them along to other mommies, and when your daughters are married and old enough to have their own children (say around 25+), share your magic with them, but share in a way that isn't overbearing.  Momzillas are real.  Don't be one.  Indeed some of mommy's magic is innate, ingrained in a female's peculiar DNA, but some of it comes from a mommy's tremendous experience.  At times a mommy's experiences are overwhelming, but for the most part experiencing motherhood is purely magical.