Smooth Mommy DJ

Many mothers choose to stay home with their children for a few years and then return to working outside the home. The problem is that after staying home for a while, there’s a gap in the resume.

To fill that gap, I suggest moms just need to take a hard look at all they do. The list is endless: launderer, referee, chef, chauffeur, counselor, triage nurse. Where am I going with this? Not sure you even want to know, but since I’m this far into it, I’m adding Traffic Controller to my list of duties and responsibilities. And most often this traffic directing takes place in the bathroom.

Still with me? Great. So six years ago my husband and I bought our current house. We convinced ourselves it was an upgrade from our previous home. First, we no longer have to take a ladder to the outside of the house in spring and fall to change the storm windows. That required more dexterity and physical strength than we signed up for. And there was generally a bit of cussing involved. The second thing we now have is central air. Ahhhhh, cold air right here in our house. We don’t have to sit through awful movies or wander around in circles in department stores to soak up their AC. We’ve got our own.

But what we didn’t think through was the fact that our house is a “one holer.” Yes. A one holer. A house with one bathroom. We probably didn’t give this much thought when we bought the house because our boys weren’t completely potty trained when we moved in. But still, what were we thinking: that they’d stay in diapers into adulthood? I believe it was more. I think we believed on some level that Oh we could totally put a toilet in the basement. No problem.

Here’s the rub. There are 24 hours in a day. We have four toilet-using people in the house. This gives each of each 6 hours of time to use the bathroom. Yet every morning without fail, everyone needs to use the toilet—at the same time!

Here’s how this works.

“I gotta go—bad!”

“Sorry, you should have woke up earlier.”

“You’ve been in there 20 minutes!”

“Have not.”

“Have too.”

Enter Mom the Traffic Controller.

“Okay. Get up. Let your brother go.”

“I’m pooping!”

“Have you actually pooped yet?”

“No, but I’m trying,”

“And you. Do you need to go number one or number two?”

“Number one.”

Okay. Get up for 10 seconds and let your brother pee!”

“Not fair!”

“No it’s not. But get up because there’s a line.”

“That’s okay Mom. Can I just go in the sink?”

“WHAT? For the love of, just go while your brother takes a quick break!”

“Thanks. You can sit back down.”

And just when all should be well…

“He peed on the seat!”

They still sell ice cream in those gallon buckets, right? Hmmm. I think I could use one or two of those. Perfect. I can add Problem Solver to my resume too.

There are people you connect with. And for different reasons. Usually you have something in common. Maybe you met in college. Or you see each other at the dog park. Or it’s the one person at work that doesn’t make you wish you’d quit your job. When you send the kids off to school you add to that social network.

And it’s interesting to see those relationships evolve. I look back as a mom of a k5er (no, it’s not a word, but it works) and see how things were. We had difficulty remembering each other’s names. We often just referred to people as, “that one kid’s Mom.” We were nervous parents, worried about if our kids would learn their ABC’s and share their toys. Most of our conversations were in passing in the hallways or parking lot. Fast forward five years. Same parents. Same kids. Different dynamics. We used to set up play dates with the kids. We’ve learned it’s just as important to set up dates without the kids.

A couple weeks ago I went to a Birthday party for one of the other Moms. Yeah. Just a little different. Instead of rushing to our cars like we do for the morning drop-off, we rushed to give each other those big oh-my-goodness-I can-hardly-breath kinda hugs. We tell our kids to not run around at restaurants. That night we had our own dance floor going! Our kids have been told that alcohol isn’t what it’ cracked up to be. After having my fill of adult beverages, I heard someone say it was time to do shots. Nope- not the kind for the flu.

When we first met our conversations were limited to where to the niceties like how our kids liked school and would we be going to the fall dance. Now we share deeper stuff. Like divorce. Job loss. Frustration with trying to be the best parent possible. It’s grown up stuff.

It’s ironic that we want our kids to make friends. But along the way we do too. But be open to invitations and keep your adult sippy cup handy. “That one kid’s Mom” could be your lifeline, dance partner, and friend all in one.

You’ve likely heard the question, “Can we really have it all?”  You know, husband, career, kids, social life.

Before I had it all I remember thinking, how hard could it be? I’d have a house, a husband, a very grown up job and kids.  Yeah.  Okay.  So it would all be perfect if the house were self-cleaning. And if the husband didn’t have to put in so many hours at work.  And the kids never got colds.  And the grass was always that perfect shade of green. And if someone would kindly do all the grocery shopping.  And cooking.  And the stocks we bought were worth something. 

 Sure.  We can have it all. You bet.  But it’s like a smorgasbord.  And it’s all there for you to choose from.  Fancy cheeses, filet Mignon, mashed potatoes, green beans, pork’n beans, those weanie things on toothpicks, bacon wrapped chestnuts, carrots, broccoli (pass), salmon, sweet corn, corn on the cob, bread, gobs of butter.  Even dessert. It’s all there.  You can eat it all.  Go ahead eat it.  Yeah.  How are you feeling now?  It’s like a bad Alka Selzer commercial.  You take too much and you will combust.

It’s not far from how it is with life.  Sometimes there’s just too much going on.  But we feel compelled to do it all.  Why?  Maybe it’s just our nature.  Frankly, the older I get I feel that perfection is overrated.  Maybe I’m just getting lazy.  Or tired.  Or realistic. 

The other day a friend of mine found out she mailed a card that was supposed to have a check in it. She accidentally forgot to put the check in before mailing the card. In an email to me she said, “Can you tell I’m coming unglued?”

 I was actually relieved to read that email and was thinking,  I’m not the only one.  Last week I threw a check away.  Yes.  In the garbage.   It took me sixty seconds to grab the check from the pile of mail.  Then 20 more searching through the garbage can for it. I was busy going through the mail and listening to voice messages and thinking about making dinner and just absent mindedly threw the check in the garbage.

Another friend who has five children and is married told me she needs a couple hours a week just to think.  She said she needs to go somewhere like  Dunkin Donuts just to gather her thoughts. I was thinking even somewhere not to have to think sounded good.  And yeah if donuts are served-even better!

 I think as women we tend to think it’s all gotta get done and we have to be the ones to do it.  But if we are always doing it, no one else has the chance to.  So yeah. we can have it all.  And maybe even at one time.  But just a heads up….something might end up in the garbage.

You can ask most anyone who knows me, and not one of them would describe me as a road scholar. Or a genius. When people describe me I have a feeling the intellectual part is skipped. I have five older brothers who were extremely smart, so I figure my parents even if only from a statistical point were okay with that.

But I got by. I had to. My parents were both teachers so there was no hiding from the whole school thing. They went to every conference. They met with every teacher. They got the mail before I did. And they opened every report card before I could get my hands on them.

My oldest son is in Third grade I am blown away by the homework. The amount, the subject matter. Even the binder. It is clearly the largest size binder that is known to man. It broke (literally broke) my son’s new backpack. And at week four the seam of the big red binder is already coming apart.

Our kids really like school and I thank the school Gods for that. I didn’t hate school, but for means it was a means of socialization. But this homework stuff brings me back to being a kid in school. I just sit there and think, How the hell do you do this? When did they start teaching kids to add left to right (not numbers in rows top to bottom)? I can’t add like that! I didn’t get a memo or see it on the ticker on the cable news show. I don’t even want to know how things have changed with division ad multiplication.

That big red binder contains everything the kids need each day. Inside the big red binder is a calendar. Every day the kids copy their assignments off the smart board. That’s very impressive as I still can’t convince anyone to put the toilet seat down.

Besides the calendar, the big red binder is home to a notebook, four see-through file folders, and two pocket folders. The problem is I have no idea what each is for. Yes, they are labeled. I just don’t get if Fluency is under Grammar or Reading. Does the take home folder mean the stuff stays at home forever, or can we toss it out? Even more pathetic is the fact that I went to parent orientation to figure it out! Now I just call other parents in a panic to see how far off course I am.

I’m trying to figure out if I should categorize my homework difficulty under memory loss or admit that there are some things I never understood well. Either way I have a big red binder I need to get real cozy with for a few months.

Remember how easy it was to lose those pounds after having babies?  Yeah, me neither. But I am trying to get in shape.  And though he is well-meaning, it doesn’t help that my oldest is a total believer of every commercial he sees.  “Hey Mom look at this commercial…you can lose 10 pounds in two weeks.  Is that what you need?”   

So a friend from work mentioned this running program called From the Couch to 5K.  I was mainly intrigued by the couch part.  It’s basically  a graduated running program.  I’m certainly not trying to run a 5K. But I am trying to get off the couch more.

 Admittedly, I was embarrassed to start running.  It really isn’t a good visual.  In my younger years I had this great stride and was carefree.  Now I take small steps, and I’m nervous to step on something the wrong way and twist my ankle. I imagine my neighbors watching me from inside their home and trying to describe what they see.  “No honey, she’s not running. It’s more like a scoot.”

 But it’s cool because I found that there is this sort of runner’s respect other runner’s show me now.  Sort of like Harley riders.  Without the motorcycle.  And without the leather gear.  Okay okay.  What I mean is that other runners (I mean the ones that are really running- the non-scooters) make a point to give me a nod or say hello.  And whenever another runner acknowledges me all I can think is Cool! They think I’m one of them. 

 The other day 3 women were running in my direction. They were laughing and carrying on.  There I was hardly able to keep a steady breath, let alone speak.  Then one of them gave me a smile and a wave.  As much as I was ready to stop my run for the day I waited til they were out of my view before I came to a halt.  I didn’t want them thinking they’d wasted a wave and a hello on some second-rate runner.

 But what is really nice is the kids want to join me. They like to ride their bikes while Mommy scoots behind them.  Seeing as how I am unable to speak and run at the same time, I came up with hand signals for stop, slow down, keep going.  I probably need one for Mommy needs oxygen but I think they’ll figure that one out.

We tell our kids lots of things. Life is full of do’s and don’ts.

We explain to our children that they should be proud of who they. They are to hold their head high and not hide their face.

Wearing appropriate clothing is a must. Nothing outrageous or inappropriate.

Our children have been taught the dangers of talking to strangers. They know not to go to a stranger’s house and never take gifts from them.

Playing in the dark not acceptable. It just doesn’t make sense. What’s to see?

Most of us have instilled a strong work ethic in our children. They have learned to work hard. Nothing is free.

We have explained to our kids that it isn’t nice to scare people. It’s just, well, scary.

And thank goodness for the dentists who back us up on the dangers of sugar. Simply said-sugar will make your teeth rot. We tell out kids the can practice on the first set, but after the second set comes in that’s it.

And just when we think we have the rules and do’s and don’ts covered, it’s Halloween and parents around the country find themselves having this conversation with their kids:
“Go cover your face and put on the craziest outfit you can find. Now head outside. Yes, I know it is dark. Don’t worry, none of the other hundreds of kids can see either. I understand the label says the material says flammable… just stay clear of the yards with fire pits and candles along the walkway. But do make sure to make really annoying and scary gestures along the way. And go to all the houses you can, even if you don’t know people and beg for candy. Lots of candy.”

We adjust our rules for lots of things, including Halloween. Of course we do. And after the little ghosts and goblins are in bed, it’s our jobs as parents to go through the bucket loads of candy they got. Each and every piece.

It’s easy to look at our own parents and think how badly they messed up. But really even at their worst did you ever consider suing them?

There are two adult children (twenty-three and twenty) who tried to sue their mother. Their claim? Emotional distress. That distress came from incidents in which the mother told her son when he was 7 that she was going to call the police if he didn’t buckle his seatbelt. And he also was upset that some of his Birthday cards did not contain cash or a check.

The younger sister apparently had it bad. Her mother once called her a t a homecoming party at midnight and told her to come home. It gets worse-this same mother refused to take her daughter to a car show.

I never thought I’d get hauled into court. I have however worried that my boys will get me on the Dr. Phil show. They’ll both be seated across from me, and Dr. Phil will be between us. One of the boys will refer back to their childhood and say, “Our Mom would get upset and tell us that when we grew up she was gonna come over to our house at 6:30 in the morning, pee in her adult diaper, and cry until we let her in to give her cereal.”

Dr. Phil would suck in his breath and have that 10 second pause for affect. Then his shiny head would turn to me, and in that signature Texan drawl Dr. Phil would ask, “How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

Okay, so if my kids were truly going to take me to court for emotional distress I guess I should prepare my list. Well, I made Miles wear tennis shoes he decided he no longer liked. And they were brand named…poor thing. I told Maxon that hot dogs would no longer be suitable for breakfast. And being the meanie I am, I always insist they both wear helmets when bike riding and skateboarding. I am awful, I know. It’s shameful but I have been a stickler for brushing their teeth and taking vitamins. I can only imagine the lasting torment I bestowed upon them for demanding they wear hats and gloves in the winter.

Man I hate to sound like my parents, but I can’t help it. “Wait til you have your own kids. You’ll see.”

Two years ago I was thrilled to be asked to join a book club. Not because I like reading. Seriously, I still like picture books. But this group of women is really cool. So, when they asked if I wanted to join I was all over it.
The month Gina was hosting book club she sent out an e-mail about the book she wanted us to read. She said the book had cussing. And crime. And sex.” Great…now our husbands may want to join. The title of the book was G Spot. Gulp.
So there I was, wondering how I was gonna get the book. The library? It would be my luck to get to the check-out and realize my card was expired. Meanwhile, the librarian would have the book on the counter in plain sight while she updated my card. And I could see her giving me quick looks of disapproval, calling me a pervert in her mind.
If I ordered the book in the mail, it would get delivered while I was at work. It wouldn’t fit in the mail slot, so the delivery person would take it to Kyra’s house next door. Then I’d have to get it from her, and before she’d hand it over to me she’d undoubtedly ask what it is. I can here the conversation now. “Oh that looks like a book. What’s the title?”

She’s a huge reader so lying isn’t really an option, so I’d tell her. “It’s called G Spot.”
Then there would be this awkward ten second pause before I’d tell her it’s a gag gift for a bachelorette party. Then she’d smile and tell me that it sounds like the perfect raunchy gift for such an occasion.
Whatever. I decided I would just go to Barne’s and Noble Sunday after church. Yeah. I’ll ask for forgiveness then get to sinning.
There we were, kids in tow at the book store. Charles told me to get the book. I reminded him of the title, and he quickly took the boys to the kids’ section. Okay that part is taken care of. I mean I really don’t need the boys saying, “Hey how come the lady on the cover is kind of naked? I see boobs.”
I had no clue where to find the book, so I headed to the check-out I usually go to. Great. It’s a guy. I suddenly felt really dirty. I asked him, “Um, do you have the book, G Spot?”
He asked for clarification. “The name is G Spot?” Oh God. I should have gone the mail order route.
“Yes, that’s the title.”
He gets on his computer and I’m standing there beginning to get flushed. I mean, it was worse than waiting to see if you have exceeded your credit limit as you make a purchase.
He looks up from his computer and points to another counter that I need to go to. Then he gets on his walkie-talkie thing and says, “Customer assistance lower level.” He said something else that I didn’t understand, and I was convinced that it was code for “dirty book purchase.” Perfect. Now all the employees can look at the forty-something lady that is buying the steamy read.
As I head over to the “dirty book” counter I see an older couple heading over too. I walk slowly, hoping they will go ahead of me, but they motion for me to go first. I meet the new customer service guy. I really don’t want to have to say the name of the book. It’s like a drug deal or something. The best I could muster was, “I was told you could find a book for me.” He gives me a look like he wants to say, “Yeah. That’s what we do here. We sell people books.”
He didn’t say that but did ask me the name of the book. Oh no. And the old people are behind me.
“G Spot.” I tell him. He looks up at me like he doesn’t understand me.
“I’m sorry. Say again?” He asks.
On top of being embarrassed, I am getting upset. I’m thinking to myself, Say again? No I don’t want to say it again! Give me the book!”
I very curtly replied, “It’s called G Spot.”
He began typing away on his computer. It looks like we have a copy. You need to go back to that other counter.”
What the…? Aren’t they paid to get books for people? Oh I get it. If you want a “dirty book” you have to get it yourself. Like bagging your own groceries at the discount grocery stores.
So five minutes into my smut book journey I’m back where I started. Now the first guy to help me sees me at the counter and turns to the shelf behind him. I feel very dirty. Not to mention my kids are in the same store.
At this point I have very little dignity left so I ask the guy,” Is the book back there behind the counter because it’s dirty?”
He told me no. He explained they changed the store around and had to move inventory. That helped salvage some of my dignity.
I’m not a prude. Really. But I kept feeling that as a mom I shouldn’t be reading that kind of stuff. Ridiculous. I know. But I will say searching for, buying and reading a Dr. Seuss book was far less stressful.

There’s just so much curiosity about bodies with my boys. Which is why I stopped sharing a bathroom stall in public places with them.
I have never been a fan of sending them alone in the men’s room. So, for a while I took them with me into the restroom for women. In order to save time and not have anyone lock themselves in a stall we’d all cram into one.
Well, the last time we did this ritual my youngest son used the toilet first. Then my oldest. Finally it was my turn. As soon as I assumed my squat position my youngest son went to the back of the toilet to get a view-of my back side.
He sounded confused as he asked, “Where’s your penis?”
Oh man. I was just trying to pee without hitting the back of my pants in this cramped position. Suddenly my concentration was broken. In my mind I imagined what the lady in the next stall was thinking, “Well-where is your penis?”
While this line of questioning took place, my oldest was trying to get out of the stall. I had one hand on the door, trying to keep it shut and the other on my youngest pulling him away from behind me as he keeps looking at my butt. It was like a really bad version of the game Twister. Only this version had a child repeatedly saying, “Mom, I wanna see your penis!”
“I don’t have a penis!” I finally told him.
I don’t know if I have the vocabulary to describe the look on his face. I think horrified would be best. “You have to have a penis! Otherwise you can’t pee!”
All I wanted was to get in and out of there as fast as I could. Now I was forced to break down the anatomy of girls and boys. And honestly I wasn’t so sure I was qualified to do that.
So when taking the boys into the women’s restroom became a traveling side show I decided it was time they use the men’s room. Now I stand as close to the door as I legally can, and in a loud voice say, “Hey guys everything okay? There aren’t any wierdos in there are there?” More times than not I get stares from adult men leaving the bathroom, but trust me-it keeps the weirdos away.

I never liked the idea of arranged marriages.  Until I had my own children. I used to go to playgroups and scout possible future dates for my boys.  Oh go ahead and judge me. But before you do, consider this. Social Security will be dried up, this debt ceiling mess will be even worse, and 401K’s and pension plans will barely cover your basic necessities.

My point? I need daughters-in-law.  Really good ones. Boys are wonderful, but who knows when they’ll be back to visit?  When they say, “See you later” they mean later.  Like anytime later.  

I got so frustrated with the boys one day I told them I’d had it with their whining. “When you get your own house, I’m coming over at 6:00 in the morning and I’m gonna pee in my adult diaper and whine and cry, until you let me in and feed me cereal!”

 “That’s just gross,” Max said with a look of disgust on his face. 

Naturally, Miles had to add his two cents. “I’m not gonna let you in.  I know how old people smell.”  Under the bus!   That response confirms my belief that I’m not gonna be in some no-name nursing home, sitting alone in the hall while the underpaid caretakers pass me by.

One of my brothers has already advised me to get in good with my sons’ girlfriends.  Makes total sense to me. He’s got three boys and a Ph D, which is a winning combination in my book.  But I took it a step further.  I’m thinking if I find suitable mates for the boys, I can be sure to get good daughters-in-law!  Then I won’t be sitting alone on the nursing home hallway. 

Ultimately, the boys will choose their own mates.  But I’d be crazy not to try to influence them a bit.  I mean I’m not just gonna pick any floozy.  These are my boys for goodness sake.  I have guidelines.  They have to love my boys, be nice, smart.  All that good stuff.  But they cannot put me in a nursing home. Well, maybe that’s inevitable.  But they have to visit me-and get me out of that hallway!