Family Daze
The down-and-dirty reality of becoming a real mother
By Debbie Farmer
This may come as a shock to you, but becoming a mother has little to do with having a baby. Some of you out there might disagree with this theory. In fact, some of you are probably sitting there right now, trying to refrain from shouting, "Yeah, well, that's what you think, Lady. I have a 3-inch scar and all of the stretch marks to prove it!" But the truth of the matter is, despite all those lessons in self-relaxation and deep breathing techniques, true motherhood comes after giving birth. Waaaaaay after.
In fact, no one can pinpoint exactly when it happens. Despite what you may think, there's no special theme music that will signal you to throw your arms out to your sides and announce to the world "I am a real mother now!" You just go about your business, changing diapers and wiping noses until one day you find yourself doing all sorts of things you'd never ever imagine doing and, voilà, you've become a bona fide mother.
Now, if you're like me, you're thinking that there must be a better system than this. And you're right. So you will be happy to know that, after spending several mornings roaming the park playground interrogating parents, I've come up with a few milestones that are signs that you've, indeed, become a true mother. They are:
You catch spit up with your hands. On purpose.
Your kitchen cupboards are crammed full of recycled plastic Easter eggs.
You get phone messages written in purple crayon that say "kzzrg 23."
You're bored going out to lunch with your successful childless friends, because all they want to talk about is current events and national politics, instead of more stimulating topics such as, say, why exactly breast milk poo poo looks so much like gourmet mustard?
You can't go a day without using the words "boozah, boozah."
You clean a pacifier by sucking off the dirt with your lips.
At the playground you mean to say things like, "Come here, Sweetie. It's time to go home now," but all that comes out is, "You stop now go here."
You learn to sleep while propped up on the sofa with both eyes open, pretending to watch your child sing karaoke to the songs on the Chipmunk's Christmas album.
You buy clothes embroidered with friendly barnyard animals. The word zwieback means something to you.
You're constantly thinking up answers to such deep, meaningful questions as, "Do tornadoes poop?"
A relaxing vacation is spending 10 minutes just about anywhere on this planet--alone.
You tie your tennis shoes in double knots.
Your definition of living la vida loca is staying awake long enough to watch the sports report on the 10 o'clock news.
You have a box in your top dresser drawer, filled with baby teeth and a black umbilical cord stump, that you whip out on special occasions to impress houseguests.
Two words that strike mortal fear into your heart: projectile vomiting.
Suddenly snow boots don't really look all that bad with a pink leotard.
You are late everywhere because:
1) The stroller that turns into a highchair, a swing and a changing table somehow got folded into an airplane and the wings keep getting stuck in the lid of the trunk;
2) Your child prefers the Zen way of life over adhering to strict schedules;
3) It took longer than you expected to pack the snacks, changes of clothes, dry socks, sand toys, diapers, rain slicker, bathing suits, crayons, superhero action figures and pink plastic heels into the five steamer trunks you need to take with you every time you leave the house;
4) You can say, with utmost objectivity, that your child is the smartest, wittiest, best-looking and most perfect child in the history of the world.
Debbie Farmer is the author of Life in the Fast-Food Lane: Surviving the Chaos of Parenting. Order online: http://www.booklocker.com/bookpages/debbiefamer02.html, call (925) 695-2020, ext. 7166, or visit her website at: www.familydaze.com. Questions or comments? Email her at paradigmnews@familydaze.com, or write to her c/o Paradigm News, Inc., P.O. Box 111372, Stamford CT 06911-1372
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
