Motherhood Martyrdom & Costco Runs Page 2

  I’d expound upon the wonders of the dairy department and the insane cheese assortment. I’m pretty sure the baking aisle would leave them swooning like debutantes at their coming out balls. Sugar and flour in twenty-five pound bags, chocolate chips, cocoa, and spices. The hardest part would be keeping the wall of toilet paper to myself. I mean, how in the world would a denizen of Colonial America ever begin to imagine the wonders of toilet paper, yet alone an entire wall of the stuff?

  I’d elaborate on the nuts next. “They have every kind of nut you can imagine: pine nuts, peanuts, walnuts, almonds, pecans, pistachio, macadamia nuts, and cashews! And they’re already shelled, roasted, and salted and some are even covered in chocolate!” I’d gush.

  There’s no way to describe Costco without mentioning the samples. “They sell food from all over the world and give you samples of it in almost every aisle you walk down, FREE!”

  Then I’d wax poetic about all the wonderful medicines and supplements available. I’d touch on the luxurious toiletries and hygiene products. When they were near to unconsciousness from the effort of trying to grasp such an Eden, I’d hit them with the food court. “They have slices of pizza as big as your head and the most decadent ice cream bars that have been dipped in melted chocolate and rolled in chopped nuts. There are machines that dispense every kind of drink you’d ever want! Don’t get me started on the churros and soft serve frozen yogurt.” Not that they’d know what any of these foods are. I don’t recall ever hearing the colonials were known for their ’za or soft serve.

  On and on I’d go until they’d either arrest me for heresy or lock me up for lunacy, although I usually pull myself out of this reverie before coming to any real harm. Mostly because I’m craving a frozen yogurt and have a burning hot desire to add another one hundred and sixty-eight rolls of toilet paper to my growing stash. Time for a Costco run!

  I Walked Barefoot in the Snow!

  “We didn’t even have stickers when I was your age. Do you hear me? NO stickers!” I beseech my young daughters to grasp how incredibly fortunate they are to live in such a gluttonous loot-filled age. The fact that they have drawers full of stickers they don’t properly revere is beyond me. I would have weeded the entire garden for the whole summer and given up my meager allowance for a year, just to have a tenth of what they take for granted as their due.

  “What do you mean you didn’t have stickers?” my seven-year-old demands. “You mean stickers weren’t invented yet or you just didn’t have any?”

  “I mean,” I say, trying to slow down my rapidly accelerating heart rate, “stickers were a thing only teachers had and they used them sparingly. Stickers were not available for children to buy. Do you hear me? NO STICKERS!”

  My daughters stare at me like I’m saying the world was in black and white when I grew up. They have absolutely no barometer for a world devoid of stickers.

  My five-year-old starts to speak very slowly as though any false movement might launch me into space like a bottle rocket. “Mommy,” she enunciates carefully, “why didn’t you just drive to the Dollar Store and buy stickers?”

  “Why didn’t I just drive to the Dollar Store?! Because,” and I pause for dramatic effect here, “we didn’t have Dollar Stores when I was a kid! Do you hear that, NO STICKERS and NO DOLLAR STORES?!”

  It’s like I’m telling them I’m from Mars or that I breathe through my toes, like I’m sharing I grew up in a land that didn’t have sunshine or french fries. They simply do not know what to make of this confession. After what feels like eons of mentally dissecting me with their adorable big brown eyes and tilted heads, my seven-year-old comes over and throws her arms around me and consoles, “Oh, Mommy, that must have been so hard for you. I’m so sorry!”

  Wait, what just happened here? I’m not bemoaning the lack of stickers in my formative years. I’m simply trying to get them to grasp how very lucky they are to have so much. So I try a new tactic. “We didn’t have home computers when I was your age.”

  The five-year-old begs to know, “How did you print out coloring pages?”

  How in the world do I begin to explain the seventies and eighties to these children? Their lives are so full of advantage and stuff they can’t begin to conceive how great life was when things were a little harder to come by. I’m determined to make them appreciate the bounty in which they live.

  So I try again. “You know how you have an iPad with all those great apps on it?” Then I innumerate some just in case they’ve forgotten, “There are Barbie makeover apps, baking apps, cake decorating apps, and the honey bee game?”

  Two little heads nod up and down, so I continue. “We had one electronic game. ONE. It plugged into our TV and the whole thing was two lines hitting a little electronic ball back and forth across the screen.”

  Seven asks, “What was the point of that?”

  Five inquires, “Did it sing songs or flash bright colors? Did it bake anything?”

  “No. It did nothing but knock a little ball back and forth across the screen. Well, actually it beeped every time it hit the ball, so it did that, too.”

  Again with the big brown eyes and tilting heads. “Why in the world would you want to play a game like that?” they demand to know.

  “We played it for hours. We loved it! It was advanced technology in the seventies. Pong was the most amazing game EVER!” I can’t believe I’m even saying that. I scoff at Pong, but I’m trying to put this into some perspective for my kids.

  I know I’m moments away from telling them I walked to school barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways, with boulders on my shoulders. And that’s when it hits me. I already have. A lack of stickers and Pong are my generation’s barefoot in the snow. All of a sudden I feel a great kinship with my parents. I also feel very old.

  Finding the Balance

  I’ve long struggled to find balance in my life and the struggle is real, folks! According to my calculations, I need a minimum of thirty-six hours in a day and approximately nine point seven days in a week to accomplish everything necessary for optimal equilibrium. In order to be the mom, wife, daughter, writer, and friend I aspire to be, I’d need two clones, a cleaning lady, and a cook. In short, I’m screwed.

  I have friends who assure me that taking care of myself first is the key to successful balance. “If you do too much for others and don’t do for yourself, you’ll wither on the vine!” (Or some equally inane nonsense.) I’m torn between wanting to hug them for their astonishing naiveté and smacking them senseless for wasting even a second of my life with such stupid drivel. “Me time” is something that was snatched from my grasp by wide-awake infants in the middle of the night, by norovirus spewed on freshly painted walls, and by constant butt wipings during the potty training years. I’m pretty sure “me time” is a mythical entity right up there with unicorns and fairies.

  I was so sure when both of my girls hit full-day school, I’d have my life back; I would have the illusive “me time” we wax on about. My house would always be clean, I would write three times as many books, and everyone in my sphere would feel the full force of my presence. What a load of horse hooey!

  Both girls have been in full-day school since September and I am no more productive for it. That’s not entirely true. I actually go to the gym three mornings a week now and feel marginally healthier/less snatchy, so that’s a good thing. The house is cleaner, but only because the mess makers aren’t in constant whirl. And, I occasionally get to talk to an old friend on the phone. But sadly, I’m still buried under the weight of my “to-do” list. How am I ever going to find the balance I crave?

  One friend suggested hot yoga as the cure-all. She’s currently in traction, or would be if I had any telekinetic powers. I’m forty-eight. I’m as hot as I ever want to be again this side of a boiling pit of lava. Her suggestion is right up there with proposing the key to world peace is through regular mani-pedis or perhaps group hugs. Can you just see the start of every U.N. pow-wow starting with downward dog in a ninety-eight degree room, followed by OPI’s “I’m Not Really a Waitress” painted on everyone’s toes? Ludicrous.

  I just returned home from a very informative writers’ conference and couldn’t wait to get back and start implementing all the marvelous new techniques I learned about. I learned that even if I have to force productivity, I have to be productive, that organization and involvement in social media can make or break me. I learned the faster I publish my books, the more momentum my career will have. Essentially, I learned that I will never be the huge success I dream of being if I don’t give my career two hundred percent. Every. Single. Day.

  I dwell on that when I’m making my littles their breakfast and packing their lunches. I worry about it when I pick them up from school and take them to the bounce house instead of coming home so I can go back to work. And when we’re cuddled up in my bed at night watching the Next Food Network Star, I finally realize who cares? My girls don’t care if I’m a household name or not. They don’t care if all the laundry is perfectly folded in their drawers. They don’t even care if my gray roots are dyed in a timely fashion. All they care about is that I’m present with them, actively participating in their lives.

  In a ditch effort to save my sanity, I’ve decided to prioritize the various compartments of my world. My children come first. My husband is somewhere near the top of the list, but I often say to him, “Remember those twenty years we had together before having kids? Cling to the memories!” I don’t even know what to say to my parents except, “Man, did I take you guys for granted!” And then comes work, laundry, vacuuming, shopping for groceries, etc.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that balance is probably not something I will ever attain in a single period in my life. The hope is that at the end of my journey, I’l
l realize it was something that developed along the way. I envision sitting under a big oak tree with a good book, an afghan, and a mocha, sometime in the distant future, with a smile on my wrinkled face, reminiscing, “I’ve had a clean house, I’ve had wonderful times with friends, and I’ve written a lot of good stories along the way. But more importantly, I raised two kind and compassionate children who helped make the world a better place. I’ve had a successful and loving marriage and I was a good daughter. As a whole, I balanced a lot and did a pretty darn good job of it.”

  For now though, I’m a hectic mess just taking it one day at a time.

  I Swear!

  I love to swear. Some righteous judgmental twits will tell you swearing is a sign of a limited vocabulary or lack of intellect. They’re wrong. Swearing is a marvelously freeing way to release the pressures of life. It’s like working out without all the sweat and effort. It’s genius!

  Here’s the thing though: as much as I love to let loose an array of vulgarities salty enough to leave the preacher’s wife gasping for breath, I was forced to give it up. When I was pregnant with my older daughter, once it looked like the pregnancy was a go, my husband approached me and lovingly suggested I quit expressing myself like a sailor on shore leave.

  I countered that I would give it up before our daughter started talking. He protested my timeline, stating there was no way I could go from my daily quota of filth to nothing, cold turkey. He was convinced I needed to cease immediately so it would be fully out of my system before our child arrived on the planet.

  I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I could stop any time I wanted to. It’s not like I was an addict. I can hear your eyes rolling. Yes, I know, the addict is ALWAYS the last to know.

  But it’s not like I was addicted to drugs, alcohol, or Ho Hos. I was addicted to expression. How can that be wrong? I offered to institute a swear jar and promised to happily pay every time an expletive left my lips.

  My husband’s response was, “Bankruptcy is not the answer. Not swearing is the answer.”

  Well, if that attitude didn’t just make me want to let a rip a stream of vitriolic bile, I don’t know what did! And please note, people capable of correctly using the word “vitriolic” in context are, in fact, not stupid. Take that, you judgmental harpies! I’m a logophile. I love words, all words, especially juicy creative ones that some find offensive.

  I went into a bit of a funk as I cleaned up my act. I felt less inspired with my new streamline vocabulary. I was lonely.

  My husband could not believe I was having such a hard time letting go. Occasionally, I’d snap and scream, “What in the fudge do you want from me? This shoot is hard to forget! I love to goose down swear! I love it, do you hear me?” Of course I didn’t really say fudge, shoot or goose down, but I’m sure you guessed that already.

  After another child and many months of not being able to fully wean myself, my husband and I came to an agreement. I could not swear while the children were conscious. That seemed like a compromise I could work with. All I had to do was make it through the day, depositing my invectives into an imaginary account as I went. Then, when the kids went to sleep I could set them free onto the world! Deal. We shook on it.

  My children are now five and seven and the worst word they’ve ever heard me say is hell, and I didn’t even pull that one out until last year. I amaze myself. Granted, most adults who know me have heard me say much worse, but the precious beings placed in my care to raise and nurture, have no idea the kind of verbal exchange I’m capable of. And as hard as it is for me to admit, I think that’s probably for the best.

  You Have to Go Potty Now?

  Potty training at Costco is a nightmare, a full blown mare of the night. It would test the patience of a saint. Truthfully, Mother Teresa would have been all, “Fudge this shoot, go in your pants!” I tried that approach again and again, but you know what? Toddlers who are potty training don’t want to go in their pants. They’ve got it in their little heads that pottying in their pants is counterproductive to the whole “potty training” concept. Grrrrrr.

  And the thing with Costco bathrooms is they’re always three-and-a-half football fields away from where you’re shopping. Always. So what do you do? You run like the rabid hounds of hell are nipping at your heels to get your little trainer on a potty, STAT!

  Does this always work? No, no it does not. Sometimes your little one only has the strength to hold it for two football fields. Luckily, this usually isn’t a problem if they’re wearing training pants. Yet once they’ve reached the point where they refuse to wear training pants, then it’s a horse of a different color. It now means finding someone to mop up the mess, dragging your disappointed and sobbing child into the bathroom to clean them up, and then returning to your shopping, damp and slightly odiferous from your recent excursion.

  I managed to shop at Costco and get not only one, but two children potty trained. It was the longest twenty years of my life. Even once both girls were fully toilet trained, they still had an other-worldly obsession with the Costco bathroom. We averaged three visits every single trip: once when we first got there, once during the middle of shopping, and then again right before we left. The thing is they didn’t always go to the bathroom while they were in there. But they always, always yodeled.

  My two and four-year-old daughters had discovered the perfect acoustics for their new found love of The Sound of Music. Sometimes they tinkled first before launching into their glass-shattering version of “The Lonely Goatherd,” and sometimes they started the very nanosecond they set foot over the threshold. But either way, yodeling was on the menu.

  It’s impossible not to be slightly mortified when your tone deaf daughters discover a love for the yodel. But it’s funny, nonetheless. It’s even funnier when old women, in the stalls next to them, encourage them by stamping their feet and clapping their hands along with the unexpected serenade.

  Yodeling was not the only pastime my girls had in the bathroom at Costco. Heaven forbid someone was in there doing a number two. My little darlings would convulse in fits of gagging and coughing spasms. They’d sputter, as if gasping for their last breath on earth, “Oh, Mommy, I’m going to be sick!” Insert very realistic retching noises here. “That’s the worst stink in the world!”

  Of course I wanted to die and tried valiantly to shush them. I would quietly explain that sometimes people did stinky things in bathrooms and that it was quite normal to do so. Inevitably though, they’d carry on the whole time we were there and the poor woman sequestered in her stall never left until after we were long gone.

  Then there was the time when my older daughter was three and locked herself in one of the stalls. I called out, “Margery Annaliese, what’s taking you so long?”

  She didn’t answer and I was losing patience so I yelled, “Margery Annaliese, get out here right now!”

  Again, my daughter didn’t answer, but a woman in another stall mumbled, “Excuse me?”

  I ignored the stranger and demanded, “Margery Annaliese, if you don’t come out right this very second, you’re going into time-out as soon as we get home and we’re not going to get a frozen yogurt, either!”

  Nothing from my daughter, but the woman inquired, “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”

  What kind of moron was she? I was so totally irritated and out of patience. I snapped, “Not unless your name is Margery Annaliese, lady!”

  And very quietly, she answered, “It is.”

  What are the odds? I laughed so hard, I immediately forgave my willful child, apologized to the stranger who thought she was the target of my ire, and subconsciously started to yodel.

  I’M NOT YOUR MOTHER!!!

  There are moments when I forget that hot-burning desire to become a mommy. I forget the agony of annoyingly happy families abounding like fat flies on a fresh cow patty. I block out the trauma of multiple miscarriages and the yearning for tiny baby garments drying on the clothesline in the summer breeze. I just plain don’t remember those times. Why? Because now, I am a mommy. I’ve arrived to the party a bit late, but I got here. My two little girls are smart, outgoing, and full of joy. They also NEVER STOP TALKING.