What I do for a living… September 13, 2007

My husband is a business man. One of the perks of his profession is business functions, some of which I attend with him. I have attended enough to know that the evening usually consists of a bunch of people exchanging business cards, drinking one to many margaritas, and telling everyone, “Call me!”. The popular question of the night is, “Sooo, what do you do?” Once I was having a wonderful conversation with a woman; when she asked the “question,” I courageously answered, “I take care of my children.” The conversation dropped dead. She mustered a few kind words before she ended the conversation and avoided me for the rest of the night like ‘mommy’ was something contagious.

Another function was looming in the horizon, and I found myself wondering how I was going to explain my chosen profession this time. I can just hear the conversation, “Well, I have changed upwards of 4 poppy diapers every day for the last 4 years, and I haven’t thrown up once.” I say in my coolest “I’m-better-than-you” voice. Maybe a little too sarcastic. I will have to save it for a really juicy moment.

We arrived at the business reception around 7 pm. I was wearing my best clearance-rack dress, with some great shoes. Ok, so they came from a clearance rack to, I’m a bottom feeder, I admit it. Anyway, we were all having a wonderful evening, and as usually happens, my husband and I were separated, and once again I found myself making conversation with complete strangers.

Upon leaving one nice conversation, I found myself trapped by the path of Alpha Woman. You know, the woman with the perfect hair, the perky breasts that have never been the source of someone’s six square meals a day, and the tight little waist that has not blown up to huge proportions and deflated three times, suffering from a serious set back of stretch marks. Her dress was immaculate and very expensive. So were her jewelry, her shoes, and her make-up. I’d be willing to put money on the fact that her underwear cost more that my whole ensemble that evening. After the proper exchange of names and hellos, she was off to the races, quickly trying to discern which one of us was more important, and she was in no mood for loosening. “Well, I work with some of the most prominent Architects in the state, Bla bla bla…” All I hear is, “I am SO important, don’t you just wanna be me?”

I politely nod and say, “Oh that is wonderful, how exciting for you…” and finally her ego simply can’t wait any longer. Seeing that she has not yet managed to intimidate me, and that I have not yet begun competing with her, she must know if I am her better, or if I am one of the other minions she has already crushed somewhere between her stilettos and her overpowering narcissism. I know what is coming, and it really is a no win question. Even if I tell her I am Empress of the World she will just shrug and say something like, “Well, I certainly had the opportunity to do that, but I am just really so much more fulfilled in what I am doing… bla bla bla.”

Finally she asks, “SO what do you do for a living?”

“My husband,” I look her square in the eye as the words spring from my mouth, almost without my control. She chokes on the ice she’s chewing. And as she’s coughing, I add, “and when he’s at work, I make The Best play dough snakes. You know, I’ve found the yellow stays so much softer than the blue. It must have something to do with the amount of pigment in the clay.”

“Well, nice to meet you,” she acting very shifty as she moves away, bumping a waiter, and spilling the rest of her margarita on herself. “Ooops, better clean this up, hope to see you later in the evening…” and like that she is gone.

I quietly smile, and make my way back to my husband, snuggling in close for a kiss. I only notice Alpha Woman twice more that night, both times on the very most opposite side of the room, nervously looking for me over her shoulder. Oh she’s right to think I am half insane. I probably am. Being a mom has a way of making you half crazy, but it also has a way of making things oh so clear at the same time. Salud!

How screaming babies lead to short shorts and no underware. January 15, 2007

It was a day. Ethan, 2 months old, cried the whole 90 minutes it took me to make one of Rachel Ray’s 30 minute meals. Apparently her time table doesn’t account for screaming infants. Conner (4), and Tobias (2) were off having a great adventure, getting into all sorts of mischief. As the oven timer went off, I called my husband to tell him dinner was ready, and ask what time we should pick him up. “How about 5:45?” He asked. “Ok… what time is it right now?” I asked. “4:45,” he replies. Yes it really is one of those days. I was so eager for it to be over I had sped it up. Thankfully he realized this, and we agreed to meet at the Children’s Science museum in 15 minutes. “Quick boys, we’re going to Explora! Change your clothes and grab your shoes, I’ll meet you in the van!” And we were off. I threw foil over our dinner and launched the double stroller into the van. Ethan kept screaming until I buckled him into his car seat. Then the perfect angle. Who knows. Someone had turned on all the lights in the house. Someone needed shorts. I couldn’t find my shoes… finally we did make it to the Museum, about 20 minutes late. With all the energy in the world we BURST out of the van and into Explora.

The lady at the front desk looked a little funny as we careened through the doors. Me: No make-up, a cock-eyed ponytail, and a top that really should have been changed. Conner’s shirt was not only inside out, but backwards. Even better still, he had put 2-month old Ethan’s pants on, and was wearing them as shorts. I have no idea how they buttoned. Tobias had on clothes that were all his, and amazingly they were all going in the right direction. However at some point in the afternoon, he had shed his underwear and put on a pair of oversized shorts, that kept falling down to reveal a very nice round little bottom. Ethan, the man behind the insanity, was quite content, happy as a lark to be out of the house and buckled into the stroller. Conner and Tobias were also the picture of happiness, Conner with the pants he hadn’t worn in 3 1/2 years, and Tobias, with his waistband in his fist, or around his ankles, should he forget. And really, I was happy too. A laughing, frumpy somewhat dirty, wreck of a mother, having the time of my life with my sweet little boys. Yes, I am a mother. I can always tell on days like these.