Mommahood, redefined.

Being a Momma has surprised me in a ridiculous number of ways.

Some might think that after (almost) 5 years fully entrenched in The Mommahood, I might be moderately less shocked at some of the things I catch myself doing, or saying. Or the day-to-day details that compose the snapshots of my tres exciting life.  But alas, I am not. These 'little things' never cease to amaze me, to surprise me, to shock me, to embarrass me, to inspire me, to make me chuckle, to make me cry, to make me question my sanity, and some days- yes, all of the above. (sidenote, these are the days that require box-o-wine and retail therapy at Tar-jay for basic survival.)


See, you have this wonderfully naive magnificent idea in your head, before you have children. This elaborate mental painting of what you'd look like and what you'd behave like once you'd brought your first little bambino into this world and earned that beautiful, highly coveted alias of Momma.  In these pre-baby days, you’d silently (or perhaps, not-so-silently) judge that Mom in the grocery store... You know, the one with the out-of-control, filthy little rascal in the carriage, throwing a major fit, annoyingly wailing on and on about the lollipop that he wanted.

"But Mooommm-mmmma, I waaaaaaan-ted the greeeeeeeeen onnnnnnnnnnnnne!!! The greeeeeeeeen one!!!!"  

Little rascal dramatically (and quite impressively) sends all of his limbs flailing in various directions at the same time, like a marionette on strings. His nose and eyes leak profuse amounts of salty fluids simultaneously, and you’re unsure if his beet-red face is a result of this hysterical outburst, or Kool-aid from an afternoon playdate. You are disgusted by this unruly sight, and you wonder, in that moment, how that parent is staying so cool. (Translation, how they have not strung that child up by his Spiderman undies off the roof of Stop & Shop.) So calm.  So reserved. Not even batting an eyelash. Just goes about her food shopping, business as usual.

{This horrifies you.}

I mean, does she not hear that miserable, ungrateful little brat in her carriage? Is she unaware that this appalling tantrum is disrupting your quest to find the perfect  low-fat artichoke dip for board game night at your Sorority house tonight?
 
To your complete dismay, this Mother actually doesn’t grab her little hellion and immediately leave the store in a fully warranted, ceremonious walk of maternal shame. She actually- gasp- continues shopping(?!) She peruses the dairy aisle at the pace of a snail on Valium, subjecting the rest of the shoppers to endless minutes of auditory torture, much resembling a Fisher cat’s battle cry.  This crazy Mama even stops to compare prices of various yogurts and cheeses(?!)  She is apparently unaffected by the aforementioned wild-child (who, incidentally, is sporting an embarrassingly mismatched "outfit" of Batman pajama pants and a green Christmas turtleneck) screeching in her shopping carriage. In this moment, you are embarrassed at her. And for her.

And, at the ripe old age of 22 years old, you disgustingly shake your head and silently pinky promise yourself that you’ll NEVER be a Mom like that.

Your child will not ever scream in public, or cry, or flail. Your child will always sport Ralph Lauren polo shirts and Gap chinos, and sweater vests.  He will wear matching outfits and crisp, white socks at all times.  And loafers. Your kiddo will never have filthy grass stains, or icky Kool-aid mustaches, or visible boogies in their nose. His hair will always be brushed and his teeth will sparkle like a Crest white-strips commercial. Your petit prince will definitely never belch or fart in public. Or pick his nose. Or scratch his bum. He will always smell of Johnson & Johnson shea butter lotion and never of poop or stinky socks. And your blissful little gift-o-God will certainly never wail for a green lollipop when he doesn’t get his way. Furthermore, when you tell him “No sweetheart, not today,” he will respond (in a perfect British accent, of course) with: “Yes Mummy, I fully understand. Thank you for taking my request into consideration. Perhaps next time, when my behavior warrants a prize, I’ll be able to get it.”  And then, he’ll hug you and tell you that you are the best Momma in the world. And that your meatballs are definitely MUCH better than your mother-in-law’s… And off the two of you will go skipping into a field of dasies, holding hands, singing ‘This Little Light of Mine’ in perfect unison. Ahhhh.  Life is good...


Yes, that’s the image that you had generated in your early twenties about parenthood.
And then,

well,


there’s the reality.

The beautiful, unadulterated reality that actually envelopes this Magnificent Journey of Mommahood.

The reality that an acid reflux baby makes adorable, matching outfits a near impossibility, right from day one.(and instead, makes mismatched onesies, sweatpants, and hand-me-down pink butterfly bibs from his big sister "completely acceptable" attire.)


The reality of being "that Momma" in aisle 4 of Stop & Shop, screaming 2 year old tugging at your shirt, feeling hot with humiliation and wanting to melt into the floor a la Wicked Witch of the West…But knowing that you’ve got to win this battle with your head held high, no matter how much screaming ensues or how many people stare. (and also, the reality of other Mommas who pass by you in this moment, and give you the subtle, ‘I’ve been there too,’ nod of encouragement and empathetic smile to make you feel less mortified.)

The reality that kiddos are still loveable when they whine and scream and flail and stomp their feet, even in public places.  And the confidence that you build within yourself to conquer these moments in a rational, dignified way.

The reality that even the well-behaved kids pick their noses, (because it’s just too interesting not to see what’s lurking up there) and scratch their bums (because, let's face it, when you've got an itch you've just gotta scratch it, even if you are in the front pew at Church.)

The reality that a day will come when you will use your own shirt or sleeve as an emergency tissue for a goopy-nosed 3 year old at the park, because frankly, there aren't any other options (…and furthermore, that you will do the unthinkable, and continue to wear this shirt until bedtime, unscathed by the dried boogy remnants that linger.)

The reality that you will use bribery in your weakest moments…and that it’s okay sometimes, because we’ve all been there ("Listen...if you just take the medicine without whining, we can go to Target tomorrow and get that Hello Kitty purse that you've been wanting. Please??")

The reality that you will allow your child to beat you at a board game, just to alleviate the possibility probability of a 3-hour sulk-fest regarding the unfair nature of Chutes & Ladders.

The reality that sometimes, Christmas PJ pants, a polka-dot turtleneck, a Cinderella tiara and a magic wand are completely appropriate attire for the grocery store…for a Momma.

The reality that expensive, boutique-y children’s clothes are way overrated, considering how quickly they are outgrown… and how strong a correlation exists between the high price tag of a shirt and it’s uncanny ability to attract red popsicles, permanent markers, and bicycle grease.

The reality that, contrary to what you may have thought, poopy diapers, projectile vomit, stinky farts, and leaky nostrils won’t bother you as much as you'd envisioned they would, because the culprit just happens to be the most adorable baby boy you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The reality that sometimes, in a mildly resentful, sleep-deprived, zombie-like haze at 3am, a wide-awake newborn gazing into your eyes and cracking her first "real" smile will move you to tears in a beautiful, unbelievable way that you never saw coming...(and instantly make those dark bags under your eyes oh-so-worth-it.)


Yes folks, these are the amazing, sticky, yucky, beautiful, humiliating, stinky, loud, embarrassing, silly, funny realities that actually drive this crazy journey of Mommahood.  And after living them for five years now, I can attest to the fact that the reality of my chaotic life today is WAY more rewarding than that mental portrait of parenthood I'd decided upon over a decade ago while on a quest for artichoke dip.

These little moments-- the tantrum in the store, the nose-picking in church, the spit-up down my neck-- are the ones that feel like an overwhelming eternity in the moment, but are actually entirely too fleeting.  They're the things that make every day of this journey so exciting. So unique. Every day, a new quote for the baby book, or a hysterical new story to share with fellow Mommas at playgroup.

And so, thank you Aves & Gav for making my life so rich, so full, so riveting.  So eventful! Thank you for the trying moments, the awful moments, the amazing moments, the shining moments, the silly moments, the exhausted moments...the tearful moments, the nervous moments, the proud moments, and the not-so-proud ones too.

Because $30,000+ of college debt, and a Bachelor's degree collecting dust in a frame downstairs, hold no match to the remarkable  lessons you two kiddos continue to teach me about life, and about myself, every single day.