Entries Tagged 'Mothers' ↓

I was in the grocery store and I heard a baby cry.

No. I didn’t start to lactate. But something did happen. And it’s something I haven’t been able to shake ever since I’ve had children and I hear a child cry. Maybe you will get what I mean, so I’ll explain. But I don’t think you ever have had to lactate to get it either, either.

So, back to this baby. She started to cry. And it was an “I’m so tired, I need a snuggle and a nap and get me out of this grocery cart” kind of cry. I couldn’t help myself, I oh-so-innocently wheelie-wheeled my cart around the corner and into her aisle… just to see how she was doing.

Her mom was harried. She had a sandwich platter in her cart and soda bottles and paper plates and a bunch of other party stuff she clearly had to get that afternoon. But her daughter wasn’t having it. She was so, so tired. Slumped to the side and crying — no, pleading, really — in a way that made any mother want to find a crib and a dark room and no stim and some sweet peace for that child.

There was nothing I could do about it. It came from somewhere deep beyond my control. My gut hurt for her. My arms ached to scoop her up, snuggle and soothe, and seek out a spot to get her cozy and quiet. My heart went out to the mom, too. I KNOW she wanted those same things for her daughter but, with something going on soon, she had to get that shopping done. My guess is that her daughter’s schedule was shot to hell after a day of errands and running here and there. Hardly anything that will hurt that girl, but my ache to comfort her was STRONG, my friends.

Kind of like lactating.

Let me back up and explain the comparison. Don’t freak, non-lactating types. This is just how it is…

You’ve heard of how women will “let down” when they hear a baby cry. And by “let down” I mean the boob flood-gates suddenly open and a teeny hose-like effect occurs in the general chest region. There is nothing you can do about it, really. It’s just this primal thing that happens when a baby cries or you know a baby is hungry. Mother nature just turns on the faucet.

Of course, this doesn’t happen to me any longer. My faucet dried up (OMG, has it been this long) about 4 years ago. But it used to. And it wasn’t pretty when I wasn’t ready for it. And that’s why God made breast pads. But I digress…

So back to the baby in Publix. She was crying and I felt this ache. Deep down. I wanted to help her. I wanted to take care of her and figure out a way to get her what she needs. It’s almost beyond reason or self-control, it’s just there, built-in, instinctual, just the way I am wired now.

This strange, deep down ache and need to help a crying child was not there before I had my own. Before I would have been all: “Aw. She’s crying… poor mom. Oh, I’m totally watching Melrose Place tonight…”

Not now. Now, I feel a physical pull, a painful ache, a lump at the back of my throat and an empathy like none other for the mom trying to cope and care and do it all.

It’s kind of like lactating. And, dried up or not, I suspect it will feel like this for as long as I’m a mother… which is pretty much forever.

Is motherhood something to be laughed at? Because, you know and I know that there are times when mothers completely lose their sense of humor. Poof, gone, lost, for a very long time. At 4am with a screaming — or giggling, wide-awake — baby. At 5pm, the witching hour, when dinner isn’t ready yet and you’re ankle deep in toddler tantrums. At the grocery store when you can’t seem to get down an aisle without screaming at your fighting children. Motherhood can be slow, endless, Chinese water torture, threatening to pull you deep, down into stewing pits of parenting despair. I’ll admit that it’s the hardest thing I have ever done.

And that’s why finding any outlet to laugh at parenting is so damn important.

And that’s where “Motherhood, The Musical” comes in.

I was asked to review this musical, now playing at the Straz Center in downtown Tampa, last week. And, since I am sucker for musicals (don’t even get me STARTED on my obsession with “Wicked”) and since I just really like the folks at the Straz, I was 100% down for some funny mom theater. Plus, I’ve seen lots of Facebook statuses raving about the show: “I laughed! I cried!” So, I was excited to check it out.

I rounded up two very deserving moms from my work to come with me and we set out for the Straz after a particularly crazy week at work.

The show was in the Jaeb Theater which is a smaller, cabaret style theater. We found our seats around a small table, surrounded by (no surprise here) many other mothers gathered for the show. The space was intimate — which meant a comfortable, more connected experience. I was impressed right away as the theater staff began the evening by reaching out to pregnant moms in the audience. They also sold pins with the profits going to autism research. And they even had cute “Motherhood, The Musical” postcards on the table which we could fill out and they would send for us if we dropped it in a mailbox in the lobby. (I sent one to my mother-in-law.) I have to say, the people who work at the Straz are just nice. They smile, they ask you how you are, they take pictures for you, they just make the whole vibe comfortable and welcoming. And, being a theater dork from way back, I think that really helps set the vibe for the show itself – so “cheers” to them…

Now, what did I think of the show itself? It was really great. Truly. But let me start with a couple negatives first.

Admittedly, they touched on a few cliches. You know, “we’re not gonna take cooking and cleaning anymore”  kind of thing. The naive pregnant mom, and the “knowing”, jaded other mothers hell bent on scaring the crap out of her. Mini-vans, grocery shopping, and husbands that have very little to do with parenting at all.

However. They took these typical motherhood cliches (which are only cliches because they are common experiences, by the way) and turned them into gut-busting, musical hilarity. The women who played the four mothers in the show were FANTASTIC. I kind of want to be friends with the divorced mom and the working mom. No, really. I want to have drinks with them because they have to be that awesome in real-life. (Hey ladies, email me! I can try to be awesome too!)

Also, the lyrics and the music in the show are both excellent. The lyrics are very well written, just FUNNY. Cliche or not, the mini-van song was hysterical. They took the sagging and leaking experiences of so many mothers and made anthems out of them. Even the “no more cooking and cleaning” thing was awesome. They rocked out. And I laughed. A lot.

And so did the women around us. Seriously. Women were howling, and stomping the floor, and standing, and cheering. Clearly, this show connected with the majority of the audience.

I also cried a little. No, I did. The song about “Every Other Weekend” in which the divorced mom sang about what it is like to be alone every other weekend. And how the kids come home spoiled by their fathers and she has to be the bad guy, and how she manages… well. I totally boo-hooed and said a little thankful prayer that I don’t have to experience weekends like those.

I don’t think this is a show for the majority of husbands. (Maybe some, but certainly not mine. His eye-rolling would have annoyed the hell out of me.) And, I don’t think this is a show for women who have no interest in parenting yet. I know one woman who saw it, but who isn’t anywhere near ready for children, and she said it “scared the crap out of her”. That said, bring your mother. Bring your mom friends. Bring your pregnant daughter. Bring the moms at work and the moms on your block and the teachers of your children. I suspect they will love it.

Also, if you’re going to get hung up the cliches and parenting generalizations, just check those at the door. Relax. Have fun. Let yourself laugh. Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t supposed to be heavy stuff or some wildly prophetic social commentary. Its fun, and very funny. And it’s obviously something many, many, MANY mothers just “get”.

Cheers to the Straz and the awesome actors who rock that show out night after night (I kind of want your life). You did a fantastic job. Thanks for reminding me to laugh at this mothering stuff and then leave me ready to get back home and hug my boys super tight. Laughing like I did that night made me take a step back, accept the good and the ugly of this motherhood thing, and simply appreciate it so much more.

Want to go see it now? Get $29 tickets to see “Motherhood, The Musical” at the Straz Center through August 28th. Use promo code TIX29. The offer ends August 12th, though!  Restrictions and charges apply.

Somehow it has been two years.

So I wait. For something to hit. And it doesn’t. Or, at least, it hasn’t yet. And maybe it finally just won’t.

Of course something hit last year. Something hit her house, actually. I had asked for a sign. I got one.

But this year, things feel quiet. Two years is a long time. Two years is nothing at all. It doesn’t hurt less, but I’m just very used to having her death right there besides me. This is now normal.

Sometimes, I swear she is standing behind me at work or in the hallway at home, just around the corner. Don’t laugh. I know I have an active imagination, she always said I did. But there is something in the corner of my eye, a sound. I turn, it’s nothing. Shrug. Who knows.

Sometimes, I can hear her voice so exactly in my head that she may as well be speaking right to me. I hear her and I laugh and I think, “Ok, that’s exactly what you would say about that.” I suppose I know her very well. I suppose you can think up any person’s response to an issue if you think hard enough about it. But I suppose it’s a way to keep her here.

Sometimes, she is in my dreams. Maybe 20 years younger than she was when she passed. She is very calm and confident and into some busy project or another. Very much the “mom in charge” that I remember when she was well and strong. Sometimes, in my dreams, I tell her I am so relieved she IS alive and all is well. What a bad dream that must have been. She looks at me like I’m being dramatic again. That OF COURSE she’s fine. She doesn’t offer comfort or affection but her steady “Oh Caroline” is reassuring. I’m relieved and calmed and not upset any longer. Sometimes, I dream that she’s here and she never left, there was never any death at all. And she’s still annoying me as much as she ever was.

Whether my imagination is hard at work filling in this impossible void left in my world, or whether there is something more to it, she isn’t really gone for me. And I am getting used to having her there in a very different way. It’s never enough, but is your mother ever there for you enough, really?

I love this picture of my mother. This is how she was before she passed. Hardly glam, always a bit rumpled, but also trying to trap you in a picture that she will never develop or ever look at again. Her way of saying, “I really like being around you but I don’t know how to say that so I am going to harass you until you all huddle together and, strain a smile and say ‘cheese’”.

Her affection was never traditional so why should I expect anything otherwise in her death.

She called me “Carolyn” more often than she called me “Caroline”. She blamed it on her learning disability. She also called me “Carolvin” — a combo of my brother’s name and mine. She also called me “Boopie” and “Caroley” and (this one was a real favorite of mine, as you can imagine) “Spaceshot”. Because I tuned her out a lot.

I tune her out. Maybe still. Or maybe not.

Just trying to piece together our connection as I did in life. And, this year, there seems to be some peace, some resignation, in that.

I hope you have peace, Mom. More than anything else, that’s what I hope for you.

There was a time when I was a mom home with babies, and all sorts of ideas and thoughts about the world were rolling around in my head. But I had no where to go with these thoughts. No one to share them with. No community for a thinking mom. Just diapers to change and baby vomit to wipe off the floor. And such is parenting. There would be time for thinking later.

Jump ahead to the year 2008. I was a very new blogger. I had just discovered (and started stalking) all sorts of mom bloggers and political bloggers and – gasp – political mom bloggers. One in particular rose to the top. Her name was Joanne, otherwise known online as Pundit Mom. And when she wrote, I just… got it.

That summer fate stepped in and determined my path as a blogger I very randomly won a contest through BlogHer to go to the BlogHer conference in San Francisco. It was my first overnight away from my children and I arrived there wide-eyed and ready to stalk myself some amazing bloggers. I listened intently to Lesbian Dad on a panel and pushed my way to the front to meet her. I fell off my seat laughing, tackled, and forced an introduction on Deb on the Rocks. I cried listening to and (via a couple glasses of wine) jumped in front of Moosh In Indy to tell her that she was so F-ing brave. And then, it happened. The last morning, at breakfast, Pundit Mom happened to sit down at my table. We introduced ourselves. She gave me a pin with her logo on it. Oh. My hero. That conference had officially been made.

Since then I have come to realize the power of the internet and the many super amazing smart women who live there. Pundit Mom and the Momocrats and various writers at BlogHer gave moms like me at home with their babies access to real politics happening in the moment. Before heading onto CNN to debate some topic or another, Joanne would tweet and ask what questions we had for the panel. The Momocrats would ask their readers what questions we had for Hillary Clinton before heading into a press conference. Moms, just like me with no way to be where they were, had access. And a voice.

And, since that morning over a bagel, my friendship with Joanne has grown. More conferences came. More conversations over meals. More shared ideas and ideals. More smart women, both online and off. She had a book she was writing, she said. I was thrilled for her. Could she use one of my blog posts? Oh my goodness, of course.

Honored is not even enough of a word to describe how I felt.

Joanne’s book has recently been published and in it she describes the extraordinarily influential political space women are carving out for themselves through social media, preconceived notions of women and mothering be damned. And she does it with the help of an incredible network of women she calls “Mothers of Intention”. Mothers, like me, who are not official political experts but actually, whoda thunk it, HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

This morning I opened up a PDF file from Joanne. It was the final draft of the book. My hard copy was in the mail. And there I was, amoungst these unbelievable women whom I have looked to as my conduit for change and voice and action for years. I am only one voice amongst so so many. But, once again, SHE MADE MY VOICE COUNT.

Do you see what this must mean to me? She changed my perception of motherhood. I, like a crazy woman, thought parenting meant my ideas and ability should be back-burnered. I thought you can’t parent AND think. She switched that all around and made me realize that, as a parent, I had a unique and important perspective. I had the same concerns as many mothers and we should pick them up and put them out there and get them heard, dammit. We are raising this country and that actually matters. She spelled it out quite clearly to me that mothers are kind of a big deal, even way over on Capitol Hill.

So. The book is in the mail. And I’ll be back here, of course, to freak out about it some more when I have resting here next to my laptop. Until then, check it out on Amazon. And, of course, you know… buy it. And maybe find your inner Mother of Intention. She’s in there. I swear she is.

Here we go again. Another Mother’s Day without my mother.

My thoughts about this day haven’t changed much since last year, really. So if you want to know how I feel, go here and skip the rest.

*shrug*

This stuff takes awhile. I know it does. But it’s funny how Mother’s Day is the one that gets me the most. Not Christmas. Not even her birthday. But this day. Tears are right there, hovering just below.

There is so much we never said. So so much she has missed since she passed. So much time and space and memories of just being annoyed with her a lot of the time – and regretting that. But also knowing she deserved it sometimes too. And then being frustrated with her for not expressing herself better and really knowing how to reach everyone she loved.

I miss her. And they miss her. And it’s just one damn big hole left behind on days like these.

I try to redirect my feelings, of course.

We should be celebrating every mother and all that they do. And I’m a mom. So. Yay. And this day is for my children to remember their mother, so I am here to hand out love and hugs and so many “thank yous” as needed for sure.

But Mother’s Day is still MY mother’s day. And without her around, well, let’s just get through this day I think…

My mother is a poem
I’ll never be able to write,
though everything I write
is a poem to my mother.
~Sharon Doubiago

Three closets in this house were crammed — hangers poking out, bits of dry-cleaning plastic, colors, pants legs, sleeves – utterly CRAMMED full of her clothes.

Silk camel colored blouses, peter pan collars, stripes. Lined wool plaid knee length skirts. Brown hand bags. Brown wide-heeled shoes. So many scarves.

Jingling her keys, pushing open the door, home from work with grocery bags, finding me in front of afternoon cartoons, still in my school uniform. Had I done the dishes. Had I done my homework. Could I bring those things on the stairs up to my room. Eyeroll. Fine.

Knit hats, far too large, practical, shapeless jackets. Mismatched gloves. Scarves my grandmother knitted decades before. Snow boots she and I shared.

Walks in Rock Creek Park with our dog. Gray tree trunks, branches reaching to the sky, hills, valleys, brown leaves carpeting the pathway. Our black lab panting at her side. Her confident commands, “Konak, sit. Heel!” We would run ahead.

Thai raw silk shifts, carefully tailored into the memory of my mother’s 25 year old shape. Turquoise, mustard yellow, lime green. Zips up the back. Cool, scratchy lining. Glittery gold shoes. Gloves. Musty, ancient, exquisite.

Clomping around, admiring myself in her bedroom mirror. My mother wistful, wondering when I would be old enough to wear them myself. Those would be mine someday.

Purple turtle necks and worn, colorful Cape Cod sweatshirts. Old light blue faded Levis and white, basic Nike sneakers.

Whale watches out of Provincetown, walking along the  pier with my grandparents, wind whipping, boats lolling, chatting, never rushing and relaxed. She was the young parent, I was the child.

All of it has been crammed into black plastic bags. All of it. Well, except for a few items we declared “archival” – like the raw silk shifts and her wedding outfit.

(And the black, suede, “Farrah Faucet” style pantsuit that I could barely squish myself into. The very same pantsuit that, when dragged downstairs on its hangar still, my Dad admitted how “hot” my mom was when she wore it. Ew. Ok, so sure that’s kind of sweet but still… ew.)

But the rest is stuffed away, ready to go. And be gone.

She was more than her things. I know this. But I have had to push back that sense that I am removing my mother out of this house. I have had to remain rational while an emotional voice pleads,”Yes, but these aren’t yours, they are hers and they belong in her house.”

No. It’s been a year and a half. My father needs the space. Life is moving forward. Her clothes are just clothes. Whatever we have left of her is still here. Crammed closets won’t make her come back.

So. It’s time.

Her office is next. Oh and her purse which strangely enough still hasn’t been touched after all this time. A new pack of cigarettes is still in there, receipts from the days before she passed, this and that and I’m not sure what else because it’s a bit much to look too closely at.

Still, that’s next too. Because it’s time.

 But while I sort and sift and laugh and remember and train an objective eye over all of it, I’m wearing something of hers. I found some of her slippers. Ugly purple, with little bows and faux wool lining… sure. But they are comfort and hers and for that small, ever-present feeling - I am grateful.

Elizabeth Edwards died today.

And I’ve been caught off guard by how deeply her death has moved me.

Maybe it’s because she was a mother. And after being diagnosed with breast cancer so many years ago, she had to face the knowledge that she could be leaving her children motherless. Which, of course, is every mother’s nightmare. She must have lain awake nights wondering if anyone would know her children the same way, understand them, help them, and love them quite as much.

Maybe it’s because my heart is breaking for her children. I don’t care how “prepared” they were for this, they are without their mother now, days before the holidays. They will be affected by her death forever. They will be rocked to their core. Their loss is immeasurable.

But I also think it is because the world lost a really good one. A woman who genuinely seemed to affect those around her in a positive, constructive, selfless way. She was scary smart and politically savvy. She stood as an example, spoke from her heart and, through all of her trials, remained strong, honest and resilient.

She should not have been so graceful. Not when she lost her son. Not when the cancer returned. Not when her husband left her side.

Still. She would regroup and stand back up again.

Over her 61 years, she took what was handed to her and she DID something. Her voice was important. Her example changed lives. Her work made a difference. Her mind reworked policy but her heart made people listen and put it all into motion.

She was a mother who affected real change in this country.

She was the kind of woman I could only hope to be.

My heart is heavy this evening. Peace, healing and love to those mourning her life tonight and in the years ahead.

Let me give you a little advice. When you are missing your dead mother, don’t let Cold Play pop onto your Itunes shuffle. In particular, a little song called Warning Sign. Not when you are feeling the steady pull of loss for a woman who died without warning the day before you were going to see her.

Come on in.

I’ve gotta tell you what a state I’m in.

I’ve gotta tell you in my loudest tones.

That I started looking for a warning sign.

There were warning signs we all should have probably seen. She wasn’t well. She was aging so quickly. She was slow and tired and didn’t like to be left alone. I’m not sure we could have prevented her death but I think we all like to play with the idea that maybe we could have put it off awhile longer. Just long enough to have her come along for a few more years, let her watch her grandchildren become who they are and meet the new one on the way (not mine, my brother’s). She should still be part of the fray and fun. She should have been allowed a few more chances to connect with her family, no matter how impossibly awkward or tentative her attempts were. She never deserved to be left behind this way.

I don’t blame Cold Play for this pull today. You see, I dreamt about her again last night. And it wasn’t one of those comforting kind of dreams where she’s fine and all is well and I hand her back her wedding ring and breath a sigh of relief because she is really truly OK after all. It wasn’t one of those dreams.

I dreamt she was in her bed. And only vaguely conscious that I was standing there next to her. And she was being pulled into her bed, weighed down and spread out. She seemed immobilized, hardly able to look over at me. Covers almost drowning her, her chin unnaturally bent to her chest.

I know what this is. It is my mind holding onto the memory of seeing her in her casket.

And so I have this bitter, copper, cold taste in my mouth today. As if I am tasting the embalming fluid on her lips.

I know. But I can’t help it. It’s there. Stuck and dark. Yes, even 15 months later almost to the day. Still. There. Nothing warm or good comes when I remember like this. Its cold, mean and unyielding.

Yeah, the truth is, that I miss you so.

And I’m tired, I should not have let you go.

While I write this, I jump up and wipe little boy noses. And prepare dinner. And laugh at their little finger puppet show. Nick Jr’s Moose A. Moose tells me that days are the sunniest, and jokes are the funniest… It’s really fine. This is just another day. And the loss is nothing new. Not at all. It’s always there. People in unexpected accidents learn to live without limbs and move along with their lives. You learn to make it part of normal.

But sometimes, I need to just say it out loud. That I miss her. Even if I don’t always feel I have that right because we weren’t some sunny perfect mother-daughter pair, arm in arm, chatting about clearance sales and the kids’ preschool projects every day. Hardly.

A warning sign.

It came back to haunt me and I realized.

That you were an island, and I passed you by.

We didn’t know each other all that well. At times it was as if we spoke two entirely foreign languages to one another. I think we both thought it was impossible to rationalize with the other, we both thought the other was the crazy one.

But we knew each other perfectly because we were, are each other. I am in her body now, living my life with her hands, and her pointy nose and forehead with matching hairline. And I am pulling the same shit over on people just like she did. In fact, I have never felt more alike or connected to my mother as I have since she died.

And I have no idea if that is a very good… or very bad thing.

So, I crawl back into your open arms

Yes, I crawl back into your open arms.

My four year old left for his first full day of Pre-K today. And my seven year old is already on day three of second grade.

But today is my first day, at home, without my children. No kids, people. No kids until 2:30 in the afternoon!

What to do with myself.

*Silence*

It’s so quiet. It felt great at first. And then, pretty damn lonely too. No noise? …Does not compute.

I can hear the cat snoring on my bed in the other room.

It’s so very quiet.

But there is a strange pang within that I am trying to come to grips with.

No, it’s not a weepy, “oh I miss my boys” pang. It should be, right? I know. So throw in a side of guilt. I SHOULD miss them. And of course I do. But I’m ok with this moment of their new found independence. How am I so calm? Well, my wonderful kids did a fine job over these last few days of summer of making SURE I wouldn’t miss them too much. They did what they could to get under my skin just enough so that I would simply smile and wave, rather than weep and sob, as my husband’s car pulled out of the drive way. They’re thoughtful kids like that. And I love them so.

(And they were so damn ready for school. With beaming grins they practically whooped and hollered as they climbed into the car. How can I not feel happy and at peace about that?)

No there is another strange non-weepy pang within that I am trying to tease apart and figure out.

I think it does partly have to do with guilt. But really it’s this feeling that I need to be doing something productive with myself.

I have all of this time here. And it’s quiet enough to actually think. And nothing is getting any messier. I have the day at my finger tips. Most sane women would throw the laundry in the air, grab that box of bon-bons and dive into a whole round of soaps, dammit. After seven years of wiping asses and making sandwiches and ducking plastic toys – a little relax time is well deserved, right?

*wringing my hands*

I can’t quite get there.

You see for so long I have dropped any and all expectations of myself and my productivity to an all time low. If I can get myself showered and clothed well then YAY for me. Quiet time in the bathroom? It’s a lot to ask but weeee, its a nice bonus when it happens!

But now I can spend as much quiet time in or out of the bathroom as I’d like. At least until 2:30pm. Every other day.

But you see, I feel obligated to get my ass in gear. To DO something CONSTRUCTIVE already. Maybe something that earns money? Posts? Follow ups? Maybe start being more aggressive about ways I can pimp myself for some fabulous, oh so sought after writing cash?

*drumming fingers*

I’m still figuring that all out.

Or maybe actually get this place cleaned up for once? Laundry in its place. Dishes done BEFORE dinner. Oh, plan and MAKE dinner AHEAD of time! Clean out my closet. Change that damned kitty litter.

Or maybe I can finally be that mom who makes muffins and cookies and has them ready when they get home! And maybe I can be that mom who is calm and loving because I’ve HAD my “ME” time for the day. I can feel refreshed and ready to *bing* (cue cheery, June Cleaver smile) be that wonderful mom I swore I could be before I got knocked up.

What to do.

I can’t just do nothing anymore. I can’t just wallow in time to myself. My husband works his butt off all day, everyday (weekends too, I swear) all for us. SITTING AROUND just doesn’t seem… right.

But it’s weird too, you know? Just weird. Weird for me to prioritize my schedule the way I want to without any distractions from 8:00am – 2:30pm three times a week.

(That may not seem like that much time but, my friends, it’s a lifetime to me… a lifetime I tell you!)

So what have I done today so far? I have been productive but its been all about catch up and follow up and just doing things I should have had done days or weeks ago.

I didn’t even do the bills.

I didn’t make those muffins either.

And it’s 1:30pm.

Maybe I can squeeze those muffins in right now.

This new time to myself world is a strange, odd, unfamiliar transition for me. But I had better get used to it. Whether I make myself super useful or put myself first in whatever way – my kids are going to be spending more and more time away from me.

(Oh that weepy stuff WILL catch up with me, don’t you worry about that.)

Next year they will be in school all day, every day. Then it’s middle school and sleep overs. And then high school and driving. And then college.

My eldest is ONLY ten years away from COLLEGE.

Time to get my ass in gear and figure out what the hell to do with my time. Time to finally establish myself as a useful human being, capable and ready to make my mark on this universe in so many other ways than parenting.

Because I am more than a mommy. I am.

*soft kitty snoring*

*silence*

It’s time to go make some muffins.

The girl inside the ticket booth could not have been older than 15. A swath of bottle dyed black hair was swept over eyes, she had braces and a few piercings circling her lips. How did those piercings avoid clashing into her braces? Brain dead from my day, I considered her mouth while the kids bashed my legs and pulled at my arms.

“Uh, you better get here like SO early.” She peered out at me from behind the swath.

“Yeah good call. I was planning on it. How early do you think?”

“Uh, like an hour?” She leaned forward.  “Like, at least? I mean, we did the midnight showing here last night? And like every theater? Was sold out. Seriously.” Her eyes were wide now. I was impressed.

“Wow. Ok, I’ll make sure to get here early. Thanks.”

She smiled widely and her braces twinkled. She and I had connected. She was more than half my age and yet she made eye contact and offered her beautiful smile because she was into what I was into at that very moment. Yeah you’ve probably guessed it (*insert reader eyeroll here*). I’m talking about Twilight.

I’ve written about this before. I’ve justified my fascination in about ten different ways. I felt that I needed to get on my soapbox and spout off why I’ve lost myself in this whole saga. And I got on that soapbox because, well, I am a little embarrassed about liking it. I still am.

And now the third movie has come out and I have collected a small crew of women to head out and see it on Saturday.

Acting, special effects and plot aside – I ask only one thing of it. One thing. And that is to escape for two hours. Make me pretend I am not where I am and somewhere very very different instead. Transport and transform me. For two hours. That’s all I ask.

Because have you seen the news recently? Here are some headlines from today alone.

BP spill sets a somber record as Gulf’s biggest.

Hurricane could suspend oil capping for weeks.

35 die in bomb blasts at Pakistan shrine.

Or the horrifying shooting deaths of two Tampa police officers, one a father of four, one husband to a 9 months pregnant wife.

And then there’s the usual stuff. You know, scraping it together to pay the mortgage on a house worth half of that. Parenting boys alone while your husband travels. Never getting anything done – or if done, done well. Ear infections preventing any pool time for two weeks. Forgetting to schedule that mammogram. Frustration over childcare. Screaming tantrums in the grocery line. Jello dropped on the carpet. Missing your mom. A lot.

Life is what it is. Sometimes it’s tough. Sometimes it’s not so bad. Everyone has their stuff. But I am simply looking to the end of this week as a way to check out for two hours into a kind of cheesy, fairly predictable but highly addictive little storyline which takes me out of blistering hot Florida and drops me in a small rainy logging town in the corner of our country.

Is that so bad?

With all the horribleness going on in the world alongside the general stressy crap that goes on in our day to day lives, being this invested in a campy, over commercialised tale about vampires and werewolves fighting over the same girl is hardly anything to get your panties in a bunch about.

Jacob and Edward aside, I’m Team “Mommy go out and get a life”.

I can’t wait.