After reading Mim’s lovely post at lovefrommim.com on this topic a few moons back, I was full of laughs and thought I’d joins in offering up my top 5 mummy confessions.
Here we go, all:
1. I’m part Chihuahua. (Read: every time I get excited, I pee a little.)
When I was in my last trimester, Husband and I were on our way home and made a quick stop at the grocer. I’d had to use to loo for most of our journey, but I kept thinking we were almost home. Once in the grocer, I was reminded why I never go to local stores with Husband. He visits with every individual who shares his air space. I’ve joked on my blog before about how he must carry round an imaginary lawn-chair that he can unfold when his bones get groggy from chatting up everyone he meets. This time was no different. I practiced my “pee-pee dance” alongside him, cursing his name under my breath. When we made it home, I told him he didn’t need to lawn-chair everyone we saw when I needed to use the loo so badly. Husband started to reenact the grocery scene of me dancing and him sitting in his make-believe lawn-chair. I began to laugh which only egged his little traveling show on. On and on he went, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Eventually, I was peeing all over the kitchen floor, filling my knee high boots, laughing all the while. Husband never broke out of character. And he even helped me clean up the floors. (I’m happy to report that I haven’t filled my boots again, but ever since my babe was born, I tend to pee–just a little–amidst jazzercising and jumping jacks.)
2. I’d love to throw my dishes into the garage.
This may sound baffling, as it baffled me the first time I heard it. This is a two-part confession because it originally slipped from my grandmother’s mouth one afternoon when my laundry pile was weeding its way up my basement stairs, and I was sporting some undetermined toddler foodie bits upon my brow. She looked at me, put her petite and perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder, and confided in me that when she was my age, she kept a laundry basket in her attached garage for the sole purpose of hiding dirty dishes when visitors came over unannounced. She too did not have a dishwasher to hide a mess of leftover kitchen wars. I stood unblinking at her confession, for my grandmother has always been so pressed and put perfectly together. To know that she too had tricks and found life daunting at times with all of its beautiful messes lifted me right out of the mundane. I still laugh when picturing her throwing dishes out of the house, into the attached garage as company nears the front door.
3. My tot is not the reason my hair resembles a crow’s nest.
Because I’ll never wed Prince Harry, I’ve come to terms that my hair is and will always be my only crown. Never wishing to tarnish my crown, I rarely apply heat or crazy products. As a result, my mane is usually unwashed, unkempt, and unreliable. Some days I’ll wake to symmetrical waves. More often, I’ll wake to half-Tina Turner, half-frizzy feline. And thus, I tie a bow on it and trot outside to face the fembot mommas and their bouffants for days. If ever someone comments on my crazed crown, I shrug it off with a, “Oh, it’s so impossible to brush my hair with this tyrant of a toddler.” In actuality, I rather soak up sun encased in one of our windows or read a page of The Four Agreements I’ve been desperately trying to finish.
4. If I’ve hit a writing wall or deadline, the telly is on.
This, for me, is the most embarrassing confession of all. Partly because I believe motherhood to be the most significant “job” I have ever had. Partly because I loathe the telly, and always thought I would be one of those carefree mommas that spend more time braless, outside, chasing her wee ones down the lanes of life while we laugh and sing Judy Garland renditions. *Record Scratch.* I’m abruptly reminded that I can’t sing, that I wear a bra 58% of the time, and that I have to write to make money to then make bread to feed those wee ones that I wish to dance so free with. In my defense, I forever try other tactics to get my sweet tot to stay still for two seconds so that I may finish up a blog post. Alas, he is my busy monster bear, and the only thing that keeps his attention for more than a minute is planes, trains, and cars on the telly. Crayons be damned. Puzzles be puny. With hope, we will both look back on these little moments and realize that I was only trying to better us by bettering my writing, blog, and bill-fold.
5. I tuck my shirts into my skivvies before putting on my pants or skirt.
Luckily, I’m already wed, and Husband has watched me undress and redress, with blouses sticking out all sides of my granny pantaloons. Until I fill my wardrober with those fancy little onesies, I’ll ever remain tucking my tops into my drawers. It offers the most incredible sense of security and a “Let’s do this!” attitude. Especially for nights on the town or business meetings. Seriously, who’s going to mess with a gal confident enough to tuck her shirts into her panties, eh? Riddle me that.
What would you be willing to confess across the intra-netting waves?