Home | MothersClick – Connecting. Learning. Sharing.

Subscribe to Agoo MOM Blog by e-mail

June 27th, 2008
Before I had kids, I often sat with my arms-crossed and face-scowled when kids, in any environment, gleefully ran around me, shouting at the top of their lungs. I had this permanent look of non-amusement at any event that was all about kids. I would refuse to sit beside little ones on a plane; I even remember asking a booking agent one time if they actually had a child-free flight. If a hostess at a restaurant seated me next to a family of kids, I asked to be moved. Whenever my friends talked about their kids, I got bored–and heaven forbid anyone put their gurbbling, slurbbing infant on the phone and expected me to engage in a conversation. I sort of didn’t really like kids, I thought.

I swore I would never let my living room look like a toy store after an earthquake. No diapers would get changed on my couch, no snot rags would lay around, no clutter of bottles, wipes, food jars, creams and baby potions would invade my elegant space. I was sure that there was no reason why a house needed to look like the toy box had thrown up. I knew that if I had kids, I would never let my home get that way.

I used to cringe at the smell of kids, the dirt and the icky, gooky hands that all too often reached for my designer jewellery and expensive outfits. I liked my heels, my pashminas, my acrylic nails.
None of that went with kids.

All of the mothers I had observed were make-upless, frumpy, had soothers between their teeth and sweat on their brows. I thought that there was no reason that motherhood had to look like that. Just because you have kids, it doesn’t mean you can’t look nice, fix your hair and retire that shirt you’ve been wearing since pregnancy.

No, I would never let myself go like that, I said. I would never become so frazzled and exhausted just because a baby arrived.

When it came to friends or having a social calendar, I definitely would not be perpetually late, constantly cancelling, too tired to answer the phone and so distracted I forgot birthdays and special occasions. I assured myself that kids would not make me forget or lie, pretend or invent a barrage of excuses. Nor would they make cry at commercials, talk about the colour of one’s poop, strap on a sling or take ten thousand pictures of a newly sprouting tooth.

I was determined to stay solid, assured, on time and up-front. And I had convinced myself that the people I knew that had kids were either doing it wrong or just not trying hard enough. I mean, how hard could it be?

Fast forward 4 years and that self-assured woman with too many pairs of boots and a spa membership, that looked like a frequent flyer rewards program, sits here frazzled, exhausted and with a few shoelaces hanging from her mouth. All those things that I NEVER thought would happen to me… well I think they call it reality, or actuality, or wearing egg on your face.

The dishes from the pasta supper and out-of-the-jar sauce sit idly about in my kitchen. My son’s Hot Wheels cars lay precariously around the floor where painfully stepping on them has become an acceptable routine. Throw pillows from the couch have become just that, thrown everywhere, and my daughter’s “Jumparoo, Leap frog activity table, and Winnie the Pooh rocker ” invade the only open space in the living room that isn’t cluttered with race cars or sticker books. Mail sits unopened, laundry spills over the basket. I’ve even had to hunt down a few rotting smells here and there of diapers or food left behind in a hurry.

The shirt I have on has a spit up stain on the shoulder and this is the third day in a row that I am wearing my yoga pants. The mirror shows that, yet again, I forgot to put on make-up, and I can’t really tell if I combed my hair today or not.When I checked my messages, I had 11 phone calls and 27 e-mails. Two of my messages were five days old and one e-mail was inquiring why I had missed the annual BBQ at a friend’s house. I took some time to come up with a good excuse (“I forgot ” just wouldn’t cut it this time). Of course that was all after I called my Mom so she could talk to her gurgling, slurbbing baby grand daughter, and I could inquire if giving her beets was the reason her poop was purple.

What I had criticized, I had become. What I had judged, I was now guilty of. I was positive I was doing my best; it just wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

So I picked up the phone and called my sister and a few friends that had kids back before I had mine. I expressed my embarrassment and asked them to excuse me for my ignorance. I had no idea how hard it was and how easily your life unravels, no longer your own. I had joined the club that no one truly understands until they are in it, and I asked for their forgiveness now that I had seen the light.

Three and a half years into motherhood I am open about my forgetfulness, my tiredness and even my messy living room. I have accepted the toys, the noise and the sticky gooey stuff I find in the strangest places. My heart swells when I hear my children’s laughter, smell their baby skin, see their goofy faces and even join them in a silly squeal. It is kind of fun being free of my judgements and embracing life through the effervescence of my kids.

When I think back to the times when I was distant towards children, I see what I was missing: their openness and uninhibitedness, their fun and ability to focus on not the little things, but the big things of love, laughter and life. Having children has enhanced my creative side, embellished my world and awaken my soul. I’ll take that any day over a silly pashmina or a pair of Pradas.

Although I look back fondly at the woman I once was, I like the less stuffy and more accepting one I am now. Who cares if I go outside with a little finger paint on my jacket or a Tarzan sticker on my forehead? My house will probably never be perfectly coiffed again, and I am sure I will forever crave that extra few minutes of sleep. My feet prefer flats over heels and my body eternally thanks the inventor of Lycra and Spandex. It is not glamorous or grand, just different and, in its own way, fantastic and great. That’s the sugar and spice of motherhood, and I love it.
I am sure you have your own sugar and spice opinions/stories, and I’d love to hear your feedback!

Standing on my soapbox,

JB

TO read more Agoo blogs go to: agooblog.com