Mama Moxie

On most days, my life events are cataloged as happening before or after having children.  Once I earned my procreation stripes, much like all big events, things changed:  little, creepy fingers appear under the door when I urinate, orange rinds and stale goldfish crackers line my purse and upon removing clothes from the dryer, I am gifted a pile of used band aids.  Three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, I spend my energy building up and growing the hearts and minds of my offspring.  Today, folks, I am choosing to think about my mothering mojo:

1.      I am a mama-explorer.  Move over Lewis, Clark and Dora.  I used to spend my time looking for the perfect red shoes.  Hours were given to discovering the perfect inclined path to give my quads a worthwhile burn.  Now, 53% of my energy is spent looking for my children.  When in public, there is the rare occasion they are exactly where one would expect.  On most days, restaurant jaunts involve one of them under the table grabbing toes for entertainment.  I assume this may grow into some form of a fetish.  To you, strange child, I will slightly judge you and whole-heartedly support your tootsie needs.  Even the new one is hard to find (Evidence A).  I know he can’t be the one at the top.  That child is much too clean to belong to our grimy clan.  

So, even as the owner of bifocals and likely undiagnosed hearing loss, I consider myself a badass seeker of small children.  Record shows I have not lost one yet (for more than 27 minutes).

2.     I am an anomaly.  I have discovered that I am able to defy the laws of science.  I am a freakin’ specimen of scientific art.   I no longer sit at a table to complete a meal.  Eating junctures entail me getting up approximately 13 times to retrieve various items.  Even without the consumption of a whole meal, my waistline magically continues to expand.  Amazing, right?  It’s like math doesn’t work on me.  Figure this out, Einstein. 

3.     I laugh in the face terror.  As a mother, I can (kind of) handle all versions of terrifying moments.  Honestly, I loathed scary movies.  As a tot, I saw Carrie’s hands come out of the soft earth to grab Sue’s legs, and I was never the same.  No longer the watcher of chilling cinema, I now tap into my fear with my own children.  A few weeks ago, Story’s cry woke me up from a brief slumbering jaunt.  Slightly nauseated from the lack of sleep, I stumbled towards the bassinet only to be confronted by Evidence B.   

It took me a few seconds to realize that my real child was residing in the living room, and the demon baby in the crib was a product of one of my children’s emulations of parenting.  Truth be told, sleeping can be horrific as a mother.  On most nights, a small child is guaranteed to come into our chambers.  Bennet usually enters moaning and with hair covering a majority of his face.  He moves slowly, and that adds to the horror of it all.  Ruby, on the other hand, enters like a ninja.  She will stand at the door or in front of your face with a large, disturbing grin.  The eyes, in the daytime, are lovely and hold so much joy.

Once the sun sets, this shit gets scary.

4.  I dress for success.  Gone are the days of trying to squeeze into my pre-baby jeans one week after expelling a human.  Folks, I have figured out how to have the perfect body after having a baby. Listen closely. First, I cinch my vanity with a belt of reality.  I just did the most amazing thing by growing a human, and real postpartums include soft bellies, sore lady parts, tired eyes and happy hearts.  Next, I accessorize with comfort and ease.  Take note of my standard wardrobe:

Monday:  Clean nursing tank and holey maternity yoga pants

Tuesday: Same (slightly stained) nursing tank covered up with holey t-shirt, same holey maternity yoga pants

Wednesday:  Same (aromatic) nursing tank complemented with husband's hooded sweatshirt, same yoga pants with unidentified stains, heating pad accessory to unclog milk duct

Third, I coordinate my daily existence with a bold sense of humor.  Case in point:  I finally put on some jeans.  They felt funny, and I chalked it up to my motherly body.  After lunch and four hours of wear, I realized the pockets of my pants graced my new hips.  Backwards, comfy and bigger, front pockets--all the makings of pants for a 90's music video.  This stuff is just too legit to quit.  

Last, I relish in my post-baby body badges.  The line down my stomach accentuates the vessel that carried my little bug.  Sore and tender mammary glands turn this middle-aged woman into a superhero who makes human food.  The skin tags on my neck kindly remind me of the hormones and magic that took place within my 5'1" frame to nourish my son.  

Really, this third go around, I finally understand.  Magazines and society tells us that we should prioritize erasing/eradicating/eliminating everything that contributed to that sweet baby being cradled in our arms.  I'm okay with moms eating healthy and feeling good about themselves.  I am not okay with women feeling ashamed about their warrior body.  We have done something miraculous, and we should honor our miracles.

So, there you have it.  This is what 6.1 years of mama experience gets you.  It may not be the prettiest or useful of information, but it's all mine.  And, I am okay with all of it.  On days when this mothering thing gets hard (which is all days that end in a "y"), I'll keep all this in mind and heart.  And, if that doesn't work, I still have my fun crew to create some new (and likely awkward) adventures.