3 posts tagged “mother”

I've been worried about the fact that everyone else has this cute little photograph of themselves beside their blog, and I have the webpage-issued silhouette with a question mark in it. Don't ask me why I worry about that, like I don't have other, more important, things to worry about. That's why I take Lexapro, people.

Anyway, it worries me because I don't have a digital camara that I know how to operate. I certainly don't have a clue how to go about uploading a picture (even if I had one) to replace the face with the question mark that reminds me of the Batman character called The Riddler.

Riddle me this, riddle me that...

And I have finally come to the conclusion that maybe that silhouette with the question mark says more about me than a photograph would. I'm almost 31 years old. I have three kids and a husband, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Worse than that, I don't even know who I am anymore. I can't remember any of the dreams I had when I was a teenager. I know I love animals, but lately I find myself tired of the responsibility of taking care of them. I know I've always wanted a college degree (or two or three), but I have no idea what they should be for and frankly I'm scared to death that I don't have the organizational skills and work ethic to achieve them anymore. When I accidentally find myself with some free time, I don't pursue things I'm interested in - I sleep. Granted, sleep is a commodity almost as rare as free time, but still....

When did I quit being me? Once a year, all my girlfriends and I get together at someone's house and spend a weekend catching up, talking about husbands and kids and jobs and bills and medical ailments. Sometimes we swap recipes because we all get tired of cooking the same ol' same ol'. Sometimes we drink too much, often we eat too much, and we don't sleep near enough. The slumber party is usually held in July, and I start getting emails in February telling me that the girls are already looking forward to it. For that brief weekend, I feel like me. The girl who was always ready for a road trip, loved to dance, laughed at everything, ate whatever she wanted and didn't worry about weight, and thought the world was hers on a platter. Where does she go the rest of the year?

Did she drown in dirty diapers? Did she die from the bacteria growing on the dishes piled in the kitchen sink? Did the laundry monster eat her whole? Or did she just grow up?

If this is what being a grown up is, I think I'll pass, thank you.

I'm going to find me, and I'm going to ask her what she really wants out of life. And I'm not going to tell her that it's not possible.

Anyone have any ideas where to look?

My mother swears that before a woman leaves the hospital after having a baby, she should be handed a lifetime prescription for anti-depressants.

I think Mother's on to something. But I think the hospital should take it one step further, and make sure that the new mother has a list of all her friends' phone numbers and email addresses with her in her diaper bag at all times. And a medic-alert ID bracelet that says: "In case of meltdown, contact one of the women on the emergency sheet in the diaper bag, she'll know what to say."

Who else is going to listen to you when you describe the baby's poop because you're worried that it's too loose, too firm, too yellow, too tarry, too often, or too irregular? After you've had a fight with your husband, who else is going to tell you that he's an ass and it's all his fault, then tell you a story about when her husband has done the exact same thing? Who else is going to tell you that you're being an ass and you've got to stop, then tell you a story about when she's done the exact same thing? It makes me feel better to know that I'm not alone, to know that husbands and wives across the nation are having the same types of arguments that my husband and I are having. To know that other mothers are at their wits' end, too. Somewhere, there's solace in the fact that my problems aren't unique, that the people whom I think of as "having it together" sometimes don't have it together. Most of the time, the advice my friends give me is wonderful and helpful. But what is really helpful to me is that they act as my sounding board, they let me hear the things out loud that are rattling around in my head. I think out loud, I guess you could say. I can't really get a handle on a problem or something that's bothering me until I've heard it out loud. And they never, ever throw back at me later something I've said to them while I was thinking out loud. Women need to talk - it's a fact. Oprah said so. I probably need to talk more than the average woman, I seem to talk a lot.

Sometimes, I think I may lean on my friends too much, like I don't pull my own weight in my friendships. Sometimes, when I'm feeling really down, I wonder if my friends don't get tired of hearing my problems. But I always try to reciprocate whenever the opportunity arises. I don't have any sisters, and I don't have the kind of relationship with my mother that some girls have - the "tell mother everything" kind - because Mom kind of lives in her own little world. And my husband, well, let's just say that he's not the most empathetic man in the world (if there is such a thing). But my girlfriends, they take up the slack. They're my family. And I love them.

So, in order of our meetings, thanks Cree.

And Beth Ann.

And Chris.

And Ken (Mouse).

And Brit.

And Mel.

And Tonya.

And Spouse.

And Tataum.

And Julia.

And Erika.

You guys rock.

Okay, I may not be an actual alcoholic yet, but I sense that the day is not too far in the future...for right now, chocolate is a viable and preferred alternative to alcohol. Oh, and Lexapro. And caffeine. And carbohydrates!

Sooo, I guess I should introduce myself.

I'm a wife, a mom, and a zookeeper ~ alright, so I'm really a stay-at-home mom. And I have come to the conclusion that children, not alcohol, kill brain cells. Loss of intelligence seems to be directly porportional to the number of births a mother has endured. I saw a coffee mug the other day that said, "Memory loss is contagious, I got it from my kids!" But I digress...

My name is Yvette, I have a husband of 8 1/2 years (and I swear I haven't made even one teensy, tiny attempt on his life in all that time) named Walker, who I still love and who still makes me laugh. And please, the "Walker, Texas Ranger" jokes are not original. We have three beautiful, healthy children with a total age span between the oldest and youngest of 34 months. There are 10 1/2 months between my son, K, and my daughter, D; there are 23 months between my daughter and my youngest son, C. Before you ask, yes, we know what causes it and we have a license to do it...yes, we did wait the 6 week post-partum moratorium on sex...and yes, we did finally get a TV for the bedroom. Oh, and yes, they do keep me terribly busy. They keep me running. For my life.

The children have managed to accumulate a small number of additional responsibilities for their tireless mother. We have an English Spaniel named Angel, a Siamese cat named Bella, and a white-faced cockatiel named Sam. And though Bella was supposed to have already been spayed when we got her from the Humane Society last year, we now have a six week old kitten named Ellie. We also have a time-share Jack Russell Terrier that spends part of the year in Alabama with my mother and part of the year here with us. The kids are currently begging for a chinchilla, some fish, another bird, and a pet snake, but I have to draw the line somewhere. We already have entirely too many links of the food chain represented in one household.

I have a slew of fantastic, patient friends that get me through my days. One of those friends, who shall remain nameless, has been encouraging me to write my own blog as a means to "vent". (Thanks, Amy! ;^) ) Then, my friend Mel finally roped me into it with an invitation and promise of getting to design my own page - finally, something I actually have control over! Because, of course, at home I have about as much control as a shepherd trying to herd cats.

Anyway, this is my blog. It probably won't be very funny, and it probably won't be very original, and it probably won't be very good, but it doesn't matter. Because when I feel like poking my fingers in my ears and yelling, "Bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bahbahbah..." I will have a place to do just that.