A gift for those days when you can't stand it anymore, whatever "it" happens to be (the rapidity of global warming, another Paris Hilton headline, another week without a manicure, that George Bush guy, another Akon song, another toddler tantrum, ...and the list goes on).
I suggest saying it loud...no, louder!...until it feels good.
My pleasure.
Don't call it a comeback...they've been here for years. The original Jordan circa 1985. And they're flyer than ever in toddler size 7.
Whether they make you say “awww” or “ewww,” there’s no denying it, kids are totally “in” these days. Like a coveted, expensive accessory, each is exclusively designed and there’s a waitlist. It really is a miracle that one shows up every 7 seconds in our country. Which means that if you don’t already have one, chances are, someday you will.
Just think about it: Kids happen. In fact, millions of dollars have been invested on the unborn child—children whose moms are gutsier this time around, who work hard and play harder. Moms who you better not call a MILF unless you’re sexy enough to let her show and prove, who are fearless enough to wear weaponry—depicted on a sick graphic tee, that is—and moms who don’t always behave like… well, moms. You know, the kids of the future. Yours.
It matters not how it happens. There’s adoption, insemination, and still the old fashioned way. Question is, if it happens, what happens to you? Yes, you! Do you swap your good-booty jeans for butt-front mom jeans so that your ability to multitask suddenly becomes your best attribute? Are you taken unawares by a strange interest in all things baked, sterilized and domestic? Does the brain once only concerned with retaining your European shoe-size conversion suddenly and brilliantly translate everyone’s age from years to months at a glance?
Unless you were Mary Poppins in denim from the start, trying to fit the mommy mold just to qualify is as depressing as any other dogged quest for perfection. Although I can understand putting on the façade every now and then just to get through mind-numbing conversations about the pros and cons of pacifiers or preschool interviews. In actuality, it might just take an out of body experience to convince yourself that it’s really happening—that someone in the world hears the word mom and instantly thinks of you.
Two years and nine months ago, my very own journey to mommyhood began. And I found myself treading new territory in more ways than one. Getting used to not having a period was simple. However, turning into mommy was a daunting transformation to have to make. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Brooklyn girl. Strollers and poop don’t scare me—I walk city streets and take the subway, sometimes in two-inch heels. But more to the point, I like staying out late, sleeping ‘til noon, and having access to what I want, when I want it. And I really like graffiti, limited edition sneakers and all-over uzi prints on fitted tees, for goodness sakes! I knew I couldn’t cut it as a typical mom, mostly because I didn’t sing lullabies, cook square meals or have any friends with kids—ever. And expanding my wardrobe to include prim maternity clothes or talking about shedding the baby weight was a non-negotiable no-no.
But a cool thing happened when I became a mom; the image I had of what a mom is changed. And I realized that trying to squeeze myself into the cookie cutter made me into someone I simply can’t be. So I set out to define mommyhood for myself and kept my good booty jeans, no-kid-having friends, and machine gun riddled accessories. I kept my favorite hip-hop CDs in the stereo on heavy rotation and took my child everywhere I went. I understand that my biggest responsibility to myself is to be my truest and best self for me, and my son.
Now my two-year-old requests Pharrell Williams songs cranked up loud so we can both jam out. And I never spazz out over the washable marker scribbles found on everything in sight. Of course, I also accept that I’m probably grooming a future sneaker head, graffiti artist, DJ kid. {Watch out NYC}! But as long as baby boy get a square meal and is asleep before I am, I’m good.
Sure, some things only happen to the best of us. However, most of life’s poo-poo seems to hit us all.
When we are little ladies and gentlemen in training, before we have acquired the social graces that make life easier to maneuver, and until we can give the school of hard knocks the finger, we certainly take a lot of …ahem, poo.
And for the preschool, potty training set, mommies all around the world can tell passionate stories of their little angel getting picked at, pestered, …ok; let’s just say ‘punked’ on the playground.
I recently witnessed Hayes’s first such encounter and I can say he handled it like a mature 2 year old. I, on the other hand, turned into someone I hardly recognized.
That day, I took a seat on a nearby bench to watch Hayes climb the jungle gym. He made his way quickly up the stairs, around the bends and was headed straight for the bridge that would take him to the big tunnel where he likes to scream and giggle infectiously at either real or imaginary people chasers, whoever happens to be there when he shows up.
But the journey was interrupted at the bridge where a little boy and his younger sister stood blocking the entrance. Hayes slowed to a stop and said something to the pair—probably “excuse me,” because he’s that kind of kid—to which the little boy replied “no” and pushed him.
I was off of the bench before Hayes turned around with tears in his eyes to tell me what happened.
After a few good attempts to smooth things over, I quickly found out that Little Punk and his younger punk sister meant business. They weren’t letting Hayes past them. And what’s worse, they weren’t the least bit affected by mama me.
They were the two punkiest punks I had ever encountered. And I must admit, the thought of roughing them up {just enough to put the fear in them} did cross my mind. I scanned the park benches for their mother. She sat in a far off corner looking exhausted. Sometimes it takes a mother to recognize another mother’s weariness. And the mother of these particular punks looked to me like she was not having it today.
A smirk slowly grew across my face. “Move it now or I’m going to get your mother,” I threatened. And the little punk and his punky younger sister stepped aside to let Hayes pass.
I followed Hayes to the tunnel. And as he reached the landing, he let out a screech at the thought of me chasing him. I planned to join the fun once I made one thing perfectly clear.
Suddenly, I stopped my happy, giggling child, who was blissfully enjoying the moment, looked him square in the eye and said, “Listen, if that little punk touches you again, push the poo out of him! Do you understand?”
