Motherhood

Some of y’all have asked how my adjustment to being a stay at home mama is going and let me say that I haven’t regretted my decision for one minute. It still feels weird to wake up in the morning and realize my day isn’t filled with having to check voicemail and meet sales quotas, but I love it.

I always referred to my job as “the bank” for fear of being found in a random google search and not wanting to get fired for writing about my job on the internet, but now that I don’t have to worry about any of that, I’ll let y’all know that I was actually a pharmaceutical sales representative for a pharmaceutical company.

Anyway, I thought y’all might enjoy a comparison of how I spent my day as a pharmaceutical rep versus a day spent as a stay at home mom.

Drug Rep 6:30 a.m. – Wake up to the sounds of a belligerent 3 year old yelling, “MAMA, come get me! It’s MORNING!”

SAHM 6:30 a.m. – Wake up to the sounds of a belligerent 3 year old yelling, “MAMA, come get me! It’s MORNING!”

Drug Rep 7:00 a.m. – Stumble into the kitchen, make Caroline’s lunch and try to come up with something she’ll actually eat for breakfast while she begs to eat candy. Listen to her throw a fit after I say that York Peppermint Patties aren’t really a breakfast food.

SAHM 7:00 a.m. – Stumble into the kitchen and offer several breakfast options, all of which are turned down because they aren’t York Peppermint Patties.

Drug Rep 8:30 a.m. – Load myself up like a pack mule headed for a 10 day camping trip in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. On one shoulder I have Caroline’s school bag, my purse, my work bag, and my laptop bag. In the other hand, I have her lunch box and my car keys. Follow her out to the car while she stops to examine every crack in the sidewalk, look at every bug, and give the dogs a hug goodbye. Finally get to the car right before my arm is about to fall off from the sheer volume and weight of items that I’m toting.

SAHM 8:30 a.m. – Stay in our pajamas for a little while longer because we can. Watch Charlie and Lola and continue to push my breakfast eating agenda. She is so over breakfast. Breakfast is for the weak.

Drug Rep 9:00-12:00 p.m. – Spend morning trying to convince doctors, who already know everything, why they should use my drug instead of my competitor’s drug, and they pretend to listen while I know they are completely ignoring everything I’m saying.

SAHM 9:00-12:00 p.m. – Spend morning trying to convince 3 year old, who already knows everything, why she shouldn’t color on the walls, run with sharp objects, or spill her cereal all over the kitchen floor, and she pretends to listen while I know she’s ignoring everything I’m saying.

Drug Rep 12:00-1:00 p.m. – Have lunch delivered to doctor’s office so that I can have the pleasure of treating office staff and physicians to a free lunch while they complain that they’ve already had Jason’s Deli this week and ask why I didn’t bring more Diet Dr. Pepper.

SAHM 12:00-1:00 p.m. – Make peanut butter and jelly sandwich, deliver it to 3 year old so that I can have the pleasure of making her a delicious lunch while she complains that she’s already had peanut butter and jelly this week and ask why I didn’t give her pink lemonade.

Drug Rep 1:00-2:00 p.m. – Take nap.

I’m joking. It’s a joke.

Everyone knows drug reps don’t take naps from 1-2:00 because they finish their day by 3:00 and go home and take a nap then.

SAHM 1:00-2:00 p.m. – Take nap and try to get Caroline to do the same.

Or at the very least, to not wake me up.

Drug Rep 2:00-4:30 p.m. – Go see more doctors and bring them free samples of drugs while most of them act put out that they must acknowledge my presence. Some of them enjoy asking me difficult questions that I don’t know how to answer, such as the particle size of the ldl and apo-B lipoproteins.

Umm yeah, I majored in Speech Communications.

SAHM 2:00-4:30 p.m. – Go to the grocery store and buy food for Caroline while she often acts put out that she must acknowledge my presence. She enjoys asking me difficult questions that I don’t know how to answer, such as how do watermelons turn green on the outside.

Umm yeah, I majored in Speech Communications.

Drug Rep 5:00-bedtime – The day is over with the exception of an occasional evening where I get to go out on the company’s dime to some of the nicest restaurants in town and eat good food and drink fine wine while listening to some of the most boring presentations known to man.

SAHM 5:00-bedtime – I still have miles to go before I sleep. Dinnertime, bathtime and bedtime routines. There are chicken nuggets to be eaten, hair to be washed, and stories to be read. I wouldn’t trade it for the best meal in town at the nicest restaurant, even without the boring presentation.

Although the wine would be nice.

Drug Rep middle of the night – Wake up completely stressed out about how I’m going to grow market share when the only way I’ll be able to convince some of these doctors to write my drug is if they undergo a complete lobotomy.

SAHM middle of the night – Wake up completely stressed out about how I’m going to fill all the hours in the next day with meaningful activities that don’t include watching Backyardigans over and over again.

As y’all can see, in some ways my days aren’t that different. The commonality between being a drug rep and being a mama is before I actually started doing either one, I read a ton of books. I studied, I learned all I could, I memorized material that could help me in any situation and allow me to answer any question.

But the thing is, only the reality of doing something every day prepares you for what it’s really like. No book can tell you how to make a doctor prescribe your drug and no book can tell you how to get a toddler to eat breakfast. It’s all a game of skill and chance. Some days I get it right and some days I don’t. Some days I think I’ve got it all figured out and some days I’m sure I must be the most incompetent person to ever do this job.

For me, I’m just thankful that if I’m going to spend my day with someone ignoring half of what I say and acting like they know better than me, it’s with my daughter. Because for all those moments she is so over me, are the moments we spend digging for worms, lying on the floor coloring pictures, and playing Go Fish.

Moments I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Plus, most of my doctors were terrible at Go Fish.

Have you ever had one of those weeks or days or maybe just an hour, where your self esteem was at an all time high? It’s like everything aligns just right to create the perfect you. You’ve got on a cute skirt with some new, strappy sandals and your hair has the perfect mix of body and curl that makes you want to freeze it in time, or at least coat it down with hairspray. Everywhere you go, you get compliments on your great skin, beautiful shoes, perfect hair….maybe you even get asked for your ID when buying an adult beverage.

Yeah, I’m not having one of those weeks.

And at this point, I’d be happy for one of those hours.

Let’s be honest, I’d take one of those minutes.

I guess it all started at the salon the other day when the pedicure lady asked if I’d like my mustache waxed, and I heard a sound in my ears like the screeching of a record being stopped. There is nothing like the suggestion of excess facial hair to make a girl feel a little less than her best.

I realize, like many of y’all commented, that maybe she just wanted to make a little extra money by toying with my facial hair phobias, but the truth is, I have a long, painful history with facial hair. I won’t bore y’all with story after story, but let’s just say that if I were to post a picture of me from high school, it would be hard to see my face underneath my unplucked eyebrows.

My mom swears that she tried to tell me I needed to pluck them and if I’m honest, I vaguely recall those conversations. But since I was 16 and knew everything, I didn’t listen. I look back now at that arrogant 16 year old with the eyebrows that needed industrial wax and a haircut, and wonder if my eyebrows were so long and thick that I couldn’t see myself in the mirror. How else can you explain that I didn’t notice two hairy, black caterpillars growing across my forehead?

So, the pedicure lady brought up some bad memories. Thank goodness for the Sally Hansen Hair Removing Wand that I bought at the grocery store. It’s even lavender scented because really, when you’re removing facial hair, it’s important that it smell good. That way, if P walks in the bathroom while I am mid-hair removal procedure, he won’t even notice the thick, white lotion spread across the top of my lip, because he will be so enthralled with the lovely scent emanating from the direction of my sink.

Then, today I had a lunch meeting with my co-worker Dee. Some of y’all, who have been reading for awhile, might remember Dee as the one who told me all about how her 13 year old daughter was so horrified by the fact that I have braces and couldn’t get over how terrible I looked.

There’s nothing that will make you feel quite as lovely as being mocked by a 13 year old.

At least, that’s what I thought, until today.

Most of my work clothes are at the drycleaners right now, so for the last two mornings I’ve put on a pair of black pants with a fitted, button down shirt which I’ve worn untucked, because honestly, I don’t tuck anything in, ever. I throw on my triple strand of pearls, some black high heels and pull my hair back in a ponytail because the humidity level has been hovering around 235%. It’s not my best look, but it’s certainly not horrible.

Anyway, I arrived at this lunch deal today and while I’m getting something to drink, Dee arrives. She looks at me and right in front of our clients, loudly says, “I can totally tell you’re pregnant with that shirt on.”

Now, before any of y’all offer your congratulations, let me tell you that I am most certainly not pregnant. The only thing that’s going to be coming out of me anytime soon, God willing, is about 15 pounds of water that I’m retaining due to PMS.

At least, I hope it’s water retention and all this bloating isn’t due to the entire pan of brownies that I ate in less than 24 hours by myself. Because then it wouldn’t be so much bloating, but more like fat.

Maybe I’m a little too cautious, but it is my personal policy that I do not offer anyone congratulations on their pregnancy or ask when their baby is due unless I see something happening at the business end of a woman in a delivery room. Otherwise, it’s just too risky.

The irony is that just the other day, Gulley and I were talking about spring fashion and the tunic-style tops that are in style. Gulley commented that she was scared to wear them because she would just die if someone asked her if she was pregnant. I smugly replied, “Nobody is going to ask you if you’re pregnant. Everybody knows that kind of stuff is in style right now. I wouldn’t worry about that at all.”

Apparently, I should have been worried.

Now, I’m off to do some sit-ups and take some Midol.

Or maybe just have another brownie.

Wow. I did not mean to get everyone all riled up. I just thought I was posting a little anecdote about my sister and Dat Nguyen.

It’s all okay. Someday we will all meet in heaven and the Aggies and the Longhorns can join hands, sing a few rounds of Friends are Friends Forever and have a group hug as we gather around Mac Brown with Vince Young seated at his right hand.

Oh, I’m joking.

Moving on to another subject.

Caroline still wears a diaper to bed at night. I’m pretty sure this is a normal practice for any three year old that doesn’t sleep on rubber sheets in a plastic bubble. Of course, I’ve also wondered at what point she can stop wearing a diaper at night. I’ve heard experts say it’s when she wakes up consistently dry in the morning, but I’m afraid that since she has inherited my urinary genetics, waiting for a succession of dry mornings would mean her future college roommate will wonder what in the world is up with all the Pampers in their dorm room.

The thought of telling her she can get up and use the bathroom if she needs to during the night is terrifying. I have visions of waking up at 2 a.m. to a living room covered in mini-marshmallows and Trix Cereal, while Dora the Explorer blares loudly from the television.

Giving her that kind of control is, in my opinion, the equivalent of saying, “Honey, Mama doesn’t need her sanity. You just go ahead and wake me up every hour on the hour to let me know that you just went tee-tee and when you get tired of that, just turn on Diego and watch him rescue spectacled bears all night long.”

What I’m trying to say is, I can’t help but feel it’s a bad idea.

Anyway, I’m unsure of this next phase of potty training and in truth, the entire potty training experience has bewildered me. I once believed that potty training was a sprint. You start off, gain some speed and momentum, and cross the finish line minus a few Clorox wipes used to wipe up messes along the way.

In truth, potty training is more like a marathon. It’s neverending, it’s exhausting and instead of cheering spectators helping you get to the finish line, you’re being heckled by a three year old who you swear purposely makes her tee-tee come out in a jet stream so fierce that it manages to douse you as you squat while holding her on the potty in a public restroom. So, in truth, it may be harder than a marathon, because at least in a real marathon, you just get doused with Gatorade.

A year later, I am still trying to figure out how we can make it a whole week without throwing away a few pairs of underwear, because isn’t life all about setting goals?

The other night, as Caroline was brushing her teeth before bed, I asked if she needed to potty one last time before I put her diaper on. She insisted that no she didn’t and she didn’t even need to try. Because I am a fool, I took her word for it, and put her diaper on.

As we were reading stories, I felt her wet her diaper.

“Caroline, did you just wet your diaper?”

“Sure, I did.”

“Why? Why would you do that when you just told me that you didn’t need to go?”

Blank stare.

I changed her diaper, while mumbling a bunch of stuff about how from now on she is going to have to try to go whether she says she needs to or not, and how diapers don’t grow on trees and wasting them is just contributing to global warming, and the disintegration of the ozone, and my checkbook.

She looked at me in the midst of my tirade and said, “Mama, you’re not being very nice. You’re fired.”

Great. Thank you Donald Trump.

I told P later that Caroline better rethink that decision. Nobody but her Mama is going to do this job for the current payscale and benefits, not to mention the excessive amount of laundry required as we finish what is, hopefully, the last leg of our potty training marathon.

This morning has shaped up to be one of those mornings that, in all honesty, makes me feel like an inadequate mother. And I don’t mean that in a funny “Ha-ha, I serve my child chicken nuggets for every meal” kind of way, I mean it in the “I have completely lost my patience and am at the edge of all reason and sanity” kind of way.

It’s a little hard for me to admit, because I know there are many of you that read this blog that have multitudes of children. I realize I only have one, and I know from experience there are plenty of people who love nothing more than to say, “If you think it’s hard with one, you ought to try having three or four or eight…”.

So let me say, I applaud mamas of more than one, good for you. However, part of the reason I only have one is because some days I feel like it’s all I can handle and even as I type this, that realization makes me cry. I would love to be the kind of mama that can host story time for seven kids, let them finger paint all over the walls, and never get tired of the endless stream of questions and demands, but that’s not me. Sometimes, as much as I adore my little girl and wouldn’t trade motherhood for anything in the world, I need order and quiet.

I need silence.

This morning I got the paints out in an attempt to keep Caroline entertained while I tried to get some work done. And let me just say that if Lee Iacocca had attempted to work from home while raising a three year old, Chrysler would have gone belly up in the first six months.

I looked over in time to see her covering herself with paint. She had paint all up and down her arms, on the bottoms of her feet, on her legs, it was beyond anything a damp paper towel could handle. So, I stop what I’m doing, go run the bath and drop her in.

Nothing thrills her more than a morning bath, so I thought I could sit in the bathroom with my computer and get some things done. It was a perfect plan until she started splashing huge amounts of water throughout the bathroom despite my warnings that I was going to yank her out of the tub if she kept it up. When I did, in fact, yank her out of the bathtub, I had to listen to all the whining and crying about how I am not nice and I’m not her friend and she just wanted to splash.

And it’s moments like these where the childish side of me wants to say, “Well, if I’m not very nice, then why did I drive you over to Gulley’s house right at bedtime last night for the sole purpose of retrieving Cee the Unicorn because you wanted to sleep with him?”

But I don’t say that because I’m the mama.

The rest of our morning consisted of a series of whining about being hungry and then not eating what I offered, stomping Chex Mix into the carpet to the point that the pretzel residue has become a permanent part of the rug fibers, crying and throwing a fit that her Cinderella inflatable bed was deflated, and endless whining about everything else she could possibly think of, including the air she breathes.

It’s at this point that I just put my head down and start to cry. I am tired. She has spent the last three nights in our bed because of thunderstorms and I realize that’s part of the motherhood deal. I don’t expect her to lie in her room afraid of thunder with no one to comfort her, but the problem is I start to feel like I haven’t had a break. I need a few moments of no one touching me, no one talking to me, and most importantly, no one crying about something…like I’m one to talk.

I realize this isn’t the kind of post y’all are used to reading over here, but I am tired and frustrated. The worst part is, feeling this way makes me feel guilty, which then just makes me feel worse about my mothering skills.

Most days I try to remind myself that all of this is fleeting and I need to soak in every moment. One day she’ll be older and I’ll long for the days that she wanted my total and complete attention all the time. One day, I’ll be nostalgic for the days that my life was taken over by a three foot tall tyrant.

But today is not that day.

Let’s hope tomorrow it all looks a little better.

On Tuesday night, Caroline called me into her room about five different times for reasons ranging from being thirsty to wanting to discuss the gross national product of Southeast Asia. Around 3 a.m. I was ready to flush the baby monitor down the toilet.

The next morning in my sleep deprived haze, I came up with a fabulous idea. What I needed was sleep and what would get me sleep was some type of bribe, but since bribe is such a dirty word, let’s call it a “reward system”.

Anyway, like a desperate door to door salesman, I pitched the idea of a calendar with stickers for every night that Caroline slept through the night without calling for me.

Oh! The excitement! “A calendar! With stickers! I won’t call for you Mama! I’ll sleep all night! I’ll see you in the morning! Can we hang my calendar right here? I love my calendar!”

I put her to bed that night and reminded her about the new system. She assured me that she was ready and couldn’t wait to get her princess sticker in the morning. I walked out of her room feeling just a little smug at my brilliance.

Cut to 3:30 a.m. when I was awakened out of a dead sleep by the sound of “Mama, come get me. MAMA! Come get me!”

I stumbled into her room and asked her “Why are you calling me? What do you need?”

She said, “I just wanted to tell you that I don’t want a sticker”.