PAJAMA MOM DRIVES AGAIN
Kate Russell
Copyright 2012 Kate Russell
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For Billy, the Pajama Dad.
When I was pregnant with my now fourteen-year-old daughter, I had a few ideas—okay—fantasies about motherhood. The biggest one was the image of a sweet, cooing baby who would allow me to write literary masterpieces, while I breastfed her in our immaculate house. Never mind that I’d never been around babies that much, let alone changed any diapers. Life was going to be great. My road map of motherhood was a straight line; no curves, no detours, no projectile spit up on my dry clean only sweater.
The reality was that my daughter detested breastfeeding, the house was a wreck, and the laundry was daunting. Honestly, how could a baby create that much? My only comfort was that I at least got to write bills with a flourish. I was right; life was great. However, I quickly learned that showers and lunch were sporadic, at best. Besides all that, my sweet baby had colic every afternoon and evening. I gratefully handed off the little darling to my husband when he got home from work.
Two years later, my son made his appearance, so I was better prepared. No unrealistic expectations for me anymore. I had learned my lesson.
I’ve always known I didn’t have it in me to be a certain kind of mom. I’ll call her Perfect Mom, but you may know her by her other name: the Proverbs 31 wife and mother. Oh yes, she does indeed exist. In fact, you’ve probably seen her at your child’s Saturday morning soccer game. She’s the mother with the professionally styled hair, flawless cosmetics, and trim figure in a twinset. The one who carries five children (two of them her own) to the grocery store without having them slug it out in the frozen foods section. The one who teaches her kids Japanese in her spare time, and is a gourmet cook to boot.
I was going to be Realistic Mom. I carried my children to day school, chatted with other harried mothers, managed to put enough cosmetics on my face to hide the dark circles under my eyes, and wore either a smart hairstyle or a standard ponytail. I worked part-time, so my wardrobe swung wildly from business suits to worn sweats. I gritted my teeth through necessary trips to the grocery and Wal-Mart, breaking up fights along the way. The kids learned a smattering of Spanish; most of it off the menu at the local Mexican restaurant. Dinner wasn’t gourmet, but it usually included a vegetable and sometimes a dessert. The house was cluttered, but fairly clean, and we tried not to invoke the ten-second rule too often.