I Yam What I Yam, Which is Not "Just a Mom."

I'm not "just a mom." I'm going to stop saying that to people when they ask me what I "do." Oh, how I loathe that loaded question. I'm a complicated collage of so many things that I don't even really know how to answer. My roles runneth over, bleed into one another.


I'm a wife. A sister. A daughter. A daughter-in-law. A niece. A cousin. A friend. A reader. A writer. A horrible singer. A Jew. A Green Gal. A procrastinator. A Jazzerciser. A new 30-Day Shredder. I'm a woman with a lot of potential for what, I don't know.

I'm also the maid. And the gourmet chef preparer of meals. The laundress. The packer of backpacks, the wiper of tushies. The dog groomer. The bill payer (but not the bread winner, the ultimate paradox). I am the runner of errands. I am the weed-puller, the snow shoveler, the leaf raker, and the coffee maker (but not the coffee drinker). I am the chauffeur, the grocery shopper, the referee, the checkbook-balancer. I am a wine drinker, a wallflower and a poop-scooper. I am the buyer of presents, the planner of parties, the schlepper of stuff. I empty the dishwasher, I take out the trash, I drop off our glass at the recycling place. I am the rule enforcer, the manners teacher, and the question answerer. I am the fence mender, the peace keeper, and the Queen of Bribery. I am a white liar, a storyteller, a loud yeller and a boo-boo kisser.

Sometimes the frustrations that come with being a mom cause me to devalue myself and everything I do for my family.

For example, I recently made homemade blueberry muffins for the first time it was groundbreaking, people. No more of those Betty Crocker muffins from a box. I got the recipe from Elaine over at The Miss Elaine-ous Life. I measured flour, sugar, baking powder, used fresh berries, the whole nine yards. But because my children are apparently such devoted fans of Betty Crocker, they each took an itty bitty bite and promptly declared my masterpiece muffins "yucky."

The girls often come home from school and rave about all the delicacies Miss Annette cookes up for them in the kitchen there. Last week, they couldn't stop talking about her "cinnamon apples." So I made apple crisp for dessert one night. They wouldn't eat it. I even called it "cinnamon apples," but they weren't fooled.

I also made homemade macaroni and cheese (I used sharp cheddar, monterey jack, parmesan and colby cheeses), but they prefer that crap that comes in the blue box.

I took them to the park yesterday at their request. Once there, Abby clung to my left leg for much of the time and whined that she wanted to go home. Izzy pointed at an older girl and loudly said, "Mommy, that girl has naked feet and they are STINKY."

I took them with me to get manicures one day as a reward. They began complaining two minutes in. "How long is this going to take, Mommy?" "Are we done yet?" I'm so stupid. I desperately needed a manicure and thought they would enjoy getting one along with me and feeling all grown up. But they were impatient and noisy and it was a bad idea.

Being a mom means...constantly multitasking and juggling.

Being a mom means...learning to go with the flow.

Being a mom means...telling myself that I am enough, that I do enough.

Being a mom means...reminding myself that Supermom does not exist.

Being a mom means...learning to be more patient, understanding, loving, & attentive.

Being a mom means...being me, and being okay with that.

**Karin over at Mommy Matters happened to write a very similar post today....which just goes to show you how many mommies are living parallel lives. She graciously allowed me to link up to her. It's funny that we were on the same wavelength at the same time!