The Mommy Files

Almost no one sees both parts of my life.

Mother. Professor.They don't mix. Not well.

At least, not in my mind. Mothering is so... well - unnnatural to me.

I can dress the part of Mommy ( jeans or a skirt, wedge heels, and a tshirt with a purse big enough or apple juice and 2 diapers), talk the game of Mommy (put your brother down! Say hi to the nice lady! I love you, too...), and load both kids into the back of a sweltering car without losing my cool or bending too far over in a skirt (I hope).

Still, it's unnatural.

I'm not very maternal.
OK, maybe I am.
But I try hard not to be.
I've worked hard over the past fifteen years to be fair, direct, firm, straight-shooting.
Maybe that's kinda maternal too.
But I don't bake cookies.
Unless I feel like it.

I'm not very cuddly.
OK, so I like to cuddle up with the kids.
I still try to sit on my father's lap.
Strike that one.

I don't really like to be the authority figure.
Oh. Nevermind, I guess I lose that round too -

I can't stand being responsible for other people.
This one, I stand by.
I hate doing the laundry for other people (and yes, KIDS are "other people"), cleaning up after other people, cooking for other people (unless I feel like it) and having to miss work because someone else is sick.

Of course, responsibility is part of the whole growing-up game, so I guess it's part of me.

I like being alone.
That's probably the hardest part of motherhood for me.
I would've made a great hermit.

Yes, when I was single, I do remember putting a lot of energy into finding boyfriends & companions to hang out with. Not live with, not be with all the time. I still had my own home, always, until the day I got married (and even 2 months after that).

No one has ever loved me like my kids do.

They stalk me.
They on the bathroom door when I'm in there too long.
(Hey, it's huge -- I have a lounge in there....)
They suspect I'm in there, hiding with a book or writing something really interesting that they can't yet understand.

They send me mail under the bathroom door.
Pictures of our family, rainbows, flowers, hearts.

They worship and praise me, stick to me like velcro, proclaim my wisdom, generosity and beauty to all they meet.

This is weird.
And uncomfortable.

I'm wondering how much longer until they become teenagers and hide in their rooms, text-messaging their friends about what an idiot I am. How oldfashioned, conservative and dorky I am.

That'll probably happen around the time I decide that my kids are growing up too fast, and that I've wasted precious years hiding from them in the bathroom, writing things like this for you.

I'll probably color pictures for them and mail it to them, under their doors.