What is a mother to do with her two caged children during the longest running rain spell in the history of the state? I have learned that sometimes you just have to step up to the plate, swing for the fence, and let your children lead you home.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Smithville kids that day;
The rain just kept on coming down. Oh rain, please go away!
And then when Cooper threw a fit and Brisco did the same,
A sickly silence fell over Mom—she was about to go insane.
A straggling Mommy got off the floor in deep despair to straighten her face.
The children clung to hope—and Mommy’s legs they did embrace;
They thought if only Mom would let us play and skip our nap—
We’d stop this crying and whining if we could go outside and bat.
But Mommy didn’t change her mind. She firmly stood her ground.
For if she would have taken them out, one surely would have drowned.
So upon those stricken brothers, two, grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of them going out to bat.
So they stood there looking out the door, to the wonderment of all,
Dreaming of the day that Mom would let them go play ball;
They wondered why this rain wouldn’t stop; it just kept coming down.
“Why did this rain cloud come and take a seat over our town?”
Then from the two boys throats, through tears, there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For they just could not give up the hope of going out to bat.
There was ease in Mommy’s manner as she stepped into her place;
There was pride in Mommy’s bearing and a smile on Mommy’s face.
And when, responding to the cries, she gave each boy a spat,
No neighbor watching from the road could doubt ‘twas Mommy at the bat.
Four teary eyes were on her and she knew the spat had hurt;
Two sobbing children wiped their snotty noses on her skirt;
Then while the writhing children ground their faces into her hip,
Defiance gleamed in Mommy’s eye, a sneer curled Mommy’s lip.
And now a quite unusual thought came hurtling through the air,
And Mommy stood a-pondering it in haughty grandeur there.
I know I really should go put these crazy kids to bed—
But “that ain’t my style,” said Mommy. And out the door they fled.
From the front porch, deep with puddles, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Get her! Go splash Mommy!” shouted Cooper with a grin;
And it’s likely they’d have done it had not Mommy raised her hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Mommy’s visage shone;
She stilled the rising tumult; she bade their game go on;
Again she warned the kids, as their temptation grew and grew;
But she knew the urge was much too strong, so into the puddles they flew.
“Are you crazy?” cried the neighbor, “They will catch their death of cold!”
But one scornful look from Mommy and the neighbor was off-told.
They laughed and splashed and squealed til they were soaked from toe to head,
Creating such a memory, much more fun than going to bed.
Now, the sneer is gone from Mommy’s lip, no longer is she crazed;
Who knew that playing in the rain could fix Mommy’s malaise
And as for children taking naps, they still are daily needed,
But sometimes spontaneity should just go unimpeded.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The rain has ceased its falling, and the children’s hearts are light;
Two tired boys crawl into bed a-smiling, there’s no doubt
That tonight there’s joy in Smithville—Mommy let the kids go out.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Pillow talk
We used to have the oldest boy trained like a dog. Bath, glass of milk, five minutes of his favorite video and off to bed. He would lie down in his crib and go right to sleep, just like the baby does now. Somewhere along the way, however, he must have decided that he had made things a little too easy on mom and dad because he changed the rules for bedtime, and he really liked his newest game.
From sleeping with us to making the transition into his own room and his own bed, we really have made progress. He follows our bedtime routine without balking, but when it is time for him to crawl into the bed, he is determined to take someone with him. Of course when dad is off at a game, I am his lucky bed partner. But when dad is home, I feel it is only fair that he take part in this, one of the true joys of parenthood. My suggestion is usually met with a shaky, “Mommy, do you wanna go to bed with me?” and a forced tear or two, but once they are out of eyesight, Cooper is delighted to have his daddy lying next to him, as long as there is a book or a story of some sort.
Most nights I’m thrilled to have a few minutes of quiet time. Most nights I’m grouchy if dad is home and I’m still the one to put him to bed. But sometimes, like tonight, putting my kid to bed gives me a tiny glimpse inside his heart and his mind that I might not otherwise get to see. Sometimes our pillow talk is what makes being a mom worth it all.
10:10 p.m. “Dear God, Thank you for Daddy and Mommy and Brisco and Berra and Cooper and Calyssa, and cookies. And then we say A-men.”
10:15 p.m. “Mommy, Where’s Jesus?” “He is in heaven with God.” “We need to go see him.” “We will someday. If we read our Bibles and do the things God wants us to do, we will go to heaven and see Jesus.” “Can Daddy come too?” “Yes, honey. Daddy will be there too.”
10:18 p.m. “Mommy, I need to hold your hair.”
10:22 p.m. “Mommy, will you rub my back?”
10:24 p.m. “Mommy, will you pat my tummy?”
10:26 p.m. “Mommy, I’m going to pat your tummy too.”
10:30 p.m. “Mommy, can you hold me?”
10:35 p.m. “Maybe one time Daddy can be a little boy like me and I can be a big strong man like Daddy and I can put him to bed.” (Knowing the irony of this statement and the possibility of truth that lies in it, a tear quietly trickled down my cheek.) “Cooper, I think that’s a great idea.”
10:45 p.m. “I love you, Mommy.” “I love you too, Cooper.”
Yes, bedtime at our house can definitely be an adventure, but on the nights when we have a little pillow talk, it is certainly worth the ride.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
From sleeping with us to making the transition into his own room and his own bed, we really have made progress. He follows our bedtime routine without balking, but when it is time for him to crawl into the bed, he is determined to take someone with him. Of course when dad is off at a game, I am his lucky bed partner. But when dad is home, I feel it is only fair that he take part in this, one of the true joys of parenthood. My suggestion is usually met with a shaky, “Mommy, do you wanna go to bed with me?” and a forced tear or two, but once they are out of eyesight, Cooper is delighted to have his daddy lying next to him, as long as there is a book or a story of some sort.
Most nights I’m thrilled to have a few minutes of quiet time. Most nights I’m grouchy if dad is home and I’m still the one to put him to bed. But sometimes, like tonight, putting my kid to bed gives me a tiny glimpse inside his heart and his mind that I might not otherwise get to see. Sometimes our pillow talk is what makes being a mom worth it all.
10:10 p.m. “Dear God, Thank you for Daddy and Mommy and Brisco and Berra and Cooper and Calyssa, and cookies. And then we say A-men.”
10:15 p.m. “Mommy, Where’s Jesus?” “He is in heaven with God.” “We need to go see him.” “We will someday. If we read our Bibles and do the things God wants us to do, we will go to heaven and see Jesus.” “Can Daddy come too?” “Yes, honey. Daddy will be there too.”
10:18 p.m. “Mommy, I need to hold your hair.”
10:22 p.m. “Mommy, will you rub my back?”
10:24 p.m. “Mommy, will you pat my tummy?”
10:26 p.m. “Mommy, I’m going to pat your tummy too.”
10:30 p.m. “Mommy, can you hold me?”
10:35 p.m. “Maybe one time Daddy can be a little boy like me and I can be a big strong man like Daddy and I can put him to bed.” (Knowing the irony of this statement and the possibility of truth that lies in it, a tear quietly trickled down my cheek.) “Cooper, I think that’s a great idea.”
10:45 p.m. “I love you, Mommy.” “I love you too, Cooper.”
Yes, bedtime at our house can definitely be an adventure, but on the nights when we have a little pillow talk, it is certainly worth the ride.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Ultimate Workout
A few weeks ago, we decided to spend a Saturday at the ballpark watching Dad play softball. I thought it would be fun for Cooper to see his dad playing the game instead of always coaching. I wasn’t really looking forward to it, since I’m pretty experienced at taking two little kids to ballgames by myself. I knew what to expect. But I tried my best to prepare for the full-throttle workout that lay in store.
Having two little kids who live and die by their daily naps, I am well versed at what is to take place when they get too tired: I would say a polite goodbye and duck out of the fun before things got embarrassing. This day, however, we decided to try and hang in there to the very end.
First Inning: For a terribly tired two and a half year old, Cooper did the best he could. His first round of trouble sprung up when he spotted a little boy about his age, smartly dressed and pulling around his without-a-scratch little red wagon. This was quite an eye catcher for Cooper due to his undiagnosed obsession for moving vehicles. He directly approached and offered his driving services to the little tyke. The boy was all for this idea, but I don’t think he was quite prepared for Lightning McQueen to be at the wheel. Judging by the white knuckles and the G-force look on the little boy’s face, the speed of the ride was a little more than he was used to. Dad finally got the wagon stopped long enough for the boy to get out, but Cooper immediately proceeded to take the shiny, red race car for a ride all on its own. It was borderline comical to see this delirious little mongrel running at full speed, pulling an empty wagon, with a Willy Olson type following after to reclaim his prized possession. But within a few seconds it became clear that the adults were the only ones laughing, and after a few rounds of cat and mouse by a tired, shoeless dad and a toddler on a mission, the race finally ended with an explosion, a call for the fire trucks, and a long walk to the pits.
Second Inning: Although he had been eating nonstop since 8 a.m., Brisco was scavenging the area for any sign of food that had been dropped onto the ground. He came across a tasty Cheeto from under the bleachers that was covered in ants. I wanted to call Grandmother, the EMT, to see if I needed to put Maalox in his cup or induce vomiting, but I ignored the urge. All I had time to do was a quick finger sweep because big brother had just found a crazy, screeching bird, and he was off to investigate.
Third Inning: It was a mother killdeer, and Cooper had become mesmerized. She was cawing and flailing about trying to distract him from her nest, and she had done a great job. The umpire almost had to stop the ball game when Cooper became so interested that he started chasing that momma bird all the way out into right field. And I, of course, was running madly behind.
Fourth Inning: Brisco took every opportunity to practice and perfect the grin and go maneuver. It is really quite simple. When you hear mom or dad say your name, you turn and look at them, grin really big, and then go the opposite direction, in a dead sprint. Such a charming little game.
Fifth Inning: Cooper couldn’t seem to stay out of the dugout or refrain from sneaking off with the players’ bats. During a break, Uncle Max bought him a bat that was just his size, and he was set for the rest of the day. He found a huge mud puddle, and discovered that if he hit balls into it, they would make a cool splash. But if he just swung the bat at the ground, directly into the water…boy, could he make that water fly! After some cross-eyed looks from a few onlookers, and a bit of encouragement from a few others, he abandoned his bat altogether and started walking, running, marching, jumping, and sliding all through that mud. I think he would still be there to this minute if he could have figured out a way to keep his thumbs clean!
Sixth Inning: Brisco peed himself and had to run around for the rest of the day in a T-shirt and a diaper. Can you say red-neck?
Seventh Inning: He’s seen his dad do it a thousand times. He himself has done it hundreds, and he’s heard me tell him almost a million that if he throws a ball up over his head and doesn’t catch it in his glove, it is going to hurt when it comes down. But until that moment, they had all been empty words. When that big, yellow softball came down on Cooper’s head with a thud, I knew that we had stayed far too long, and making it out of the ballpark without a scene at this point was completely out of the question.
When we finally left the complex that night, I’m sure we were quite a sight. Cooper, muddy from head to toe, was wearing a pair of Brisco’s sweat pants, spitting at every other step because of the dirt he was collecting in his mouth from his thumbs. Brisco was wearing no pants and no shoes; a combination of mud, goldfish, bug guts, and snot covered his entire face. I have no idea who won the games, but when I finally fell into bed that night, I was sure about three things: Cooper doesn’t care if his dad is playing or coaching; maybe we aren’t quite ready for all day excursions without naps; and there is no class, technique, boot camp, or personal training regimen that can compare to the ultimate workout I get from my two boys.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Having two little kids who live and die by their daily naps, I am well versed at what is to take place when they get too tired: I would say a polite goodbye and duck out of the fun before things got embarrassing. This day, however, we decided to try and hang in there to the very end.
First Inning: For a terribly tired two and a half year old, Cooper did the best he could. His first round of trouble sprung up when he spotted a little boy about his age, smartly dressed and pulling around his without-a-scratch little red wagon. This was quite an eye catcher for Cooper due to his undiagnosed obsession for moving vehicles. He directly approached and offered his driving services to the little tyke. The boy was all for this idea, but I don’t think he was quite prepared for Lightning McQueen to be at the wheel. Judging by the white knuckles and the G-force look on the little boy’s face, the speed of the ride was a little more than he was used to. Dad finally got the wagon stopped long enough for the boy to get out, but Cooper immediately proceeded to take the shiny, red race car for a ride all on its own. It was borderline comical to see this delirious little mongrel running at full speed, pulling an empty wagon, with a Willy Olson type following after to reclaim his prized possession. But within a few seconds it became clear that the adults were the only ones laughing, and after a few rounds of cat and mouse by a tired, shoeless dad and a toddler on a mission, the race finally ended with an explosion, a call for the fire trucks, and a long walk to the pits.
Second Inning: Although he had been eating nonstop since 8 a.m., Brisco was scavenging the area for any sign of food that had been dropped onto the ground. He came across a tasty Cheeto from under the bleachers that was covered in ants. I wanted to call Grandmother, the EMT, to see if I needed to put Maalox in his cup or induce vomiting, but I ignored the urge. All I had time to do was a quick finger sweep because big brother had just found a crazy, screeching bird, and he was off to investigate.
Third Inning: It was a mother killdeer, and Cooper had become mesmerized. She was cawing and flailing about trying to distract him from her nest, and she had done a great job. The umpire almost had to stop the ball game when Cooper became so interested that he started chasing that momma bird all the way out into right field. And I, of course, was running madly behind.
Fourth Inning: Brisco took every opportunity to practice and perfect the grin and go maneuver. It is really quite simple. When you hear mom or dad say your name, you turn and look at them, grin really big, and then go the opposite direction, in a dead sprint. Such a charming little game.
Fifth Inning: Cooper couldn’t seem to stay out of the dugout or refrain from sneaking off with the players’ bats. During a break, Uncle Max bought him a bat that was just his size, and he was set for the rest of the day. He found a huge mud puddle, and discovered that if he hit balls into it, they would make a cool splash. But if he just swung the bat at the ground, directly into the water…boy, could he make that water fly! After some cross-eyed looks from a few onlookers, and a bit of encouragement from a few others, he abandoned his bat altogether and started walking, running, marching, jumping, and sliding all through that mud. I think he would still be there to this minute if he could have figured out a way to keep his thumbs clean!
Sixth Inning: Brisco peed himself and had to run around for the rest of the day in a T-shirt and a diaper. Can you say red-neck?
Seventh Inning: He’s seen his dad do it a thousand times. He himself has done it hundreds, and he’s heard me tell him almost a million that if he throws a ball up over his head and doesn’t catch it in his glove, it is going to hurt when it comes down. But until that moment, they had all been empty words. When that big, yellow softball came down on Cooper’s head with a thud, I knew that we had stayed far too long, and making it out of the ballpark without a scene at this point was completely out of the question.
When we finally left the complex that night, I’m sure we were quite a sight. Cooper, muddy from head to toe, was wearing a pair of Brisco’s sweat pants, spitting at every other step because of the dirt he was collecting in his mouth from his thumbs. Brisco was wearing no pants and no shoes; a combination of mud, goldfish, bug guts, and snot covered his entire face. I have no idea who won the games, but when I finally fell into bed that night, I was sure about three things: Cooper doesn’t care if his dad is playing or coaching; maybe we aren’t quite ready for all day excursions without naps; and there is no class, technique, boot camp, or personal training regimen that can compare to the ultimate workout I get from my two boys.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Mom's day out
You know your kids have had a bad-behavior day in church when someone approaches you after services and practically demands that they take your kids for the day. We recently endured one of those Sunday mornings when my sole prayer was that the preacher would have mercy on us all and just end the sermon.
From fits to slobbery, full-face, open-mouth kisses to blowing his nose without a Kleenex, the baby had tried everything that morning to tempt me to the dark side. His brother was every bit as evil, and was sucking Dad right in with him. I suppose the disheveled pony-tail, makeup-less face, and scowl lines now permanently carved into my brow gave it away that I had just had “one of those days”. And it was only 11 a.m.
That is when a brave, fellow mother of two approached me and insisted that she take the boys to her farm for the afternoon to give me a break. Every polite, think-of-others-first bone in my body told me that I should not send my two kids with a practical stranger on a day when they are behaving like senseless maniacs. But my weary mind said, “Do it! Do it now!”
So off they went, with an exchange of phone numbers and barely enough diapers to make it through the day. I had been given the gift of solitude. Now what would I do? I decided to do something that I used to enjoy but haven’t done much of since becoming a mother. I decided to go shopping. I wasn’t searching for a new wardrobe or even an entire outfit. All I wanted was a new pair of shoes.
Of course, it had been ages since I’d bought myself tennis shoes, so I really didn’t know what I was in for. And after browsing the store for all of 30 seconds, I must have gotten sticker shock, because my goal suddenly changed from buying a good, quality running shoe to simply getting out of there with a little grocery money still in my pocket.
After a near episode of hyperventilation and some heavy “self-talk”, I convinced myself that spending less than $40 on an appropriate tennis shoe was not going to happen, and that it was okay to splurge just this once. After all, the last shoes I bought were a pair of white leather Keds, circa 1996.
I tried on every pair of running shoe in the store. None seemed to match the high quality that the price tag reflected, at least in my eyes, but I picked one nonetheless and tried to be happy about it. I took my shoes of gold to the register to check out and realized that thanks to free enterprise, and the cost of labor in Taiwan, I might need to reconsider my method of payment. Payday was still two weeks away.
After five minutes of digging through my purse, however, I was forced to tell the cashier that she would not be making her commission on my purchase today. I had no billfold, no checkbook, and certainly no cash. I walked limply to the car, embarrassed and dejected. Not only had I wasted my time, but I had also wasted half of my mother’s day out, and I had no new shoes to show for it.
Just as I was set to go speeding off into the distance, I noticed my billfold sitting in the diaper bag in the back seat of the car, so I returned to the cashier to again attempt my purchase. She tried my credit card, but immediately gave it back to me, as it had expired the day before. With no new card to give her, I quickly scribbled out a check and scurried out the door before some unsuspecting act of nature ripped those shoes back out of my hands.
I promised the lady who took my kids that day that I would not spend the afternoon cleaning my house or doing laundry, but after my shopping experience, I decided that washing clothes and cleaning the house might not be the worst way to spend what was left of my day. Besides, now I had something else to look forward to: a heart-stopping, joint-swelling, bone-breaking run in my expensive new shoes.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
From fits to slobbery, full-face, open-mouth kisses to blowing his nose without a Kleenex, the baby had tried everything that morning to tempt me to the dark side. His brother was every bit as evil, and was sucking Dad right in with him. I suppose the disheveled pony-tail, makeup-less face, and scowl lines now permanently carved into my brow gave it away that I had just had “one of those days”. And it was only 11 a.m.
That is when a brave, fellow mother of two approached me and insisted that she take the boys to her farm for the afternoon to give me a break. Every polite, think-of-others-first bone in my body told me that I should not send my two kids with a practical stranger on a day when they are behaving like senseless maniacs. But my weary mind said, “Do it! Do it now!”
So off they went, with an exchange of phone numbers and barely enough diapers to make it through the day. I had been given the gift of solitude. Now what would I do? I decided to do something that I used to enjoy but haven’t done much of since becoming a mother. I decided to go shopping. I wasn’t searching for a new wardrobe or even an entire outfit. All I wanted was a new pair of shoes.
Of course, it had been ages since I’d bought myself tennis shoes, so I really didn’t know what I was in for. And after browsing the store for all of 30 seconds, I must have gotten sticker shock, because my goal suddenly changed from buying a good, quality running shoe to simply getting out of there with a little grocery money still in my pocket.
After a near episode of hyperventilation and some heavy “self-talk”, I convinced myself that spending less than $40 on an appropriate tennis shoe was not going to happen, and that it was okay to splurge just this once. After all, the last shoes I bought were a pair of white leather Keds, circa 1996.
I tried on every pair of running shoe in the store. None seemed to match the high quality that the price tag reflected, at least in my eyes, but I picked one nonetheless and tried to be happy about it. I took my shoes of gold to the register to check out and realized that thanks to free enterprise, and the cost of labor in Taiwan, I might need to reconsider my method of payment. Payday was still two weeks away.
After five minutes of digging through my purse, however, I was forced to tell the cashier that she would not be making her commission on my purchase today. I had no billfold, no checkbook, and certainly no cash. I walked limply to the car, embarrassed and dejected. Not only had I wasted my time, but I had also wasted half of my mother’s day out, and I had no new shoes to show for it.
Just as I was set to go speeding off into the distance, I noticed my billfold sitting in the diaper bag in the back seat of the car, so I returned to the cashier to again attempt my purchase. She tried my credit card, but immediately gave it back to me, as it had expired the day before. With no new card to give her, I quickly scribbled out a check and scurried out the door before some unsuspecting act of nature ripped those shoes back out of my hands.
I promised the lady who took my kids that day that I would not spend the afternoon cleaning my house or doing laundry, but after my shopping experience, I decided that washing clothes and cleaning the house might not be the worst way to spend what was left of my day. Besides, now I had something else to look forward to: a heart-stopping, joint-swelling, bone-breaking run in my expensive new shoes.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Footnote
As a footnote to "Dumb Questions", I'd like to clarify that in reference to dumb question #2, it might be the fun uncle, but more than likely it is the nutty second or third cousin who is the culprit. In order to protect the actual "fun uncles" out there, I felt the need to clarify!
We are feeling a little isolated from our Smith and Brantley family out here in Western Oklahoma. Hope everyone is doing well!
We are feeling a little isolated from our Smith and Brantley family out here in Western Oklahoma. Hope everyone is doing well!
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Dumb Questions
Although I’ve only been a stay at home mother for a short time, the experience has shown me that not everything I was raised to believe is completely accurate. In the last 12 months, I’ve discovered that at least one major truth I’ve been taught all of my life is truly, false.
I’m not sure where this falsehood originated. Probably a well-intentioned Sunday morning sermon, an over-educated educator of some sort, or one of those free-thinking psychologists we often hear about. Whomever the wise guy was who authored the phrase, “There are no dumb questions” you can bet it was not a stay-at-home mother.
As someone who is new to the profession and new to my community, I only frequently encounter other adults, aside from our weekly visits to church. Most of the folks I do meet are practically strangers and are simply taking pity on a frazzled–looking, stroller-pushing crazy woman by trying to make conversation. Most are nice and polite and do their best to chat freely; however, there are a select few whose attempts fail miserably. Thus, the list of “The Dumbest Questions You Can Ask a Stay-at-Home Mom” was born. Here are my top three.
First: “Aren’t you bored?” This is the question that is most often asked by women who are themselves parents but could never envision staying home with their kids. Of course their choice to continue working outside the home is totally acceptable, but the question they pose is not. Usually, from the look on my face alone, the person asking the question can tell that they have committed some sort of faux pas, although they may not be sure quite what. Just to clear up burning question number one, no, there is absolutely no time to be bored.
Second: “So, what is your favorite soap opera?” This highly intellectual question is usually asked by a man who has no clue what all a mother has to do on a daily basis. He has never stayed alone in a room with two small children, much less spent 15 uninterrupted hours taking care of them. He might be the “fun uncle” who plays ball, gives horseback rides, and teaches the kids how to fart with their armpits, but he definitely has no idea what it takes to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly on a daily basis.
Third: “When are you going to have another kid?” This question is usually asked by someone who has no kids much less a clue about how hard it can be to take care of the two you’ve already got. They will usually stop by three or four times a year, while the kids are sleeping or visiting at grandmother’s house, ask all the right developmental questions about what each kid is doing at their particular age, and ooh and ahh at all the cute pictures that make life with two little kids seem perfect and rosy. (Or of course they could just be an anxious grandparent!)
As for those over-educated educators and free-thinking therapists (of which I count myself among), I know that for children, there really is no such thing as a dumb question. But as for the rest of us…watch out!
And that’s "All in a day’s work!"
I’m not sure where this falsehood originated. Probably a well-intentioned Sunday morning sermon, an over-educated educator of some sort, or one of those free-thinking psychologists we often hear about. Whomever the wise guy was who authored the phrase, “There are no dumb questions” you can bet it was not a stay-at-home mother.
As someone who is new to the profession and new to my community, I only frequently encounter other adults, aside from our weekly visits to church. Most of the folks I do meet are practically strangers and are simply taking pity on a frazzled–looking, stroller-pushing crazy woman by trying to make conversation. Most are nice and polite and do their best to chat freely; however, there are a select few whose attempts fail miserably. Thus, the list of “The Dumbest Questions You Can Ask a Stay-at-Home Mom” was born. Here are my top three.
First: “Aren’t you bored?” This is the question that is most often asked by women who are themselves parents but could never envision staying home with their kids. Of course their choice to continue working outside the home is totally acceptable, but the question they pose is not. Usually, from the look on my face alone, the person asking the question can tell that they have committed some sort of faux pas, although they may not be sure quite what. Just to clear up burning question number one, no, there is absolutely no time to be bored.
Second: “So, what is your favorite soap opera?” This highly intellectual question is usually asked by a man who has no clue what all a mother has to do on a daily basis. He has never stayed alone in a room with two small children, much less spent 15 uninterrupted hours taking care of them. He might be the “fun uncle” who plays ball, gives horseback rides, and teaches the kids how to fart with their armpits, but he definitely has no idea what it takes to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly on a daily basis.
Third: “When are you going to have another kid?” This question is usually asked by someone who has no kids much less a clue about how hard it can be to take care of the two you’ve already got. They will usually stop by three or four times a year, while the kids are sleeping or visiting at grandmother’s house, ask all the right developmental questions about what each kid is doing at their particular age, and ooh and ahh at all the cute pictures that make life with two little kids seem perfect and rosy. (Or of course they could just be an anxious grandparent!)
As for those over-educated educators and free-thinking therapists (of which I count myself among), I know that for children, there really is no such thing as a dumb question. But as for the rest of us…watch out!
And that’s "All in a day’s work!"
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