Motherhood Uncensored

Something Happened on My Trip to Phoenix

You don't really know me. I mean, for whatever reason, you read my blog. Maybe it's regularly. Or maybe you just stopped by here on your way to somewhere else. You can tell a little bit about me from my picture, my funny quips, and my well meant diatribes. And, you know I'm a mom. But, I used to be someone else.

I finished my master's degree in a year, wrote a 150 page thesis in a week, and finished 2 textbooks in 2 years. I started an undergraduate program in 2 months, taught 9 classes a week, and presented at numerous conferences. I published 4 scholarly articles and revised a well-known music therapy text. I worked with kids with disabilities, people with mental illnesses, and folks with traumatic brain injuries. And, I was good at it. All of it.

But I gave it up when my daughter arrived. Instantly.

And I quit working with clients/patients and teaching (for the most part). I could barely even bring myself to say the words "music therapy." Even though I spent almost 15 years of my life helping people and students in need, I could barely bring myself to sing one more song or teach one more class for them.

But when I gave up my work, I felt like I lost a part of me. Okay. Almost all of me. Because work was my life.

And now I'm a mom and I blog. And that's how you know me. And you didn't know about all that great stuff I did nor did you really even care. You just read me because you liked what I said and that was really all you needed to know.

So, I miss my work. And quite frankly, I miss feeling important and smart everyday. I just don't get that being a mom these days.

But all that praise was for what I did and not who I was. And when all of that was gone, I felt like I had nothing. That I was nothing.

So I wonder if I had never stopped working if I would have ever found blogging. And if I had never found blogging, I wonder how long it would have taken me to find myself. And while you would  have never known the difference with one less blog on your bloglines or blogroll, I would have.

Because for the first time ever, I have work and I have me - What I do and who I am. And I like both. Separately.

So for whatever reason you stop by my place, or decide that you like my stuff want to read more, it feels good to be liked and read for ME and not WHAT I DO. Because what I write (if you haven't figured that out yet) is really me. And all that other crap doesn't make me the Motherhood Uncensored that you've come to know.

And I like that. A lot.

On My Way to The Bank

It should say Drugs, Food, Smiles, and Robeez. Yes. I've been in there.

She likes gospel records and he, er, Bryan, likes amphibians. Don't ask how I know this.

Yes. That says Bling Bling with a Touch of Class. Duh.

Free At Last

The number of mennonite moustached nurses it took to hold her down: 3

The number of candies consumed during the process: 2

The number of pair of shoes I bought for her to celebrate: 1

The sheer joy of being freed from the dreaded cast: Priceless

And PS...

This is an appropriate granola baby restraining device. That is all.

Hey, I'm at dot-moms today. Care to visit and say hello? It'll be worth it, I promise. 

Trojans Have Nothing on a Toddler Art Class

After enduring my first toddler art-together class, I have determined that condoms are clearly not the best form of birth control. Quite frankly, I would not be surprised if our poor sweet art teacher decided to never have children.

I know I'm coming off the cusp of writing about how mothers need to bond together and support one another in our choices. However, it's very hard to do that when you're surrounded by mothers who feel the need to lecture the art teacher about how their child is not shredding paper but rather engaging in developmentally appropriate paper cutting. Ack.

Or, the other mother who brought her 15-month old to a 2-4 year old art class and just let her dump an entire tray of paint on the floor while she gives a play by play of everything her other daughter is doing. However,  I was too distracted by her pairing of heels, jeans shorts, and banana clip to remember exactly what her daughter was doing with the "bright yellow paint that is now on the paintbrush, and now making a catepillar, and now on the floor..."

The only thing the class did for me, other than mesmerize my art-obsessed daughter for an hour, was remind me why people hate to be around mothers. Seriously, if I was stuck in a room with these ladies (oh, wait, I was), I would not want to hang out with a mom. Ever.

The developmentally appropriate mom was too busy using her blackberry to actually enjoy the class with her child. Hello. It's called ART-TOGETHER. Her excuse was that her child would only do stuff with someone else, NOT HER. That wasn't surprising to me considering the first thing she said to me after "hello" was "Don't look at him when he comes in or he won't come in the room. Didn't you hear me [I looked at him thinking she was joking and because when someone tells you not to look, um, you look]? I said not to look." Okay, I'm so not ever looking at your child. Yowsa.

The loud sportscaster mommy was clopping around after her 15-month old who was covered in paint while yelling at her other daughter that coloring did NOT mean painting (like you're going to tell a little girl she can't paint when EVERY other child in the room is painting...). She'd come over every now and then and tell my daughter that "daddy's going to LOVE that picture, isn't he?" My daughter just gave her the Go away loud lady stare that my polite smile was trying to say.

And me? I was sitting with my sweet daughter as she painted a glorious picture of a big purple blob.

Look. I know my daughter isn't two yet and everyone (all those really supportive mothers) tries to tell me that I have a rude awakening ahead of me. However, I like to think that my daughter, who still does have tantrums and fits, is inherently kind, gentle, and quietly brilliant. And while a crazy art class might be good birth control for some, it actually made me want to have more kids. And never see those mothers again... at least until next week, in the music class, that I teach. What's that thing about karma again?

Bad Parenting Karma

No matter how angry, whiny, or bored your child is, never, I repeat never, give her your wallet to play with because when you go to the post office to mail five bazillion packages, stand in line for 20 minutes, and then discover that EVERY SINGLE CREDIT CARD and DOLLAR BILL you have is gone, you will be very very very annoyed.

And then you will laugh your ass off when you go home to find them neatly placed in your daughter's new Easter purse, along with daddy's lost car keys, and some lip balm.

She turns 16 2 in July.