Last summer, driving home from Grandma's one weekend, the boys & I stopped along the way to fill the car with gas. While they lounged in their car seats, enjoying the air-conditioned movie theater on wheels, something happened that has not occurred in many, many, MANY moons... a guy getting gas at the pump behind us asked for my phone number.
My first thought was that perhaps I had forgotten to put one of my boobs away after feeding the baby & was advertising something I didn't mean to. A quick check, and nope, the girls were tucked safely away. My second thought was that this myopic, young man with a large tattoo on his neck must be recently paroled, desperate for female company. Which was quickly followed by my third thought… wondering when exactly had I lost my self-confidence to be so completely surprised when some random guy asks for my phone number? I realized that somewhere along the line I stopped thinking of myself as someone who gets hit-on. Has motherhood totally stolen my mojo?
Over the following months I’ve looked everywhere for said
mojo… for that feeling of confidence, sex-appeal, self-assured ease.
So far I can tell you where it’s not…
… in the box of broken crayons that always ends up spilled.
… nestled against the cracked nipples, saggy boobs, or nursing
bra.
… in a middle of the night diaper failure blowout.
… in my new (sensible!) shoes one full size larger than
pre-babies.
… on the shelf that used to be my stomach.
… in the kids lunches that need packing Every Single Day.
… among the little-plastic-toy rubble that used to be a
living room.
… on the time-out bench where I occasionally have to put
myself for yelling too much.
… in the sticky underbelly of the mini-van seats
… at the summit of laundry mountain.
… in the valley of dishes.
… in the crescent of the dark moons under my eyes.
I find myself envious of the women who find rapture in
childbirth, nursing, crafts, cleaning, cutting crusts off sandwiches. Some women who, at first glance at least,
seem to possess an endless well of selfless giving, finding sustenance for
their own souls by nurturing other people.
Or those elusive creatures… Moms who seem to find a balance between the
“me” & “mommy&me” times. I’ve
seen them around, at the park, at music class, at school drop offs. I read their blogs online, filled with fun
kid times, crafty cuteness and adventures near & far… and can’t help but
wonder… how the hell do they do it all and look good too? Is there some trade-off with the
dark-side? Or are they just a whole hell
of a lot better than me at the balancing act?
As I pulled away from the gas station that day, I felt
flattered & horrified in equal measure. Flattered that even in my
unkempt state (I was wearing the super-comfy shorts that I may have actually
slept in the night before, hair in a messy bun because I couldn't find my
hairbrush and a cute-ish tank top that by some miracle had no spit-up on it)
someone I don't know, noticed me. And horrified, because
hello? Mini-van, three kids, wedding ring... clearly unavailable.
And, eeewww... even young, care-free, full-of-mojo me would never give my
number out to strangers at the gas station.
Make no mistake, I do love exactly where I am and who I have
become, but I struggle with finding a place for “just me” among my many other
identities. I miss the easy freedom of my younger days… a time when I didn’t
have to worry about the needs, location or bathroom status of anyone but
myself. As a mother, it is sometimes
hard to express this without feeling selfish or that I am being a whiner. I have no regrets about the choices I have
made in my life, but find myself with a melancholic longing for youth, freedom,
simplicity. I catch a glimpse of that
girl from time to time, a little shy, a lot hopeful, so sure in her sense of
the endless possibilities of life. I
know she’s in here still, patiently waiting between school runs and swimming
lessons. Showing up for a drive alone
with loud music and the windows down. Or
a solitary movie matinee on a random Tuesday afternoon. Or the grand prize, an evening with women who
knew that girl, who have grown along with her, paths crisscrossing on their own
journeys in the motherhood, careers and other worldly adventures.
I have a vague, cloudy memory of feeling this way around the
time I stopped breastfeeding my second son and have to remind myself that I
just* had a baby. (*Just being a relative term… 13 months flew by so fast it really does
feel like it just happened.) I know
that although I will probably never be one of those “all together mamas” who
move with ease from kid/park/chicken nuggets to dress-up/husband/date night, I
will eventually find my way back to a better balance and figure out exactly
where that darn mojo is hiding.
