I love nap time. Nap time is the best. The world stops inside our cocoon and I can breathe. Stop and be. Me. Yeah, me, not the baby or his mother. Just me. I can ignore the baby. I can ignore the chores. Or I can not ignore the chores. I can do whatever the hell I want. I like that.
And once that little screaming, kicking, eating, nipple pulling, boobie sucking, energy draining, beautiful monster I adore so much my heart feels like it will burst, goes down for the nap. I slip away. Unlatch the suckling baby and sneak away like a teenager, out the window and down the ladder to my version of calm. Like after a rainstorm and the quiet of a rainbow copulates with the sun. Prisms of reflection echo on the horizon. That’s me during nap time – the ejaculation of rainbows and the sunlight having sex. Good metaphor, eh!
This motherhood thing is an interesting muse. I am going to put it out there and not give a damn what other people think. Well, not give a damn what my inner critic thinks. I just don’t want you to judge me. To think I am a bad mom or that I don’t have it all together because let’s face it, we all try pretty damn hard to make people think we do have it all together. That we have it all. We can do it all.
That Rosie the Riveter, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosie_the_Riveter
, had it all. Curl those biceps. We are firm, fit, and ferocious mamas. NOT. I speak for myself and if you are nodding your head as you read this, then give me an AMEN. But if you are that perfect mom who does have it all together. Go on with your bad self. You rock.
I am not fit or firm in motherhood. My muscles flib flab all day long as I stumble over myself. Some days, don’t get me wrong, I am Jackie Joanna Keyser, legs leaping in the air in the perfect 180 degree scissor kick, zooming over the hurdle of daily mama life. Soaring like a serene bird, so smooth. So smooth. Some days are just so smooth. Some moments are so smooth, like quiet jazz and a good Merlot or a sweet kiss, lips curled and interlocked, dancing on the skin so sweet.
And some days…SMACK. My foot gets caught in the (thing the runners use to push-off). I stumble behind the rest of the mothers (in my head I am comparing myself to other mothers) and jog. No, more like trot. OK, I might be speed walking pretty lame. Hands are not pumping. OK – I am crawling. You got me. Then I get a burst of energy so I try to sprint and awkwardly jump over the hurdle. One leg up. Let me soar, damn it. Smack, the hurdle drops to the ground. Shins bruised and the pain of failure prisms in my heart. I have failed this mother task today. But don’t you worry, I will get up, drink a shot of whiskey, and walk off the pain. It’s what we mothers do. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just stare at Rosie a little longer. She’s not judging me today.