The kids wonder why I loose the plot on a daily basis, that’s how the word mumnesia was born. It’s been my saving grace since I stopped breast-feeding the very last child, for 22 years I had “lactating brain” to hide behind. All is forgiven when you have lactating brain. Then 3 years ago, when little miss mischief turned 4, I called it quits, finito, the milk bar has shut up shop. I put my well-used breasts into permanent retirement, expecting the immediate re-emergence of the long dormant quick thinking, intellectual, dynamic brain cells that I once owned. I’m still waiting.
Apparently my intelligent brain cells fled in fear at the sight of my mighty breasts and the life that revolved around them. What I lost in height I made up with cup size. I personally believe that my savvy brain cells having witnessed the effects on the chin, cheeks & belly, flew the coup long before they too were dragged down with the breasts heading perilously southbound towards the map of tassie.
I wish my ex-brain cells the best of luck where ever they are.
There are days when I wish they would return even if its just to pay a short visit, in time of my need. As a mother, business owner, employer, design consultant, public speaker, small business advisor, parent mentor, what’s left of the brain cells allows me to do what all other mothers have to do; juggle. Mothers are the people that can juggle the best.
Most mornings it’s a 5am start at the factory, before 8am I leave to take over the child maintenance shift from Husband who is about to depart for work. Most times it’s easy, some times not.
All’s not well at home when I arrive this morning, darling husband walks out with a scowl and a huff, Little Miss Mischief is in full gemini mode. I seriously consider stowing away in my husband’s car instead of facing a rueful gemini tweeny. She’s cemented on her bed, just in knickers, electric shag hair and a look that could launch a nuclear missile.
At this moment I’d have more chances of surviving a global holocaust than getting her ready for school in the next 10 minutes. Drawing on the two best friends any good parent has; distract & diffuse, the double D method, yet when the situation is dire, the back up plan of ignore & bribe proves itself as a sanity saver. Looks like the IB method will the one this morning. Take a really deep breath.
I ignore the razor sharp dagger eyes burning multiple targets on my being as I toss her, her uniform and march out the door to the kitchen to prepare the special ‘mum style noodles’ for breakfast. A complete bribe that works every time.
I have a truckload of deadlines today to contend with and Little Miss Mischief still isn’t dressed
Scooping up her clothes and tossing them into my Mary Poppin’s bag, I throw her over my shoulder and charge towards the car. We have 3 minutes to get to school before the curfew.
I’m proud she dresses herself en route. We get there on time but the parking lot is full. Why cant there be a kiss and drop off section?
Down two blocks I squeeze my car in. We are now in curfew time that means the office, paperwork and a huff from her teacher, Mrs Personality Bypass. The trilli-second that I’m late will now add another 20 minutes. I have to stand in line with all the other mums reporting to the office for late notes. All in the same irritable mood. One mum asks the admin assistant why do we have to do this? I’m late as it is. Murmurs of agreement can be heard along the queue. The casual “It’s to report child abuse” reply from the office assistant has one mum riled, “What about Mum abuse!! Do you honestly believe I going to write we’re late because I beat my child on that note!!!” Irate mum is waving the late register around furiously with her hands. Lets add another 5 minutes to the 20.
Little Miss Mischief is clutching my leg and I feel her hot tears seeping into my jeans. Protection mode sets in, all I want to do right now is to scoop her up and escape. Drive right on back to 6 years ago when I had everything money couldn’t buy; poverty, love, bonding and the deep satisfaction of knowing that the kids & I could survive it. All we had was each other. Believe it or not there’s quite a lot of freedom in poverty.
Tough love takes over. Withdrawing from the heated scene, I march towards the classroom with my daughter still firmly anchored to my leg and scribbling a late note on the way. The handwriting is a little jerky. Mrs Personality Bypass hands me back the note and demands a proper one from the office. I sigh, but what I really want to say is “Oh you mean the register that costs the school around $50 from the department of education? Let’s just say I saved the school some money this morning. It has my reason, a date and most importantly my signature!” Prizing daughter from the leg, with a strong hug and a kiss I guide the unwilling child inside the classroom before another scene manifests itself.
Not the most intelligent morning, but it was a juggling exercise of some success. I know that by days end, I will have juggled all 350 emails, answered all phone calls important and non important, the large warehouse order will be shipped out today, the new shelving will arrive, the old shelving moved out, the air conditioner will be repaired, accounts will be in order, the missing delivery will turn up and all pigs are on the launch pad and are ready to fly.
When mothers label themselves as a WAHM, SAHM or a GTWM, I say I’m a juggler.
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