Real Moms Are Not The Focus

In honor of Mother’s Day (you know, the day we’re supposed to take it easy?), I’m dejavuing this entry from a couple of months ago. Happy Mama’s Day to all!

I am the supporting cast to a crew of divas and drama queens.

I spent a good 15 years of my adult life focusing on me, me, me. I was the center of my universe, and I was pretty happy with this.

Now I have three babes, ages 6 and under, and the focus is no longer on me.

MY needs, MY wants, MY thoughts . ..well, let’s just say that I can sometimes feel a bit like this picture illustrates.


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Paying Respects

Our morning started off differently today.

At 9:30am, the kids and I were standing along Main Street waiting for the funeral procession of a local Marine to pass. Sgt. William J. Callahan died in Iraq; he was 28 and the new father of a month-old son he never met.

My kids were wearing red, white and blue, and the girls were holding tiny American flags that the Veterans were handing out to everyone. My little man, D, held a cardboard silver star I had found in the basement; as the procession drove slowly past, he held it above his head. There were hundreds of others like us, standing alongside the road, wanting to show the family that we cared.

After the procession had passed, we walked up the street to the church to hear a bagpipe playing Amazing Grace while those attending the funeral entered the church. We stood there for a very long time, and I am so proud of my children for waiting patiently and respectfully even though I am sure they did not quite understand.

Every day I hear the news that another soldier (or two or three or more) has died in Iraq. There have been processions like the one we attended all over the country. I get a lump in my throat every time I think of that little baby, Daniel Allan, who will never meet his father.

I hate this war. And yet, I want something good to come out of it; some change that will leave the Iraqis in a better place and allow our troops to come home. If not, will they have died in vain? For the sake of all those children whose parents will never come home, I hope not.

Care Free Indeed

I’d like to think that I’m a fairly prepared person. We have Kleenex, bottles of water, snacks, a first-aid kit and even a brand-new portable potty in the minivan (purchased after last weekend’s near-miss bathroom emergency).

Yesterday at the park, though, Jilly waited until we had wandered far, far away from the parking lot to skin her knee. As she screamed, I looked at the damage: a little blood, no dirt—a minor boo-boo by all accounts. However, to Jilly, ANY boo-boo requires a bandage or she cannot stop crying. She believes the bandage has magical ‘no-more-hurting’ powers.

I considered taking all three kids back to the car to get to the first-aid kit, but it was so far away, and this was such a little scrape. I tried to talk sense into her, but have you ever tried to talk sense into a four-year-old?

So, I then rummaged through the contents of my pocketbook which held nothing but my wallet, some makeup, cell phone and checkbook (along with random mom items such as a few crayons, a stain stick and a single diaper). Nothing bandage like at all.

Then, I unzipped the little inside pouch and found a few tampons and a couple of little pink pouches, each holding a pantiliner. I hesitated, and Jilly screamed louder. I then grabbed a pantiliner, opened it up and shoved it down the front of Jilly’s pink leggings until it was over her bloody knee, sticky side against the inside of her pants.

When she stood up, I could see the outline of the pantiliner against her knee, but, voila!, it seemed to do the trick.

She then turned to me and said she needed a Kleenex for her tear- and snot-streaked face. I thought about giving her a tampon (hey, it’s cotton!), but instead, just let her wipe her face on my shirt. Another crisis averted.