I woke up this morning thinking that I would pamper myself.  I would paint my nails after a nice long, candle lit bubble bath.  I would curl my tresses and slip into my silk pajamas.  I could sip English tea and nibble on shortbread.  Perhaps I would lounge in front of the television, watching sappy chick flicks, delicately dabbing the corners of my eyes that always seem to tear up during those kinds of movies.  The children were gone for the day; my husband was out of town.  I’d have the house virtually to myself.

Unfortunately, the bathtub was occupied by a clump of soggy something… I wasn’t quite sure what it was nor was I brave enough to touch it.  I decided to pass on the bubble bath and settled for a long, hot, relaxing shower instead, which had the potential of being relaxing if the water had actually been hot.  My silk pajamas poked out from the bottom of the dirty laundry pile.  The only nail polish I could locate was the girls’ metallic blue lacquer which was as thick as jelly.  What happened to my plum wine?  Nix on the dainty polished nails.  As for my hair, that would also have to wait.  The tiny carcasses of my sponge rollers lay in bits and pieces throughout the house, dang dog! 

Still, the very thought of a warm, soothing cup of tea remained inviting and I moved towards the kitchen in a last ditch effort to salvage my day of pampering.

Hmmm, maybe not.  Whose ever turn to wash dishes had skipped out before doing them so there weren’t any clean tea cups.  I could have just as easily washed my own cup but it seemed pointless since there was no orange pekoe tea thanks to the family’s insatiable thirst for iced tea during the summer months, and green Jasmine just didn’t set the mood, nor did it sound appetizing with shortbread, which was just as well considering that there were only crumbs in an otherwise empty cookie container. 

Improvisation, it’s what mothers do best.  I pulled on my baggy but comfortable sweats and plopped down in front of the TV with the remote in one hand and my 4^th cup of coffee in the other.  With my hair still pulled back in yesterday’s pony tail, I settled down to a Forensic Detectives marathon while munching on a bowl full of crumbs from 5 different bags of chips.

Ahh, there’s nothing like spoiling my inner Diva.  I should do this more often!

At 48 I am considered ‘peri-menopausal’.  I’ve been having hot flashes and mood swings, which isn’t surprising considering that I have almost bled to death once a month for close to half a century.  I was nearly turned inside out 5 times delivering my 5 children.  My body is weathered and worn with not even the slightest hint of it’s former glory.

I remember lying on a hospital bed after the delivery of my second son.  I had blossomed into a DD over night.  When my husband entered the room, his eyes went straight to my chest and he asked ‘Can I keep them?’ 

Motherhood giveth and Motherhood taketh away.  I breast fed all five children and they sucked me down to an A cup.  Now, a couple decades later, my husband barely even notices the ‘twins’ whom have migrated south for the past decade. 

I bought a corset the other day and hoisted the ‘twins’ back up to their original position.  The garment lifted and squeezed in all the right places.  The perky girls pointed gloriously westward.  I had a waspish waist.  I easily fastened the buttons to a fitted blouse and blushed appreciatively when the guys at work remarked on my ‘nice shirt.’ (?)  I didn’t dare breath for the first 2 hours.  I couldn’t breath even if I wanted to for the next 6 hours.  The corset, aka the Anaconda, would not allow me. 

And my dear sweet husband didn’t even notice. 

When I removed the corset I felt as if I was being re-born.  As I released the tiny hooks one by one , my body expanded little by little until suddenly all constriction was gone and I gulped a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs.  The twins succumbed to the gravitational pull of the Earth once again.

Never again!  If my husband wants perky breasts and a waspish waist, he can wear the damn corset himself!  I have finally accepted who and what I am.

I am a 48 year old mother of 5 and it’s okay to be weathered and worn.

Tomorrow is the last day of school before the summer vacation.  Oddly enough I don’t dread the almost 3 month break from school the way I used to when the kids were younger.  Back then I would have to find some way of entertaining them all day.  I actually had to plan and prepare 3 meals a day, 7 days a week, all summer long!  And forget about any ‘me’ time.

It was like being on House Arrest!

This year promises to be different.  There are jobs,  girl friends, boy friends and marching band camp.  The white board calendar that nobody ever remembers to read is covered with psychedelic entries.  Graduations, birthday parties, sleep overs, road trips, picnics, camp-outs, and band competitions.

Suddenly I feel like a wallflower holding an empty dance card while everyone else dances around me.  Summer vacation hadn’t even started and the kids are already booked up.  Their calendar is completely full and I’m not any where on it.  I suppose I should have made an appointment at the beginning of the year.

This was no longer House Arrest.  It’s more like Solitary Confinement.

Time to start erasing some of those entries and adding a few of my own.  

“June 4, Dinner and a movie with Mom (mandatory!)

Memories are funny things.  Mine are mostly based on my senses.   My childhood memories of Mother’s Day for instance are almost completely comprised of fragrances, of burnt pancakes for breakfast, and a bouquet of roses, Mama’s favorite flower.  They smell like paper paste and magic markers on construction paper cards laden down heavily with glitter.  But mostly it smelled like Mama’s hugs, Chanel No. 5 and Love That Red lipstick.

I’ve been a mother for almost 25 years now.  It’s funny how little the aroma of Mother’s Day has changed over the years.  Now it smells like burnt pancakes and a bottomless cup of coffee extra sweetened with hazelnut creamer.  It smells Elmers glue and gel pens on printing paper cards, or beautiful Hallmarks whose sentimental prose pales in comparison to the individual messages added by the kids.  It smells of silk flowers and dandelions.  But mostly it smells like hugs… like hair spray and hair gel, like toothpaste and soap. 

Mother’s Day always did, still does, and I hope always will smell like the love between mother and child.  And you can’t bottle that!

A real mom knows the birth date of all of her children. She knows all of their allergies, their likes and dislikes. She knows the date of every major illness or injury ever sustained by each child. Real moms know their child’s height and weight, shoe size, and even shirt and pant sizes according to individual manufacturer’s sizing. Real moms know their children’s dreams and aspirations, she knows their fears and phobias. She knows what upsets each child, and she knows how to calm each one down. She can recognize her child’s voice shouting ‘Mom’ in a crowded room full of moms and children. Real moms can keep track of dates for all of the ball games and band concerts and coordinate it with her own work and household schedules.

A real mom know the names of the family doctor and dentist. She knows which child gets how much medicine at what time. She knows all the names, addresses and phone numbers for all of her children’s friends, as well as their parents names and work numbers.

In fact you could say that a real mom’s memory is quite exceptional if it weren’t for the teenie, tiny issue all real mom’s seem to have with their own childrens names.

“Mom~ I’m Zack, not Gabe”

“How many times have I told you not to argue with me? If I say you’re Gabe then dang it, you’re Gabe!”

I have 5 children. Most times I have to go through the entire roll-call before I get the right name. And those stinkers will ignore me until I use their name, even if they know exactly who I mean.

But this real mom has a real solution.

Name tags!