Off Duty Mom

Thoughts from an exhausted mom who is NEVER really "off duty"

Archive for the tag “Mother’s Day”

Mother’s Day Post #2

“Embarrassing Things I Hope My Mother Hears About Me.”

by Meredith Bland

from Pile of Babies

I was walking the dog when I slipped on a manhole cover while crossing the street and fell right in front of a car that was stopped at the light. I tried to do the “mime climbing stairs” move when I got up to entertain the driver, but don’t think I pulled it off.

My son started screaming at a puppet show. I went to the front to rescue him and slipped on the wet floor right in front of a person-sized cat puppet. I landed in a perfect split, so I raised my arms over my head like a gymnast after a back handspring. No one laughed.

My husband served me a tamale last week. I didn’t know how to eat it. I had to ask him if I should eat the husk.

I love these stories. These are the moments of my life that I treasure like rare, exquisite gems; gems that most likely fell off the back of a truck and into a pile of cow manure being shoveled by a man in capri pants – they’re that special to me. And when these things happen to me, the first person I want to tell is my mom.

My mother raised my sisters and me to be humble. It was made clear to us while we were growing up that the world did not, in fact, revolve around us (she almost has me convinced.) That has turned me into an adult who does not take herself seriously. At all. In fact, I revel in my mistakes and stupidity – those things we do that connect all human beings because they are moments without planning or pretense. Moments where, more often than not, I make a quick and awkward descent to the ground.

And there is no better audience for those stories than my mother.

I love telling my mom about embarrassing things that happen to me. Whether she groans with me or laughs at me, it is one of my greatest joys. It’s one of the main reasons I started writing humor – I’m always chasing the high I get from my mother’s laughter. That’s especially true because she has a lot of laughing to make up.

My mom has not had the easiest of lives – though she loves me deeply and always has, I was part of the reason for that while I was growing up. I’m a pretty good person now, but I was a terrible, horrible child. I mean, I did not make that woman’s life easy. Not by a long shot. But I could, from time to time, make her laugh. And to this day, when I can make my mom laugh, it feels like the acceptance of a long-overdue apology. I still have a long way to go before I’ll be able to compensate for the time when I was seven-years-old and ran across the street in front of the UPS truck so I could show her how fast I was, or the mean things I said to her as a teenager, or all of the tattoos and bad boyfriends of my early twenties. But I’m going to keep trying.

Mom, you are not going to believe what just happened to me…

 

 

Mother’s Day Series #1

Guest Post

by:  Anonymous Blogger

 

“I Hope My Mom Never Knows…”

It rained in October and where I live this in itself is not unusual.  But, it felt like it had been raining ever since forever ago started.

I was 19 and bored.  I had no good reason to be, mind you, since I was into my 2nd year of college at a fairly prestigious university my parents were all too quick to brag had accepted me just two rainy fall seasons ago.

My girlfriends and I bundled up into cozy cable-knit sweaters and decided to go shopping in one of the trendier sections of our city’s downtown area to relieve our doldrums.

We wandered into a small boutique that had a mysterious “back room.”  The boutique itself was rather pretty and had lots of things that were pink.  Mostly comprised of high-end lingerie, we weren’t off-put either by the salesclerk (who was an ordinary 30-something woman with curly hair and a satin blazer over expertly-ripped jeans) or by the products.  Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up.

My friend, Jasmine (no, not her real name, but a moniker she actually did adopt later that day), was very feminine and was drawn in the front door by a pretty crystal necklace and full-length satin robe-thinga-ma-jig that was hanging in the window.  When we looked around the store, though, we didn’t see the necklace anywhere.

Jasmine asked the clerk who smiled and let her know that it wasn’t actually a necklace, but was really a belly chain.  It was the 90s and this alone wasn’t terribly weird, though I had never seen a belly chain that ornate.

The clerk invited us to see the “other” merchandise in the back room and we thought what you are probably thinking:  there’s sex toys and weird crap back there.

There actually wasn’t.

Instead, there was a slew of rather risque, but altogether uncreepy, Middle Eastern garb fit for what we assumed (and we were right) were bellydancers.

The city where our school was located is known for being somewhat conservative.  I mean, it wasn’t too conservative to have a lingerie store right on a main street, but it was a little too conservative to openly cater to clientelle who were interested in objectifying women in a way that was historically relevant but altogether insensitive to the more modern sensibilities of Middle Eastern culture.

It turns out that this was something of a costume shop that catered to fetishists interested in involving themselves in ancient “art” and was THE place where the bellydancers outfitted themselves for their gigs at the local Egyptian hookah bar and restaurant.

Now, none of us knew that this place had bellydancing.  This is because it was an…unadvertised service.

Jasmine and I over the course of just a matter of maybe 20 minutes found ourselves signing up to perform at what later became a strip show disguised as a “cultural event.”  What cultural event takes place in the basement of a bar and grille, I will never know but it all sounded very unboring at the time.

Jasmine and I performed together a very amateurish strip show where we went full-monty in a room full of middle-aged foreign business travelers.  There was no pole in the room and no stage, but there were interesting things done with finger cymbals.

Thank god there was no such thing as camera phones and Twitter.

I am not entirely embarrassed by this totally out-of-character foray into the seedy underbelly (ha!  see what I did there?) of exotic dance.  But, my mom would fucking murder me if she ever knew about this.

I swear I became a totally normal adult with two Master’s Degrees and 4 kids.  I have a good job and this has somehow not come back to bite me in my now very jiggly ass.

Yet.

Don’t tell my mom, though, K?

Happy Mother’s Day.

 

Join the Off Duty Family

Please consider sharing your embarrassing stories for our Mother’s Day series.  Deadline for entry will be April 30.

What have you done that makes you want to shake your head at your former self?

For Mother’s Day this year, we are looking for stories you don’t want your mamma to know.  (We won’t tell her your story came from you!)

Let the fun begin!

Visit our submission page to send in your story.

Yes, it’s my kid.

Off Duty Mom is proud to feature a special “Hooray for Mother’s Day” special publication!

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Guest Post by Stephanie Friant

You know, the one who starts poking the boy next to him during the end-of-year school show.

The one who has six different projects going on at the same time – then corrects me that it is only three.

The one who pulled the fire alarm at church because he wanted to know what it does.  (Special thanks to Fireman Luke who then handed out stickers.)

And the classic, after dumping all his books on the floor trying to find one particular story, his response to why he hadn’t picked them up was:  “I told [my little sister] to do it.”

He keeps me running.  I have spent so many days trying to get one step-ahead of him, but rarely ever get there.

I hope and pray that I can love him enough that the world will continue to be an adventure, a safe place.  Yet, I also know that at some point, I will be running miles behind him.

He has been, is, and will always be a gift.

He has stretched my mind and heart and spirit in ways I never thought possible.

This being of joy, love and unpredictability has transformed my world, allowing me to embrace the beauty of the unknown.

He is part of me and completely separate.  He is a mirror highlighting all my shadows, yet loving me regardless.

He will always be a bit of a mystery to me, yet in my own way, I get him.  I understand him as only a mother can – a being who miraculously made room for himself inside my own body, and now continuing to make room for himself in the world.  He is of my flesh, and will always be of my heart.

Stephanie Friant is a wife, mom, and friend with a calling for professional ministry.  She loves learning, writing, being outdoors, and helping others on their spiritual journeys.  Stephanie lives with her family in the Twin Cities and retreating to the cottage in Northern Michigan.

An ode to my mother

Off Duty Mom is proud to feature a special “Hooray for Mother’s Day” special publication!

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Guest Post by Jayde-Ashe

I am not a mother but I have a mother.
She is the most motherly mother that a mother could be.
My mother got no choice when they handed out children.
No, instead, my mother got me.

Not a daughter created within her own image.
Not as patient, and gentle, and respectful as she.
A moody child, impetuous, precocious and whiney.
Dismissive of all but the most desperate plea

To behave, sit still, slow down and be careful
To stop pulling away and attempting to flee.
To stop making decisions, always the wrong ones
To protect, and respect, and maintain dignity.

Never once did my mother embarrassingly ask
The question my father asked 13-year-old me.
What the most precious thing that I owned in the world was.
9 letters, 3 i’s and beginning with v.

Never once did my mother fail to be there
When I came back to her grasp in distressed agony.
Upset, disabused and completely forsaken
By a world who was not as forgiving as she.

The path that I chose was as far removed from
The path that she trod, as it could possibly be.
Yet the mother I love refused to pass judgement
On the daughter she raised so diligently.

She listens, reflects and makes gentle suggestions
Pointing out that which I fail to see.
For my youth, and my ignorance, my self-righteous beliefs
Obscure my vision continually.

And for that my mother is the one person in life
Who I admire, and respect, so effortlessly.
A person I now always strive to be like
Though I fail every day, absolute guarantee.

I am a 26 year old wanna-be writer, poet and publisher, enjoying a year of shameless unemployment. I am new to the blogosphere but I can foresee endless potential for procrastination already.  I love coffee, wine and gin, not necessarily in that order. But they are all an essential accompaniment to my other love, a good book.  Most of all, I love my mother, and I’m not ashamed to say it. She is the coolest person I know.

Hooray for Mother’s Day!

Off Duty Mom is proud to feature a special “Hooray for Mother’s Day” special publication!

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GUEST POST BY:

Meredith Ethington

My hands are literally cracking and bleeding. My husband said to me innocently when I was complaining, “Can you just try washing them less everyday?” I scoffed, “No! I wash them when I wipe a butt, and before eating, or fixing a meal, and after going to the bathroom. Which of those should I skip?”

I was thinking about how my hands look like they belong to a 90 year old woman even though I am just a young, 35 year old mama. And, I thought of all the beautiful mother’s day poems out there about a mother’s hands. They are beautiful aren’t they? But, my hands? Not so much. Do these poems really get down and share the nitty gritty that every mother experiences everyday? Not really.

So, I crafted a short little poem of my own, which is ironic since I pretty much hated every poem I had to read during my high school and college years. But, this one came to me pretty quickly.

Busy, Dirty Hands (A Mother’s Day Tribute)

I’m thankful for my mother’s hands, which keep us kids at bay,

From destroying everything she loves, each and every day.

It seems that when I need some help, she says, “Do it yourself!”

So, then I climb up  very high and reach up on a shelf.

Her hands know how to clean up each and every mess I make,

When the shelf falls down, and I move on, to wreak havoc in another place.

Her hands know how to feed the baby, while making dinner too.

They send a text, and help with homework, while the house feels like a zoo.

Those hands wipe our bums 10 times a day, and rarely she complains,

Except, of course, when poop floats in the tub, and she’s almost gone insane.

Her hands are patient when we draw on the couch with a bright red pen,

She uses them to cover her mouth when she wants to remain quite zen.

Her hands catch every single thing that comes out of my mouth,

chewed food and vomit, are just two that no longer gross her out.

Her hands clean up the crusty things that come out of my nose,

when I wipe them on the wall, she says, “That isn’t where it goes!”

Her hands know how to clean and wipe, and clean and wipe again,

They do the same thing over and over, to clean up our pig pen.

Her hands show me so many things, like how much she must love me.

After all those hands have one dirty job, taking care of little ol’ me.

-Written by crazy toddlers everywhere

Meredith is a native Texan, recovering perfectionist, and mama to 3 kids living in Utah. She has been blogging for over 5 years, but just recently decided to make her blog public and get real about motherhood. Her tag line is “far from perfect, but blogging about it anyway”. Because that is exactly what she wants to do. Her goal is to be honest and not just blog all the happy, pretty moments. You can find her over at Faking Picture Perfect.

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