Wanting to Change More than Just Diapers

I do not know what I want to be when I grow up. I mean, being the Queen certainly has its perks, but boy, is it a tough job, which is all too often thankless. There are mornings I wake up and I would gladly pass my crown off to the first person waiting in the wings. 

I really never envisioned myself being a stay-at-home-queen.  I knew I always wanted children, but I just assumed I would have the perfect job, which would provide me with the flexibility to have a healthy balance in my personal and professional lives. Yeah right, like that’s realistic.

Ironically, when I was a child, I knew the exact career path I would take as an adult.  I believed I was destined to become the best veterinarian/pop sensation/professional revolutionary/nurse/farmer/lawyer the world had ever seen. And I had no doubt in my mind that I would be successful in all my career choices. I knew I would find the time to do everything and do it all perfectly.  I would carefully create that necessary balance required to have a healthy and stable home life as I successfully blended my singing career with my 24 hour emergency animal hospital while educating and organizing the exploited coffee farmers with whom I would tend the fields in a remote village in Guatemala.  And of course all this would be done while I had a baby strapped to my back in a hand woven sling that I made, naturally.

Needless to say, none of my childhood ambitions were ever achieved.  All except for the one about the baby and these days he does not want to be worn in a sling or even carried since he is now quite mobile and exploring the world on his own terms.  Instead of standing in front of court room championing for unions and universal health care, I stand in front of the kitchen sink soaking and sanitizing sippy cups.  Rather than providing maternal and pediatric medical care to the underserved population in our nation’s inner cities, I serve raisins in pink and purple bowls to my children on a daily basis.  Perhaps my longing for “something else” has become heightened after my recent re-reading of The Feminine Mystique or because I always knew that I wanted more than to become a mom who showered 2-3 times a week, regularly sported hot pink Hanes Her Way sweatpants, and changed so many doodie diapers that she lost count after the first 1,000.  Well, guess what? I have become that mom. Yes, I am that unkempt, sleep deprived mother who has worn holes into her magenta pants, all while trying not to spill my 4th or 5th lukewarm cup of coffee.          

Not too long ago, a dear and wise woman told me that I should not spend so much time figuring out what my next move will be.  She suggested that I should not be so concerned with what I will become, but rather work on bringing my attention into the present moment.  Mindfulness lets us absorb the richness of the moment instead of going through life with half of our attention on the future—something we have little or no control over anyway—she told me.  “You are where you are supposed to be”, she gently stated.  I guess I need to practice joyfully rejoicing in who I am.  I am the Poopie Queen—for now, at least.

To All the Queen Mums

Happy Mother's Day to all you queens out there.  Us queens ought to be celebrated every day, not just once a year, for our dedication, devotion, and compassion.  But even I, the Poopie Queen, am not hailed on a daily basis and I am Ok with that.  I am learning to embrace and relish those moments that simply make me laugh.  Like today when the royal family and I packed up and went to a nearby state park to enjoy the beautiful weather, gather some tadpoles, and poop by a stream.  An outdoor outing would not be complete without one of my princesses squatting outside to relieve herself.  It doesn’t matter if we are playing in the backyard, hiking in the woods, or digging in the sand—my daughters love to pop a squat.  They will be well prepared for the many frat parties that will most likely attend once in college, assuming they take after their Queen Mum.  Princess Poopie Panties had a bit of an upset stomach today, but really, that’s not an excuse.  She would have squeezed something out regardless.  And that she did. 

As we were wading in a shallow brook she proceeds to take off her bathing suit in one foul swoop, bent over, and poop.  Just as quickly, she picked up a rock from the bank of the brook, proceeded to wipe her butt with it, and then tossed it into the water.  I was taken so off guard by her actions that all I could do was laugh.  I am trying my best to just laugh these days.  Life is too short to yell all the time, so I cracked up instead.

***

I wanted to share this Mother’s Day salutation with you.  I received it in the body of an E-mail several years back, so unfortunately I am unable to give credit to its author since I do not know it's origins.

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It's okay honey, Mommy's here.”

For the mothers who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can't be comforted.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.  And all the mothers who don’t. 

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see again. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers at football, hockey, or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me, Mom?”  They could say, “Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat.

For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year.  And then read it again, “just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home—or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be “just fine” once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up— right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who cannot find the words to reach them.

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.  For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway?  Is it patience?  Compassion?  Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?  The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again in your home?

Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation...and mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.

For single mothers and married mothers.

For mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. For all of us.

Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we can. Tell them every day that we love them.  And hope that things turn out alright.

Even a Queen Can Sing the Blues

Yes, indeed it has been some since I have sat down to chronicle the trials and tribulations of the Poopie Queen.  Believe me, my absence has not been because I am lacking material.  Not a day goes by that I do not have a poop related incident.  For instance, one day last week, I noticed something reading “Great Job!” peeking up at me from Prince Doodie Diapers doodie diaper.  Apparently, he ate one of his sisters’ stickers and it came out looking the same way it did upon ingestion. Although I am compulsive recycler and reuser, I decided it would not be the most sanitary thing to wipe it off and stick it the latest piece of art work to come home with my princesses from preschool.  Or, just the other day Princess Poopie Pants did not make it to the bathroom in time because she found it necessary to search for her newest baby doll so she could have company while she pooped.  She ended up pooping all over her dress and proceeded to smear it all over her back and arms upon taking it off.  Not only was she covered in it, literally from head to toe, there was a big wad of poop then lying on the bathroom floor.  No, I am never at a loss for material.  I have been busy dealing with post-partum depression.

There, I said it. Yes, even a queen can get the “Baby Blues.”  No one is immune to post-partum depression.  There is this unfortunate stigma placed upon someone suffering from this debilitating disorder, along with the whole array of other mental health related illnesses, in our society.  After one gives birth to her bundle of joy she is miraculously supposed to be glowing from sheer happiness, not sporting raccoon eyes from severe sleep deprivation.  She is expected to swoon over her newborn rather than complain how sore her nipples are from having this little being hang off of her boobs for hours every day.  A new mother should be elated and excited—even in the middle of the night, after being woken up for the 7^th time—not disheartened and depressed.  Well, the truth is plenty of new mothers, and even some fathers, experience symptoms of post-partum depression. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children—with all my heart.  There is the terrible misconception that mothers who suffer from PPD do not love their children or are incompetent parents.  Certainly one’s PPD can be so crippling that she can become an inept mother.  This was the case with me.  The everyday routine became extremely difficult.  I would cringe when one of my princesses would hang from me in a playful manner.  I felt hopeless and enraged.  I never knew I had the capability of being such an angry person. 

I have been plagued by depression for a large portion of my life.  It was always there, but cyclical in its patterns and I would experience highs and lows.  However, it was not until the months following Prince Doodie Diapers’ birth that I became stuck in this deep, dark hole and did not have the necessary tools to help dig me out.  I lost my shit shovel.  I had access to it in the past and always managed to dig my way out.  I once was able to get my head to resurface, though I may have been covered in and stinking of depressing doo-doo.  Not this last time.  I could not climb out.  Instead it felt as if dirt was being thrown down on me while I was stuck and screaming in this frightening hole.   

I have incredibly fortunate to have some wonderful people in my life: my unbelievably dedicated and compassionate husband, who was willing to do whatever it took to help me; my loving and resilient mother; my supportive and caring fellow mommy friends, who are all beautiful queens in my eyes; and a few highly intelligent and devoted health care professionals.  Oh, and I certainly cannot forget my friends at Pfizer.  I tried so hard not to be pharmaceutically dependent, yet again.  I try to take the natural and homeopathic route whenever possible.  But, a chemical imbalance is just that, an imbalance.  My brain needs some extra help to work properly.  My family needs me to be balanced and present.  I need me to be preforming to the best of my abilities.  When one has the important job of being a queen, and is depended on and expected to live up to all the expectations placed upon a matriarchal monarch, she needs to be on her A game at all times.  She needs to be on her Zoloft.