The Art of losing myself

I have talent. I can do things others can't. No I can't stand on my head or recite all the state capitals in alphabetical order--I can't do it in any order to be honest.



My talent is magnificent in itself and even though no one in their right mind would probably want it I would be happy to give it away.

Have you seen me?

Name-Erika Washington aka- Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!

DOB-1/6/1980

Height-5'4

Weight-129lbs

Eyes-Brown

Hair-Loreal #234 or 267

An extremely sexy writer with goals and ambitions to write novels and articles for major magazines and newspapers wearing really cute heels.

Last seen: Roaming Albertson's grocery store with food stuck to her dress, a migraine, a crying baby on one hip, a pouty 9 year old behind and a sassy 5 year old stuck on the other leg; unable to string a compound complex sentence together.

Is It My Place?

There are few things in this world that I can boast about. I don't feel like I need to put on airs or display my feathers for all to see. Either you like me or you don't. Either way.....

What I can boast about is my JOB. Yes, my J-O-B. I work hard everyday and I am damn good at it. Every single day I wake up and my job starts instantly. From the moment I crawl out of bed and stumble into the kitchen to 3 am when someone wakes from a bad dream or wet sheets. It's hard, it's thankless and and it's mine. I love it with all my heart and know that this is what I was meant for. None of this is new and most Moms, especially the ones who do it solely without a side job as an attorney or doctor know that we are well underestimated.

Children take you for granted, husbands take you for granted and other women who have never raised a child think you just have it soooo easy. I get it. And unless you've been on this side you will never know. What amazes me are the women who have raised children. Those who had to struggle to get through each day when the baby that had a temp of 101 but they had to go to work anyway. The woman who did it without the help of a husband or grandmother. The same kind of woman who just simply wanted a break after 3 hours of a screaming newborn.

How can you look me straight in the eye and say that I need to get a real job?

What is it about my life that looks easy to you?

What part of raising productive citizens who make wise choices and succeed beyond any of our expectations isn't work?

A person who has never raised three children--three girls can't put themselves in my shoes. A person who was barely there for their own can't even look me in the face.

Everyone can't be me, so don't hate.

A Cooler Spot on the Pillow

I’m 28 years old. This means I was born in the 80’s, a time when women were trying to break through that glass ceiling. These women were forgoing kids and marriage for power suites and corner offices. They wanted to be seen as equals and taken seriously on Wall Street. I remember watching “Baby Boom” the movie with Diane Keaton she was a powerhouse, a force to be reckoned with. Remember she always wore the same really-bland-conservative-grey suite, so as not to accentuate the fact that she had breasts and hips? Working 60 even 80 hours a week just so she could be looked at, not as a women, but an invaluable executive.

I WANTED TO BE HER.

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? That’s why they burned their bras in the 60’s and fought for the freedom of choice and birth control in the 70’s? It was told to us both subliminally and with stentorophonic urgency that we don’t need a man. We could depend on ourselves and do it just as good if not better then a man.

In Junior high school if any one asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I said either a corporate attorney or a best-selling author. I never said I want to be a housewife or a stay-at-home Mommy. Who wants to do that? That’s not an admirable occupation; you can’t possibly use your brain staying home eating bon bons and clipping coupons all day. That kind of woman is only going to pull us 10 steps back, back to a time where women donned aprons and had dinner ready and a highball glass of Maker’s Mark waiting for her man.

I AM THAT WOMAN

Well sort of. I don’t wear an apron; I prefer to just wipe my hands on my low-rise jeans. I clip coupons but I have the majority of them emailed to me. I do not eat bon bons. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen one to be perfectly honest. I do try to have dinner ready and waiting but I’m more likely to drink that highball of whisky (with sour mix) then have one waiting. Besides he likes Bacardi anyway. Still, the fact of the matter is, I love it. I love being at home with my kids. I love being able to run my household and know, emphatically, that no one else can do my job. I can’t be replaced, demoted or terminated.

I guess to the outside world it does look a little trivial when I rattle off my schedule for any given week.


Monday is dance and swimming lessons.
Tuesday we have a play date at the park.
Wednesday is movie day and library story time.
Thursday is another play date with my knitting group.
Friday is family day.
Saturday is craft day and another trip to the library.
Sunday is church and other activities with church friends such as feeding the homeless.



Of course I didn’t include grocery shopping, PTA meetings laundry, vacuuming, mopping, blogging, and all my other motherly duties. You can’t tell me all of that isn’t work that requires brain power. It takes savvy to even find activities for your kids that are fun, educational and affordable.



That’s not the point and this isn’t one of those manifestos declaring that homemakers do just as much and deserve the same respect and admiration as Sandra Day O’Conner. I don’t really care if some think my life is simple or easy. If they think I sit around all day watching soaps and painting my toes then so be it. I don’t have to justify my life choices to anyone.



As a matter of fact, my career path has surprised me just as much as it surprises anyone else my age who asks what I “do”. How an 80’s baby could become a retro mama is a mystery to me. Let’s not forget I’m a black woman, which means I’m really supposed to be out there showing them what I’m made of. Not home scrapbooking shots of the baby using her “big-girl” cup and knitting a cable throw to match my newly decorated master bedroom.

I know I’m not the only one my age who is in the same position. Wondering how we got here when most of our mothers weren’t homemakers. Just as sure as I am that there are women out there who would love to be in my shoes.

Next week: “The Rocky Road to being a Dependent Woman”

Picture credits to: http://www.stitchthrutime.com/