“How huge is my belly going to get?”
I’m sure that we’ve all asked ourselves this question at least once. After Christmas dinner, when we step on the scale, or in my case, when I found out I was expecting my first child. Sure, I was also thinking about other, more serious things, like our financial stability and what color I would paint the nursery, but the belly definitely crossed my mind. That moment, when you first learn that you will become someone’s mother, is filled with emotions. Happiness, fear, hopefulness, confusion, impatience—they’re all running through your mind at once, and it’s hard to think of much else for the remaining 9 months. In fact, those emotions, coupled with the growing belly, make it hard to sleep most nights. It’s like waiting for a Christmas gift that you would give anything to have a peek at.
Some days, I loved being pregnant. This was usually when some kind soul would give up their seat in a crowded waiting room so I could sit down. Or when I was able to cry my eyes out during Titanic without (much) shame, using my rampant hormones as an excuse. Those hormones really come in handy. No, I can’t go to the grocery store today—I’m an emotional wreck. Can’t make dinner, either. Or wake up before 11:00 AM. I can’t lie to you, though—sometimes being pregnant was no picnic. Instances that come to mind include knocking expensive things over with my protruding stomach, throwing up the most delicious pickles and ice cream I’d ever eaten (those hormones!), and sobbing over a Huggies diaper commercial. We tend to forget these not-so-rosy times after the baby is born, which results in child number 2 or 5.
How rude of me! I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Debra. I grew up in Lebanon, TN and I think I’m a better person because of it. Going through life not knowing what David’s Pizza tastes like, wading in the tiny pool at Don Fox Park, or spending the night in the Emergency Room at UMC wouldn’t be much of a life at all. I’m a 21 year old wife and mother who hula hoops and sings loudly. I am a junior in college and I love to write and cook, just not at the same time. I’ve been called unpredictable and occasionally absent-minded. What was I talking about again?
My daughter happens to be the most spirited and hilarious child this side of the Mississippi. She is the reason I started writing this column—to chronicle the weirdness of my life in a form that could be appreciated by fellow moms and human beings. I am the Mother, Interrupted. Why? Because every task, idea, thought process, or shower I’ve taken since I became a mom has been cut short, or interrupted. Before you blame my daughter, know that sometimes, the interruption comes from my husband. He occasionally needs help locating an object 3 inches from his face or not burning dinner. Mother, Interrupted was born of good intentions and a smidgen of wit. It’s no coincidence that “Good Intentions and A Smidgen of Wit” would make an excellent band name.
smid·gen (noun): a small amount
I’m inviting you to join me in taking a non-traditional look at parenting. I’ll try to keep bragging to a minimum, even though my daughter is a genius (okay, that’s the last time, I promise) and I can now successfully make about 15 meals with my eyes closed. Not that I’ve actually tried. Maybe you can add “reading Debra’s column” as one of the many important reasons you choose to read the Lebanon Democrat, and if not, I’ll just pretend you are.
Debra is a young housewife and mother transitioning from wild to mild and braving the waters of PTO meetings and play dates. This is harder than it sounds.
You can email her at firstname.lastname@example.org or visit the website at www.motherinterrupted.com