“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.
Love,
Mom
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 interruptedmom@gmail.com or visit the website at www.motherinterrupted.com
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