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Working Mama's Kitchen, 7:27 a.m.

1/31/2017

By Annie

Someday, my kitchen will not be filled with five bodies at 7:27 a.m., approximately seven minutes post intended departure time as I try to weave my way through chaos and humans, frantically packing my lunch and searching for the lid to my travel mug. Someday, there will be no tiny bodies sprawled out on the floor in front of the heating vents. Someday, there will be no ranting almost-tween sugaring her morning tea, no dog anticipating scraps of bread and lunch meat. Someday there will be no couch cushion cover air-drying on the chair after a toddler pissed on it in her sleep, no crusty booster seat on the table, no clutter, no screeching, no obstacle course to get from one side of the room to the other. I will be disproportionately wistful and will pause to look at the empty spaces...

But this morning, can everyone just get out of my face already? I'm late. I want my coffee. And I want to sit in the silence of my messy car as it carries me an hour away from home.

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Just Settling Down for a Relaxing Family Meal

1/18/2017

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By Mandy

Except that by settling down, I mean holding two squirming kids. And by relaxing, I mean loud, sweaty, anxiety inducing and riddled with toddler kicks. And by meal, I mean whatever I choke down and anything my kid doesn't finish. Because MOTY.

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Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

1/16/2017

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"There are some belligerent people out there, but could you imagine dealing with a person who acts like a toddler, in your face, for 8+ hours a day? I mean, it really is akin to torture. Prisoners have more protection from that than mothers do."

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Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

1/10/2017

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"In moments like my daughter losing her first tooth, I am sentimental about the fleetingness of childhood. But normally, I'm like, 'Do it your fucking self.'"

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Lost in Translation

1/4/2017

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By: Scarlett

I receive a text message from my friend, Chaema, telling me that her son would love to see Desmond during the school holiday. Juneyd and Desmond are friends at school. I knew that Des was really interested in going to La Cité de l’Espace, so we made plans to meet up

Except there is one huge caveat: I speak very little French, barely enough to not sound as if I’m overtly drunk, but maybe giving the suspicion that I might be “on something.” How was I going to communicate important things to Juneyd? Before I let the panic rise a little, I reminded myself that I am a grown-ass lady and can easily handle two young boys at a museum. No big deal. You got this, I told myself.

So, I pick him up and and we’re here, standing in line waiting to buy tickets. He and Des aren’t really talking to each other. I hope it’s just a little phase where they have to warm up to each other, but the silence is uncomfortable to me. So, I surreptitiously take out my phone and type out, “What did you do during the vacation?” to my Google translator. I read it quickly, then turn it off and put the phone away. I practice the phrase once in my head. Then again. I turn to Juneyd:

“Qu’as-tu fait pendant les vacances?”

Shit! I think I mispronounced the e in “pendant.” He looks at me quizzically.

“Quoi?”

“Ummm…”

And I repeat it slowly.

After my third attempt, Desmond steps in and says it or something similar to it and Juneyd answers me in a rapid succession of beautiful French syllables. I immediately feel relief and gratitude for Desmond, and then a shallow shame.

You see, Desmond is 6 years old. Since we came to France 4 months ago, he has seemingly effortlessly picked up the language while I have struggled to learn new words and improve my Spanish-accented pronunciation. Yes, I’m going to say it. At that very moment, I felt jealous of my 6-year-old son. I, the grown-ass woman with a master’s degree, felt jealous of the linguistic abilities of my kid.

I try to shake it off. No big deal. This is awesome, right? My son can speak and understand French! That’s great! But I still couldn’t shake the shame off of me.

Before I know it, we’re next in line for tickets. The cashier calls us forward and I walk towards him. I already rehearsed what I was going to say: One adult and two children, please. I even anticipate the next question: How old are the children? And I answer flawlessly. And then...he asked a third question. What was that? I squint my eyes and lean forward and ask him to repeat more slowly. He does. I still don’t understand. Dammit! I apologize and ask him to repeat one more time. I still don’t get it. Finally, I ask him if he speaks English or Spanish and am crestfallen when he says no. I look over at Des and ask if he could translate for me. I pick him up so that he could see over the countertop.

“He wants to know if you want to see the 3-D film.”

I put Desmond back down and answer the cashier without making eye contact. I pay for the tickets, the rest of the transaction is exactly as I had planned it. Uneventful. We show our tickets to the machine and are inside the museum.

*****

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Mothers of the Year, because we all deserve an award.

Working Mama's Kitchen, 7:27 a.m.

Just Settling Down for a Relaxing Family Meal

Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

Lost in Translation

Categories

MOTY Mamas

Archives

﻿Mothers of the Year, because we all deserve an award.﻿

Working Mama's Kitchen, 7:27 a.m.

Just Settling Down for a Relaxing Family Meal

Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

Overheard at the MOTY Water Cooler

Lost in Translation

Categories

MOTY Mamas

Archives

Mothers of the Year, because we all deserve an award.