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Another good title for this post would be, “The Rookie Rises Again”.  I had it in my head that once I stayed home, my Mommy Guilt would disappear.  This assumption represents a complete ignorance regarding female neurobiology.  Mommy Guilt is as much a part of who I am as my FUGLY feet (not a self-deprecating remark…really, just ask my husband).  Of course, he also says I fart in my sleep, potentially making him a pathological liar.

I’m now through Week 3, and either I’m a glutton for pain, or I’m addicted to these girls.  I’m still not bored, nor do I feel the urgent need to join my girlfriends for lunch…in Aruba.  And by lunch, I mean drinking until I’m numb and fall over in a stupor reminiscent of my college days when JJ and I begged the pizza guy at 3 am to sell us the last slice for 75 cents while standing in a blizzard.  His name was Shannon (once again proving to Greg that I have a memory like A STEEL TRAP BABY), but we called him Gigantore.  Because we were drunk, and that seemed REALLY funny at the time.  We weren’t funny at all, truly had 75 cents to our names, and he, in fact, did not sell us that pizza.  But I digress.

I’m finding that I have time to ponder.  Not in quiet, or in moments of solace, nor would I suggest that I’ve completed a sentence in three weeks.  But in an organically unconscious way, my brain is wandering about, kicking dust out of crevices I’ve either never used or forgotten I had.   I think when I was working, I was always pushing.  GO GO GO.  Always fixing that which was broken at a break neck pace.  I pissed you off? OH GOD NO.  HOW CAN I FIX IT?  Let me take you for coffee so we can work this out!  I LOVE YOU BIG OLD WORLD!  My name is Lori, I think I’m a Wonder Twin, and it is my job to do everything.  Today.  Right now.  THIS VERY SECOND.  There is simply no time for you to me mad at me!  NO TIME!  GO GO GO!

Now?  I’m letting it ride.  I’m allowing the Universe to work some things out for me.  I’m less “in your face” and much more “on your back burner”.  Because I have some time.  Because I care less about the crisis and more about choosing the right books at the library for our afternoon “snack read”.  The part of my brain that is accustomed to handling drama (the amygdala….Kelly, you’ll need that for Neurology Boards), has been reallocated to “how the hell do I entertain Kelly while Sara drowns herself in a joyful round of Reader Rabbit games”?

Therein jumps the guilt gene: balancing the needs of Sara and Kelly never ends.  They are extraordinarily different young ladies.  Kelly could care less about playing with me, and yet I beat my head against the wall in vain attempts to engage her in play.  She is perfectly happy sitting in my lap, smiling at me.  I worry incessantly that I’m turning her into jello, considering the height of our play involves her sticking her finger in my mouth and laughing her head off.  Whereas Sara would be happy to have me as a dedicated play slave every waking hour of her life.  When she sleeps, she would love for me to sit right at her head, counting every breath.  And recording them on some kind of flip chart she could review and check off upon waking.

Every night I sigh in a bit of defeat.  Was I creative enough?  Did they learn anything?  Were they engaged in play?  Did I give them each enough of me?  Did I give Greg anything at all?  Do we still own cats and are they alive or even in the house?  And most importantly, where the bloody hell are my sunglasses?

Even with the guilt I feel I carry like an ill-fitting backpack, “things” are better.  I’ve lost every ounce of baby weight.  Mostly because I think I have a parasite, but who is splitting that fine hair?  No Mom, I’m not seeking treatment.  Every woman who has gained and lost WELL OVER 100 pounds in three years prays for parasites.

My house is significantly cleaner.  I have no idea how.  In 3 weeks I’ve cooked 54 meals, washed approximately 36 loads of laundry, and vacummed until my Dyson actually unplugged itself and begged for mercy.  More odd than the volume of daily work is the detail cleaning.  I’ve washed down all the blinds.  I spent a solid hour tonight looking for one piece of fake plastic toast and the letter “S” from our alphabet magnet set.  WHERE, OH WHERE ARE YOU LETTER S?  I’ve looked everywhere but the lawn, so I’m now waiting for Jack to puke it up.

And finally, I did something a person should never, under any circumstance, do.  I moved the fridge.  I wasn’t being Martha, I promise.  I was looking for that damned S.  Not even in my psycho, BC days (before children), did I move out the fridge.  I’m not friends with women who clean under the fridge.  Nobody is.  Those are the girls in high school who stole your boyfriend by making him heart shaped cookies in Home Ec. while the REAL girls were taking Physics.  But I digress, in a very average a=delta v divided by delta t kind of way.

You won’t be surprised to learn that a 80’s Heavy Metal Rock Band was living underneath my Whirlpool Refrigerator.  Skid Row has apparently been living in my kitchen for 3 years.  We all cracked a cold one, sang a few verses from “18 and Life”, and they went on their way. So much talent, but those whacked out headbangers couldn’t find that magnet either.  GOD!  Get a HAIRCUT and PLEASE DROP A NEW ALBUM!

Tomorrow is Monday.  Monday represents a fresh start at “tackling the guilt”.  It’s a fruitless battle that I will once again lose.  BUT, as I told my father on my back porch last week in a fabulous rare evening of “I have time to just sit and catch up”; I fight the battles worth fighting, not just the ones I think I can win.  Happy Battles to all my fellow Mommies.  May our loss of sanity be some “as of yet undefined” gain for our children.