Humor For a Mom's Heart
Being a mom is a roller-coaster ride of exhilarating joys and pull-out-your-hair frustrations. Sometimes a sweet infusion of humor is just what you need to lift your heart to new heights, to heal the hurts of a bad day, or...
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Being a mom is a roller-coaster ride of exhilarating joys and pull-out-your-hair frustrations. Sometimes a sweet infusion of humor is just what you need to lift your heart to new heights, to heal the hurts of a bad day, or to instill your soul with inspiration. ^Samplings from some of your favorite authors -- including Patsy Clairmont, Martha Bolton, Dave Meurer, Nancy Kennedy, and many more -- will energize any worn-out mom and remind you of the joys of motherhood. ^Take a deep breath, inhale the joy, soak up the merriment, and you'll surely find that your heart is lighter, your day brighter, and your soul hilariously refreshed.^
I Am Mommy, Hear Me Roar 1 Nancy Kennedy A long time ago, I gave up using the name on my birthcertificate and just started referring to myself as Mommy. As in: ?Come give Mommy a kiss.? ?Tell Mommy where it hurts.? ?I told you Mommy's ears can't hear whining.? ?Mommy's face looks like this because Mommy just found out that somebody usedher lace tablecloth to wipe off fingernail polish.? I knew I wasn't alone on that either. I know for a fact that none of my friendshave names. We greet each other in the market: ?Hi, Sarah's mom!? ?Hi, Laura's mom!? The vet even calls me ?Blackie's mom.? I may not have a real name, but you know who I am. There's a container of Gakdumped in a corner of my living room carpet and the moldy remains of a peachdeemed too gross to eat stuffed in the cushions of my couch. I walk around thehouse with dryer lint and used Q-tips in the pocket of my robe. I spend themajority of my day behind the wheel of a car-traveling hundreds of miles to andfrom softball practice, cheerleading practice, and trips to the market-yet neverleave the city limits. I can't do a quadratic equation, but I can tell you howto get to Sesame Street. My prayers are often frantic and generally specific. (?Lord, please help mychild throw up in the bucket and not on the wall.?) At times I pray to be madeinvisible, like during PTA meetings when they need someone to chair the fifthgrade fundraising car wash or during the Christmas program when it's my child upon stage singing, ?Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me,? as sheproceeds to slug the boy standing next to her. I know you know me. I wash my children's faces with spit and my thumb. Pick atthe dirt behind their ears. Whine about their whining. Nag about their nagging.Worry that I'll never live to see the day they'll change their underwear withoutcoercion or threats of bodily harm. I have eyes in the back of my head and a nose that can sniff out doggy doo-dooon a sneakered foot fifty yards away. I have ears that can hear Oreo cookiesbeing eaten underneath the covers by a child who is supposedly asleep. With justone sideways glance, I can tell who sharpened her crayon with my eyeliner pencilsharpener and who accidentally-on-purpose let the bathroom sink overflow. A few years ago, you would have recognized me as the one with strained chickenand peas plastered in my hair and a faraway look in my eyes, as I dreamed of alife that was not planned around nap time and late night feedings. I was the onewho, when asked by a poll-taker to name my favorite male television performer,answered without hesitation, ?Ernie from Sesame Street.? Once upon a time I had a stomach that didn't fall to the floor. Once, I had hipsthat didn't serve as a baby saddle and a shelf for grocery bags. Once, I couldeven take a bath. Alone. All by myself. Without someone pounding on the closeddoor, asking if she could use the blue food coloring or ?just wondering? ifSuper Glue ruins dining room tables. If you looked in my closet you'd find baggy sweats with elastic waists; big,long sweaters; and pull-on pants. Forget Bill Blass and Anne Klein, give meHanes Her Way any day. You know who I am. I eat standing up. ?Breakfast? consists of the soggy cerealleft in bowls on the kitchen table, the ends of bread left in the bag, and blobsof strawberry jam scraped from the counter. I grab lunch on the run from adrive-through window and nibble on dinner as I cook it. I finish everyone else