Mid-life crisis

I have been whining for years that I need time alone. Being the mother of three, I can rarely pee without having a conversation with a child. Mom, who would win in a fight? Batman or Wolverine? Could we have this riveting debate after I wipe my vagina?

Well, I’ve finally got time to myself and I don’t know what the hell to do. This morning I sat and cried with another mother over coffee. This woman had no idea what she was getting into when she invited me. Our tearful conversation began at the cash register. The barista was training and couldn’t figure out how to key in my order. She may have been frazzled because a middle aged woman was having a nervous breakdown near the scones. An elderly man with a crisp button down shirt and pleated pants (Hello, 1994 is on hold and would like to speak with you.) was standing in line directly behind us. I could practically feel his breath on my neck. He was huffing and puffing because the line wasn’t moving fast enough. He finally tapped my shoulder and asked, “What’s the hold up?” Today is not the day to mess with me. I know you are eager to sit down and read 50 Shades of Grey while sipping coffee with a sugar substitute, but back off grandpa. That is what I wanted to say, but I was taught to respect my elders. I shrugged my shoulders and walked away. He doesn’t care about my mid-life crisis. For goodness sake, he doesn’t even care that his nose hairs are trying to escape, dangling inches from his upper lip.

It hit me like a ton of bricks today. It is the beginning of school for my children, but the end for me. The end of changing diapers, rocking a baby to sleep or teaching a toddler to walk. There are no more babies. My uterus is spent. This phase of my life is over. Sure, my children will always need me, but less and less. My daughter didn’t shed a single tear on her first day. In fact, she was eager for me to leave. I peeked around the corner to see her smiling, playing with another girl. I was proud of my confident, independent little girl. My heart ached realizing how much my baby has grown. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, put on my sunglasses and walked out the door. I suppose it’s time to get to know myself. Well, that or beat the hell out of senior citizens at coffee shops.

Sand storm

I am thinking about entering the next “America’s Got Talent” competition. My skill is more impressive than singing, dancing or eating fire. I can have a complete conversation with my friend despite the fact that our kids (six between us) are constantly interrupting. I have been friends with Tiffany (with a y) since college. We met at Applebee’s where we both worked as waitresses. I didn’t get along with the majority of the staff, but Tiffany (with a y) and I clicked instantly. There happened to be another server named Tiffannie (with an ie). She was my arch nemesis. Tiffannie (with an ie) was the leader of the popular waitress clic. They were like Heathers who served 1/2 price munchies. Tiffanie (with an ie) looked like a linebacker with a Jersey Shore tan and perm. Tiffanie (with an ie) organized bar hops and assigned side work duties. Get on her bad side and you would be stuck marrying ketchup bottles for hours after your shift ended while everyone else was doing shots. She hated me and encouraged others to feel the same. It was no accident that I ended up serving the “regulars” who ate ten rib baskets before complaining about the meat’s temperature to get a free meal. If I was lucky those bastards would leave a 50 cent tip.

I survived these shifts from hell because of Tiffany (with a y). We laughed a lot back then and still do today. Tiffany (with a y) brought her kids to my house this morning. We sat at the kitchen table for hours in hysterics. She shares everything with me and vice versa. Our kids were surrounded by toys and video games, but got bored every few minutes. “I need a drink.” “Can you help me build Legos.” “I have to use the potty.” “Do you know what”….(followed by completely random thought.)
You won’t read this on Pinterest, but sometimes moms just want a little damn peace and quiet. It is too stressful to gossip while playing Barbies.

We decided to take the kids outside to run around. The older boys piled in the trampoline and we planted ourselves in plastic patio chairs. Could we really get ten uninterrupted minutes alone? Tiffany (with a y) was mid sentence, telling a riveting story when a heaping pile of sand landed smack on her face. Grains of sand glistened in her auburn hair. My 3-year-old shouted gleefully, “It’s raining sand!” Tiffany (with a y) had sand down her shirt and in her mouth. We looked at each other and instantly burst out laughing. A true friend can laugh with you through the good times and bad. Even if it means driving home with sand in the crevices of your body.