Thursday, June 17, 2010

A Thing

You've all heard the old question asked.  How many different 'hats' do you wear? And the answers are always along the lines, 'mother', 'daughter', 'wife', etc.  Sometimes even, we can stretch, yet still find different hats we wear?  'Nurse', 'therapist', 'playmate', 'chauffeur', etc.'
You see as mothers, we do wear a lot of hats.

Lately I've noticed a slightly disturbing trend in my mothering.  The 'hats' I wear are not 'hats.'  I've noticed that at some point, unbeknownst to me, I have turned into 'things'.

Just a sampling of some of the things I have turned into.

Kleenex:  At any given time I may have snot smeered somewhere on my body.  It is more often than not, not my own snot. 

Filing Folder "Did you see where I put that paper? I need it now."  "Well, I remember giving it to you. Where did you put it?"

Weather Channel:  "What will the temperature be tomorrow?"  "What time will the rain actually start?" "Will (insert desired activity) be canceled?"

Garbage Can:  What mother isn't used as a garbage can?  Why do we acknowledge and readily reach out our hand as empty candy wrappers, used kleenex, or discarded food is thrust in our direction?

TV Guide:  Now even though we are not much of a television family, there are those occasions I hear, "What time is 'Arthur' on?"  During the American Idol season, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings upon Mike's arrival home from work it seems I heard, "What time does American Idol start?"  far more than, "Hi, Honey I'm home. I'm so happy to see you." 

Calendar:  Sometimes I feel as though my family sees me with lines and grids across my face.  "What time do I have to be there?"  "When is (insert desired activity)?"  "How many more days until...?"  I have a calendar on my desk.  I have kept one there for...years!  Maybe I need to remind everyone of its existence!

Punching Bag:  There are those days I get the occasional kick, flailing of arms and perhaps a head-butt.  These happen primarily when one year old child is brought from the outside back into the house.  And I, like those punching bags, wobble back and forth precariously until either tantrum subsides or child is set down and I make a quick escape.

Sometimes I think I'd rather just wear (and balance) more hats, rather than believe that at some point in my mothering career- I turned into a thing. 

What about you?  
Are you still a person or have you turned into a thing


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