Marathon Mom
Homebodies
By Cheryl Gochnauer
Cheryl@homebodies.org
copy2000
(The following is an excerpt from Cheryl#146;s latest book, #147;Stay-at-Home Handbook: Advice on Parenting, Finances, Career, Surviving Each Day Much More#148;, InterVarsity Press 2002.)
As I write this handbook, my daughters, at ages 8 and 12, are neither toddlers nor teens. I like to tell people that I#146;m in the relatively easy years, and it#146;s true. But don#146;t think I#146;ve forgotten what it was like when they were younger! For those who are still tackling 2-foot-tall tornadoes, I say, #147;Hold on, Marathon Mom. It gets better, I promise!#148;
When my husband, Terry, proposed, he didn#146;t use the classic #147;Will you marry me?#148; line. Instead, he asked me to be the mother of his children. Misty-eyed, I agreed.
I didn#146;t realize I had just signed up for the race of my life.
Now don#146;t misunderstand me. I would do anything for our 2 jaunty little redheads. But I#146;m learning motherhood has a lot more to do with running shoes than baby booties.
The glorious days of hitting the snooze button are over. Each morning, the alarm beside my bed fires off like a pistol shot.
My naiuml;ve images of Madonna and Child left in the dust, I#146;m off on a fast track unlike any I experienced in the working world. Relatives and friends cheer from the sidelines, shouting their favorite child rearing pointers and admonitions.
There are no set rules for this tough course, however. I#146;m going to have to figure it out as I go, as the road ahead veers with twists and turns to challenge the most determined marathon mom.
Flipping on overhead lights and whipping back bedspreads, I tickle little bottoms as my kids grope blindly for their covers. #147;Time for school! Let#146;s go!#148;
This morning#146;s hurdles include dressing my preschooler, Carrie, who is yelling, #147;I can do it myself!#148; -- but can#146;t -- and beating my third-grader#146;s rumbling bus to the curb. With a hurried hug and a half-zipped coat, Karen is on her way. Her sister perches expectantly at the window, then waves a pudgy hand and oatmealy spoon, splattering the TV, our cat and herself as she belts out, #147;Bye-Bye!#148;
Bounding up the stairs with Carrie in tow, I dash back to their bedroom. On the floor are five or six discarded outfits that didn#146;t make the first string. Peeling off the soiled garment, I find myself back at the starting line. Howling #147;I CAN DO#133;umph!#148; Carrie#146;s demand is muffled as I do it myself, pulling a stubborn turtleneck over her carrot top.
As the whipping whirlwind continues to swirl, my husband is caught up in the fun, too. Smoothing bedspreads and plopping breakfast dishes in the sink, Terry jogs along beside me for a while, then veers off to his own job.
Running in place, I watch him leave, wondering at the ease with which he separates the track at home from the track at work. How do guys do that? Even when I worked full-time, my mommy track plotted a course right through the middle of my office.
There is no time to think of that now, though. Gathering speed, I face into the headwind. Snatching various hats on and off throughout the day, I sprint through my various roles: accountant, chauffeur, cook, interior decorator, laundress, maid, physician, secretary and preschool teacher. That is just for today. Tomorrow, the course will change, and so will the hats.
By the time Karen bursts in the front door with a backpack of homework and serious case of the munchies, I#146;m beginning to get winded. But there is still dinner to be prepared.
Uh, oh. Mother Hubbard#146;s cupboard is bare. Ready or not, it is time for that most thrilling of all challenges: grocery shopping with the kids.
An hour later, we are back home, with fast food. After streaking down aisles, rescuing teetering boxes and bottles in the wake of my two mini-tornadoes, I decide to let off the pace a bit. The local hamburger joint can do the dishes.
#147;Daddy! Daddy!#148; Karen and Carrie race to open the door as Terry#146;s key turns in the lock. Together, we sit at the kitchen table, munching fries as I don my counselor#146;s hat. Workplace traumas, schoolyard adventures, and household mishaps shared, the course finally begins to wind down.
After homework and splashed-to-the-ceiling baths, it is time for songs and books. With a kiss and snuggle-hug, I tuck in each of the girls and flip off the light.
As I cross the finish line, the imaginary crowd fades into a peaceful contentment. I haven#146;t set a new world record or anything like that, but I have run a good race.
Maybe I didn#146;t realize the implications of saying #147;Yes#148; to Terry when he asked me to be the mother of his children. But I wouldn#146;t trade my marathon for anything. Tomorrow, I get to hack out a fresh course. I#146;m looking forward to seeing what is around that next curve.
Cheryl loves to hear from readers. Write her at
Cheryl@homebodies.org
or visit
www.homebodies.org
, where you can interact with lots of other at-home parents in the active message forums. Also check out your
Homebodies Columnists
#150; there are now more than 20 talented writers who will encourage and equip you in your family-focused lifestyle choice!
Books make great Christmas gifts. Your Homebuddies have several titles they'd like to recommend, including Cheryl's own "So You Want to Be a Stay-at-Home Mom" and the #147;Stay-at-Home Handbook#148; excerpted above.
Check out this link at Homebodies.
To read a sample chapter of "So You Want to Be a Stay-at-Home Mom,"
click here
.
Permission granted for use on DrLaura.com
