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Something interesting happened when I had kids. I got lost. Not the black- smoke-will-kick-my-ass kind of Lost, but the I-know-I-used-to-be-in-here- somewhere kind of lost.
I look in the mirror and I can see myself on the outside, proof that I do, in fact, exist. I just can’t seem to find the “myself” on the inside some days.
Between drop offs and pick ups and drive thru’s and car pools, I drove off the Me Lane and wound up in the Everyone Else Lane. And there are no u-turns, no off ramps, and in truth very little rest stops.
Now I’m not complaining, although it may read that way. I’m really not. I’m just saying, that’s all. Just statin’ the facts ma’am.
Women talk about the fact that as get older they are hyper aware of their biological clocks getting louder and louder. I’m not worried about that. I’m done. Finis. All incubatored out.
But there is a clock involved. Only this clock is ticking more quietly with each passing day. Sometimes amid all the noise and clatter of two boys, and a Min Pin I find that my clock is drowned out.
And like MC Hammer I want to reclaim my time – without the genie pants. I want to say to my kids as they yank my chain and my pants leg, can’t touch this. And when they ask why, Mom, why? I’ll break it on down for them as I grab my latest read and a glass of wine and say it’s Momma-time.
