You're not a writer, you're a mom.

So says A1.

side note here: I have A1 (girl, 5), A2 (girl, 4) and A3 ( finally a boy, 14 months).

We're sitting at the table eating a hodge-podge breakfast of oatmeal, Eggos and applesause, my half ass effort to make it healthy. A1 and A2 fight over which one of them can be a firefighter (or as A2 says it a "fighterfighter") when they grow up, as if only one person per family is allowed the prestigious spot. I don't interrupt, I'm learning to pick my battles and allow them to duke it out on their own. I only play referee if I see blood...and even then it has to be a certain amount.

A2: Forget it then. I don't want to be no stinkin fighterfighter anymore.
A1: *strikes a victorious pose*
A2: I'll just be what Mommy is when I growed up.
A1: Fine.

a precious but fleeting silent moment passes before..

A1: Mommy, what are you?

To understand my answer you'd have to know my back story. I was once before a glorious career-minded, ball busting wanna-be ankle-deep in college courses & tuition. And, because of the latter (and because of love, if I'm being honest), I became a glorious excuse making lazy bum web designer who was less "designer" and more insomniac internet addict who needed another title to fill the gap between unemployed and "stay at home lover". He ( Big A) gave me free range to figure out my dreams, all while in the comfort of our cozy ghetto apartment (Baltimore City living) with plenty of snacks, great music and 8 hours of boredom. And what did I discover of myself during this period? I could write.I quickly outgrew jeans. What else? My transcripts were blocked, stopping me from trying to transfer to another school, meaning my ball-busting business student title could no longer apply...and my web designs were constantly a work in progress because of dial up...so this new fangled title of "writer" just seem to fit perfectly. Exhale.

Me: A writer.

It's a comfy little title that I can always run to in a pinch. I liken it to my favorite tee-shirt. When all other outfits seem too boring or too revealing or too "I'm trying too hard"....I dig in my drawer for that one simple gray hanes t-shirt that slips over my head with ease and makes everything in life feel right again. That's what the job title of "writer" does for me whenever Big A and I are out at a company picnic or the company Christmas party. So, ummm, what do you do? Never fails, someone corners me and my insecurities of not finishing college to attack me ask me to explain what I've become in life. I'm a writer. I would get an eyebrow raise. Sometimes even a "wow" would manage to slip through tight lips. Then I'd look for a quick reason to escape...just in case more questions were in the barrel.

Remember all that spare time I had, the 8 hours of boredom, free range to follow dreams? Well boredom took over and so did hormones and scientific experiments to test out which of our two genes would prove to be dominant. Read: We had lots of sex and we're I'm competitive. Due to nature and throwing pennies in wishing wells, a year later I became a mom. Then quickly after, a mom of 2. Then after three years and a slight case of amnesia, a mom of 3 with tied (& retied & padlocked & hopefully burned into ashes) tubes. Perhaps I threw too many pennies in the wishing at once?

I was happy to have a new title, though. This was one that I wouldn't have to run from explaining. I knew I could weave in and out of conversations with ease because I became a member of the stretch mark society. I imagined we'd sit and compare diaherra tales and breast feeding mishaps. Being a mom was the ultimate job in my "fresh from L&D" eyes. I knew I'd be a great mom. I'm playful, imaginative, quick on my feet with responses, I love cookies and I know CPR. How much more would it require of me, I thought. I was right and wrong. I turned out to be a damn good mom. But I underestimated what taking the title of mom entails. How easily mom becomes "just a mom". How getting a gift card for your birthday becomes getting a giftcard that you'll buy baby clothes with. How relinquishing the last bite of every cookie to your baby birds becomes a fact of dessert eating. The title makes you a self-less shadow of you're former self...if you let it. And I did just that.

JeezyCrizzy...am I still talking? Moral of the story...I was (see above) then turned to (see about the middle) then somewhere along the way I became "just a mom" and the title depressed me..so I became "just a writing mom". But don't be surprised if you overhear me at the next picnic say "I'm a writer"...

Back to A1 & A2.

A1: You're not a writer, you're a mom.
Me: I'm both.
A1: What did you write?
Me: A book of poems and journal entries.
A1: Can you read it to me?
Me: One day...
A1: Is it good?
Me: I think so..
A1: I bet it is.

We share the same smile. Weak dimple on the right, deep dimple on the left of our faces, making our smiles crooked. Her curiosity is satisfied for a moment. I enjoy the succulent second of shush.

A1: So, you're a good writer and a good mom, hunh?
Me: I guess so..
A1: I want to be that too.
A2: *taking a break from the snowman she's building out of lumpy cold oatmeal* No I said I want to be like Mommy already.
A1: No, you be a fire fighter, I want to be like Mommy.
A2: I don't want to be a fighterfighter, I want to be my Mommy.

A3 joins the commotion with his cries, face covered in oatmeal. I assume he wants juice.

But maybe he wants to be a Mommy/Writer too.