My freedom only cost me 5 slices of cheese.

There were about ten things my mom drilled into my subconscious as a chitlin.

1.) boys only want one thing.
2.) your home represents you, if your home is dirty that means you are dirty.
3.) fake it till you make it.

I'll spare you this time from sitting through my entire therapy session on why I am the way that I am. So forget the whole list and only focus on #2.

Clean! Clean! Clean! That was my life. If I wanted to go out, better clean up first. If I wanted to have people over, better scrub. If I wanted s new shirt...or to make a sandwich...or to go check the mail....you get it. "Did you clean" was my dream killer. With all that cleaning, you'd think I'd have OCD, instead I have HIN. Hide IT Now. Junk drawer, trash, closet, another junk drawer...I didn't learn to clean, I learned how to make it appear clean. I probably just got confused between #2 and #3 on momma's list.

However, what I did become obsessive about is....people coming to my house. I stress about it. I need at least 2 weeks notice before someone comes over just so I can organize the medicines in the medicine cabinet (because I know nosey people look there!) or rearrange the furniture or hang updated pictures on the wall. I KNOW how horrible that is. I could run the gamut on sistah-girlfriend-talk here. "You can't let what other people think affect you"..."Perfection will kill you"..."Just DO YOU"..

I know...I'm working on it.

Back to the cheese.

We're in the middle of moving, which means everything is a huge mess. I'm in the middle of needing a touch up, which means I'm a hot mess. And guess what happens...

Ding Dong.

You gotta be shitting me.

Nope...Ding Dong again.

Its my neighbor. I hesitate to open the door because I was just cleaning out the kitchen and I have flour all over my shirt (mishap), I have on mismatched shorts, my hair is in uneven pigtails and the living room had become a breeding ground for unfolded clothes and boxes and shoes searching for their mate. Sigh...

I answer anyway because its my neighbor and I want to be neighborly...afterall, what would he think of me if I didn't answer the door? There I go again...

Me: Hey
Apt 4: Hey, sorry to bother you (his eyes are trying to stay focused on me and not the mess or the baby running around in a basketball jersey and no pants because he ran away too fast when I was trying to change him) but could you spare like 5 pieces of sliced cheese?
Me: Sure..

Cheese exchanges hands. Thanks are given. Door is closed.

For the next 5 minutes I start talking loudly like a jackass by the front door about PACKING and MOVING and THIS HOUSE IS SO MESSY BECAUSE I'M PACKING...you get the idea. I want him to hear me so that he knows I'm not messy...I'm moving! And then I catch myself.

I'm still alive. The walls did not crumble. My skin didn't break out in hives. I'm still here and I'm still me, albeit a tad embarrassed, but I'm here and living on. Life moved past that uncomfortable moment of shame. All these years I've been scared to death for someone to see my house in its "natural" state, when its not staged. I don't know what I thought would happen, but it didn't.

Which reminded me of what someone once said to me:

"You wouldn't be so concerned about what people thought if only you knew how little they think of you."

Five stinkin slices of American cheese....that's all it took to break the spell? Who knew!

And...what do I have to be ashamed about? I'm not the one borrowing "spare" cheese. Umph!

I love your breasts, Mommy.

A2 stands proudly when these words come out of her mouth with clarity. She has a lisp and gets irate when she has to repeat her words. Luckily for me I understood her the first go round. Typically though, she's a loving child who lives to give compliments. And generally speaking, I love to receive them..

Here's the "but"....

When my darling, ever caring, wonderfully thoughtful daughter presents me with her gracious appreciation...she is no where near my breasts. In fact, I am standing up and she is standing in front of me (barely 36 inches tall) with her tiny little hands jiggling my....stomach.

Ugh.

The c-section pouch, the couch. I could rent this space to two or three NICU preemies should they ever run out of isolettes at Huntsville Hospital. Maybe I should patent that idea. I'll brainstorm on that later.

Back to me, the couch and A2.

For a moment, I'm stunned. Hurt actually. I've been working out four days a week. I've been "thinking thin", counting calories and even making plea bargains with the universe (ala "The Secret"). I've lost weight damn it, that's what I kept thinking while looking down at her grinning face. She's waiting for me to respond. I want to scream something foul in the kitchen. Curse out the cookies, fist fight the java chip ice cream cartons, talk shit about the chicken nuggets mother and had a girlscout been close I might have snatched off her badges in this fit of rage. But there was just me & A2. And, she's not a girlscout yet.

I take a moment.

I'm raising daughters. I have to remind myself of that fact when I look in the mirror in the morning sans shirt (and bra) or when I step on the scale and feel overwhelmed by motherhood. I can not go racing through the house wailing "Oh My God, I'm FAT!" ...though I imagine there's some sort of therapy in that notion. I can't cry or cringe at the sight of my reflection. The zig zag pattern of stretch marks, the love/hate handles, the after effect of breast feeding, the "couch". These are not scars from a war, but the accolades from birthing the scientist who cures cancer or the future ambassador who unifies the world. This "couch" is the pillow A1-A3 lay upon when they are sick. These love/hate handles are the cushion for little heads to lean against for a sense of security. These now sagging breasts are evidence that I am a real life super hero. And these stretch marks..well those are a post-it notes from beyond telling me that a mother of 3 should not be wearing belly shirts out in public.

Sometimes, you've gotta check yourself.

How will I be able to teach the A's to love themselves entirely, slight flaws and all, if I'm brushing my teeth in the dark to avoid the mirror. Which, I've tried before and ended up with a mouthful of prescription diaper rash cream.

There's always that moment...the second you have before responding. The space in time where you decide to either freak the hell out or ride the wave. And, since I've always thought it would be cool to learn to surf I simply responding by saying:

"That's Mommy's belly, silly"

And again, with all the clarity in the world, she turns to me and says..

"I love your belly too, Mommy"


I can only hope she grows to love her own as well.

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.