Up in smoke – one mommy’s collection of unrealized dreams

Every once in a while, I hear from women who gave up something in order to have children. They lament about a postponed European trip or maybe a successful career long ago set aside in favor of playgroups, Sesame Street, and mood stabilizers.

I feel their pain. I love my husband and kids with all my heart, but let’s not pretend that a woman with a family can have it all. Most of the time, in order to preserve our sanity and strength, we “gracefully surrender the things of youth.” Unfortunately that includes low-cut dresses, back tattoos, and a few hopes and dreams.

For example…

I will never, ever, have a clean floor.

I’ve always wanted to live in a clean house. It’s a simple dream really. When looking for our current residence, I purposefully chose a place that didn’t have carpets. My kids suffer from allergies and their allergist told us nasty stories about how rugs and carpets hide more dirt than what lurks under Mumbai at sundown.

Right. But out of sight, out of mind.

Since moving in at the beginning of July, I’ve stroked out at least once a week trying to keep all the floors clean. It’s a losing battle.

Then Oldest started walking like a ninety-year old.

“You need a cane, old man?” I asked the other night as he intermittently limped, tip-toed, and generally dragged ass.

Turns out the kid has joint issues and needs to wear sneakers around the house. A friend suggested we keep an inside pair and an outside pair.

“Are you trying to drive me insane?” I asked her. “Do you want to see me in bed with a round-the-clock morphine and Paxil drip?”

Ten year-old boys need to be reminded to flush, wash, and blow. They’d never remember to take off outside shoes before coming in or remove inside shoes before leaving.

My life is stressful enough. I told Oldest to keep his shoes on all the time and I’ll mop every day of my life until I’m dead.

I will never, ever, have an FBI file.

This was perhaps my biggest dream all through college. Anyone who is anyone has an FBI file. I was going to overthrow governments in third-world countries, free every zoo animal in North America, and chain myself to at least one member of Soundgarden.

Instead, I fell in love with a Jew ‘Fro and agreed to reproduce.

I will never, ever, go anywhere with ease.

Remember those days when you could pack your life into a tote the size of a ziplock bag, throw it around your shoulder, adjust several crystal necklaces and take off for the week?

The other day I took my kids to Bok Tower Gardens for two hours. You’d think we were preparing to go underground to escape a nuclear disaster. I carried two bags filled with:

- Gluten-free crackers
- Hummus
- Peanut-butter for those who can’t stand hummus (read: Youngest)
- Inhalers
- Benadryl for the inevitable puffy-eyes after I take a deep breath and say, “Smell those blossoms?”
- DEAR books for the fourth time they say they’re bored
- The Who and Van Halen CDs for the sixth time they ask, “How much longer ‘till we get there?”
- Grapes
- Apples – because “not everyone likes grapes, Mommy.”
- Wet wipes
- Hand sanitizer
- 3 canteens
- Enough Tylenol to get me home.
- Camera because Husband always wants to “YouTube that shit.”

Don’t dismiss these as simple pipe dreams. I’m not judging you or those crying jags while you clutch a bikini that will never again see the light of day. Now pass the Tylenol.