I used to have a lovely vocabulary. Sometimes people looked at me like I was making up words, I guess because they had never heard them used in real life before. I imagined them racing home to find their dictionary to make sure the words I used were real. I’m positive they didn’t do that, because they’re not nerdy like me. But the dream was there.
Now, with two kids, those beautiful words have been forced out of my brain, replaced by monosyllabic words like, “no” and “stop it.” Sometimes I string them together to form a run-on sentence: “no no no no no no noooooooooo no no stop it no hey I’m serious I said stop I said wait!” If there’s no one around to see the two little lovelies running and stumbling around my legs-one with my bra and the other with scissors, I probably just appear to be insane. If they do see them, they would probably assume I’m a bad mother. I have no problem with either, because I think I’m both at this point.
For example, last night we were sitting down eating dinner and I said to my husband: “how’s your. . .uh. . . you know. . . that stuff?” I had to gesture with my fork; stabbing in the air toward his plate like Jodie Foster in “Nell.” I knew that it was dinner-time, I knew what we were all doing together, because it’s about the only thing we actually all do together, yet the word was gone. I saw the chicken (orange chicken, by the way, Wan Chai Ferry from a box, I highly recommend), the rice. I know those words, but putting it all together to create that one noun – not there. One of my children has stolen it and hidden it away. It’s probably covered with cracker crumbs and glitter glue so I wouldn’t really want it back anyway.
I think that’s why we moms have created “the look.” Not because we have an unspoken bond with our children. Not because we are exasperated at all times. We have simply forgotten words. The words we need to calmly explain why the situation currently unfolding is not in their best interest. We talk through our teeth and count to three because we are desperately searching for whatever response is appropriate when a four year-old is blissfully smashing Cheerios on the wood floor with our one pair of nice shoes (bought on clearance because we had to get the kids’ summer clothes).
“One (that kind of looks like fun). Two (how do I explain to her that it’s not fun?). If I say three, that’s it (I have no idea what ‘it’ is because I’ve never gotten past two-what if I get to three? Crap). If we’ve done this enough times, however, the child usually stops, pouts and then proceeds to find something else in the house to damage, maim, or otherwise render unrecognizable. The person who invented the counting thing was a genius. Most likely a former genius, now exhausted and unable to have an adult conversation.
Spending the entire day with two small children does not aid in keeping adult words in your head. Watching cartoons and making play-doh food doesn’t require a lot of fancy talk, which is nice for the most part. Not as mind-numbing as one would expect. But there are times when a nice chat about current events not related to talking aquatic cartoons would be nice. And when I find myself questioning said underwater creatures, it scares me a little. (Why is there a lagoon to swim in when it’s underwater? Why do they use cups with straws-can’t they just inhale?) When my suspension of disbelief toward a cartoon is called into question, it’s time to go.
It’s not just the words that I’ve lost, though. I think a lot of women my age found becoming a mom was a bit of a shock. Not actually finding out I was pregnant, that was the plan, but finally realizing what our mothers went through and then trying to survive with some sense of self-that’s the shocking part. It’s hard. It’s painful. It can make you angry. It can make you cry in the shower (the only place we can be alone for about 5 minutes). Most people would respond with exasperation – of course it’s hard, what did you expect?
My response to your “no doy” is this: we’re a generation of women whose moms worked so we were more or less raised by t.v. You can call it an excuse, but I really think there’s something to it. We were taught to believe that misunderstandings happen and some sort of crazy hijinks ensue (think: Greg’s hair turns orange!) but in half an hour, it’s all wrapped up in a nice neat resolution. Everyone pitches in and problem solved. So the reality slaps us in the back of the head with a small Tonka truck and shows us we have to do it all by ourselves.
It gets easier, but we have to work at it. Really work at it. Our moms worked; some by choice, others probably wanted to stay home with us but had to pay the bills so they couldn’t. Maybe two of my friends growing up had a stay-at-home mom. The rest of us had baby-sitters or grandmas and televisions taking care of us after school. So cut us some slack. Or offer to baby-sit if you can do it so much better. In the meantime, turn away if you must, or offer advice (which we will ignore with a smile), or just take away the chainsaw from my child and walk away. Consider it a parting gift just for playing.
