Creative multi-tasking. This is not a concept born of the dot com era or from the minds of men in striped shirts who sit behind desks, trying to maximize profit because time = money.
No. Creative multi-tasking is an innate quality of the highly effective housewife and mom. Don't picture a woman mopping the floor and talking on the phone at the same time. Multi-tasking has come a long way since 1950. In fact, this post may or may not be written in the comfort of my bathroom. Despite scientist husband's horrifying lectures about the prevalence of fecal matter on ... pretty much everything, the bathroom remains at the top of my list of safe havens. This is solely because it's the only room in the house with a lock on the door.
Being a mom is a little like being a 20-something chaperone at a college kegger (hang in there, this is going somewhere): I spend a good chunk of time with a little person who has a compromised vocabulary and limited balance. He also drools and finds it funny to spit for no reason other than it feels good to do so. He repeats unintelligible phrases in the hopes that I'll understand and/or find it funny after the tenth time. Or, he makes things like this:
Then there's the physical effect the party has on me. I've accidently touched poop a few times in my career and have woken up with strange bruises and scrapes of which I have no memory of because I was too busy to notice.
There is purple Magic Marker coloured in my armpit at this exact moment in time. I didn't put it there. Ten years ago, I might have second guessed that.
So, in the insanity of raising kids, you learn creative ways to use whatever limbs you have to get "normal" things done. I Bruce Lee'd (new verb, kids) the shopping cart out of the corral at Walmart yesterday. I can't give you the secret details, but carrying a 30lb person and an oversized purse while trying to dislodge a cart (with "much help" from the greeter) is no small feat. I may have ripped my pants, but I owned it. I totally MacGyver-Quadropused that. Minus the mullet.
Don't get me wrong. Everything you read about how rewarding it is to raise kids is absolutely true. If anything, I should thank them for helping me to grow those extra, freakish limbs and connecting neurons that would otherwise be wasting away in the bottoms of cheap bottles of Merlot. Plus, I get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm covertly shaping their little minds into becoming Springsteen fanatics. Win/win.
No. Creative multi-tasking is an innate quality of the highly effective housewife and mom. Don't picture a woman mopping the floor and talking on the phone at the same time. Multi-tasking has come a long way since 1950. In fact, this post may or may not be written in the comfort of my bathroom. Despite scientist husband's horrifying lectures about the prevalence of fecal matter on ... pretty much everything, the bathroom remains at the top of my list of safe havens. This is solely because it's the only room in the house with a lock on the door.
Being a mom is a little like being a 20-something chaperone at a college kegger (hang in there, this is going somewhere): I spend a good chunk of time with a little person who has a compromised vocabulary and limited balance. He also drools and finds it funny to spit for no reason other than it feels good to do so. He repeats unintelligible phrases in the hopes that I'll understand and/or find it funny after the tenth time. Or, he makes things like this:
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| Chicken-head Barbie. |
Then there's the physical effect the party has on me. I've accidently touched poop a few times in my career and have woken up with strange bruises and scrapes of which I have no memory of because I was too busy to notice.
There is purple Magic Marker coloured in my armpit at this exact moment in time. I didn't put it there. Ten years ago, I might have second guessed that.
So, in the insanity of raising kids, you learn creative ways to use whatever limbs you have to get "normal" things done. I Bruce Lee'd (new verb, kids) the shopping cart out of the corral at Walmart yesterday. I can't give you the secret details, but carrying a 30lb person and an oversized purse while trying to dislodge a cart (with "much help" from the greeter) is no small feat. I may have ripped my pants, but I owned it. I totally MacGyver-Quadropused that. Minus the mullet.
Don't get me wrong. Everything you read about how rewarding it is to raise kids is absolutely true. If anything, I should thank them for helping me to grow those extra, freakish limbs and connecting neurons that would otherwise be wasting away in the bottoms of cheap bottles of Merlot. Plus, I get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm covertly shaping their little minds into becoming Springsteen fanatics. Win/win.
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