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Health & Fitness

Don't Call Me Mom

When people meet me I am instantly clumped into a group of women called Mom. Moms have been pulled, mashed, and twisted like the multicolored Play-doh on the kitchen table.

I’m at the ER a lot. I have three kids; two are active boys. I was recently there with my five-year-old son Max. He had fallen and the back of his head required several staples. Finally in the treatment area the male physicians assistant said, “So what happened Mom?” I looked around for the man’s mother. Apparently he was talking to me. Didn’t he have my son’s chart in front of him? Couldn’t he take a glance and attempt Mrs. Jalajas? No, instead a man I’ve never met, my age or older, called me Mom. I did not warrant a name—Mom was good enough. I was focused on my son’s bleeding scalp at the time so I let it slide.

When people meet me I am instantly clumped into a group of women called Mom. What were you before you had children? Actually, don’t answer that because it doesn’t matter. Moms have been pulled, mashed, and twisted like the multicolored Play-doh on the kitchen table. After a while, all those new bright happy colors have turned to dried out lifeless grey-brown ready for the trash.

While the title of Mom is not a put-down, it doesn’t have the same respect as being CEO, CIO, or C-anything. To be the chief gives you a lot of respect. I am the chief in this family and yet—where’s the love? While a baby smiles simply because you’re their mommy, children get older and let you know how much you disappoint them.

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I have three children, I hoped for, dreamed about, and wanted all three. No one was a surprise or accident—I wanted very much to be a Mother. But there are times that hearing, “Maaaaameeeee” from across the yard or through the house can get my blood boiling. It’s usually followed with; he hit me… or, took my toy or is touching me, or is copying me. I love being the mother of these beautiful children. Every day I work hard to make their childhood filled with good memories. But rarely are my intentions noticed or met with gratitude. In fact, if you’re looking at motherhood as a way to experience unconditional love, I suggest you get a dog instead.

Being a mom is more than feeding, cleaning, clothing children and keeping them safe. It’s all about your interests, your needs, your desires being put on the far back shelf in an effort to meet the needs of your child(ren). Once you become a mother you see how unimportant you are and how what you want really just doesn’t matter. When you’re the mom it’s a cold hard fact that you’re the end of the line. Baby won’t sleep? Guess you’re not either. Child threw up all over your bed at 3a.m.? Looks like you’ve got work to do. Someone missed the bus and it’s snowing out? Get your boots on. Did you want to do something today like work or meet up with a friend for lunch? Well, the school called and your child has 102° fever, come and get him.

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I went from Claudine McCormack to Claudine Jalajas to Luc’s (or Max’s or Annabelle’s) Mom. I’m okay with all of these transitions—so long as everyone knows that I’m still in here. Society has deemed me the person who will know which diaper or paper towel is most absorbent, what detergent will get my whites whitest, and what fabric softener will keep my clothes smelling fresh days after they’ve left the dryer. I know where the socks are, I know where the other shoe is (trust me, it’s under the couch) my powers for finding that one elusive Lego are unmatched, and apparently I’m the only one who knows how to put the toys away. I swore I’d never be one of “those” and yet here I go driving my kid to lacrosse practice in my minivan.

I am constantly interrupted. Constantly. I cannot speak, I cannot think, I cannot read, I cannot listen, I cannot talk, without someone saying, “Mommy Mommy Mommy….” From the moment I wake up until the moment they are all finally asleep, I will be interrupted. I threaten, “unless someone is bleeding or seriously hurt, do not interrupt me when I am on this phone!” My eye begins to twitch and my heart rate instantly starts to soar the moment the phone rings or at the very thought of having to make a call. At what critical point will one of my children want a drink, help in the bathroom, spill their juice behind the couch, decide to fly, or need stitches?

The university degrees I worked for and the career I have nurtured and built over the past 15 years mean nothing. I have a BS in accounting and technical communications from a stellar school. I have a master’s degree in fine arts from a fantastic writing program. For the past 15 years I have successfully run a small home based business from my home. Many years of networking, maintaining those connections, and my work ethic have allowed me to maintain a decent client roster. Last year one of the other moms at the bus stop told me that once my youngest started preschool I could apply for a job in the cafeteria. The hours were good and you’re off when the kids are off. This woman saw the kids running around my legs and thought I would aspire to work in the cafeteria.

I went from being the person who entered a client’s conference room, considered a person who knew stuff—important stuff—to someone that might consider cafeteria employment. It’s not completely her fault; I haven’t slept in years and my eyes look vapid. I know what clients are thinking when I meet them for the first time, “Can she handle this? Will the kids be an issue?”

If you don’t think being a mom alters what the corporate world thinks of women freelance consultants you’re wrong. I met with a potential new client last year and the meeting went very well. I had secured the deal and was pleased. At the end of the meeting the client and I walked casually towards the elevator and he said that he may be out for a bit because his wife was expecting and due any day. I congratulated him and he said with a large sigh, “Yeah, our third.. don’t know how we’re going to do it.” I laughed and said, “I have three. You’ll figure it out.” Later that afternoon I received a call from my connection chastising me for talking about my children. The client was worried about how I was going to handle the project when clearly; I had a lot on my plate. Why was it ok for the Dad to admit to three children but taboo for me? Because I’m the mommy—and lets face it, we all know that mommy is the one doing all the work.

I went to visit with my son’s preschool teacher for parent/teacher conferences. She pulled out the large binder, which held all my son’s important works from the beginning of school. She turned each page and said; “See how nicely he’s writing his name now?” I smiled in appreciation for all her hard work. Page turned and there was an exercise where he had to finish a sentence. “If I went to the moon I would take along my mommy.”

For me the name mom is reserved for those whom I gave life. It’s a powerful name that should be treated with respect. Every once in a while my husband will look at me in awe and ask, “How do you do it all?” and with a flick of my red cape I reply simply, “I’m Mommy.”

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