At least 7 minutes.
"Mom, we have nothing to eat," complained Jack (even though there are 6 new boxes of cereal on the counter).
"Yeah, and George is thinking about looking at my ankle funny!" hollered Henry.
This is precisely how today began. Which isn't surprising, since it's also how yesterday began.
And, with 5 kids under the age of 11, I'm relatively sure it's also how tomorrow will begin.
I gestured toward the spread of cereal, ignored the concern about imminent visual ankle torture, and uttered my own standard morning greeting: "You cannot be serious."
I vividly remember the months leading up to the birth of our first child (way back when). Details of the many moments between birthing that child and today get a bit fuzzy here and there, but the months leading up to her arrival? Crystal clear.
They were full of anticipation, excitement, and a whole lot of confusion. Not over which bottle was least likely to cause reflux, or which pacifier would ensure a full night's sleep, but instead over the reasons for all the fuss. Why was every mom within a 100-mile radius pleading with me to engage in preemptive mental preparation for the seemingly insurmountable challenges that would surely appear six or seven minutes after the placenta was delivered?
"What's so hard about this motherhood thing?" I wondered. "And why are all these women mourning the loss of their previous existence? Why is everyone complaining about the lack of free time, date nights, sanity, and opportunities to take a shower?"
Clearly, my hormone-induced delusions of grandeur had me convinced that I was going to be the first (and only) mother on earth to be the exception to a rule that's survived for thousands of years. As far as I was concerned, I was going to have it all, do it all, and balance it all with nary a tweak in my perspective or approach.
And then I was going to pack up my little bundle of joy, place her in her car seat where she'd happily sleep for hours (between reading and playing), grab my teeny tiny Kate Spade purse, and continue on my quest for world domination.
Um, suffice it to say: no.
Fast-forward 11 years, 4 more children, 2 dogs, 1 hamster, 1 fish, 1 frog, 27 self-help books, a mental breakdown (or twelve), three or four showers, and one massive acknowledgment: those women who foretold of the hysterical land into which I was about to enter? They were right.
Mostly.
You see, one fine Wednesday afternoon a couple of years ago, I found myself in the grocery store with my kids. By the way, summer grocery shopping in Arizona with kids? Not recommended. I ran into a friend of a friend who didn't know much more about me than that I had multiple children asking -- some loudly and some more loudly -- if they could purchase all kinds of things we've never purchased nor will ever purchase. She casually assumed, "So, with all these kids, I guess you're just a mom?"
I'm sorry, what?
My official bio describes me thus: mom, wife, friend, lunch maker, chauffeur, hostage negotiator, author, on-call plumber, tile layer, guitar student, window washer, and product designer, etc.
If you are a mother, I trust that you understand this, and probably have a few more interesting and unorthodox job descriptions in your own bio.
As I sat in the driveway at the end of that grocery trip, attempting to communicate with the pediatrician's billing office from the front seat of the car (having politely yet unsuccessfully challenged the kids to ascertain who could remain silent the longest), I found myself thinking,
"There has got to be a way to be a mom and a woman -- to acknowledge and nurture each side of myself while being respectably accountable to both."
Be warned ladies: many, many people will tell you that doing such a thing isn't possible. But I disagree. Which is why my Rule 1 is, Self-Limiting Perspectives Are Not Allowed. In my mind, if I want something badly enough, I'll find a way to make it work.
And I did.
I made it work by looking in the mirror and going back to basics (and a new wrinkle reduction cream). "No more wondering whether or not 1-2-3 Magic or SuperNanny is the 'right way,'" I declared. "No more scouring Working Mother magazine for the perfect solution to time management mayhem." And on I went.
When all was said and done, my solution - the only one I've employed that's lasted longer than 82 minutes (and I've employed many) -- was no more involved than defining, acknowledging, and vowing to honor a set of rules.
I came to accept that I can't "do it all" -- only because I don't choose to. And I don't choose to do many things simply because I don't want to. Case in point, if you ever see me with an iron in my hands, it means I'm in need of an intervention.
Despite what everyone else says I should do, despite what everyone else says makes a "good mother," I've learned to trust an approach that, while inclusive of a few unorthodox rules such as "Fly Your Freak Flag High" and "Chaos Builds Character," works for me and for my family.
Because I refuse to accept that being a mom has to dilute who I am as a woman.
Now, if you'll excuse me, someone is thinking about touching someone's ear with his pinky, the dog is clamoring to get outside, the 2-year-old is chanting "canteloupe," and I've got an event in Plano, TX to prepare for.
Elizabeth Lyons is an author and inspirational humorist. She lives in Arizona with her husband, 5 kids, 2 dogs, lone fish named Wanda, and anyone or anything else that may have taken up residence with them in the last 5 minutes. Her website is www.ElizabethLyons.com
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