As I walked outside yesterday, in an ill-fitting, hot pink pajama set with the pants hiked up to my boobs to keep from tripping over the legs, a lopsided ponytail, and just socks, to put something in our trash can, I began thinking about the freedom we mothers have. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about all the freedom we don't have. And I'll give you that. But take this trip with me here for a moment. Have you realized all the freedoms that we actually enjoy? Have you realized that we have the freedom to basically do whatever we want and get away with it in the name of being a mother?
Don't believe me yet? Let's take a look.
When you see a man sitting alone in his car, looking around, worrisome thoughts begin crossing your mind. Is he casing my neighborhood? Swiping children? Does he even have pants on in there? Sorry, guys, but it's true. And how about an older person? A teenager? See?
Now, picture a mother, disheveled, in stained sweats, sitting in a parked minivan. What's she doing? Resting. Taking a moment. Enjoying probably the only silence she will experience that day. Does it matter that she's dressed (and probably smells) like a vagrant?Does it matter that she's been sitting in the McDonald's parking lot for 45 minutes? Do you think Officer Friendly, who's patrolling the neighborhood, is going to approach her with a ten foot pole? Not if he knows what's good for him. We can sit wherever we want, whenever we want, for as long as we want. Believe that.
It usually takes someone with phenomenal ego strength to conquer an entire restaurant meal alone. Who is that lady? An out-of-town traveler? Lonely spinster? Crazy cat lady? Cougar on the prowl? Nope. It's a mother. And she's savoring every last bite of a meal she is lucky enough to enjoy, upright, in a chair, with silverware, and isn't obligated to scrape any of it off of anywhere. I mean, she can if she wants to, but she probably won't.
Temporary (if not Permanent) Lapses in Mental Stability
People generally don't randomly freak out in public places. Okay, maybe in the Dollar Store and that market where nothing has labels and you have to bag your own things, but for the most part, nobody's screaming obscenities or wagging fingers. That is, unless you're a mother. As I was waiting in a rather long, slow line yesterday, behind a woman with three girls, the oldest of which looked about nine, I had a chance to experience this first-hand. The woman got through the line, walked out, and I sort of forgot about them, until one of the girls came flying back into the store, her mother running behind her yelling, "Abigail (or AbYGayL, or Abbbigale, who knows), you are not the ONLY PERSON IN THIS STORE!" as she pushed through the waiting crowd. And I didn't bat an eyelash. And the others didn't, either. Why? Because she's a mom. She can do that.
Dressing Like a Slob
When you're a mother, you are held to a completely different standard than the rest of the world. Basically, if you're out in public with your kids and your body is covered, you pass. Extra points are given for real shoes (not slippers), clothing free of child residue, and materials other than cotton and spandex. And you might as well just rejoin society altogether if you're wearing accessories. You clearly have too much time on your hands. At no other time in a woman's life is it so acceptable to conduct her affairs looking like she just got dropped in Oz. So enjoy it. The only other group that can get away with wearing these getups? College students. But I don't want to talk about them. They get to sleep way too late.
Motherhood, luckily, is an occupation where drinking is widely accepted, encouraged even. Junior draw on the bathroom wall again? That calls for some wine. No one wants to settle down to sleep? Wine. Dinner turn out disgusting? Wine. And pizza. Car trouble and misbehaving tweens? Margaritas, buffalo wings, and chocolate. Basically, there's an ingestible solution to all of your problems. Without the guise of motherhood, you're basically an alcoholic with an eating disorder. Finger lickin' good.
Take a moment and visualize everything you carry around in your purse. Now think about other people carrying the contents of your purse. Young girl? Shoplifter. Old woman? Hoarder. You are at the prime time in your life to haul everywhere, crap that should, for the love of all that's holy, never go inside a handbag.
So, there you have it, ladies. We have some amazing freedoms, whether you realize it or not. The key, though, is capitalizing on those freedoms. So, go on. Have a seat in your car, knock back a few handfuls of purse Doritos, and honor your situation for the blessing that it is. And don't worry. Your box of wine will be waiting right here for you when you get back.
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