Rachael is the mom of two little girls, Emily and Jane, and a devoted wife to Chris. She is the witty one in our local mom's play group. In her "spare time" she bargain shops for rugs to replace ones that her daughter spilled bleach on and entertains her facebook masses with her humor.
Enjoy Rachael's words. Surely you'll see why we love NOT being SuperMom and why I love "UltraMom" Rachael!
Rachael with her daughters Emily and Jane (neither of whom were named after literary icons).
As a woman, I fill multiple roles. Every woman does. I can proudly claim the titles “wife”, “mother”, “daughter”, “sister” and “friend”. But one title has eluded my capture these many years. Despite my best efforts, I am not a “super mom”. Oh how I long to be called super. I dream about getting shirts, mugs and cards for mother’s day emblazoned with the words “Super Mom”. But super I am not. Why? I do not hold down a full time job.
Come to think of it, I kind of see the point of view of the world when they label me “Just Mom”. After all, I can’t think of anything less super than being so covered with oatmeal, snot and mystery liquids that my original clothing choice doesn’t make it past 9 a.m..
I certainly don’t feel super when, after feeding my toddler and my preschooler, I finally get to sit down to lunch and my toddler makes a deposit in her diaper. While changing her diaper, my preschooler will inevitably yell, “Mom, I just pooped! Come wipe me!”. By the time I return to the soggy bowl of cereal that is my lunch, the smell of feces lingering in my nostrils, I am feeling about as far as super as it gets.
The other moms at the mall don’t see me as super when I am wildly chasing after one child while trying to get the other child to come to me voluntarily by yelling at the top of my lungs (this never works, by the way).
I am sure that there are many days my excellent husband doesn’t see me as super when he comes home from work to a blubbering mess of a wife who can only blurt out the words, “tantrum… vomit… blowout… carpet… ruined”.
It’s no mystery to me why my cape, tights, “S” emblem and red knee high boots aren’t in the mail. It’s because kids don’t use labels like “super” or “stay at home” or “ultra mom” (This is what I am really longing to be called. Think it will catch on?) because I would like to believe that there are moments when my kids think I’m super. They think I’m super when I take them to the Children’s Garden and they get to take their time exploring. They think I’m super when I make a birthday cake that loosely resembles their favorite cartoon character. They think I’m super when I find a favorite lost toy or am able to produce a comforting blankie at a crucial moment. They think I’m super when I cure minor injuries with Band-Aids, popsicles and snuggles. If my kids had their way, they’d be throwing oatmeal at the Super Mom uniform every morning. And that’s what really matters.
Something tells me that when I go back to work in a couple years and the world finally admits me to the Super club, I won’t feel any more super than I do now. In fact, I have a sneaky suspicion that the veteran moms are right and I will someday look back on these years at home with my kids as the best of my life. Of course, by then, my fading memory will have wiped out all the bodily fluids and tantrums that marked these years. When my kids are grown and moved away, I have a feeling that all I will remember these years for the time I got to spend with my children. I will think of golden days at the park, first steps, first words, playing princess, reading books and singing songs. I will remember my children seeing snow, blooming flowers and helium balloons as great miracles. That’s super enough for me. Even if I don’t get to wear a uniform.