Cindy
Droog
Read Cindy's bio and previous columns
February 11, 2008
From A (Amoxycillin) to Z: The Working Mom’s Alphabet
We’re starting to teach
my oldest son the alphabet, and it hit me that as a working mom, “A”
isn’t just for apple any more. In fact, I’ve got an entirely new
alphabet to share.
A is for Amoxycillin,
the prescription to end all ear infections, and frankly, one I’d never
heard of until I had children. Call me lucky, but I haven’t needed it
myself. The past year, I – or my insurance company, to be more exact –
have purchased it at least three times.
B is for the Big
Switch, which is what I call what happens to me every Monday through
Friday at 5 p.m., when I go from singing “How does this project help our
company meet its objectives,” to singing, “The Wheels on the Bus go
Round and Round.”
C is for Calendar
Check. That’s the title of an email I send my husband every Monday
morning to make sure we’re in sync with doctor’s appointments, late
meetings and other shared responsibilities. Before we had kids, C was
used more commonly in the sentence, “So what movie should we see this
weekend?”
D is for Disinfecting.
I’ve become the queen of it. I do toys. I do my computer keyboard. I do
doorknobs. It’s one thing – some days it feels like the only one – I
have control over.
E is for E-mail
friends. I have several of these now. In the past, I considered it a
negative term, using it as slang for friends I blamed for never having
“real” time to spend with me. Now I realize I was an idiot. I need my
e-mail friends. Especially my fellow moms. Otherwise, who’d tell me how
to handle my son’s love for pepperoni and yogurt – simultaneously?
F is for Fantasy
Alteration. That’s what my husband and I call our new fantasy life.
Before, we’d dream of going back to the spot of our honeymoon, a
peaceful Aruban beach, and drinking pina coladas at 10 a.m. Now, we
fantasize about having time to see that movie discussed in “C.”
G is for Gerber Toddler
Meals, that Heaven-sent microwavable invention that allows for sanity a
few nights a week.
H is for Handy Manny,
another sanity saver, whose adventures keep my oldest enthralled for the
15 minutes it takes us to get his baby brother ready every morning.
I, J, and K are for
Imagination building (we’re committed to it with our kids);
Justification, which is what we have to do when we want to spend money
on something other than formula or diapers; and “Kicking kicking,” which
is our phrase for our attempts to teach our son that not everything he
sees is a football.
L is for the Lameness
of not being able to think of an L.
M is for Maid, which is
my ultimate fantasy, even above seeing that movie!
N is for the Nine
o’clock work hour, which is when I catch up on emails these days, and O
is for Old McDonald, which is the song I fear I’m going to break into in
the middle of a meeting while I’m mindlessly doodling, I mean, intently
listening.
P is for Personal
Calls, which I used to frown upon before I had a son with asthma,
allergies and a few other medical issues that require business-hour
discussions.
Q is for Quacking,
which is what I do to make my son laugh, and just like Old MacDonald, I
am afraid I might do to a coworker one day when he needs to lighten up.
R is for Rush Hour, but
not the driving kind. It’s what my husband and I call 6-7 a.m., when
we’re getting four people ready to face one day.
S is for Skipper,
another favorite phrase of ours that distinguishes important invitations
from “would be nice” ones. For example, the Coopers want to have us over
to meet another couple in their supper club? That’s a skipper! We got
invited to another gala? Definitely a skipper! Cousin Susie’s wedding?
Sorry, not a skipper; call the sitter!
T is for Twenty-minute
grocery trips, at which I am now an expert. They take place during my
lunch hour, and require intimate knowledge of every aisle.
U, V, W, X, Y and Z are
kind of like they are in my son’s alphabet books. I could try to come up
with some forced word – like ukulele or xylophone – but that’s probably
not necessary. It’s likely my fellow working moms have their own
alphabets, and as long as next time they sing with me, I’ll be happy
just knowing I’m not alone.
© 2008 North Star Writers
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