Don’t You Judge Me

“Don’t you judge me” is my new mom motto. As much as I think it, it should be tattooed on my forehead. Or maybe just printed on a T-shirt for me to wear every single day.

This morning a plumber came to install a toilet and a sink in our master bathroom. He didn’t look like any plumber I’d seen before. He was missing a beer belly and that famous plumber’s crack…thank god!

Having any kind of handyman in the house gives me anxiety. So it’s safe to say I was a big ball of awkward. Throw a tired, cranky baby in the mix and I was even more on edge.

Naturally, the plumber showed up right when my daughter was to take her morning nap. Lately I’ve been putting her down while she’s still awake so she can learn to put herself to sleep. She usually cries for a couple minutes before conking out. I’ve become immune to those cries.

Sure enough, as soon as I closed the door behind me, a wail erupted from the depths of her bowels. A scream I’ve never heard before. Someone was surely torturing her. That was the only logical conclusion. So I went back in. She was fine. To the contrary of her screams, no-one was killing her. I placed her back down and told her it was nap time. As soon as I left, the same god-awful shriek.

It’s not enough to allow a stranger into your home to judge your living conditions, but now that I’m a mom, my parenting skills are on full display and up for debate. I just knew this guy was judging me as an unfit parent for letting my baby cry. But what he doesn’t know is that’s how we roll.

She was asleep within a minute, and I could finally exhale.

Needless to say, she woke up 40 minutes later thanks to the plumber banging around in the bathroom.

As I signed the check over, holding my daughter on one side, he looked at her and said, “So that’s the little one who was crying. Never knew such a loud sound could come out of a tiny person.” I wanted to give him my best “Don’t you judge me” look, but like always with these guys, I just gave a nervous laugh and said, “Yep. That was her. Not a fan of napping.”

See, if I had that tattoo or that shirt, he would’ve gotten my message loud and clear.

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Me Time

A moment to myself…what is that? Is there time to escape to a tropical island? Nope. Is there time to eat a sandwich? Just barely. Thus is the life of a mom with a serial cat napper. It’s rare that my daughter will nap longer than 45 minutes. This makes it virtually impossible to get anything done around the house. Everything is always half-finished. This drives me insane! I don’t claim to be a June Cleaver or Martha Stewart (that’s my mother) but I like to keep a clean, organized space.

Since becoming a mummy I’ve had to say sayonara to the days of a neat and tidy home. I get twenty minutes to straighten up what was left undone from the previous nap and about a whole 90 seconds for “me time.” It seems she has a sensor that goes off when my butt hits the couch and I prop up my feet. As soon as I’m good and relaxed–pop–eyeballs! I can’t imagine how anyone with more than one child gets anything done. That’s got to be the reason why school was invented. Get these kids out of the house so Mummy can think straight, and while you’re at it, teach ’em something.

On the odd occasion she naps longer than 45 minutes, I don’t know what to do with myself. Plenty of time to do all my daily chores and thirty minutes to enjoy whatever show is on Bravo (even though I’ve probably already watched it twice already.) Oh happy day!

Is it bad to admit that sometimes I look forward to naptime? Well…I just did. I wish, as moms, we wouldn’t put these crazy impossible standards on ourselves. We shouldn’t feel guilty for indulging in a little Mummy time. That is what keeps us sane, right? That’s what the handbook said, anyway.