MP Story by Nikki Estridge (Myrtle Beach, SC)

Stay-at-Home Mom * Mother of 3

I peeled open an eye and listened. It was fairly silent with only a few faint sounds of birds whistling. It was a little too early for my taste. Birds really need a snooze button or an occasional cup of coffee before heralding the dawn. All that to the side, the point is my home was quiet. Not a single child was yelling my name or moaning over any bodily need or issue. I did it. I thought; I finally did it. I woke up before all three of them. I’ve often craved the preemptive strike approach to children; however, mine have always been extremely early risers. I’ve read so many articles and life coaching books referring to day management or discipline, but for me, the fives just don’t come easily. I had always been a night owl until children. Now, I find I’m not a night owl nor a morning dove. I’m more of a mid-morning cockatoo. I come alive after my first cup of coffee and have a burst of energy which has me doing and saying strange preschool motions and songs. The point is, most days I start a little behind the game. This day was different.

I climbed out of bed and wrapped myself in my giant terrycloth yellow bathrobe. Long gone were the days of anything silky or smooth. I found my comfort in my yellow terrycloth bathrobe with its beautiful hot chocolate stains on the sleeve. This robe knew me. I mean it knew me inside and out. It had been a sojourner on this trip through life. It stretched with me through all stages physically and metaphorically. It was there for three pregnancies, multiple night feedings, and many not showered yet conversations. If it could speak I can only imagine the level of intense accountability it would offer. I’m glad it can’t.

Walking into the kitchen, as this billowy mass of yellow, I reached into the pocket and discovered them. They were better than gold. They were the golden tickets. They were the passes to peace, to calm, and to sanctuary. They were pacifiers. Beautiful pacifiers just resting in the palm of my hand, made me immediately think two passies in the hand are better than four on the floorboard of the van. I learned a long time ago with pacifiers it is feast or famine. Slipping the treasure into the kitchen drawer, I knew this was the moment for coffee and my personal quiet time. My bag of Dominican cocoa coffee stood out as if it was my very own crystal ship. Smooth coffee was exactly what I needed, a vacation into depth and leisure. The only problem that existed between the drink and me were child labor laws. My limited web search indicated there could be an issue of indentured servitude in the coffee industry. It certainly did not indicate this particular brand had any involvement but with each sip it became a conflicting scene between taste and a bitter realty of the world out there. In my extreme social advocacy mode, I had debated tossing the bag. It would be my statement, my anthem. This would be a bold move, a stand for social change-even if no one knew except for me…and my bathrobe, of course. Another slow sip and there it came roaring like a building storm and shaking the rafters of the roof; from upstairs it shot down and pierced right through my morning solace-Mommy!!!!!

The Cockatoo showed itself a little earlier than usual and I flew up the stairs. I looked at him and we held a long stare. I went for it. I took the plunge head first. I was going to beat any moody morning blues he was planning to project on me. A song erupted from the depths of my soul. I belted out an emotional purge of manic preschool magnitude in off key horror “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” I was just about to hit my ultimate soprano with “You make me h-a-p-p-y…” and then from the heights of glory I plummeted into his stoic stare. He returned my song with the monotone words “I wet the bed.”

Quickly, I hustled him into the bathroom and turned on the tub water. The commotion stirred the baby and I heard a frenzied “mamamamamamama” from door number two. Door three opened. There stood my responsible, go getter type A eldest immediately discussing her future directoral debut which would require my assistance. With wide eyes at six a.m., she said, “Remember today is the day we make the Magic Tree House book, Good Morning Gorillas, into a screenplay.” Between the tub and entering the baby’s room I managed to reply, “Ofcourse, Gorillas in the Mist, how could I forget?” Slightly disgruntled, yet sympathetic towards her mother, she reminded me that mist was no where in the title. Same ballpark, I reasoned. No ballpark, she stated. The baby was happy to see me and he immediately wanted into the tub with big brother. While stripping the bed sheets, I knew it was going to take some supernatural power to get me through our entire busy day. After all, it was only the beginning.

The morning continued in its usual fashion. We had breakfast, spills, non stop conversation, tantrums, some bickering, two time outs, spills, an extra tubby, some tantrums, playing, laughing, singing, some tantrums, dancing, and more spills. Yes, like the shampoo bottle that says wash, rinse, and repeat; we repeat many of our cycles. After all of that, before us lay the final frontier. We had to make it out of the house, to the grocery store to purchase our contribution to the teacher’s appreciation fruit basket and then onto a meeting at church, all within the next hour. My eldest, miss responsibility, made sure to be at the front door promptly holding her fashion forward seven year old style purse. Talking all the while, she informed me of the contents and purpose behind every item in the bag. I never realized the need for an extra free real estate key chain as possible bribing incentive for the middle child. Apparently, she had thought about this and was prepared for any future inclement temperament. My middle son appeared at the front door with socks removed. He passionately explained that the socks I had chosen earlier were too thick, too short, and had an uncomfortable string that bothered his pinky toe. I took a deep breath and thought again, I’m going to need some supernatural power to get out the door. My sock search began and ended with thin beige worn out dress socks crammed into firefighter boots. As for the baby, he is the third child. Easily enough, I slipped his sister’s shrunken pink socks onto his feet, threw sneakers into a diaper bag and we were on our way.

After a car seat tantrum, a fabulous rendition of On Top of Spaghetti, and an in depth analysis, as to, the whereabouts of Max and Ruby’s parents we arrived at the grocery store. With two boys in the racecar cart and a miniature adult pushing a ‘customer in training cart’, we hit the produce section. With jubilee, we pretended to be scared of the storm raining down on the lettuce. I felt so happy because in spite of every obstacle, we were doing it. We were some how transcending time. We were going to be on time today. Then something happened between produce and register which changed the course of the day. I can still hear myself saying it in a slow deep voice like a drawn out movie soundtrack, “How did your brother get that banana open?” There was now banana on his eyebrows, in between each finger, in his ear, and even a bit on his pink sock. There were no balloons at the register. And then the final blow, “I have to go to the bathroom.” We were so close to the finish line. I saw it but now we were moving in the opposite direction, to the back of the store, to the bathroom.

Eventually, we left the store and I accepted the realty of being late. We began to play eye spy, sing a rousing version of Victor Vito, and as I crossed four lanes of traffic to make a left turn I was still able to comment on the magnificent bubbles being blown in the back seat. I thought, wow, there is a supernatural power that is getting me through this day.

We made it to the church meeting, obviously a few minutes late. As we walked through the parking lot, I smiled at my group. Purse in hand, she led the parade. With her brother behind her ,carrying the free key chain that indeed was used to bribe him out of the van, and my baby toddling next to me in pink socks I felt the greatest satisfaction of my life. We passed a sweet older women that looked our way and with her eyes beaming she said “happy children, happy home”. It was the sweet affirming reward that confirmed my previous thoughts throughout the day. I had been operating in Mommy Power.

Mommy power is the art of sewing together the fragments of life, the broken pieces, the mundane, the simple, the unnoticed, with the special, the miraculous, the awe inspiring realties of life. It is the gifting of taking the very obstacles and stumbling blocks and using them to build a future. It is the very thing that creates security, love, and acceptance. It establishes a child’s individuality and brings a child into harmony. It allows a child to stretch, grow, and reach. It is the very thing that touches the deepest levels in a child’s heart. It is the love that creates esteem and promotes imagination and endless possibilites. Mommy power creates hope and instills something eternal in children. Mommy power sheds light on a single ladybug or makes magic out of a ninety-nine cent bottle of bubbles. Mommy power can produce a bandaid out of thin air or a penny for a wishing well. Mommy power finds its way into every avenue of beauty even in a little parking lot. When I realized the mommy power I had been operating under, an anthem of joy arose in my heart because it meant that every mismatched sock, every skinned knee, every sigh of impatience, every love note, every lost baseball glove, and every quiet sleep well kiss was a precious and perfect note in the symphony of motherhood. With a peace and contentment that surpasses all understanding, I stepped into that building with the deep gratitude for every day that I’ve been equipped with mommy power. And I already looked forward to the next day that I would wake up exhausted and ask for another dose.