Let’s start with the fact that you are all saying Momo wrong. It’s not actually a name at all. I’m getting ahead of myself, let’s back up.
My former name is Jennifer, just like 1.5 million people in the world at this very moment. I prefer the full name, Jennifer, not Jenny, Jen, or Jay. About twenty years ago I was a really fun person. College was for learning and partying, a perfect balance that tipped one too many times leaving me swearing I would never eat Papa Johns pizza after doing that many beer bongs again. Ever. Sometimes you stick with new found knowledge and sometimes not so much.
After college I considered myself an adult, I entered this new world where I was held responsible for everything, well, except for health insurance, of course, I stayed with my parents for that one, and a cell phone bill, and car insurance, but everything else I paid for myself. I lived with a group of girlfriends standing by me through all the evil boyfriends who thought it was okay to pee on the sidewalk if no one else was around and burping was as good as a hello. My girlfriends and I did yoga, celebrated Sunday-fun-day, partook in bar crawls, and dressed up like respectable sluts during Halloween. We were doing it. Adulting! A win for us!
The fun years ticked by in a blissful blur; I went to work hung over a few times, tried online dating, and bought a dog. Wee! This is fun. Then without warning, my friends started to spread out, dissipate. Like wolves picking off campers wandering away from the fire. One by one, everyone vanished. The second phase of adulating began. Marriage, which was quickly followed by children.
My first bundle of joy came, and my new name was Mom. I swore I’d get my body back before anyone else so everyone would be shocked at how amazing I looked. Little did I know that my cankles would stick around, though not nearly as long as the spare squishy tire that formed around my torso. I could do it though, my spouse was terrific, and we were a team. Sleepless nights? Bring it on; we were ready. Stomach bug? Okay, that’s unfortunate, but we will battle through it. We still saw our friends, though much less frequently, and often a play date was just a reason to talk to someone else trying to swim against the current. This is hard, we would laugh. Ha ha! Funny.
Then we thought we’d add another to the mix, so our second bundle of joy came into the world. And now I have no idea where my friends went. Thank God for Facebook lying to me about how wonderful everyone else is doing so I could compare myself 24-7. Life was in constant motion. Balance? I couldn’t slow things down enough to tell you what we were trying to even accomplish. The house has fallen apart, and for the love of all that is good in the world, if my spouse doesn’t carry up the clean basket of laundry that’s at the bottom of the freaking stairs as he passes by I swear I am going to smother him with a pillow while he’s sleeping tonight.
Oh, sorry. I don’t sleep much. The kids need something every second of the day, every minute of the night. Mom is the most common word used in the house.
As I sit with my coffee, absorbing the warmth through the cup, taking in a deep breath of the fresh, rich aroma I think, it’s so good—Mom! He licked me again!
Their social calendars are more packed than my own, they eat more food than should be possible, my son can only pee on the floor beside the toilet apparently, our dog is so fat from eating snacks the kids leave behind, and dinner is never what anyone wants to eat. I could go on about the craziness of having children.
Mom? Oh [sigh]. That is how you pronounce it. Momo is actually, Mom-Oh, said with a sigh. Because it’s always something, it’s always right now, and it’s always an emergency. Have you seen the picture of Momo? Feel bad for Mom-Oh. She’s freaking tired. One of her kids had the flu while the other was so frustrated with math, they threw their workbook across the living room and into the sink. Mom-Oh has a spouse, but they work a lot. So Mom-Oh is home alone, well not alone, she is home with terrorists, needy terrorists trying to break her. Her black t-shirt dress hangs loosely on her saggy boobs. Her hair hasn’t been groomed by a professional in five months, maybe longer. When did she shower last? Not totally sure. She’s tired, have you seen the bags under her eyes? The smile she tries to plaster on her face is all for show, and really it just looks creepy as hell.
I am Momo, you are Momo, we are all one tired ass Mom-Oh!
Do you want to know what Mom-Oh needs? A nap, a massage, food other than Pirates Booty and fruit snacks. She needs a break! Yeah, she’s scary. We should all be scared of an overtired, overworked mom. Give the girl a break already. When I was younger, we had Bloody Mary, which later in life I realized was a delicious morning buzzy drink, rather than some woman that would appear if I said her name in the mirror ten times without blinking. I’m pretty sure Bloody Mary was also a mom, she looked tired, red-eyed, and angry. Who am I kidding, she was definitely a mom.
Authors notes: If you don’t know what Momo is/was check out an article here. She’s creepy, so don’t open this link in front of your kids. And if you are too old or maybe too young to know how Bloody Mary is, check out this link here. It was a big deal in middle school (age 11-13), a group of girls would go into the bathroom and stare at the mirror, then without blinking, we would chant Bloody Mary and freak ourselves out. “My eyes are turning red!” Well, yes, if you pry them open long enough they will get dry and turn red. But we were convinced she was coming to get us.