I swear it happened over night. I went to bed Monday night and Tuesday morning I woke up and…oh god I can’t even say it. But it happened. There’s no denying it. And I’m not even sure I can fight it. But I’m gonna try my hardest. I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. Hell no. It’s a matter of survival. Of pride. It’s only right and it’s only fair that I get a little more time of not being…
A ma’am.
I’ll be anything else. I’ll be a ‘Miss’; a ‘Hey you’; ‘wench’ even.
Anything but a ma’am.
I’m sure I’ve been called a ma’am before; I am after all one week away from turning 34. But the other day it happened and it was different. It was real. Her eyes meant it. Her expression meant it. Her attitude was genuine.
I was a ma’am to her.
This girl, this conniving evil soulless bitch, had turned to me as I stood, holding my daughter and said the following heartless words--
“Can I help you ma’am?”
What? Ma’am? Who? Me?
Oh no. I don’t think so (head weaving back and forth, one hand on hip, other snapping in the air, eyebrows arched).
But it was. It was me.
The truth is I’ve had my suspicions about a few things lately. Suspicions that have led me to consider something so horrible, so unthinkable that I have to have a glass of wine to calm my frazzled nerves.
Because I think...
I am getting old.
I am becoming a ma'am.
For instance, I’m pretty sure that a pair of jeans I just bought are… (oh shit just say it!) mom jeans.
Sniff sniff.
As for my other clothes I find that I’ve come to prefer comfort over style. Sure I still want to be stylish but it’s somehow not as important as it used to be. If it’s not comfortable, able to be machine washed, or stain resistant you probably won’t find me wearing it.
If you speed by me and my daughter in the parking lot you’ll feel my wrath (well you probably won’t because your going too fast to see my glare and your music’s too loud to hear my yell.)
Let’s see what else.
I don’t ‘understand’ or like the music that kids listen to and when they swear around me I’m offended (I won’t go into it but this makes me a huge hypocrite).
My husband and I have conversations about things like wills, life insurance policies, retirement plans. It’s practical sure, but it’s also…old people topics.
I’m concerned AND interested in things like probiotics, sunscreen, composting and VOC’s.
I’m too tired for sex most nights.
And…perhaps worse of all.
The other day my husband and I were walking through a store and as we passed the women's lingerie section my husband said, “Oh look! They do still make sexy underwear.”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
But I don’t think I can accept all the blame; though I am the only one who can conquer it*.
*It=ma’amness
I think my daughter is responsible for a lot of this. And my husband, cause if it wasn’t for his functioning sperm and his complete support in me being a SAHM. Then maybe…
Anyways.
I know neither one of them did this on purpose. My daughter has no idea that I’m a ma’am; to her I’m only mama. And my husband gave me the greatest gift of my life; even if he does make snide comments about my panties and sweat pants lifestyle.
So though I am going to fight this ma’am thing a little bit longer I’m okay with where I am in life. I’m not going to start wearing miniskirts, Britney Spears t-shirts, and dying my hair blond. I won’t go out and buy the latest crappy music. And I will not start watching The Hills so that I know who all these kids on the cover of the magazines are.
But I think I will dig out some of my hibernating sexy underwear. And maybe I’ll even put them on for a second or two after my daughter goes to bed.
Take THAT ma’amness!

“Uh…hello…my name--“
“We can’t hear you!”
“ Speak up!”
“Oh…sorry.” Nervous throat clearing. “ Okay, my name is Jamie. I’m a stay at home mom to a 22 month old daughter. I’m new to this whole blogging thing--“
“Boring!”
“Hey…what’s on your shirt?”
“What’s on it? Oh, jeez.” Embarrassed laughter. “Who knows? My shirts now doubles as a rag, towel, and Kleenex. This could be chewed up food, snot, spit, who knows. The point is I still wear this shirt out into public.” Voice raises a couple octaves. “Do you understand what I’m saying? In public I use my own shirt to wipe my daughter’s mouth, nose, hands, whatever. AND THEN I KEEP WEARING IT! I grocery shop in it, I go to the park, I even go out to dinner in it.”
“Well then, maybe you should take it off. He he.”
“Take my shirt off? TAKE MY SHIRT OFF! Is that what you said? Okay fine! Here I go taking off my shirt.”
“Ahhhhh! My eyes!”
“Oh God! What happened?”
“What happened? What happened is breastfeeding! That’s what happened. Twenty-two months of nursing. Twenty-two months of sucking, biting, pinching, one round of mastitis and three plugged ducts.”
“But they're so…odd shaped.”
“And what’s the word? Droopy? Flaccid? Saggy?”
“Shut up! I know what my tits look like! I see them every day. But no one told me! No one told me what would happen to them. The areola's, the red nipples, the stretch marks, the veins! I know that after my daughter is done demanding access to my boobs 24/7 they are going to be saggy, stretched out pendulums. I know all this.” Whispering now. “And yet I can’t quite accept it. Not yet.”
Wearily collapse into chair.
“Oh Jesus! She has two bodies. One when she’s standing and one when she’s sitting.”
“What…what happened to your stomach?”
“I had a baby you moron! A nine and a half pound baby. A baby so big she couldn’t get out of my vagina so I had to have a c-section. So now I have two bodies. Now when I sit or lay down I have a muffin top. And look, when I squeeze the skin together on my stomach it looks like a baked potato that’s been left in the microwave too long.”
“Oh God. How is it possible?”
“Why…why don’t you put your dirty shirt back on? Please.”
“I don’t want to be rude but you look really tired; dark circles under your eyes, kind of pale. Are you getting enough rest?”
“Ha! Rest, what’s that? I haven’t gotten enough rest since I was six months pregnant.”
“Maybe you should take a nice bath. Listen to some relaxing music.”
“I don’t think the Wiggles make relaxing music. Plus if my daughter knows I’m doing something as enjoyable as taking a bath she’ll want in on it. She’ll bang at the door and scream for me until I let her in. And if her daddy takes her out of the house and I take a bath I’ll spend the whole time feeling guilty because I’m so glad to finally be alone. Either way I won’t enjoy my bath.”
“Is that your daughter smacking you in the face?”
“Yes, I’m not paying enough attention to her.”
“Did…did she just spit on you?”
“Yea.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“What am I going to do about it? Well…I guess I could tell her nicely not to do that, but she only does it more when I do that. I could raise my voice and look sternly at her and tell her “No!” but that makes her laugh. Or I could give her a time out but she seems to enjoy those. So…I’m going to do…nothing. That’s what I’m going to do for now.”
“So you’re a stay at home mom you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Your house is kind of messy. Don’t you clean? I mean, you’re home all day anyways. And you only have one kid. How hard can it be to clean up after her?”
Heart rate speeds up.
“Yea, asshole I clean. How about you give it a try, see how it goes? Here’s the vacuum. And you, here’s the clean clothes that need to be put away. Have at it.”
Sit down with a smirk on face.
“Hey! Stop it! Don’t do that!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your daughter keeps throwing her toys in front of the vacuum. Oh shit! Look I just sucked up the string to her toy. I think the vacuum belt broke.”
“Don’t worry. I buy them in bulk now. This is the third one I’ve had to replace in six months. Have you got the clothes put away yet?”
“No. Your daughter keeps pushing the hamper away and throwing the clothes around. And it seems like for every item I hang up she pulls two down from her closet.”
“What, you’re not faster than a 22 month old? You better get faster because there’s a whole load of clothes in the dryer that need to be put away too.”
“Stop it! Look your daughter just ground her sweet potato fry into the carpet with her foot! And she keeps asking for bell pepper only to chew it up and then spit it all over the floor.”
“Don’t worry about it. There are dishes to be done. Are the clothes away yet?”
“Most…some…a few.”
“Hey! Your daughter won’t let me do the dishes. She keeps getting in between me and the cabinets and pushing me away from the sink. And she keeps grabbing the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher.”
“She’s only a little girl. Are you telling me doing the dishes is difficult, if not impossible, when she does that?”
“Yea!”
“Well why don’t you go clean the car?”
“Oh, great. That should be easy.”
“You forgot something.”
“What?”
“My daughter. When I vacuum the car she wants me to hold her. So, here you go.”
“Oh…okay. Wow! Look at this car. Have you ever cleaned it?”
“At least once a week. You see how there’s enough food in the back to feed a starving kid in Africa for a week? That’s only from the trip we took to the park yesterday. We were in the car for half an hour.”
“Okay. I’m done. Though my arm’s killing me from holding her while vacuuming.”
“Get over it. Are the clothes done yet?”
“NO! There not done yet! I have to go. All I want to do is lie down in front of the TV with a beer and relax for a couple minutes without someone throwing chewed up food or wooden blocks at me.”
“Yea, I want to take a hot shower and wash all this chewed up cheese off of me. I smell gross.”
“You’re leaving already? But you haven’t watched my daughter practice jumping for ten minutes. And you haven’t helped her collect rocks for an hour. And…”
“No, we’re out of here. But we do have one question. Do you regret becoming a mom?”
“Hell no! My daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s wonderful, and crazy, and beautiful, and annoying, and hilarious, and frustrating, and sweet, and…perfect.”
“She is pretty cute.”
“Damn straight she is.”
“Look, she just threw the phone at your cat’s head.”
“Yep.”