Wouldn’t it figure that this, being the first really beautiful day in over a week and possibly the most beautiful so far this year, I would be too sick to go out and enjoy it? Today was also the day I was really looking forward to because it’s the only one this week I had wide open without prior obligations.

Last night was absolutely horrid. I was unable to sleep at all except for possibly a few minutes here and there due to (pardon the tmi) the droves of relentless post-nasal drip. I believe I took every legal cold-related product on the market (plus a few illegal ones) without benefit. I even made myself a mug of hot green tea at 3 am which did seem to provide enough relief to allow me about 8-10 minutes of sleeping upright before awakening to the myriad of symptoms accompanied by a kink in my side.

I was hoping when I got up this morning that after taking a shower and another fistful of remedial products I would at least improve enough to be able to meet my friend out for coffee and conversation.

Nope. Still feel like shit.

And I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I’ve popped what because I am having to ingest both the maximum doses of ibuprofen and aspirin every few hours. Since I can’t keep track, I just throw back more pills when something starts terribly hurting again. I am kind of thinking those two aren’t even supposed to be taken simultaneously.

Anyway, in case you are wondering: no, this entry really does not serve a purpose other than lamenting on my pathetic condition. And instead of actually writing 1,000 words, I decided to include a picture. As one would expect after a night like I had, it is certainly not very flattering.

This is me at about 7:00 this morning; unfortunately, with little to no improvement since.

What do you think? Should I make it my avatar?

I now strongly advise that you go wash your hands!

I am a woman who, despite motherhood, wants to live life to the fullest. I reside, however, in a community in which the means I have chosen to accomplish this are often criticized. I am here to provide my perspective, to encourage mothers to self-reflect on their needs, and to impugn the critics of my pursuit. I am optimistic that in time women will reach a balance between caring for others and caring for themselves.

Firstly, the title of this work I imagine to be a foreign concept to some. The terms traveling and housewife do not often go hand in hand. By substituting the latter word with one more befitting, the resulting phrase will conjure recognition. Ah, yes, the traveling salesman! Once upon a time, they were a welcome sight providing the rare opportunity to make a purchase without leaving home and offering immediate gratification to boot. During the fifties, people appreciated the service they provided so much that in 1951 alone, they were a $7 billion industry. These days, however, the majority of us are less than thrilled to find one on our doorstep. Many home-owners even go as far as to affix “no soliciting” labels in plain view to discourage one from ever ringing their bell. Much like a traveling salesman of today, as a traveling housewife I often feel as though I am living in the wrong era, yet we briefly coexist, sharing a tiny dot on the time line–his days numbered to extinction, I preceding the domestic revolution.

In our loss of appreciation for what was once a respectable line of work I find a glimmer of hope. It proves to me that, albeit slowly, we are capable of molding our community sentiment to fit the needs of the times.

Although traveling salesmen are nearly obsolete, harder to shake has been the other role epitomized in the fifties: the oppressive role of domesticity. As I reproach the popular mindset of a bygone era, I challenge the adoption of a new mindset. One in which a ‘traveling housewife‘ would not be the subject of gossip and condemnation. Firstly, we need to nullify the misconception that in order for a mother to be a good one, she must adopt a selfless affect, always ready to serve others, regardless of her own needs.

Perhaps it would help if we consciously appreciated mothers as the world’s most substantial and influential volunteers–volunteers that are responsible for cultivating in the rising generations the confidence, values, and flexibility needed to govern and contribute to society. These volunteers almost always sign on with the support of a donating collaborator and the conception that they are commencing a partnership.  But soon after the baby business takes off she comes to realize that the job is exhausting, frustrating, under appreciated, and comes with little to no time off. Ever.

Is it our wish that those who bear this invaluable responsibility become so depleted they eventually grow resentful or worse, apathetic? The solution is to allow or rather support mothers to intermittently take time to indulge her whims and rejuvenate her spirit in order to maintain a healthy sense of well-being. While it may seem that I would purport such a theory for selfish reasons, in essence, it would come to benefit each member in her family. Furthermore, if implemented by the majority it would perpetuate the betterment of society as a whole.

While each woman has her own preferred method to rejuvenate herself, the pursuit I have chosen in order for me to ‘live life to the fullest’ is exploring some of the amazing places earth has to offer. Experiencing the world beyond the familiar corridors of this nation is paramount to my vitality. Perhaps a fusion of curiosity, intuition and fascination lead to my affinity to travel. Much of it is the novelty of seeing diverse people, places and customs. One thing is absolute: exotic food, enchanting people, and eclectic experiences generate new insights not found in the comfort of conventional surroundings. These elements together are unequivocally the best means to replenish my sense and sensibility.

Do not mistake me, motherhood is often an immensely rewarding job, the benefits from which aren’t measurable in profits or net worth; indeed they are priceless. Some are able to find that cooking, cleaning, and caring for their family is enough to endow their emotional needs. Notwithstanding the rewards and the tremendous love I have for my children, I long for more.

Because I am so passionate about my travels, it would not benefit my family if I were denied these occasional escapes (98% of my time is spent alongside them). My children have no doubt in my love and dedication to them. Devoting time to replenish my soul only enhances my ability to reinforce those elements. Furthermore, by witnessing my enthusiasm they are rendered the confidence to use their imaginations and ingenuity to follow what gives them joy.

With a more flexible attitude (one in which a ‘Traveling Housewife’ is not subject to scoffing and criticism) toward the stringent role held to us, I feel, in turn, a change will occur. Once we start taking more time to replenish our emotional well-being, happier mothers will begin to emerge. It is cliché, but true, that a happy mom is fundamental to a happy family. Promoting my position from “housewife” to “traveling housewife” has literally saved my family business.

To the faint of heart, please be advised that this narrative does contain some graphic material.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a bright and beautiful morn with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air of my sun-drenched kitchen. I was happily hosting our quaint little coffee club of sorts that a couple of friends and I enjoyed at least weekly. It was not long after the other two had arrived, for we had just begun enjoying each other’s company and were barely into our first cups of joe when I caught a faint whiff of an odor that was not a result of something I had brewed. If my suspicions served me correctly, it was likely emanating from my not quite two year old son who was playing nearby. Using my keen sense of smell which is bestowed by motherhood and tantamount to that of a hounds, I began turning my head while instinctively sniffing in his direction. The results: affirmative.

Rising from the table I assured my companions that they would not have to miss me for long since I was a pro at this diaper changing stuff. After all, he is my third child and this would have been in the ballpark of my ten thousandth diaper to change (seriously, I did the math). Admittedly, you can occasionally be thrown a curve ball with unforeseen circumstances, like the time a few years prior when I was changing my daughter’s diaper. Upon wiping a stubborn glob of poo that seemed to somehow be affixed, a thin, string-like substance emerged. “What the…?” I muttered. Just like a long strand of handkerchiefs being pulled from a magician’s hat, the more I extracted, the longer this never-ending enigma grew. I was on the brink of freaking out when, suddenly, the light bulb in my head went off.

Dental floss.

Yes. My child often enjoyed getting into my cinnamon flavored floss to suck off the spicy sweetness. As a result of this incident, I learned that it’s never too early to teach them not to swallow. This advice will prove helpful again someday–do not allow them chewing gum until you’ve made this clear!

Since that was my most unusual experience with diapers to date, it’s fair to say that most changes are rather routine and uneventful. Eager to get it over with and return to socializing with my guests, I intended to scoop up my toddler, carry him upstairs to the necessary supplies and free his little booty from it’s annoying stench. He, nevertheless, was less anxious to have the situation resolved. Just as I bent over to snatch him up he beelined to the nearest corner and dashed behind a faux ficus. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come out voluntarily, I decided to be one step ahead and use my infinite motherly wisdom to devise a plan. My fool-proof plot was to fake a right which would undoubtedly force him out the left where I would swiftly and oh-so-cunningly apprehend him.

The plan would have come off faultlessly if not for this:

Close-up of Exhibit A

Ah, the infamous corner. Just as I diverted my body toward the right to make my fake, WHAM! With great force, my brow bone unexpectedly collided into the corner of our entertainment center, shown above. If you have ever heard the sound of bone fiercely coming into contact with something equally hard, then I don’t need to further explain the resulting thud. After the moment of impact, I immediately placed my hand over the source of the pain, and with my head bent down, sat silently, frozen in shock. I was so jolted that I did not shout or scream or even utter so much as one profane word, unlike any other time I have suddenly encountered bodily harm. I was conscious, yet oddly speechless.

After what seemed like several minutes the shock began to wear off and I slowly removed my hand from my head. Before I had brought my hand to where I could see it, streams of blood spilled before my eyes. It was pouring from the cut as well as the reservoir that had pooled into my palm. As I stood up and began making my way to the kitchen, my always calm and rational friend began to panic at the sight–which admittedly, I found a bit disconcerting. As I started explaining what had happened she told me not to speak since every time my face moved the gash on my brow bone widened.

So much for enjoying a cup of coffee.

The other guest then tended to the now-infamous diaper situation. After managing Brock’s dirty deed she teased, “if you didn’t want to change him, all you had to do was ask!”

By the time our coffee club broke for the day Brock had acquired a clean diaper and I a black eye, liquid stitches, a headache, a gash that would leave a scar, and a medical bill.

Now in addition to my right eye boasting a two-toned iris of blue and brown, it also bears a permanent mark that will forever provide a loving reminder of the joys of having a potty-trained child–and of the occasional pitfalls of motherly-wisdom.

As those who have been reading my blog for a while may have noticed, I am usually quite passionate about my convictions, as well as most things I choose to write about. Today is somewhat different. Due to a great strain on me from a myriad of circumstances, I am temporarily lacking any and all passion. Just as motivation is necessary to be successful in any creative endeavor, writing is a function that can not be forced (not the meritorious sort, anyway).

Right now I feel as if the world is upon my shoulders. I am looking forward to things getting better, for I know in time, they will. However, considering the magnitude of major stresses presently upon me, it is no wonder my usually enthusiastic demeanor is pausing to contemplate, conserve energy, and to prepare for mourning.

In addition to the issues plaguing my marriage which essentially come down to deciding if it something I wish to continue, my friend whom I have mentioned recently expecting a baby boy with a major heart defect, is scheduled to give birth tomorrow. I drove the couple hours to spend the day with her on Friday, knowing it would be my last chance to see her before her life is turned into a whirlwind of hope, worry, uncertainty, and possibly immense grief. She disclosed a few details and other thoughts that she had not mentioned before, as I am sure they are too painful to talk about often.

All things considered, we did have a nice day together and I took the opportunity to appreciate her two-year old son more than I ever had. As I was getting ready to leave for my two-hour drive home, in what turned out to be a very stormy and ominous night, her unborn baby began to stir, pushing so that you could see the bulge protrude from her abdomen. As if to make sure we hadn’t forgotten about him, he moved and pressed outward for everyone to see.

After having time to think even more about her situation during my drive home, I had a very strange and intense dream later that night. I dreamed that the baby was pressing out so far that I began to see the shape of his face through her skin. He continued to protrude further and further, stretching her skin out in front of her. I began to worry he was going to break through, when the next thing I knew I was holding him with one arm. I yelled in disbelief, “Oh my God, he just came out!” but she didn’t believe me at first. I told her, “look! There’s the umbilical cord! He’s in my arm!” I quickly remembered that he will not be able to survive on his own and, panicking, used my other hand to dial 911. I shouted for them to hurry that a baby who can’t survive on his own was just born without warning. Before I knew it, there were people everywhere, coming from all around. We swept his mouth to clear out any excess fluid or debris and it seemed that he was able to breathe fine. I remember thinking how cute he was and the overwhelming feeling of joy and relief that came over me in realizing that he was going to be alright.

Reflecting on the random dreams I have had in the past that have managed to foretell an eminent event, I couldn’t wish more that the happy ending here turns out to be one of them.

Interestingly, I had no idea where this post would go when I began. It appears I found something to write about after all; although I truly fear the details of my next entry.

No, I ain’t foolin’. As if it were Christmas or her birthday or some other occasion known for its gifts and festivities, my nine year old daughter had looked forward to April Fool’s Day since the first week of March. Although somewhat endearing, it is same to assume that she had thus been plotting for at least that long. Fortunately, she was wise enough to leave me out of her silly shenanigans.

I think it turned out that the foolin’ was on her, since she was less than successful in her endeavors. Her main target, assuredly by default, was big sister, Kayli. Either her rationale must have been that she envisioned her father and I to be too smart to fall prey, or none too happy if we did.

After lamenting that Kayli would doubtfully accept an offer of cookies from her on any given day, let alone April Fool’s, she confided the secret ingredient to me. She had ingeniously taken a few Oreos and replaced the white filling with toothpaste. In all actuality, she did a fine good job. They looked like genuine, untampered with food products. Not divulging this to her, but had I been in the market for an Oreo, I totally would have fallen for it.

Running out of possible victims, she knew he was her last resort, but also knew there may be uncomfortable consequences if her prank caused the unwitting party to freak out. “I can’t do it to Brock, can I, because he’s just a little kid?” Considering the just-mentioned little kid detests any kind of minty toothpaste to the point that he causes quite a production of yelling and spitting and then yelling some more, I confirmed it was a no-go. “Dang,” she said, “I ruined these Oreos for nothing!” I reassured her that it wasn’t for nothing. For she could now eat her snack and clean her teeth at the same time.

Later when Kayli returned home, and not knowing anything of the cookie incident, she laughingly told me that Makenna had tried to get her for April Fool’s Day. I asked how she knew, but soon realized we weren’t talking about the same matter. For some reason, Kayli had thought to check her alarm clock the previous night, which usually remains programmed to the same time. Lo and behold, it was set for 5:00 a.m, an hour and half before she gets up. Momentarily puzzled by this, she then recollected that it was the eve of the day her younger sister had been plotting for weeks. It doesn’t take a crime scene investigator to put those pieces together.

I have to admit, for a nine year old she devised some darn good stratagems. And although her success fell short of her ambitions, more importantly her heart was in the right place.

Well, sort of.