Reminiscent of an eighties commercial where an old lady disappointingly looks at her hamburger and proceeds to inquire about the insubstantial beef patty, a reader of this blog recently asked, “where’s the dysfunction?” Whether you’re hungry for beef or dysfunction the phrase, “where’s the meat?” gets to the heart the matter. This inquiry has led me to one conclusion: that apparently my narrative on how I incurred grievous injury while attempting to change a diaper, or on pulling a piece of dental floss out of my child’s butt, or on sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress on a mini-trip with my kids, doesn’t satisfy some people’s insatiable thirst for depravity.

So here’s a confession: I have a potty mouth. And at times a temper. I was not blessed with a plethora of patience and when my limit has been breached I am ashamed to report that my vocabulary tends to become rather colorful. I have gotten slightly better over the years, able to occasionally muffle an obscenity just as it is hitting the air, or sometimes tweaking a consonant just in time to ever-so-slightly distort the forthcoming expletive. At times I wonder, does it really matter if the words I spew in the heat of anger and frustration are official profanities in the English language? I rather think it’s the delivery of the message that makes the most impact; however, I certainly prefer not to curse as I don’t condone that language by my children (of course, I pull a bit of the “do as I say, not say as I say” routine and reinforce that those words are not acceptable). I absolutely do not choose to do it. In fact, I work very hard to control it.

While often swimming in a sea of chaos and resentment it is difficult to always behave in a manner that is commendable and respectable. Although I certainly have many things to be thankful for, raising children with ADHD while being afflicted myself, makes for some very harrowing, if not downright dogged moments around here. It is very unfortunate that the time of day when my two younger children (ages 9 and 5) often begin throwing ridiculous tantrums because their medication is wearing off rendering it extremely difficult to cope with situations rationally, my medication is also wearing off (and yes, this process can have the same effect on adults as it does children). Needless to say, our household can become a very undesirable scene between the hours of 3 and 5 pm.

Initially, I try to respond patiently and rationally. Unless you have raised children like this and have dealt with similar issues day in and day out, you just can not fathom the stress induced by these incessant tribulations. Once I feel my blood pressure has reached the boiling point, I know little can save me. I have incorporated breathing techniques which do help temporarily; however, if the chaos ensues this only serves to delay the gasket from blowing.

Luckily, I’ve always had a speedy recovery. Immediately as soon as the demands, screaming, or kicking the bedroom door stops, my breathing returns to normal and my sense of calm reinstates. That is, up until recently. Something is different in me now. I imagine that along with having larger issues weighing on my mind, it’s because I have finally reached a breaking point and realize that this can not continue. Instead of coping one day at a time, it is imperative to stop this cycle. Something must change. Only nothing is as simple as it should be when ADHD is involved.

The other day after coming home from school the two younger kids behaved beautifully the entire evening. They were both sweet, agreeable and cooperative. Usually they tend to take turns, like only one of them can behave at a time. When my husband came home he even jokingly asked what I had done to them. Reveling in the pleasantness of the atmosphere, I realized that this is what it’s like to have “normal” children. I know all kids sometimes misbehave and need consequences. But for children with ADHD, it is the lack of coping skills (which leads to intense overreacting) that is one of the many elements separating them from the norm. Traditional strategies can be very challenging to implement and do not always work.

In any case, there you have it. Dysfunction. I imagine it’s a little disappointing if you were chomping for something as “juicy” as the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal–I’m saving that for another story.

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 is 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, 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. He and I briefly coexist, sharing a tiny dot on the time line–he nearly obsolete, I narrowly 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.

Today traveling salesmen are nearly extinct. Harder to shake, however, 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. 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 on the 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 (99% 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 sharing with them 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.

You are probably familiar with the phrase, “be careful what you wish for.” This cliché provides no exception when placing wishful orders to produce intelligent offspring, for I offer living proof to this mantra with the bittersweet results delivered on my behalf. Although not most parent’s number one priority, when given a choice, naturally we hope for acute and resourceful children. Since my husband and I process information as oppositely as two human beings can, I maintained even before we procreated that our brood would likely turn out either extremely dense or, preferably, extremely bright. With our gene pools consisting of contradictory strengths and weaknesses, I never imagined average intellect to be a probable outcome. In retrospect, I admit it is rather peculiar that I didn’t consider it, but perhaps my theory was a result of my highly intuitive predictions. In spite of this, my foresight failed to anticipate the repercussions; I hadn’t counted on their brilliance coming back to bite me in the form of defiance.

Since my daughter, who is now nine, was a late talker we initially had no idea of her mind’s power. But it didn’t take long once she began putting her words together to realize that there was a lot going on in that little head of hers. I remember one time she was sitting and coloring on a piece of paper at age 3, when she looked up and announced in an enlightened manner that “three four’s is twelve.” I was quite impressed that this three year old had discovered the concept of multiplication completely on her own, and to this day she hasn’t ceased to amaze us with her nearly infinite acumen.

This child has a comeback for everything. The latest which I, personally found amusing since I was not on the receiving end, was on Sunday morning as she was arguing with her father for waking her up. His rationale was that she needed to get used to the new time, as a result of Daylight Savings, to ease the transition in getting up Monday. As always, she proceeded to argue the validity of her objection and attempted, at any cost, to get the last word. After going a couple of rounds he told her that the discussion was closed and would not be debated further. Her response: “Why? It’s because I have a point! Isn’t it?” I stifled my laughter, and informed her that her dad already feels sorry for her future husband!

Although it went along with what I had always predicted, I really thought that her level of intelligence was likely the exception of our genetics, rather than the rule. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected similar results to be duplicated. Yet, here is my son, now five years old, impressing most adults with his inquisitive and interpretive nature. He has been inquiring since he was three how the first human came to be. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more advanced than his ability to comprehend the answers to such questions. At four, one particular thought that preoccupied his mind focused on the last person, as opposed to the first. His thoughts were instigated after driving by a cemetery one day. He said, “Mom, when the very last person dies they will not get to be buried like everyone else because no one will be left to bury them. But it will be OK since there will be no one to see their bones.”

As much as I wonder what goes on in that boy’s mind, I do know one of the frequent culprits because he informed me that he sees math problems in his head. It should come as no surprise considering he frequently begs to be challenged with math facts. At Christmas while my parents were visiting, Brock wanted my dad to ask him some addition and multiplication problems. I had recently written down some simple algebraic equations with a single variable to see if he could grasp the concept. The first problem I gave him was, “if 4=n, 2n + 5 = .” I explained that since the 2 and the n were right next to each other, they needed to be multiplied. Within a moment, he produced the correct answer. So when Grandpa rattled off “3×2,” in response to Brock’s request, the child was disappointed. Replying in a manner that implied the question had insulted his intelligence, he stated, “that is so Pre-K!” before revealing the answer. (Which, ironically they haven’t even done addition in kindergarten–as you can imagine, he is not at all excited that his math at school consists of counting!)

I am grateful that he should never struggle with learning and I am optimistic about the things he will be able to accomplish if he utilizes the power of his mind. Yet, along with these benefits, come some very exhausting deficits. Just this week he has taken to throwing tantrums that rival the 3-hour fits he threw when he was three years old. Attempting to determine this recent relapse, we contributed the first day to being overly tired as a result of springing forward an hour. But after three consecutive days of intensifying tantrums, I may be forced to dig a little deeper; of course, it is entirely possible that he is just testing the waters, attempting to exert some control. He has always been a little neurotic about wanting things a particular way, but overall, he’s usually reasonably behaved.

One handicap I face is that never having dealt with this type of resistance, like him, I am learning as I go. And with a learning curve such as his, we are playing hard ball to say the least. I know the basics about the importance of consistency, and such. But I also need to know what exactly is an acceptable consequence and how long you implement it sans positive results before attempting a new approach. Not to mention, I need coping skills. I can only deal with so much blatant chaos and discord before I need soap in my mouth for cursing like a sailor. Obviously, the goal is to remain calm, but stern. Yet, after 2-3 hours of pure hell, that is easier said than done. If this keeps up, I am going to need professional assistance or the military.

At the request of his pediatrician, we have a series of appointments beginning next week to administer IQ testing. It couldn’t come at a better time, because perhaps the psychologist performing the testing can bestow some sound advice on how to deal with my little mad genius.

I surmise you may be questioning the unmistakably obvious nature of the title. It may seem straightforward to you and me, nevertheless, this simple fact is not absolute in the mind of an innocent child who has no definitive proof of said claim. Demonstrating that human nature is often more powerful than knowledge, it was amusing that my son, who seems to be oblivious to the anatomy of the sexes, still possesses the innate desire to see the feminine form in all it’s glory.

As we were waiting in the doctor’s office today, I gave my five-year-old son a Coastal Living magazine to look at, hoping it would keep him entertained for at least a little while. The first thing that caught his eye was an ad for Vanilla Wafers which boasted an over-sized, picture-perfect presentation of two banana pudding parfaits, alongside the recipe. Wanting us to recreate this spectacular gastronomic delight at home (but unconvinced I could remember the three ingredients), he took it upon himself to phonetically write down the vital components for me: “venele wefers, petene, wapcram.”

(Vanilla wafers, pudding, whipped cream…He opted against the banana, therefore making it a plain old pudding parfait).

Satisfied with his grocery list, he flipped the page and continued browsing. Within moments, he let out a gasp followed by a giggle. You would have thought he had just come across his very first Playboy. Turning my attention to see what all the excitement was about, he pointed to the page and said, “Look, Mom! She’s naked!” He was, in fact, correct. There was a picture of a naked woman right there in the middle of this Coastal Living publication. But titillating, it was not. The strategically posed model was advertising milk, for crying out loud. Only her back, an arm, a shoulder, and part of a leg were visible. The photo lacked anything remotely resembling cleavage and was cropped to omit the mid-section all together. I casually acknowledged his finding, assuming that would dispel anything further on the subject.

Not ready to move on, he then approached my daughter to share a glimpse of this must-see image. After showcasing his newly discovered treasure, he eagerly inquired, “Why is she naked?” I explained that (contrary to his instincts) the picture was acceptable because her private parts weren’t showing. He then mischievously claimed to see one of her boobs and her pee-pee. Her pee-pee, naturally, meaning penis. I highly doubted he could see any part of a breast, and I was quite certain he did not see her penis, because even if she did have one, it wouldn’t have shown in that particular photo. I felt this would be a good time to reiterate to the little guy that women and girls do not sport penises. A penis is something far too special for God to have wasted on women. Well, that’s not exactly what I said–my actual words were significantly less sexist. But considering I had previously explained this bit of biology, I am not sure if he had just truly forgotten, or whether it’s because he simply can’t fathom someone not having a penis.

He eventually turned the pages and perused a little more, before returning, a number of times, to the milk advertisement. The child was literally giddy. Before flashing the infamous pose one last time, he presented us with the enticing offer, “wanna see something gross?” Laughing at the humor of the situation, I answered, “if you think it’s gross, why do you keep staring at it?” With a devilish little lopsided grin, he just rolled his eyes and proceeded to admire his first-ever dirty magazine.