It is every parent’s worst nightmare. You look or step away only briefly and suddenly your child is gone.

My son, Brock, was three at the time. It was a hot summer day and I had been watering the grass for most of the morning since we have a large yard sans an automatic sprinkler system. It was early afternoon when I realized I needed to turn the water off before getting him down for a nap. Intending to keep my mischievous toddler occupied and out of trouble while I briefly went outside one last time, I got him situated with a snack at the kitchen table.  I went out, turned off the hoses and within minutes came back in fully anticipating a big mess and a little boy to be right there waiting for me.  Yet upon my return to the kitchen the mess was the only party present.  A little surprised, although certainly not alarmed, I initially walked from room to room calling his name. No answer. I went upstairs and repeated the same. Still no answer. Puzzled, I raised my voice and began a more thorough search. He was no where to be found. Apparently the little stinker had slipped out the back door while I was out front.

My level of concern heightened–as did my heart rate–as I ran outside to search our yard, the garage, and the wooded area adjacent our house.  The neighborhood was dreadfully quiet since everyone was retreating indoors due to the current heat wave.  Therefore, Brock’s presence in the immediate vicinity would have been conspicuous.  It was clear that he was neither within sight nor ear shot. My mind began racing, fathoming any and all directions in which he could have wandered. Aside from a road where traffic flies by at 50+ mph, our neighborhood is flanked by several acres of private land brimming with creeks and wildlife.

My search was getting more frantic when a neighbor appeared whom I enlisted to help keep an eye out for him.  I then thought of two nearby homes he might have wandered to, so I immediately proceeded to option #1.  Nobody home.  On to the second possibility.  They had not seen him but offered to help in the search.  As we were hollering for Brock and discussing where he may have gone, it became increasingly difficult not to let the growing knot in my stomach get the best of me.  So with about 15 minutes of elapsed time since he had gone missing–and having two additional adults also unsuccessful in finding him thus far–all evidence suggested he was not within the boundaries of which I could assume he was safe.  I was no longer able to fight off the worry and began pondering all the things he could be encountering without anyone there to protect him.   Just as I was on the brink of going into panic mode and making the dreaded call to authorities, a light bulb went off.

I immediately thought of Pavlov’s theory.

Just as Pavlov’s dog repeated a conditioned response to the sound of a bell, so does my son.  Only in this case it’s the doorbell, and instead of salivating at the sound of it, it is the act of racing to the door to ensure he reaps the glory of being the first to discover who is on the other side.  His response is so immediate it’s apparent that this stimulus triggers an automatic reaction:  doorbell = run.  If, by chance, he was in the house, this would surely lure him out if hiding.

I went to our front porch, rang the bell and held my breath.  Within seconds I heard the eager pitter-patter of little bare feet on hardwood floors getting closer and closer until he swung the front door open.  Flabbergasted, I cried out, “where have you been??  I have been looking EVERYWHERE for you!”

He looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders, and quickly retorted, “well, you didn’t look under your covers!”

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 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.

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.

In life, we rarely know ahead of time what course our journey will take. One thing we can count on is that the path will often wind, sometimes split to produce a fork, and occasionally veer without warning.

At present, a close friend and I are simultaneously facing turbulent roads stretched before us. The timing is bizarre, and frankly quite unfortunate, for neither of us will have quite as much to offer the other considering our individual circumstances. Although we currently live 3 hours apart, we have been friends for nearly half our lives. In our teens and early twenties we were a crazy sort of duo and in all honesty, really haven’t changed much since. The only differences are that we are both mothers now, and our escapades and misadventures sometimes occur a lot further away from home than did our “opening ceremonies.”

I have recently come to one of those infamous forks, faced with a major decision that will undoubtedly alter not only mine, but my children’s remaining journey. However, I would not exchange my difficulties for the position my friend is in, as her course has been unexpectedly hijacked.

Since no life is impervious to tragedy, the question that has always lingered in the back of my mind is, “what shall be my biggest misfortune?” At rare times I have pondered about what horrible circumstances I believe I could overcome versus the ones I know I couldn’t. Let my house burn down, or toss me a bout of cancer, anything I think–just so long as my children remain safe, growing up to enjoy long and happy lives. I fondly remember with each pregnancy the indescribable bond that a mother develops with her child even before he or she is born. The more they grew, so did my willingness to sacrifice life and limb for my unborn child. The thought of losing one of my children, or equally dreadful, the idea of something happening to me leaving them motherless, is more than I can bear to imagine. These are by far the worst realities a mother can know.

Three years ago one of our neighbors (who I had only met in passing) gave birth to a baby boy, the couple’s first child. The next day while still in the hospital he unexpectedly died with absolutely no warning that anything was wrong. Although we had not yet befriended each other, I was utterly devastated for them. Living two doors down, I couldn’t help but cry each time I passed their house. I was desperate to reach out, but never having actually introduced myself, and being ignorant to their customs as they are from India, I was at a loss for what to do. Finally prepared to make a fool out of myself, I took over a platter of homemade muffins accompanied by a heartfelt card (and a box of Chai tea, of course) to extend my sympathies. A few days later she called to thank me and invited me over. I spent the most heart-wrenching afternoon of my life getting to know this kind and grieving mother.

It wasn’t long before my husband and I had built a friendship with them. As nice a time we always had together, there was no escaping the underlying sadness we all felt for their loss. We don’t see each other as often anymore, but I am so very happy that one of the causes is their busy schedule due to recently adding a second healthy baby to their family.

My friend of 17 years, however, has not been as fortunate with subsequent pregnancies after experiencing a tragic end to her first.

Embarking upon motherhood earlier than most I had a major head start, for she waited until after 30 to have her first child. Her first pregnancy ended in heartbreak when she found out at 18 weeks that the baby, although presently living, would not survive. The doctors said that statistically the condition was very rare–a genetic fluke–and would have no bearing on future pregnancies. They advised her to continue on as she was for an uncertain duration until the baby’s heart stopped on it’s own. A couple of weeks later, the inevitable had happened and she was induced. Her very first experience with labor and delivery–meaning all the pain and discomfort associated with giving birth–was suffered in vain; for the sole reason to endure such agony had been stripped from her intentions.

In her grief, she regretted the condition hadn’t turned out to be Down Syndrome, or any other congenital anomaly that would not have proved fatal. I empathized with her desperate feelings, but assured her she would eventually have a healthy child who she wouldn’t trade for anything. She discovered she was pregnant again just five months later, the day after their beloved dog was struck and killed by a car. Thankfully this second pregnancy proved uneventful and she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who just this month turned two years old.

However, her third and final pregnancy in which she is currently in her last month has not produced the joy and anticipation we all hope for when expecting. At six months gestation she was inflicted once again with terrible news about the health of her unborn child. For undetermined causes, several of his organs have not developed properly and it is not known if he will be able to survive once born. He is certain to face open heart surgery within days of birth, but nothing beyond that can be determined. She has been forced to suffer a string of emotional upheavals as each specialist conveys a different prognosis. Uncertain whether or not her child will be strong enough to enjoy the activities of childhood or if he will even survive his first few days, she must prepare for the worst but hope for the best. She is literally buying baby clothes or choosing his name one moment and contemplating a burial service the next.

What must make matters all the more difficult is that inside the womb he knows no danger–he is an active and lively fetus, stretching and kicking like any other. While she stayed the weekend with us recently, she proudly showed my awestruck children the strange formations caused to her belly by a knee, fist, foot, or other unidentifiable appendage. Without sonography, she would be none the wiser to the life-threatening problems plaguing her baby.

With the impending birth drawing nearer I must admit that I am scared. I regularly have nightmares. I know I have the responsibility to be a strong and supportive friend, which means to be whatever she needs at the time. I fear knowing what to say, or when to call, or if to call. I fear being too emotional or not emotional enough. But mostly I fear for that helpless baby boy and the magnitude of the grief which ominously lurks around the corner.