Never Wake a Sleeping Mom

I’m tired.

I’ve been tired since 1985—the year my life changed forever (and not because singing We Are the World made my heart swell and brought tears to my eyes).

You see, this was the year I became a mom. The first of my nine children made his grand entrance into the world…hungry.  Each night, with his initial whimpers pulling me from a peaceful sleep, I prayed (and sometimes pleaded with God), to please help my little guy fall back asleep.

He never did.

So, for the next two decades (because those little babies with their hungry little whimpers kept coming and coming), I spent a good chunk of my nights awake with baby “plugged in” (a.k.a. breastfeeding).

But that’s not what this post is about.

I learned to deal with those middle-of-the-night breastfeeding sessions as well as the many other middle-of-the-night shenanigans that accompany the care of a baby. I’ve also learned to deal (for the most part) with waking up for a sick child…unless it involves cleaning vomit—ug! Never ready for vomit duty! It’s either all over their bedding or strategically hurled onto the carpet in front of the bathroom (um, yeah…that’s what that stain is).

But that’s not what this post is about either (sorry, hope I didn’t lose you there on the hurling thing).

This post is about the fact that I’m tired. Not only am I knocking on the door of the big five-zero next year (can you say, night sweats, hot flashes, and I’ll take my diet-Coke in an IV drip if necessary, please?), but I work full-time outside the house…on my feet…ten hour days…five days a week.

But that’s not what this post is about either. We are, however, getting closer.

You see, now that I have a full house of teens and pre-teens (3 teens + 2 pre-teens = a full house in that great poker hand of life), one would think that I might finally get a good night’s sleep. That would be a negative. For some reason this group of teens and pre-teens have stumbled upon this crazy notion that since it’s summertime, after their dad and I fall into bed, exhausted after a full day’s work, nighttime is now their playground.

Oh, they’ve heard all the warnings…

“Don’t wake me up unless someone is bleeding!”

“If I get woken up, y’all are grounded until you’re 52.”

And the least effective: “Wake me up and you’re toast—burnt-to-a-crisp toast!”

Needless to say, the figurative stench of burnt toast permeated throughout the entire house this morning. Yup, it was a rough night last night and this morning, this momma was a bear. Let’s just say you wouldn’t have wanted to be my cub today.

Am I the only parent apparently raising some sort of non-blood-sucking breed of vampires? Is anyone else experiencing this? Does anyone have a suggestion?

Well, here’s my suggestion to myself: Momma needs to pull up some Momma Pants and send those vampire cubs to bed.

Self-scolding complete.

Goodnight…I hope.

Tamra Torero is wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, and Author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son with her oldest son, Preston Norton. In a word, she's tired! Feel free to share this blog if you enjoyed it!

The Baker and The Banker--A Fairytale

In tribute to a real-life prince born this week (blessed with those amazing genes yet given the name George? Really? I’m sorry, handsome little guy!!!), and due to my fondness for fairytales, I hope you’ll indulge me, while I share my own little fairytale.

Once upon a time in the far-off land of California—home of The Golden-Gate Bridge, and golden-haired girls—a seventeen-year-old cheerleader decided to take a summer adventure to the farther-off land of Peru—home of La Orquidea Chocolate and chocolate-eyed boys—to participate in a summer foreign exchange program. She was young and naïve, knowing little of this amazing culture and language, and even less of love and the amazing things it can do when infused with the heart.

There, she saw things she’d never seen before, from the breathtaking views of Machu Picchu, to the heartbreaking palms of begging children. Her heart was tugged in every direction as she missed her family back home, took in the many sights, and flourished in her new environment. But the most amazing thing to happen to her heart involved an eighteen-year-old, chocolate-eyed soccer player.

Her heart was forever changed.

He spoke English and made her laugh with ridiculous jokes told in an irresistible accent. In this foreign land, he made her feel safe and at home.

When she looked at him with her innocent blue/green eyes, he wanted to be her everything—entertainer, tour-guide, dance partner, and protector…especially of her heart.

At the end of the summer, with two hearts connected and transformed, the two teenagers from two far-off lands said goodbye…

…for twenty eight years.

And then she saw those chocolate-eyes again. This time through a computer screen…and the stirring of her heart from those many years ago took over.

He recognized those blue/green eyes from another time, and again felt that need to be her everything.

She was no longer a cheerleader (unless you count cheering her seven children through soccer, schoolwork and scouts). Her days of baking cookies for her kids, morphed into a career as a bakery manager…so she could feed her kids.

Life had changed her…and yet, in his eyes, she was the same.

He played soccer one night a week now…and his body grieved the next day. Life’s journey led him into banking where he worked hard, knowing that as a single parent, his two daughters had only him in whom to rely.

Life had changed him…and yet, in her eyes, he was still the same.

So the baker and the banker, the cheerleader and the soccer player, the golden-haired girl and chocolate-eyed boy, still living in different lands, yet now living in a different era—a time when anything is possible, especially when you’ve lived life, know your capabilities, and recognize the preciousness of two hearts connected—moved mountains (or something like that) to finally be together…

…forever!

And they are…and living their Happily Ever After!

For the non-fairytale version with many more details, check out my other blog and start at the beginning. I have to admit—it IS a great love story!


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Something To Say?

What’s in a name?  Will Shakespeare asked this very question a few years back in a little thingy called Romeo and Juliet. He also said that we can call a rose any dang thing we want—a door-knob, a dirty diaper, you name it—and that delicate little plant with thorns and petals will still smell pretty dang great (I’m paraphrasing, of course).

 

Dude’s got a point.

 

So I suppose I could have named this blog, Thoughts of a Middle-age Mother or even Fifty Shades of Breastmilk. (Think I’m kidding? Think again. I marathon nursed for the better part of two decades and even worked as a breastfeeding counselor and lactation specialist.) But I chose Momma Got a Thought: Random Musings of a Sometimes-Coherent Parent because even though I’m an over-scheduled, multi-tasking Momma to nine of the most amazing people to ever walk this planet, Grandma to two darling boys, and hold down a full-time job as a bakery manager, I’m also a woman with something to say.

 

The Sometimes-Coherent part speaks for itself.

 

I’ve been at this Momma gig for the better part of three decades now. And throughout Momma-hood, I’ve lived many’a life—stay-at-home mom, work-from-home mom, part-time worker, full-time worker, homeschooler, public-schooler, night-schooler, breastfeeder, bottle-feeder, cat, dog, and bird feeder, single mom, step-mom, den-mother, and almost always, exhausted mother (again, referring to the Sometimes-Coherent thing). And throughout it all, I’ve always considered myself a writer (sometimes of books, but often just of text messages and grocery lists).

 

Chances are, I can say, “been-there, done that” to just about every aspect of Momma-hood. Am I an expert? Nope. Survivor? Sounds a little harsh for something that has brought me (along with tremendous trials), the most joy one can feel in this life (Disneyland, Colin Firth and dark chocolate included). And, well, I’m still at it. Four of my nine are legally adults and have moved out of the house (two have graduated from college, two are eagle scouts, two are married, and two have tattoos). But I am still nose-deep in parenthood. My husband Paco and I have five “minors” living amongst us, ranging from 11 to 17, and they keep us spinning in circles (need I make the Sometimes-Coherent reference again?).

 

Do I have something to say?

 

I’ll let you be the judge.


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