Meet the Baby

I have been a stay-at-home mother for a year and have been reflecting on the funny experiences of the past months. Along with my relationship with my little girl, Claire, I now have a closer relationship with my mother. My mother always made holidays special for my sister and me. She was a master at hiding candy at Easter. Once, we found a small pile of M&M's years later, behind the back leg of a dresser. Now, my mother lives out of state, but when Claire was born, my mother graciously took off from work for three weeks and stayed with my husband and me as we learned to be new parents.

After recovering from a C-section and nursing a newborn around the clock, I was, needless to say, exhausted. My mother, while helping with the baby, was not able to be Housekeeper of the Year. My husband did not have time to clean, since he was starting a new business. The kitchen looked like it had been through Hurricane Katrina. A thin film covered every surface in the house. Clutter covered the entire living room like kudzu. Small animals were probably living in my pantry.

I peeled myself out of bed one morning, buckled Claire into her car seat, and drove to a pediatrician appointment. My mother, in the meantime, slept in, as she had taken the night shift. She was not pleased when I woke her out of a dead sleep by calling on my way home to notify her we were to have company in 30 minutes. I became irrationally angry (those darn hormones!) when she flatly refused to clean the house for the couple who had asked to descend upon us from out of town (on short notice) to meet the baby. My mother and I had a tiff on the phone, which, in the good ole days, would have ended with me getting a spanking, and I got off the phone feeling as if I had.

I dreaded shuffling into the house (I had the “C-section shuffle”) to see the internal natural disaster my friends were about to witness. However, the scene I beheld upon entering was equally shocking. The kitchen was absolutely pristine. Every surface gleamed and smelled like lemon Lysol. The mammalian rustling previously heard in the pantry had ceased. Cookies were artfully arranged on a platter! Fresh coffee percolated! My mother (a.k.a. Mary Poppins), who had evidently dressed hurriedly, stalked into the room, said, "I am very angry at you," and stalked out. Immediately, the doorbell rang.

My mother reappeared. We put on our happy faces and actually had a delightful visit with the couple who partook of refreshments. Claire slept in their arms cherubically the entire time. My mother's temper and mine cooled as quickly as they had flared. We had the luxury of sitting still for two hours together. I felt completely peaceful for the first time since my epidural.

After the couple left and (my) apologies and (my mother's) forgiveness were dispensed, I asked how she had done it. Without a word, she opened the oven to reveal a pile of dirty pots and pans. Next, she had me peer under the skirt of the sofa where random papers were stacked. Books and plastic bags were stuffed inside the dryer. The pantry was full of laundry. There was not a room in the house where something offensive had not been creatively hidden.

Just last week, I found the time to clean out some closets and drawers. Suddenly, I came upon a pile of one-year-old M&M's in the bottom drawer of an armoire. My mother ... the Easter Bunny.