100% Natural

Are they natural? This question is posed to three types of people— strippers, chicken farmers and mothers of multiples. My sympathies to those mother’s of multiples who happen to be chicken farming strippers, because, really, where do you even begin? As neither a stripper, nor a chicken farmer, I cannot attest to the frequency this question is posed of those professions. As a professional mother of multiples, I can say that on average, I am asked this question more often than I am asked, “would you like fries with that?”— And let’s just say I am no stranger to a fast food line. Most often, strangers who corner me, as I am held captive in the check- out line at the grocery store, pose me this question.

“Are they twins?” asks the middle-aged woman in front of us. I notice the tomatoes, tofu and bottles of water in the basket she holds over her arm are all marked, “organic.” I am aware she is referring to my boys in their matching plastic green rain boots and impish grins caked in free sugar cookies, who are now hanging from my monstrosity of a grocery cart filled with processed cheese, disposable diapers, synthetic sugars and enough red dye number five to illuminate bourbon street. And as much as I would give my left pinky toe to be able to answer her question with a simple, “Yes,” and avoid the onslaught of questions I know will follow, I am aware of the eight eyes of the honesty police just waiting for their mommy to utter the little white lie. Rather than subject myself to their interrogation, I offer up the patented answer with a sigh,

“Actually, these three are triplets,” I indicate my daughter and matching boys and then wait for it.

“Triplets? Oh, my!” she responds and then very helpfully looks at my youngest daughter who is scaling the candy display and points out (just in case I may not be aware),

“And then you had another one!”

“Yes,” I reply, waiting for her next question as I salvage a loaf of wheat bread that has supposedly been genetically altered to appear white. I reposition the Michael Jackson-like bread before my daughter who is decked out from head to toe in polyester princess garb can squish it.

Sure enough, her question comes just as I smell an aroma that causes me to rack my brain as I try to remember if I applied my aluminum-plated deodorant that morning.

“Are they natural?” the Birkenstock clad woman asks looking at my children and not my chest—my first clue that unlike the stripper or chicken farmer, she is not inquiring as to the composition of my breast.

Are they natural? Well, I suppose it depends on whom you ask. The doctor assigned to help me through my high-risk pregnancy may or may not have inferred my children were not, as he so delicately put at our first meeting, “Women were made to have babies, not litters.”

Some might consider the sheer number of narcotics used to keep my children from being born prematurely, or the steroids they were given in utero to mature their lungs, to point to their un-natural state. I would be the first to admit that there was nothing natural about the ventilators, wires, feeding tubes, beeping monitors and artificial lights they spent the first six weeks of their lives cocooned within.

And then I take into account the formula I fed them was not natural breast milk, the baby food came from jars and not my own personal garden, they have been vaccinated, and bathed in soap that I buy in bulk at Sam’s Club, rather than the all natural soaps found on the shelves of a whole foods store. I have handed them toys, which I am sure have been painted with lead and then dipped in kryptonite in a sweatshop overseas. Their bottoms have donned only disposable diapers and their current diet consists primarily of massive amounts of peanut butter—the good kind that doesn’t require an industrial mixer to stir every time it is used.

Are they natural? The inquiring woman with all natural sea kelp wants to know and I become aware as she readjusts her burlap purse that it was not I who did not apply deodorant that morning.

Are they natural?

I know the tears my children cry over a skinned knee are very natural tears, as are the temper tantrums they throw when they don’t get their way. The fear they feel when they wake from a nightmare and their impulse to call for me seem natural. They struggle with the natural issues of sibling rivalry, arguing over toys as they vie for attention. They prefer ice cream to vegetables, and can deconstruct our entire house in an hour if they are cooped up too long. My children are curious, energetic, and emit and unbridled laughter that can permeate any wall—even if it is laced in leaded paint.

I am asked this question often, and so I am ready to give this woman my answer. I am about to respond but my daughter tugs on my arm and pronounces that she needs to pee—“right now, Mommy!” I see that my youngest daughter has peaked Mt. Candy and is now pocketing packs of gum like a clepto monkey. I start again to answer the woman but one of my son’s is ogling the bikini-clad bodies of celebrities on the magazine rack and my other son, who is now standing next to me points to the inquiring organic woman next to me and asks in perfect four-year-old diction,

“Mommy, why does that lady smell stinky?”

I’d say it doesn’t get much more natural than that.

Your Smother's Day Top Ten

By Tiffany Roach

There is pressure when you write a column entitled “S’motherhood,” to produce something epic for the quintessential day of motherhood— S’mothers Day. After all, according to the US census bureau, my audience is approximately 82.5 million women in this country alone. That’s a lot of women pretending to be asleep so they can be served overly sweetened coffee and cold toast in bed. That’s a lot of women opening sticky cards with wet glue and glitter, or Hallmark cards purchased with the five dollars you loaned for them. How do you write a column and do justice to the topic of motherhood—a topic that is more than just a job description or an identity, but a topic filled with so much substance and feeling and passion that most mothers, when asked about what motherhood means can respond only in laughter and tears?

We’ll, I’ll tell you how. You write a Top Ten list, because, you are a mom after all, and so your opportunity to produce an ode to all things “Mother” got put off while you bandaged knees, spent an hour hunting for a missing croc and, well, ok, if we are being honest, checking facebook. You write a Top Ten list because you are three weeks past deadline and your editor is depending on you to impart insight into all things S’motherhood. You write a Top Ten list so that when your kids are grown and open their childhood scrap book, see that it is empty and wonder what exactly their mother spent all her time doing, you at least have this Top Ten list to show for yourself—the top ten reasons you love S’motherhood:

Smotherhood Reason Number 1—As a mother, you never worry about getting lost. Ever. Let’s say on the off chance that you would actually want to be lost for a few minutes in the bathroom, or say an enchanted forest in a far away land, so that you could urinate in peace—not even then would you be lost. “Mom? M-o-m? M-o-o-o-mmy? Where are you?” They call in a perpetual game of Marco-Polo. Phew. That was a close one. Thank goodness they found me.

Smotherhood Reason Number 2—As a mother, you have constant entertainment. Whether you are extracting dimes from the DVD player, listening to 101 reasons why you should allow an all night sleep over with 37 of her closest BFF’s, or bailing your son out of jail, your life does not lack excitement. It’s seven a.m. and your three-year-old cut her own hair and your smoke alarm is going off? Yawn. Call me when the real action starts.

Smotherhood Reason Number 3—As a mother, you get an appearance pass. “You look so great...for having three kids!” Basically this means that for every child you have, you are allowed twenty excess pounds, which is the real reason we are all so infatuated with Angelina Jolie. Have a milkshake, woman! You have like a dozen kids.

Also on the subject of appearance, the same goes for your home. If your guests don’t step on a single matchbox car, see one single macaroni encrusted dish in the sink, or go to use one un-flushed toilette when visiting your home, it is time the kids start sleeping inside.

Smotherhood Reason Number 4 —As a mother, we are always surrounded by people who are smarter than us. The moment you gave birth to them, it was like their IQ increased 4000 points. And lucky for you, no matter their age or geographical location, they are always willing to provide you with a Public Service Announcement reminding (not-so-smart) you, “I know, Mom. I know. I K.N.O.W.” And they do.

Smotherhood Reason Number 5— You are allowed to drink. Unless you are celebrating Smother’s day pregnant, no one begrudges a mom her mimosa. In fact, it would be rude not to offer.

Smotherhood Reason Number 6—Free Stuff. It’s like Christmas every day with free cookies at the bakery counter, free lollipops at the bank and so much free advice from random strangers you are just one book tour away from making it on Oprah.

Smotherhood Reason Number 7—You are qualified for a career in health care. Apparently, on your third trip to the orthopedic in a single month, you get a complimentary hip replacement and a Slurpee.

Smotherhood Reason Number 8 —As a mother, you always have an alibi, I mean, excuse. Can you spend your Saturday helping your neighbor wax her bikini region? Sorry, no-can-do, the kids have strep. The high-pitched scream of terror coming from the back of the plane when you hit turbulence? Obviously, that was the kid. Now, would you please get the frantic woman on row 57F a cocktail?

Smotherhood Reason Number 9 —You live with an IT expert. Little Bill Gates, Jr. may not be able to tie his shoelaces, but he has no problem downloading the latest app on your iphone, reformatting your hard drive, or programming your DVR to record Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Smotherhood Reason Number 10 —At any point, you could audition for and win multiple reality TV shows—specifically, Survivor or Fear Factor. Over the years, you have become desensitized to all things gross. Maybe it began the time you picked up your bubbly baby and she spit up… in your mouth. Maybe it was somewhere in the dirtied underwear changes of potty training, or maybe it was during a two week stint of the stomach bug, but somewhere along the way, that worm at the bottom of your tequila glass no longer grosses you out.

Obviously, not all of the reasons it is great to be a mother made the list. Fortunately for me, Hallmark does a great job of recording the more sentimental ones—the one’s that get put into scrapbooks.

Have a Happy Smothersday.