Man, I Could Go For Some Salami
So I’m strolling through the supermarket the other day. I should mention, I’m a stay-at-home mom and spend a good portion of my days trolling for grocery items at a variety of establishments. I’m moving through the store at a leisurely pace because I’m free of my charges and can glory in the focus and efficiency of purpose this freedom allows.
I cruise by the deli counter and sidle up to the refrigerated meat section. “Man,” I think to myself, “I could really go for one of those salamis.”
As I start to reach for the fat tube of delicious nitrate, I stop short. “Wait a minute, didn’t I just buy one of these last week?” Panic rises in my chest, “But I have no memory of that salami in my home, no memory of unpacking it or putting it away. Where is that salami?”
I’ll tell you where that salami was: rolling around in the trunk of my car. It rolled around for about a week solid before my delayed salami reaction.
After ascertaining the location of said salami, I thusly kicked it into pollster mode and asked anyone who had the misfortune of calling me that day, “Would you eat a salami that had been in the trunk of your car for a week?”
Surprisingly, the resounding answer was “yes.” Did we actually eat the salami? An equally resounding, “No way.”
That salami is the symbol of what my life has become since having three kids in the span of five years. More specifically, it sadly speaks to the state of my brain.
I no longer flinch when beckoned by cashiers and clerks, calling, “Ma’am (when did I become a Ma’am by the way?) you left your bags!” I am no longer fazed when I realize upon my return home that the gallon of milk that I went to the store for is sitting like a little orphan on the bottom of my cart. And as we all know, just because you are lucky enough to get the stuff OUT of the cart and INTO your car, does not my friend, assure safe delivery into an appropriate refrigerated receptacle.
I have no sure answers for the cause of this newfangled dementia. Half the time my space-outs occur when there are no children with me to blame for my forgetfulness. Like salami, my head is at once full of tasty fat and salt, and simultaneously, devoid of any nutritional value. I walk and talk, make sounds, form words, but look deep in my eyes, and oftentimes no one is there.
Where am I? Where is that woman who used to live here? The one whose days weren’t filled with errands. The woman who had never been to Target, never bought in bulk, and with much disdain looked down her nose on automatons who drove minivans and lived in the suburbs.
Now I live for the sound of the garage door announcing my husband’s return from work, I envy people with satisfying careers and the stimulation they appear to feel. I wonder how I ever worked for a living, how someone ever paid me to complete a project, entrusted me with substantive tasks, how I ever managed to show up appropriately groomed on a daily basis.
I know, I know, raising kids is an important job, THE most important job, blah blah blah. Sometimes, it just doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes the search for missing sippy cups just doesn’t feel that compelling. Determining exactly who is the poopy-doody-tooshy head nah-nah nah-nah-nah, who hurt/bit/scratched/pushed who just doesn’t have the thrill that it used to (who are we kidding, never had).
Whew, this is kind of depressing. I could go for some salami. Back to the grocery store for me. Look for me there, more often than not without the list I carelessly left on the kitchen counter. Watch me, chat with me, smile at me. I just might ask you, fellow mother, fellow shopper, what pray tell, is in the trunk of YOUR car?
12/7/2007
