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The Human Coat Rack

No one ever told me that when I became a mom, that I'd also have the dubious distinction of becoming a human coat rack.
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By Beth Feldman, Co-Founder, Role Mommy

No one ever told me that when I became a mom, that I'd also have the dubious distinction of becoming a human coat rack. Picture the scene - you bundle your kids up for a trip to the park and when you hit the open air, you realize it's warmer than you expected. The next thing you know, both of your kids have ripped off their jackets and have proceeded to deposit their clothing into your arms.

Trailing them as they climb the monkey bars, you're now in charge of sweatshirts, hats, a windbreaker and the snacks that you brought with you for your fun-filled afternoon. But then, snack time arrives and you suddenly become the trash receptacle.

Yup. Those juice boxes, fruit roll up wrappers and empty potato chip bags are instantly handed back to mom, the official sanitation worker who is always on duty to put trash where it belongs. Now don't get me wrong. On most occasions, I tell them that I'm not the garbage lady and they should throw their trash away, but let's face it. Sometimes it's easier to take their junk and toss it rather than deal with the whining that always accompanies my "throw your garbage away yourself" missive.

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I've also realized that while I don't have a degree in medicine, I might as well have trained with Florence Nightengale. When anyone falls and scrapes their knee, complains of water in the ear, or moans that they're about to toss their cookies, I'm always at the ready with band aids, bactine, hydrogen peroxide and chewable pepto bismol.

So while writing and public relations may be my chosen profession, I also moonlight as a coat check girl, garbage collector and part-time nurse. Better hit the road and grab a band aid - my son says he just got a paper cut.


The Oblivious Factor

What is it these days with the Oblivious Factor? Whether we're driving, shopping or walking down the street, we are so wrapped up in something else other than looking to see if we're blocking someone's way or slowing down traffic, that we pretty much become a nuisance not only to others, but a hazard to ourselves.

Girl Mittens

It’s only February, but already my kids have lost their gloves. Not only the ones I bought for them this year, but their gloves from last year too, as well as all the mismatched pairs of mittens I’ve dug out of the basement for them and the gloves they “borrowed” from the school’s lost and found.

The New Bed

It's bedtime, and Emi's asking for a drink before she goes to sleep. But tonight her usual request is accompanied by a more ominous directive. "Mommy," she says, her face solemn, "when you come back, we have to talk."

The Escort Service

I run a personal escort service. Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. It's not that kind of business. I'm my four-year-old son's personal escort.

Going to the Dark Side

“I’m a grown woman who is not, I repeat, NOT going to be seen by the outside world as simply another mommy, a vanilla suburban parent, even when my kids aren’t with me in a minivan. I’m still cool! Damn it.”

Taking Time Out For Me

What’s a mother to do when you’re kids are screaming and crying, your husband is at work, you’re trying to cook breakfast, and you have yet to change out of your pj’s and comb your hair? Run away and wait for the storm to pass?

Diapers and Om

When I was pregnant with my youngest son, Owen, I signed up for a yoga class, but quickly dropped out. I love yoga, but something about the nausea and lightheadedness I felt pretty much every time I tried to bend my enormous body in half took the joy out of it for me. So I looked forward to the class with moms and new babies under two months old with great anticipation. What could be better than spending an hour and a half in blissful yogic union with six other mothers and their babies?

My Work Here is Done

It’s been five years now since my first book, “Confessions of a Slacker Mom,” was published. And not only have my royalty checks diminished to the point where they’ll barely cover the cost of a double Frappucino, it seems the book itself has now outlived its usefulness.