On rap music and mother’s ‘quiet time’

Oh, how the evolution of motherhood has changed since I was a kid.
I think more and more about my childhood these days as my world as a parent fluctuates between sane and insane.
Some days I think I’d swear off chocolate for the rest of my life for just a few more moments of solitude in my living room, like my mom had when my brother and I were young.
“Mother’s quiet time.” Back then, it was an ingrained statement of intention that was never questioned by us little people, and once begun, was never interrupted.
It was a sacred evening ritual for my mother. I can’t remember if she enforced it every night or on those rare occasions when Jay and I traded our halos for tridents.
All I know is that when those three words were spoken, the world around her hushed up—and stayed that way.
She chose early evening as the light switch for this observance. Smartly done, I suppose, because all good children back then went to bed at 7 p.m.
Funny thing was, “Mother’s quiet time” lasted well into our teen years.
So what happened in my house? Where did that oh-so-sacred, no-noise zone vanish to? Did it get sucked into the forgotten realm?
You guessed it. I was feeling sorry for myself on the heels of a Saturday afternoon amid the melee of kids, couch husband, and baby-sitting a four-month-old puppy named “Zero.”
Two hair dryers working on two opposing teenage hairdos at the same time blew a fuse causing mass panic. “Clicker happy” Pete blew my fuse watching three different TV shows at once.
And last but not least, “Zero” (a.k.a. no brain cells) and my dog, “Dot,” had terrorized the cat, “Ozzie,” while trying to make their own puppies for the past four hours.
Suddenly “Check your head” wasn’t just a column heading for Emmanuel Moutsatsos.
Where, pray tell, does a mother get her quiet time at the precise moment before a postal episode?
I headed straight for the bathroom and the tub. It was the one place secluded from life’s little lemons—a sweet reward for subduing a riotous and colourful outburst of a mother’s wrath.
I turned on the hot water, squirted in some bubble bath, hoola-hooped my way out of my jeans, and slid into my sanctuary.
The water running, the world melted away. “Mother’s quiet time,” for what it was worth, sounded pretty good.
I laid in there for a long time scooping up bubbles and contemplating what kind of tree I would be next time around.
Gradually, my mind re-focused on family life beyond the door. The dogs were strangely quiet and the TV was off. Teenagers were in bedrooms, and hair dryers were silent.
Then I heard it. A wise voice—and I had to laugh. I am not a fan of rap music, but it was, to my ears, the perfect ending to a crab session and a warm bath.
“So many blessings while we stressin’, lookin’ for them better days.”
Then a quiet knock on the bathroom door. “Honey, are you in there? I stepped in dog poop. Can I come in and wash it off?”
Thanks Tupac.

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