A dispatch from the real world

Tuesday, Sept. 5.

10:42 p.m.

Contrary to popular belief, I have not been lying around in my infamous camouflage robe gorging on bonbons in lieu of writing a column for you to read.

Quite the opposite in fact.
In addition to my day job of slinging breakfast and coffee with a side of sarcasm, I recently took on a second job working the graveyard shift as a cashier/cook at the local truck stop.

As a single mother, it has always been a struggle to keep afloat — fortunately I’ve never minded the challenge.

Overcoming obstacles is my middle name and burning the candle at both ends is my game.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not fishing for sympathy.

I’ve made my bed and now I’m lying in it, though not nearly as often as I’d like.

It has been a challenge to find a sleep routine that doesn’t infringe on what little time I have at home.

Kid #4 can’t seem to grasp the concept that when I lay down in the afternoon it’s the ONLY sleep I’m going to get that day. He keeps waking me to let me know I’ve “napped” long enough.

Although I’m managing roughly four to five hours of beauty sleep a day, I fear I’ve become a Zombie Mom.

I’m too tired to cook or clean.

My hair is standing on end, my eyes are bloodshot, mismatched shoes have become the norm as I have literally worn holes in my shoes and I often forget to eat until I am ravished.

I wake up in a panic, not sure if it’s day or night or even what day or night of the week it is. I’m certain I am late to one job or the other. The kids often reassure me of the time and whether it’s A.M. or P.M.

In an attempt to restore some sort of normalcy in our routine, a few days ago I made the kids cinnamon rolls in between jobs before they left for school.  

They were unimpressed and in too big of a hurry to eat them.

I realized later my entire daily intake of food that day consisted solely of six cold cinnamon rolls and three pots of coffee. I didn’t even warm them up on a plate. I just stood in the kitchen at the stove and devoured them like a zombie with a fresh brain.

I managed to have a night off and make it to the football game a few Fridays ago.

From my perch at the top of the bleachers, I could see all the families scurrying from their seats to the concession stand and back again. I couldn’t help but notice the Shiny Moms hurrying by.

You know the type.

Shiny Moms have it together.

They have their team sweatshirt on with bedazzled jeans and shellacked hair and clickety-clackety heels. They remembered to bring a cushy blanket to sit on to keep their butt from getting numb. They know all the cheerleaders’ cheers and they chant along. They’ve got a magic Mary Poppins bag the size of a suitcase that they pull snacks and insulated cups of steaming cappuccino and mittens out of.

 Zombie Mom accomplished a shower that day.

Maybe.

Zombie Mom wants to throw popcorn at the Shiny Moms but my butt was numb by the beginning of the second quarter and the thought of walking on achy feet 50 yards to the concession stand to get the popcorn is the only thing saving the Shiny Mom from my envious wrath.

No, there is nothing glamorous about working the graveyard shift at a truck stop.

Cleaning toilets in the men’s restrooms at 3 a.m. doesn’t do much for the ego.

If you’re on the fence about where you stand on the whole unisex bathroom debate, maybe you haven’t seen a men’s restroom in a while.

Seriously, there are no words to describe what they do in there with their unsupervised bathroom privileges.

After cleaning them for the past six weeks, I’m convinced that men shouldn’t even have their own public restrooms, and no one will ever convince me that Men and Women are equal enough to share one either.

There is no doubt in my mind that we are not equal in this area.

I’m thinking a hole in the ground next to a garden hose would suffice. Maybe a well-positioned spittoon nearby.

I know this may seem harsh but just imagine what the men in your house do to the bathroom and multiply it 100. There are no nagging wives or moms to intervene at the truck stop.

My blood is boiling just writing about it.

On the upside, my kids have learned to use my zombie-like state to their advantage.

They wait until I drift off to sleep, which I’m sure takes less than 30 seconds. When they are sure I’m drooling and/or snoring, they file in my room one by one, one after the other, to awaken me with their “emergency” questions.

“Where are my headphones?”

“What was my YouTube password?”

“What time are you getting up?”

“Oh, sorry Mom, one more thing, can you get up and give me a ride to ... ?”

If I weren’t so narcoleptic, this might send me over the edge.

Fortunately, even with the gallons of coffee I’m consuming, I have no trouble falling asleep in record time. I shut my eyes for a “minute” in the car at the dollar store the other day and woke up 45 minutes later to someone knocking on my window.

Clearly, the kids are still actively carrying out their plan to send me to an early grave. Or the looney bin.

Apparently I have engaged in entire conversations during my sleep that I later have no recollection of. These so-called conversations involve them asking for permission to stay out late, or go to the movie or leave town or stay over at a friend’s. All of which I readily agree to before drifting back into a coma.

Kid #2 has convinced me on more than one occasion that we had an at-length discussion pardoning him from his curfew. Miraculously, Kids #2, #3 and #4 have all been pardoned from any chores as well.

Perhaps I’ve already lost my mind.

How convenient for them.

My next meal could very well consist of brains if I can muster the energy it takes to bite all their heads clean off.

Surely, no jury could convict me.

Stefanie Freeman is a Jefferson resident currently serving 18 to life as a mother of four.