Secret Agent Mom

You know the difference between you and me? I make this look good.

By Kristen Chase

There is a distinct chance that I may have stumbled upon something amazingly brilliant. Or it's just my postpartum paranoia flaring up.

Let's just say I think I have uncovered a secret government operative called Project Secret Agent Mom, and before I have to go into hiding or I'm taken away in a seatless white van and a straight jacket, I want to make sure the public knows what is going on before something goes terribly wrong.

It hit me today. They're training us to be spies.

Think about it. Do you really think that anyone could torture us worse than anything we've already been through? What other person could endure labor, delivery, and early breastfeeding and still get up the next day and do it ALL OVER AGAIN? Seriously. Have you had a kid suck on your scabbed over nipple? THAT IS PAIN. Needles, knives, electric shock? Please. Don't mock me. Try watching four straight hours of the Muppets, reading the same fucking book 10 times a day, and answering the same damn question over and over again. THAT IS TORTURE.

Multitasking? Pshaw. Working a gun, cell-phone, and a sexy trench (of course) while driving a black BMW is nothing. Who else are they going to find that can do 5,000 things at once? I don't know any other breed that can read a magazine, talk on the phone, and nurse a baby all while taking a crap. I could be sitting in another room writing a reasonably funny blog post and tell you exactly what everyone else is doing in the house without a freaking fancypants voice-activated videospeakerphone thingy.

And let's face it. We are the masters of not talking. How many times have you been asked "how are you" and you painlessly respond "fine thanks" when you really want to say, "Well, I have a hemorrhoid the size of a prairie dog hanging off my asshole and I haven't slept in 4 days, but otherwise, I'm just peachy." That takes some fortitude.

Or how about when the kid next to you at playgroup has a snot longer than a jump rope hanging from his nose and all you say is "Oh, excuse me, I think he needs a tissue." Suppressing the "Lady, wipe your nasty kid's nose off before I strangle him with his own snot string" takes uncanny willpower.

Don't forget sneaky. We are some sneaky bitches. I can get my kid to eat anything under the sun. "Here honey - GREEN MAC N' CHEESE! " or, "I don't know why your apple sauce tastes like liver... must be the brand." I can hint the shit out of constipated bull. Just try me. My powers of manipulation are unmatched.



Seriously, only a mom could handle the sight of any or all types of bodily fluids and still eat her extra large piece of double layered German chocolate cake. Hell, I could have a big old poop smudge on my hand and still use the other one to shove that dessert right in my mouth without even batting an eyelash. They don't call me the stomach of steel for nothing.

So look. Before you think all your sleepless nights, group bathroom sessions, and thankless work are for naught, fear not. We will soon be rewarded with fancy electronic equipment and sexy black suits. This top secret government plan didn't fool me. I'm way too smart for those bastards.

Either that or I've just figured out that I'm a Mom.  And this is what I do.


Kristen Chase left a job as a college music professor for her current career as stay-at-home-mother of four. When she's not perusing the local adult bookstores and foot fetish websites, she is the publisher and CEO of Cool Mom Picks and Cool Mom Tech, and writes on her personal blog, Motherhood Uncensored, as well as various other online outlets. Her book, The Mominatrix's Guide to Sex, was published in 2010.

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"We all suffer from the preoccupation that there exists... in the loved one, perfection." -- Sidney Poitier