Like most of America, Ray and I are sucked into The Walking Dead, the thrilling apocalyptic zombie drama that mercilessly kills off as many of your favorite characters as Game of Thrones. It’s got complex character development, chilling insights into human nature, and intriguing visual representations of the overgrown ghost town this world will look like whenever civilization finally does break down. What it doesn’t have is more than 5 consecutive minutes of content suitable for kids—so unless you’re looking to provide your children with vivid examples of the boogeyman or acquaint them with the appearance of human entrails, save this one for post-bedtime viewing. Oddly enough, however, watching regular people navigate Armageddon makes me think motherhood may actually be good training for the zombie apocalypse because of these 6 things moms share with the cast of The Walking Dead.
Enhanced, catlike reflexes. Michonne can deftly slice zombie heads in half with her giant sword and Daryl can skewer the dead (or living) with his crossbow at the snap of a twig from a neighboring town. Even Daryl’s evil brother Merle was agile enough to fend off the dangers of post-apocalyptic Georgia minus a mano for several seasons, having fashioned the bloody stump of his self-amputated hand into a Mad Max-style weapon holster. These guys are fast and fierce, stab-you-in-the-temple kinda folks with classic kung fu movie grace and skill. Me? Not so much. Until fairly recently, I'd considered myself genetically deficient in throwing, catching, and all efforts to coordinate speed, agility, and accuracy. Since having kids, I’ve learned to throw, catch, cut, stir, and operate versions of the IPhone that have steadily increased in size with a single hand--all while holding a nursing child, screaming baby, or mid-meltdown toddler with the other. I can intercept a sippy cup as it topples from the table without looking and can pull off a Hail Mary from the changing table to a far-away trash can with a soggy diaper. My “mom arm” is always on high alert, ready to shoot out and shield my kids from oncoming traffic or yank them into next week when they misbehave. There's been no need so far to master Michonne's katana--but at this point, I prob'ly could.
Light sleeping. Zombies never sleep, so there’s little rest for the living on The Walking Dead. Someone’s either gotta keep watch or keep one eye propped open at all times to ensure a decomposing torso doesn’t army-crawl out of the woods to feast on your midsection in the moonlight. Fortunately, but unfortunately, I’ve always been a light sleeper. Having kids has just exacerbated this annoying super-power to the nth degree, to the point that whispers of “…Mommy” from two rooms away can jostle me from a solid sleep and the sound of my husband’s breathing (not snoring, but BREATHING) can keep me awake for hours. When I’m tired, it’s a curse—but if a gasping corpse comes lurching out of the closet in the night, I’ll damn sure be the first to notice.
Heightened killer instinct. We’ve watched The Walking Dead’s characters evolve from “Shouldn’t we treat these Walkers with respect cuz they used to be people?” to “Stab that bitch in the ear hole the second it gurgles at you with crazy eyes”. So, too, has my fear of large insects evolved—now that my kids will be screaming bloody-murder for days if I don’t go ahead and waste that f’ing creepy crawly on sight. I’ve gone from haphazardly spraying insect killer in the bug’s general direction (while yelling for my husband) to bashing that bug into oblivion with any implement that’s not nailed down. While I’ve yet to crush a wood roach with my bare hands, I’m sure that’ll be written into the script of a later episode in my life—when killing this bug or not is the difference between my kid sleeping in his own room or camping out on my bedroom floor for the next week like Rick Grimes’ crew on Hershel’s farm.
Increased resourcefulness. The Walking Dead's Carol is a former battered wife who loses her only daughter to the Walkers and becomes a stone-faced force of strength, deception, and cunning. In Season 5, her group stumbles upon an untouched enclave of survivors in a gated community called Alexandria. So as not to alert the locals to her true mommy-mercenary persona, Carol adopts the role of timid Betty-Crocker-meets-McGyver, whipping up cookies for the neighbors out of beets, foraged acorns, and a few chocolate chips she swiped from community dry storage. My pre-apocalyptic town is still equipped with fully-stocked grocery stores, so foraging is not yet part of my daily repertoire. Nevertheless, the stay-at-home effect on the family funds behooves me to minimize our “supply runs” to weekly necessities. So, unless someone loses a leg to a Walker bite and needs me to send Glenn into town for antibiotics unexpectedly—I work that pantry to its last can of cashews and half-eaten taco kit before the end of the week. Lucky for me, the underdeveloped palate of my preschool-aged kids makes the necessities pretty easy to narrow down—but if there’s ever a city-wide run on pasta or peanut butter, I may need some YouTube tips on wielding a broom handle like Morgan’s staff—just in case, I need to clock a fellow soccer mom on my way to that last jar of Jiff the Teeter.
Sorting out shady behavior with 3 simple questions. “How many Walkers have you killed? How many people have you killed? And why?” are the three questions Rick Grimes presents to outsiders when trying to develop a sense of their character and trustworthiness. For my kids, I also have three questions: Did you wash your hands? Did you dry them? And why then, are they either (a) still bone-dry (because you lied about washing them) or (b) actively dripping (because you lied about drying them)? Just like Rick has his gut-feelings about strangers he meets, I’ve got a pretty solid hunch my kids are bold-faced lying about some part of that sequence. But even if I know the answers, I still ask the questions.
Abandonment of fashion and general hygiene. I’m fairly certain that Daryl Dixon’s character hasn’t showered since the show started. And the rest of The Walking Dead’s cast is fairly Flintstonian in their attire, wearing exactly the same thing from episode to episode--unless whatever they had on soaked up too much human blood or zombie gore to salvage it. And while I’m sure there’s been a winter since civilization ended, you’d never know it from the shiny foreheads and rampant sweat stains everyone sports like they’ve got moonlighting gigs as Matthew McConnaughey and his wife in A Time To Kill. Personally, I was never the prissiest put-together little princess—and motherhood has done nothing to further that cause. I still shower almost daily--mostly because it’s one of the few places my kids don’t follow me—but by dinnertime, you might wonder why I bothered. If I had the audacity to blow-dry my hair, I can guarantee that progress has been gradually reversed by the frizzing effect of chasing my kids around the playground through the stifling NC humidity or from the downpour I was held hostage in because my kids took their sweet ass time getting situated in the car. My standard issue yoga pants hail from the 2010 clearance rack at Old Navy and are steeped in more sweat, blood, and bodily fluid than their dark color will ever let on. My go-to jeans (for when I’m feeling fancy) are worn with a 15-year-old belt only because the top button is missing and I’d rather not flash the world with a tantalizing glimpse of my decade-old underpants when the zipper inches down. My ultra-casual flats are worn til my toes nearly burst through the canvas and my knit shirts are only retired when holes become patently obvious. I do get cocky every so often and try to wear something new or God forbid light-colored—but that’s just an invitation for fate to violently strike it down and tear it to pieces, like any Walking Dead character who forms a positive relationship or has a spiritual epiphany of any kind.
You’d think after all the handprints and snot and food stains my clothes are subjected to I’d know better by now—like Rick Grimes and friends should probably just pass on the next Promised Land they’re offered and assume their new hopes will go down in a blaze of glory--along with the Atlanta CDC, The Prison, The Governor’s Village, Terminus, and Alexandria of previous seasons. But like the haggard and hardened nomads of The Walking Dead, I still hold tight to the belief that someday, my shoes will have heels again, my hair will be straight, and my cute white tops will still appear clean in the warm light of the setting sun…Until then, I’ll embrace intermittent sweetness of this sometimes savage existence—with its peanut butter, pee accidents, and Paw Patrol on repeat, looking ever forward to The Walking Dead with wine on Sunday nights and 60 consecutive minutes of a world that’s “for mature audiences only.”
Enhanced, catlike reflexes. Michonne can deftly slice zombie heads in half with her giant sword and Daryl can skewer the dead (or living) with his crossbow at the snap of a twig from a neighboring town. Even Daryl’s evil brother Merle was agile enough to fend off the dangers of post-apocalyptic Georgia minus a mano for several seasons, having fashioned the bloody stump of his self-amputated hand into a Mad Max-style weapon holster. These guys are fast and fierce, stab-you-in-the-temple kinda folks with classic kung fu movie grace and skill. Me? Not so much. Until fairly recently, I'd considered myself genetically deficient in throwing, catching, and all efforts to coordinate speed, agility, and accuracy. Since having kids, I’ve learned to throw, catch, cut, stir, and operate versions of the IPhone that have steadily increased in size with a single hand--all while holding a nursing child, screaming baby, or mid-meltdown toddler with the other. I can intercept a sippy cup as it topples from the table without looking and can pull off a Hail Mary from the changing table to a far-away trash can with a soggy diaper. My “mom arm” is always on high alert, ready to shoot out and shield my kids from oncoming traffic or yank them into next week when they misbehave. There's been no need so far to master Michonne's katana--but at this point, I prob'ly could.
Light sleeping. Zombies never sleep, so there’s little rest for the living on The Walking Dead. Someone’s either gotta keep watch or keep one eye propped open at all times to ensure a decomposing torso doesn’t army-crawl out of the woods to feast on your midsection in the moonlight. Fortunately, but unfortunately, I’ve always been a light sleeper. Having kids has just exacerbated this annoying super-power to the nth degree, to the point that whispers of “…Mommy” from two rooms away can jostle me from a solid sleep and the sound of my husband’s breathing (not snoring, but BREATHING) can keep me awake for hours. When I’m tired, it’s a curse—but if a gasping corpse comes lurching out of the closet in the night, I’ll damn sure be the first to notice.
Heightened killer instinct. We’ve watched The Walking Dead’s characters evolve from “Shouldn’t we treat these Walkers with respect cuz they used to be people?” to “Stab that bitch in the ear hole the second it gurgles at you with crazy eyes”. So, too, has my fear of large insects evolved—now that my kids will be screaming bloody-murder for days if I don’t go ahead and waste that f’ing creepy crawly on sight. I’ve gone from haphazardly spraying insect killer in the bug’s general direction (while yelling for my husband) to bashing that bug into oblivion with any implement that’s not nailed down. While I’ve yet to crush a wood roach with my bare hands, I’m sure that’ll be written into the script of a later episode in my life—when killing this bug or not is the difference between my kid sleeping in his own room or camping out on my bedroom floor for the next week like Rick Grimes’ crew on Hershel’s farm.
Increased resourcefulness. The Walking Dead's Carol is a former battered wife who loses her only daughter to the Walkers and becomes a stone-faced force of strength, deception, and cunning. In Season 5, her group stumbles upon an untouched enclave of survivors in a gated community called Alexandria. So as not to alert the locals to her true mommy-mercenary persona, Carol adopts the role of timid Betty-Crocker-meets-McGyver, whipping up cookies for the neighbors out of beets, foraged acorns, and a few chocolate chips she swiped from community dry storage. My pre-apocalyptic town is still equipped with fully-stocked grocery stores, so foraging is not yet part of my daily repertoire. Nevertheless, the stay-at-home effect on the family funds behooves me to minimize our “supply runs” to weekly necessities. So, unless someone loses a leg to a Walker bite and needs me to send Glenn into town for antibiotics unexpectedly—I work that pantry to its last can of cashews and half-eaten taco kit before the end of the week. Lucky for me, the underdeveloped palate of my preschool-aged kids makes the necessities pretty easy to narrow down—but if there’s ever a city-wide run on pasta or peanut butter, I may need some YouTube tips on wielding a broom handle like Morgan’s staff—just in case, I need to clock a fellow soccer mom on my way to that last jar of Jiff the Teeter.
Sorting out shady behavior with 3 simple questions. “How many Walkers have you killed? How many people have you killed? And why?” are the three questions Rick Grimes presents to outsiders when trying to develop a sense of their character and trustworthiness. For my kids, I also have three questions: Did you wash your hands? Did you dry them? And why then, are they either (a) still bone-dry (because you lied about washing them) or (b) actively dripping (because you lied about drying them)? Just like Rick has his gut-feelings about strangers he meets, I’ve got a pretty solid hunch my kids are bold-faced lying about some part of that sequence. But even if I know the answers, I still ask the questions.
Abandonment of fashion and general hygiene. I’m fairly certain that Daryl Dixon’s character hasn’t showered since the show started. And the rest of The Walking Dead’s cast is fairly Flintstonian in their attire, wearing exactly the same thing from episode to episode--unless whatever they had on soaked up too much human blood or zombie gore to salvage it. And while I’m sure there’s been a winter since civilization ended, you’d never know it from the shiny foreheads and rampant sweat stains everyone sports like they’ve got moonlighting gigs as Matthew McConnaughey and his wife in A Time To Kill. Personally, I was never the prissiest put-together little princess—and motherhood has done nothing to further that cause. I still shower almost daily--mostly because it’s one of the few places my kids don’t follow me—but by dinnertime, you might wonder why I bothered. If I had the audacity to blow-dry my hair, I can guarantee that progress has been gradually reversed by the frizzing effect of chasing my kids around the playground through the stifling NC humidity or from the downpour I was held hostage in because my kids took their sweet ass time getting situated in the car. My standard issue yoga pants hail from the 2010 clearance rack at Old Navy and are steeped in more sweat, blood, and bodily fluid than their dark color will ever let on. My go-to jeans (for when I’m feeling fancy) are worn with a 15-year-old belt only because the top button is missing and I’d rather not flash the world with a tantalizing glimpse of my decade-old underpants when the zipper inches down. My ultra-casual flats are worn til my toes nearly burst through the canvas and my knit shirts are only retired when holes become patently obvious. I do get cocky every so often and try to wear something new or God forbid light-colored—but that’s just an invitation for fate to violently strike it down and tear it to pieces, like any Walking Dead character who forms a positive relationship or has a spiritual epiphany of any kind.
You’d think after all the handprints and snot and food stains my clothes are subjected to I’d know better by now—like Rick Grimes and friends should probably just pass on the next Promised Land they’re offered and assume their new hopes will go down in a blaze of glory--along with the Atlanta CDC, The Prison, The Governor’s Village, Terminus, and Alexandria of previous seasons. But like the haggard and hardened nomads of The Walking Dead, I still hold tight to the belief that someday, my shoes will have heels again, my hair will be straight, and my cute white tops will still appear clean in the warm light of the setting sun…Until then, I’ll embrace intermittent sweetness of this sometimes savage existence—with its peanut butter, pee accidents, and Paw Patrol on repeat, looking ever forward to The Walking Dead with wine on Sunday nights and 60 consecutive minutes of a world that’s “for mature audiences only.”
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