Mother Tiara
As a work-from-home mom raising two sons, finding dedicated time to focus during the summer months is usually fraught with frustration. Then I landed on a gem of an idea that might seem a little kooky, but turned into a brilliant way for me to rescue my work day. For any mom in similar straits (especially during the COVID-19 circumstances), please allow me to introduce you to the power of a tiara.
On a typical work day, no sooner do I slide into my office chair with a warm mug of coffee ready to respond to an email or edit an article, I’m interrupted with some sort of family situation. Usually the crises range from “I’m hungry and there’s nothing to eat...” to allegations of injustices such as “He won’t give me a turn on the Xbox!” and grievances like “He just punched me!”
It’s not that I haven’t tried to establish clear boundaries between work and family. As I shut the door of my office, I encourage my adolescent sons to be their own best problem solvers and to only interrupt me for code red emergencies, i.e., blood or fire. I’ve taped Do Not Disturb notes on my office door and promised outings when I’m done with my work. Nevertheless, they perceive my calls for time alone the same way speeders treat a speed limit sign — simply as a suggestion. My grouchy responses to yet another inane interruption while in the midst of a pressing deadline have little effect other than a sheepish, “Sorry, I forgot.”
I gave the situation some thought and remembered how a clever friend of mine cut short her three-year-old’s temper tantrum by putting a silly hat on top of her head to redirect his attention. Could I tweak the idea to help send a message to my kids?
After digging through a basket of some old costume jewelry, wigs, and hats in my closet, I discovered a tiara I received after running a Mother’s Day 5K a few years back. The playful tchotchke features cheap circlets of diamond rhinestones topped with three teardrop pink gems. I’d never before considered the lightweight plastic silver headband as anything special.
Taking it downstairs, I looked in the hall mirror and popped the tiara onto my sun-bleached blonde hair. Paired with my raggedy blue jean shorts and green cotton t-shirt, the ensemble isn’t electrifying, but the visual impact is beside the point.
Historically, the tiara symbolized wealth, leadership and distinguished social ranking. In Ancient Greece, tiaras made of garlands of wheat, laurel leaves, and flowers adorned the heads of athletes, honorable warriors, and dignitaries. Over the centuries, queens, princesses, and other noblewomen wreathed their heads with circlets of opulent pearls, diamonds, rubies, and sapphires to underscore their power and prestige.
Today, if not worn for a state occasion by a member of royalty, a tiara might crown the winner of a beauty pageant or complete the costume of a little girl dressed up as a Disney princess. It seems to me, the esteem a tiara carries is so hardwired into our DNA that anyone could sense its power, possibly even one of my sons.
The rhinestones wink in the sunlight streaming through the hallway window. I wipe the amused smile from my face and walk into the room where my boys are haggling about whose turn it is to play Xbox. The living room resembles a disheveled frat house littered with microwave pizza boxes, popsicle sticks, and cups of half-drunk lemonade.
“I have an announcement,” I say to my two sons.
I stand in front of the television and snap my fingers in the air to get my 11-year-old Drew’s attention. He reaches up and pulls the noise canceling gaming headset off of his ears. Sitting on the floor, leaning his back on a chair cushion against the ottoman, his green eyes widen as he stares up at me.
I look over at Nolan, my 13-year-old, standing in the kitchen behind our center island munching on tortilla chips, which have scattered across the grey countertop and wood floor. His blue eyes gawk at me.
For once, my pair of rowdy boys are silent.
“See this tiara on my head?” I ask calmly.
They nod.
“Whenever you see me wearing it, it means I can’t talk to you. It means I’m in the middle of working on an assignment or in an interview. It means I can’t go looking for your shoes, download a new video game, or resolve an argument that you guys can figure out for yourselves.”
I pause for dramatic effect.
“It means, your mother, the queen, is working and is not to be disturbed.” I raise my eyebrows at them, holding their gaze.
“Um. Ooo-kay, Mom,” Nolan says with a grin. He pops a tortilla chip into his mouth.
Drew rolls his eyes and pulls his headphones back on.
“And clean up this mess!” I declare, my hand regally sweeping across the living room. I spin around gracefully and walk slowly and stately back into my office and firmly shut the French doors.
A little while later, still wearing my tiara, I hear the boys tromping down the hall toward my office.
“Shhh, Drew, stop! We can’t talk to Mom right now. Look!” Nolan loudly whispers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them turn and tiptoe away. I smile to myself.
My bejeweled accessory may seem like a silly head ornament, but this decorative piece of frivolity takes on a deeper meaning by protectively encircling my personal time. It informs those around me that I take my time seriously. More importantly, this crowning glory is a reminder to myself that in the midst of the demands of motherhood, I deserve sacred space, solitude, and time to fulfill my priorities. I am, after all, the queen of my domain.
Besides, even the best managers with open door policies have to shut themselves away sometimes if they are going to accomplish anything. Moms are no different. If there ever was one accessory I believe every busy mother needs, I highly recommend a tiara.
Award-winning freelance journalist and author, Christa Melnyk Hines specializes in family communication issues. When she isn’t writing and weirding out her kids with her creative parenting strategies, she spends her time chauffeuring them all over town. Much to their relief, she usually remembers to remove her tiara before leaving home.