Not so long ago I dragged Superwoman by her long red cape and booted her out of my life for good. She rolled down the porch steps like a tumbleweed and landed on the sidewalk in a red, white, and blue heap. I’d had it with trying to live up to that woman. Superheroes are superhuman, after all. Somewhere along the way I’d forgotten that last part.

Leaping over tall buildings in a single bound? Yeah, right. The only things I leap over are piles of laundry. I’d wager more military wives and women in uniform could relate to Superwoman if it was in the context of super busy, super stressed and super tired.

To be fair, although I hold Superwoman responsible for messing up the psyches of millions of American women, I secretly aspired to be the Enjoli woman. She had sass. She had style. She wore better clothes than Superwoman.

Those of us of a certain age remember the classic ‘70s perfume commercial with the bodacious blonde belting out: “I can bring home the bacon, DA, DAAA, DA, DA… Fry it up in a pan. And never let you forget you’re a man -- ‘cause I’m a woooooman…”

I remember strutting my 7-year-old self around the house swinging my hips and singing an exaggerated version of the tune with my sister. We’d giggle every time, as if it was the first time we’d done the rendition.

The perspective of a child is often golden. The Enjoli fantasy and Superwoman myth should be amusing. So why are so many of us hung up on living up to that ideal?

I realized Superwoman and I had to part ways after an evening involving a spaghetti melee, a screaming kid, beltway traffic and a punctual Hollywood actress. I had an evening phone interview set up with Sally Pressman, the actress who plays Roxy on "Army Wives," for a magazine cover story. I asked (begged, pleaded) my husband if he would leave his job at the Pentagon early to watch our son. He graciously (grudgingly) agreed.

Flying by the seat of my pants is my modus operandi for juggling work and motherhood. That evening was no exception. But assumptions got me in trouble. I assumed my 18-month-old would be an angel. I assumed my husband’s truck would be the only vehicle on the beltway. I assumed Sally Pressman wouldn’t call on time. I assumed spaghetti would remain on my son’s dinner plate.

In Dick and Jane speak, this is how things went down:

5:50 p.m. Baby is hungry. Tanya feeds baby chopped up spaghetti. Baby screams. Baby throws spaghetti on Tanya and on floor.
5:55 p.m. Phone rings. Husband is caught in beltway traffic. Husband won’t be home for another twenty minutes.
5:59 p.m. Tanya prays Sally Pressman doesn’t call.
6 p.m. Baby still screaming. Phone rings. “Hi Tanya. It’s Sally!”

It was not exactly a professional moment. Donald Trump for sure would have yelled “You’re fired!” Fortunately, Sally Pressman was sweet and gracious enough to allow me to call her back. But I’ve interviewed plenty of people who might not have been as accommodating, and understandingly so. Additionally, being a harried mother was the last image I wanted to portray. 

It wasn’t until after the interview I realized I had spaghetti tangled in my hair. That was the last straw, or should I say noodle? I severed ties with the Superwoman ideology that I could be all, do all and give all. I’ve since learned women who seem to do it all, either have hired help or never sleep.

For one last hurrah, I flipped through my Rolodex. (Editor’s note to readers: Superwoman refused an interview request, muttering something about a torn cape).
I called the Enjoli woman first.

Me: “The other day I found myself in a quandary. My dilemma, I needed to clean the bathroom, but I also had to finish a writing assignment. It was Windex vs. Microsoft Word. That’s seems to be the story of my life these days. Any suggestions?”

Enjoli Woman: “You can Windex the mirrors, DA, DAAA, DA, DA. Make ‘em sparkle and shine. And then reach your deadline AAALL on time, cause you’re a wooooman…”

Me: “Using my investigative reporting skills, I was shocked, just shocked to discover Enjoli is still for sale, along with Charlie and Jean Nate’. What are you doing these days?

Enjoli Woman: “I retired to The Villages in Florida.”

Next I posed a question to Wonder Woman.

Me: “You wore these wristbands that allowed you to deflect bullets and other sharp objects thrown your way. The only time I’ve worn wristbands was to deflect nausea during pregnancy. It didn’t work. Since you’ve been off the air for decades, any chances of mass-marketing those wristbands?

Wonder Woman: “The wristbands are one-of-a-kind and aren’t for sale. But I’ve posted my tiara and lasso on eBay.”

The Bionic Woman was up next.
Me: “Do you get a charge out of thunderstorms?”

The Bionic Woman: “Very funny, lady.”

Me: “Actually, I’d rather be a woooman.”

I posed more professional questions to a group of innovative military wives I interviewed for a magazine piece. The editors planned on having “Superwomen” in the title, which they later dropped after the women showed a strong aversion to the label.

“Me, a superwoman? I can only wish and dream,” said Nicole Alcorn, a Navy wife who is leading a national effort to get a military spouse and family monument (www.milsfla.org) built in our nation’s capital. “I wish I had some of those special powers, the strength to lift furniture around with only a finger, to be able to stretch my arms to catch an energetic 3-year-old and the ability of Flash Gordon to have the floors vacuumed, laundry folded, and bathrooms scrubbed in seconds.”
She added, “And the power to break what seems to be the Military Spouse Curse -- why does everything seem to break right after they deploy? And in three’s no less? Now that would be a ‘Superwoman.’”

Like Nicole, the other women spoke candidly about parenting, volunteering, working, and maintaining a household, all while being a military spouse during wartime. Behind their stellar resumes were regular women who made their own opportunities -- and opportunities for others -- when none existed.

Now that is a real Superwoman.