The Best Hugs Ever

Yesterday, I had a moment...as I watched a video about Moms.  It was voiced over by a small child stating, "SHHHH! My mom is sleeping.  She's very tired..."  It went on to tout all the things this child understands that their mom did for them.  It was bittersweet, and heartbreaking; and I cried.  I cried a lot.

I cried because I too fall asleep when they practice piano.  I too, am so very tired that I feel it in my bones.  But mostly I cried because I'm terribly afraid my children would not say these things about me, were they to be asked.

Maybe my expectations on myself as a SAHM are a bit harsh.  I make most of our meals from scratch, and with love.  Never is someone without their favorite article of clothing because it is dirty.  My home is always tidy.  I tell each child I'm proud of them and that I love them every single day...and yet; I feel it's not enough.  That I'm failing.  That somehow I'm ruining them.  And that I'm alone, because, well mainly; other moms don't sit around discussing their shortcomings or that they have the same plights.

And maybe they do.

I have little patience with my own children.  I yell too much.  I repeat myself at the cost of sounding like a broken record of nagging sounds.  Play dates are few and far between.  I'm victim to overusing my "Later Card" (always telling them I'll have time to do whatever they're asking about "later").  I'm always distracted because I need to do this, this or that.

And maybe other moms sit down at the end of their day and feel defeated too.

...and every time I notice myself doing (or not doing, as it were) all of these things, or having these thoughts, I stop and say, "I'm going to do better today."  My daily struggle.

So, today, I'm not doing the dishes on my own.  And I'll not make a kid do them as their chore.  Instead I'll ask for someone to help me, and while they do, we'll talk about their friends.  Not school.  Not how their day went - but about their friends that I rarely ask about.

Today, I'm not going to make dinner on my own.  I'll ask for a different child to help me prepare it, and while we do I'll pinch their little butt and tell them how big they're getting and how beautiful/handsome they are, and that I'll really miss the days they're too grown up to butt-pinch any more.

And today, I'm not going to yell.  Even if they're doing something incredibly mean, or stupid, or wrong.  Instead I'll walk over and just hug them so tight it hurts them to breathe.  ...and when they ask what that was for, I'll respond that they must have needed a hug because they seem upset.  And maybe, just maybe there will be a little less yelling in here today.

And hopefully, no matter how remotely, I'll succeed at one or more of these things and at the end of the day when everyone is tucked in; I won't feel like a miserable failure.  And maybe, just maybe someone will ask my kids about me and they'll respond, "My mom?  Yeah, she's crazy but she tries real hard and loves me & gives me the best hugs ever."

SQUIRREL!

I've truly decided...  If you're ever having any sort of identity crisis, you should take a week to be a stay-at-home of school aged children.  It will definitely open your eyes as to just who you are, deep down.  Now that I am a stay-at-home, with a routine of sorts under my belt, I thought to come back from my hiatus and share with you exactly what a day in my head is like.

If you are faint of heart, do not continue reading.  If you don't like run on sentences, don't continue reading.  If you are going to get all uppity about my colorful use of curse words, for the love of Christ, DO NOT continue reading.  If you're still reading, however...here goes.

This morning started off like any other.  I woke kids up, oversaw breakfast, bag packing, shoe putting on, teeth brushing, puppies pooping, dinner prep; all while trying to down my SINGULAR daily cup of joe.  Off to the bus stop for Thing 1.  Out the door for bus pick ups for Things 2 & 3.  Puppy on a leash and poop bags in hand for our morning walk.

I came home, and this is where my day truly, truly begins.

[SIGH].  "Whatever shall I do today, puppy?  Ahhh, shit, I need to fill out the kids' after-school chore list."  [While the list is in the process of being filled out - please note henceforth that all italics are my rambling thoughts, while quotes are things I actually said...mostly to the dog:]  I'm gonna need Thing 2 to put away the dishes, but to do that, I've got to put away the dishes and start the next load.  Ugh.  Dog.  Who likes to lick my dishes.  I'm going to put you out.  I put the puppy out, and come back in.  I better open the window so I can hear her out back.  Gross.  This window sill is gross.  Let me...OMG, I have to do the dishes to get to the rag to wipe the window sill.  I'll have it known at this point I walked back to the sink full of dishes and I actually got them done.

I walk back over to the window, intending to wipe down the dirty sill.  "SoCo!  Why are you always wrapped around my hydrangea.  Blargh!"  I walk into the mudroom, intending to find my flip flops to go release her...  Holy shit!  Does anyone ever pick up their shoes back here?  Or vacuum?  Wait!  I vacuum.  Back here.  At least twice a day.  I wonder if Guiness has a record for how many times one person can vacuum their porch in a given week.  I should check into that.  I put on flip flops, open the door to see the dog is no longer tangled.  Guess I'll vacuum then.  I walk to find the vacuum.  Sweet baby Jesus, didn't I just do laundry?  No?  Who knows...better wrangle that up.  I take two baskets downstairs.  These stairs need to be vacuumed.  Vacuumed!  Fuck!  FUCK.  I must find the vacuum, find the vacuum, find...the...vacuum.

I find the vacuum.  I vacuum the mudroom.  And the dining room.  And the kitchen.  [Don't judge, I have a hardwood floor setting].  I let the dog back in.  Who runs to the stairs to chase the cat.  On the stairs is another basket of laundry.  LAUNDRY!  I take this basket downstairs and actually start a load.  I should make a reminder to myself that I ran a load, otherwise we're all going to smell like hobbits.  Hobbits.  What the fuck is that puppy doing?  I find our puppy, sniffing around the dishwasher.  I really need another cup of coffee.  But I shouldn't.  But, I'm going to.  Who needs sleep anyways, and in all honesty it's not like I'll actually sleep.  SIGH.  I turn my beloved Keurig back on.

I should totally blog about this.  I just gotta go grab my laptop.  I attempt to turn it on.  Dead.  Perfect.  Fuck my luck today.  By the time I get back to this, I'm not going to remember if I've put on underwear or not.  I go to find the plug.  There.  Let's let it charge a bit.  It's 9 o'clock!  SHIT, SHIT!  Pick up the dog's food & water from the floor.  Can't have her tiny bladder all full for when I leave for work [I lunch monitor at the kiddies' school 2.5 hrs a day.  Go me.]  Walking away to make that cup of coffee.  I wonder if this is why I love Holden Caufield so much.  I totally get him and the way he just goes on and on and on.  Especially about those phonies.  Haha.  Hmmm.  What WAS I doing?  GODDAMNED IT!  That fucking checklist for the kids.  I wonder how many things I start and stop in a given day.  Hmph, I guess that is why my husband (and possibly everyone else) thinks I'm like those dogs in 'Up'.  Squirrel!  Haha.  Hmmm, where was I?  Oh, right.  Coffee.  I walk to the pot.  This counter is cluttered, and filthy.  No wonder.  Let me pick some of this shit up and put it away.

I take an armload of things downstairs into our workroom/pantry.  I really need to call another company or see someone about remodeling the kitchen.  I can't live like this.  Maybe I could just call that one girl back and continue on that path.  But I should get a second opinion.  AND, I do want to look into those reclaimed barnwood cabinets...need a GC for that.  SIGH.  How does one even know if their GC does good work.  Really, I just want to hire someone who will help me do all the work.  And an electrician and a plumber.  I'm not doing that shit.  But, I think I could rip shit out...Install a tile floor.  Put in some damned cabinets...The counter people do all that jazz themselves.  I really like to be self-sufficient.  I wonder if I'd have to find someone to sub lunches for me so I could actually have a week off to do this shit.  Hmmm.  Self-sufficient...I need to call my dad back.  See if he's babysitting on Tuesday while the hubs sails.  Voicemail.

What is the dog doing now?  HEY!  At least I got the freaking checklists out and put them ON the table...  Walking by the table to check on the dog.  Fuck me.  She's sleeping.  I should probably wake her up and engage her in a game of 'Fetch it up' before she goes in her crate for two hours.  You know, I never picked up that yellow folder that Thing 2 needed for school.  I should probably do that after work, but I'm not sure her bladder can hold out just yet.  Stupid fucking puppy bladders.  Oh well, I'll go after the kids come home before taking her to the vets for her shots this evening; but they'll need to finish up their to-do lists.  THE FUCKING TO-DO LISTS.  Ahhh, shit.  At this point, I sit down and actually fill them out and hang them up.

I look around and see that it is 10am.  My laptop has power.  In the last two hours, I've done a sinkful of dishes, started laundry, vacuumed three rooms in my home.  Tidied up my counters.  Cleaned ALL the window sills in my house.  Brewed what is now a cold cup of coffee.  Took the dog out, brought the dog back in.  And I think that I'll just take a few minutes to myself and actually do this blog.  I know you might have been hoping for a whole day, but frankly, that's too terrifying to share with you just yet.

Shit, I forgot to tell them about the whole finding yourself business...

Yeah, so about that identity crisis.  I already knew I was a bit of an overachiever.  A bit crazy with the attention span of a gnat.  What I've come to fully realize is that I don't really know how to be still.  That I might have ADHD.  That I do tend to undervalue myself and all I do [with that one, I'm going to close out].  Jump forward to the end of what my day will be like...

My husband walks through the door.  I'm putting the finishing touches on our soon to be delicious dinner and setting things on the table.  A kid is pouring drinks for everyone [not THOSE kind of drinks, you jerk, but that WOULD be nice for me...hmmmm].  He kisses me on the neck.  "Hi honey!  What did you do today?  You have a good day?"  [He asks this every day in complete sincerity].

"Hi baby.  Yeah, it was a good day.  I went to work and made dinner..."

Con Artists Need Not Apply

It is no secret that my youngest child is going to be the death of me.  Do not let her deceptively sweet and cherubic good looks fool you.  This child is an evil mastermind.  And somehow, SOMEHOW, she can con your pants off and leave you laughing at the same time.  It's an art, really.  A skill.  And something, that no matter how hard I try, you just can't stay mad at.  She's infectious.

The events of yesterday morning unfolded like most any other day before school.  I was sorting through her little folder (kindergartners have soooo much stuff coming home), recycling papers and double checking homework.  It was then I stumbled upon the reading log.

 
A reading log that gets filled out and signed by a parent daily.

A reading log that looked terribly amiss.

"Baby...one of these things does not look like the rest. You will need to rethink any future career in forgery."

This normally inquisitive child, a child who takes every opportunity to ask what something means (to expand her vocabulary and my pride for her intellectual thirst) never even bothered to look up at me or ask what forgery meant. 

"I didn't do that, you did..."

Come again?  I stared in shocked disbelief that my sweet little five-year-old just lied to my face, with absolutely zero remorse.  It took me a moment to gather myself and compute the exchange taking place.  "Was I drunk?"

"No, but you do have bad writing sometimes..."

Wow.  Ballsy.  And then I remind myself that she IS a chip off the old block, and I was proficient in forging parental signatures by sophomore year of high school, not only for myself, but for friends to accompany me on my joy rides as well.  In that moment, she looked up from her practice writing and giggled at me.  And it was in that same moment that I thought to hide my checkbook and to master a much more complicated signature.

Let It Go...

It's no secret that recently, I lost my job.  I did what any self-respecting person of my age group would do: I posted about it on FB.  I became bitter, then relieved, then frightened.  And I had a martini...or five.  Ok, I'll be honest: lots of martinis.  While this news became a total blessing for me and my family (I had actually decided to quit my job earlier that week to stay home with my kids at the end of summer), it was still hard to choke down that my employer saw no worth in me.  [shrugs] Oh, well.

There is something daunting about trying to decide what to do with your life.  I'm a grown-up for God's sake.  I'm supposed to have this all figured out.  And then some things hit me; this might be my only chance in life to knock some items off my bucket list.  Yes, I totally have a bucket list.  Typed.  Single spaced.  Bulleted. And for as long as I can remember, it's been filled with dreams.  Not things I had actually planned to take off the list, but things I wished I could take off the list.  A bucket list of pipe dreams...

There was a giant one staring me back in the face.  You know, one of those items you dream of doing your whole life, but you are [when you're honest with yourself] too terrified to even attempt.  Frightened because not trying is much safer for your ego than trying and failing miserably, or hell - just failing?  Tentative because giving up this part of yourself is the ultimate exposure, and it will either be justifying as a person or crushing...  In any case, I've decided to give it a whirl, take it off my list.

Look back through my posts.  Note the date I started this blog and the large lapse until I actually started posting, and then posting with regularity.  That all came about because I wanted to write, but was so anxious at how my life, my mind, my humor and my family would be received [and mainly by people I know].  When the posts start becoming somewhat regular, I had gone through a personal trial that left me NEEDING to put a voice to the mess in my head.  And it's been healing.  And hurtful.  And necessary.

This.  This is my next trial.  I've decided I'm going to publish that book.  I've been looking at self-publishing, so I might only publish a few copies, with some online editions (and wish some more from there that some publishing house finds me and things take off) that you - all of you who have been so supportive of me can pick up for a reasonable price.  I'll be quiet for a while, brushing up on one of my biggest inspirations: Erma Bombeck - If you've not read anything of hers, do yourself a favor and check a copy out of the library immediately!  [While most little girls my age grew up idolizing Sally Ride, Marylou Retton, Madonna and Dorothy Hamill; I wanted to be Erma.  Or June Cleaver, with a side of Erma...this has totally endured 30 years later for me - some dreams never die.]

For all of you who read me and do not comment, I implore you - take this moment to tell me what you think.  What would you like to hear about?  If you've ever passed this site onto someone else, why?  If you've stumbled here by accident, and you came back - what drew you in?  If you're part of my faithful: why?  Do you hear my voice, or is it that you can just relate based on where your life is?  Here's your one chance to tell me where I can go, how I can improve and what you want to see should you decide to purchase that book once I've compiled it.

And to everyone who listened to me, and encouraged me to use my writing to keep the demons at bay: thank you.

Kiss Me, Kate...

It's no secret that I made more than my share of tremendously bad choices as a teenager; who hasn't?  It's a rite of passage.  Amongst my most superior flops were my selections in love.  I pandered to bad boys.  I consorted with drop-outs, stoners and guys who were totally wrong for me.  My biggest mistakes in love were that I never valued myself and dated someone who actually deserved me.

Flash forward well into my time in college, and my string of poor choices continued...until I dared to reach for what I assumed was out of my league.  I ensnared a good guy.  He was intelligent and funny and a horrible match for me, purely b/c of who we both were.  But what he taught me was priceless...and he paved the way for me to feel I merited more.  That I deserved a life-altering and mind blowing love...and he even introduced us!  Enter my now husband.

While we've been together for what comfortably feels like forever, I sometimes wish that I had found him at an earlier point in my life [which is just plain silly, b/c I needed all the mess I had made of myself to get to where I was 15+ years ago].  I mourn the fact that he was not any of my firsts.  Not my first kiss.  Not my first love.  Not my...well...first.  [insert my embarrassed face here].

I've never shied from the fact that the things I love most about him, the most adorable things on earth, are his dorky tendencies.  Those dumb moments that make my heart skip, and make me remember what it once felt like when any love was new.  And now, I've got this magical moment in which he CAN be a first!  See, I've never kissed a guy with braces.

Due to medical reasons, it was suggested he get braces.  He got them.  And it's glorious.  All those things I felt when I had braces and various other mouth altering apparatus all those years ago, I can see him feeling in his face.  He seems a little more reserved.  He appears a bit self-conscious.  But one big difference is that they've enhanced his boyish charm a million times [something I didn't imagine possible].

And I find myself nervous.  I have that chance for a first kiss with him...all over again.  One of those little life check-boxes.  Kissed a guy with braces?  Check.  And while we've kissed numerous times since he got them just a few days ago...a kiss hello, a smack good night, a tender cheek graze in a moment of sadness - I've not REALLY kissed him.  I want it to be just right, and I'm afraid I'll mess it up.

What 36-year-old, married, mother of three says things like that about her husband?  Ugh...this girl.  I've daydreamed about it close to a zillion times since he got them.  And yet, I'm still frightened.  Yes, terrified.  And I remember what I felt like so long ago:  When you wondered if he was going to call.  When you contemplated if it would be worth it...if your heart would race...if it would be amazing...if you bashed teeth...if he'd drool on you...Yikes!

And ultimately, I think - it will be my perfect first kiss; as how many people are lucky enough to get that once in a lifetime moment with the only person in life worth having it with?  This girl...check.

Dear Ole Dad...

My father is a relatively bright individual, but sometimes, he exudes the intellect of a toddler.  He is always capable of making me laugh, even in the most horrific of situations.

Most recently, he was to come up for dinner, but couldn't make it...uh, due to the "Creeping Crud."  Here are the events as follows:

Monday afternoon, he leaves a voicemail on my cell:
"Hey, I'm not going to be able to make it up there tonight.  I've still [laughing] got this crap blasting out of my butt.  I mean, Jesus...I'm not sure when it's going to stop, but I'm eating crackers.  So, I'll be up for dinner just as soon as the tidal waves subside...or I can figure out how to plug this up, you know, maybe with a plug..." [he hangs up laughing].

I proceed to play this voicemail for a coworker.  We get a great chuckle out of this.  Classic Dad.

He calls me back a week later.  "So, I thought I was doing pretty good.  I hadn't eaten for days, and I decided to eat a grilled cheese sandwich." [at which point, I think to myself, WTF?  Greasy grilled cheese after you've had the shitz for almost two weeks straight...and then I remember, that's one of the only things he can cook for himself.]

"That stayed in my butt pretty well. [Jesus, Dad...are you eating the sandwich, or did you use THAT to plug your poop shoot up with?].  So, then, yesterday I went to your brother's step-daughter's baby's birthday party - you know that kid, right?  [Duh...] And I eat two slices of pizza while I'm there.  Man, [laughing again] I didn't quite make it home.  I've crapped myself more than once.  This shit is really vile."

Silence on my end greets my father.  "You there?"
"Yeah, Dad, I'm here.  I just have no words to say to that.  Did the pizza have pepperoni?"
"Of course!"

OMG.  Who does that?  You've had Montezuma's Revenge for over 10 days and you decide to eat a grilled cheese with a two slice pepperoni pizza chaser?  Wow.  Not even my kids would make a decision that poorly thought out.

He ends the call by telling me once more he thinks that he has to go to the doctor's as, "my blood sugar's way up, b/c I keep crapping out my medicine."  Holy Toledo.  He laughs some more.  And promises to be up just as soon as he can make the drive without having a total explosion...

Thanks, Dad.  Thanks.

Something Wicked This Way Blows...

My children are snugglers.  This makes me exceedingly happy, although cramped as our couch was not meant to hold two adults and three tall and lanky children all at once (is any, really?).  In any case, they always want to snuggle.  While watching TV.  While reading a book.  While playing games.

And at bed time.

Sleeping with the kids has always been a constant bone of contention for them.  They're fascintated with the idea of snuggling with Mommy in bed...mainly because they've never had the pleasure.  See: long ago the hubs and I instated the rule that no kids would join us in bed; mainly because we've heard horror stories about how difficult it is to get them to return to their own.

We've all had countless conversations about this:
"Mommy, will you sleep with me?"
"No, baby.  I have to sleep with Daddy."
"Why?"
 "Well, because, he's a chicken.  He's terrified to sleep alone.  I have to keep him safe."

This seemed to pacify the children who have always found it funny that their father needs to snuggle their mother because he's too scaredy-chicken to sleep solo.  And it's worked so far...until....I fed him brussel sprouts and other noxious foods.  I casually mentioned that I was fearful for my olfactory health.  I threatened to banish him from our bed.

"But Mommy!  You can't send him to sleep on the couch, because then his butt will kill us!"

"YEAH!  And since he can't sleep down here on the couch...you should sleep with me!  That way, Daddy can stink himself out...by himself."

"Don't let his butt kill you!  Sleep with me!"

And then the obligatory, "Daddy's butt stinks!"

Touche, kids...Touche.  And then I got to thinking...if they want it so bad, they must need it.  And then I got to thinking some more: I already sleep like crap...what can it hurt.  And then I think, what if I've not been protecting me but them...from the light breathing (that my husband adamantly and incorrectly calls snoring)?  And then I thought, what if they end up being spooners (BTW, while I love the awake spoon as much as anyone, when it's time to slumber - stay your hot self on your own sweaty side of the bed), and I end up harming a child in my need to get away from their slumbered death grip?  And worse: what if I can't handle it and creep out of bed in the night...will that create lasting psychological issues?  And...

So, even though terrified, I'm going to take one for the team and snuggle my babies to sleep this week.  Life is too short.  Wish us luck.

Another Day...Another Gray...

So, today's my birthday!  It's always been my favorite day of the year, but that is because I believe your birthday (and not Christmas) is for unadulterated present whoring...and worship.  Normally, I require my husband also take the day off work to participate in my gratuitous bday adoration.

This year, the two presents I need the most will probably be presents to myself: hair dye & zit cream.  It seems that these two phenomena have started taking over my life.  I have more pimples now than I did as a teenager.  I'm 36-years-old, for Christ's sake, shouldn't I be well past this?!?  The worst part?  It's not just a blemish here or there...these things are monstrous.

It's as if the Gods of Adolescence were like, "Hey, this one got through fairly unscathed...let's make her adult life a nightmare!"  Can you recommend me a acne cream with wrinkle reduction?  I'm certain I can't be the only one and that there has to be a market for that kind of goop, right?

And the grays.  This may be the worst.  Don't mistake, I don't mind getting old.  Not at all.  [Fact is, I still imagine myself twenty-ish and pretty fabulous, but a bit more broken in and more wise]

What I do mind is my hair changing color.  Ok, ok...I know I change it enough on my own that I've recently decided to take a break to see what color my natural color even is (and to simultaneously do gray hair recon.), but this is so lame.  These hairs are not just gray, oooh, no no.  They're white.  Shock white.  And they stick out of my head in Bride of Frankenstein fashion.  They're kinky and bejiggidy and unable to be tamed or properly flat ironed...and most sit residing at the part I've kept for these past 36 years.

I've tried pulling these suckers out.  Every time I do that, the problem increases exponentially, and I've started to become a conspiracy theorist.  Alright, already...a bigger conspiracy theorist.  I think there is a direct link between my white hairs and my zits!  I yank a white hair, two pop back in it's place...followed closely by a white-headed disaster (usually strategically placed in the middle of my forehead or nose, or their favorite campsite: my chin).  I pop the zit and cover it with make up, and now I note two more white hairs.  EHHHH!

It really is only a matter of time until I'm found wandering the aisles of Wegman's, wearing an old lady plastic rain bonnet and muttering to myself about the evils of Oil of Olay.

What Did You Say?

2013 was the year of the lunatic.  This year saw all my kids in school.  All my kids being driven to and fro between piano lessons and swim lessons and various other engagements.  It provided our first family vacation in four years.  There was family drama.  We celebrated our tenth year of marriage, and our 15th year with each other.  Our kids' quirkiness came out in leaps and bounds.  It all left me exhausted. And happy.  And frustrated.  And thoughtful.

This year I noticed and listened to my children yell at each other.  I heard them yell room to room.  I witnessed them yelling at me and their father.  I heard their father yelling back.  I stepped outside myself and saw the freak-show I could become.  And I thought to myself, 'This is not what I want to be teaching them.'  This year is going to be different...GODDAMNIT!  [ugh: I even yell on here!]

I've enlisted the help of my family.  I'm going to pretend I'm soft spoken.  I'm going to breathe deeply and I'm going to walk into the other room, or walk from the room - depending on the situation.

No more, "HEY!  TURN THAT DOWN!"

Never again with the, "WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH WERE YOU THINKING?!?!"

Screamed, "WTF..." at kids, the husband, the cats, extended family, other people's stupidity, shall not come to pass.  Ok, maybe not on the other people's stupidity...I am only human after all!

Daunting, I know.  But hey, I've figured out and mastered most other things in life I've put my mind to...I refuse to allow this one to be any different.  I'll probably fail a million times, but as long as I try again, there will always be one less shouting match had.

I've come up with replacement strategies:  Leaving my kitchen (maybe a few burned dinners will drive this point home) to get the TV, radio or child volume lowered with a tap on the shoulder and a quietly spoken, "Please turn that down?"  When any number of daily atrocities committed by the small humans in my house is discovered; kneeling down to their height and calmly asking, "What happened.  Can I have the full story, including your thoughts on why you did that/it happened?"  And when all else fails, I'm going to take a deep breath and walk away.

2014, it is my goal to be asked, "What? What did you just say, Mommy?"  When this happens more often than not, I'll consider myself successful...and I'll then have my goal of 2015 - ensuring that no one had lasting hearing damage...