This is my attempt at a “pretty picture” blog post to show that we’re not all a bunch of jerks who never leave our house. I kind of giggle at some of the blogs I come across where it’s all flowers and unicorns and no admittance of insanity. You aren’t deceiving me with your perfectly-smocked children and fancy afternoon snacks. Although I am slightly jealous … I’m not fooled. 

I know that unicorny approach works for some people. Those are probably the same ones who think I hate my children because I have no problem admitting that caring for them drives me to drink. 

But look! Here’s proof that sometimes we do normal family activities like attend school programs together and everyone is charming, well-behaved, and dressed in Ralph Lauren. Yesterday we attended *Maverick’s preschool Spring Program. In addition to showing up on time looking put together with a Ralph-Laurened toddler in tow, I was also proud of myself for remembering to bring an actual camera instead of relying on my iPhone for once.

Asher patiently waiting for the program to start.

That boy … those dimples … that chipped tooth.

Maverick was dressed as a bull (see below, far right) and he sang louder than anyone else. Also — and I try to be objective about my children’s talents instead of blindly thinking they are The Most Gifted Children Ever — his use of exaggerated hand gestures and animated facial movements really made me think he has a future in entertainment. And then I said a silent prayer that it will be the kind of entertainment I don’t have to lie about to the rest of the family.

The Husband and The Bull.

Trying to wrangle The Bull for a picture …

Family picture, attempt #1. Kids won’t look at the camera.

Family picture attempt #2, still a fail, but we gave up at this point.

 So there‘s the oh, how nice! part of this story. But you know something else is coming, or I wouldn’t have bothered to sit down and tell it to you.

At the end of the program, all of the children gathered to sing two songs for the grand finale. That’s when this woman …

… STOOD HER ASS UP and remained standing with her camcorder, right there at her seat, while the rest of us tried to see through her. I was livid. Of course there were parents standing to take pictures, but they were off to the sides or in the back where they weren’t blocking someone’s view. I literally could not focus on anything other than my blood boiling. 

Husband seemed nervous when I stated loudly that I can’t see, because THAT LADY IS IN MY WAY, and then I said in a yellisper (yell + whisper, I just made that up) that “SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL HER TO SIT DOWN” and he got a look on his face that told me this was not the time for me to unleash my hormonal rage on a total stranger, in a church, at my child’s preschool program.

And so, I walked to the back and watched from there, with the other respectful parents. I guess I find this kind of behavior shocking because I am just now entering the world of children’s programs and I naively thought adults should know how to act right. It just reminded me that we’re new to this stage of parenthood, and now I wish I had tapped that lady and asked her to please sit down or maybe just put my angry hands on her rude shoulders and pushed her back down into her seat.

I know there is a whole land of rudeness awaiting us, especially if we should ever put our kids in sports. But let me be clear — I have no problem taking a picture of people making jerks of themselves and posting them on the internet. I do it to myself all the time.

*I used to refer to my kids as “ONE” (Maverick, the 4-year-old) and “TWO” (Asher, the 1-year-old), but with a “THREE” coming in about 6 weeks I just can’t keep up this charade. It will be hard enough to call them by their right names in real life. Trying to tell a story with ONE, TWO and THREE is simply too much for me, and probably for you too.
 

This morning, Husband and I were looking over some of our tax paperwork from H&R Block and I zeroed in on the space where our occupations were listed. Right there in big, capital letters it stated “SALES” under Husband’s name. 

And under mine? “HOUSEWIFE.”

This may seem odd, but it hits me at the strangest times that I don’t have an income and that I am, indeed, a HOUSEWIFE. In big ol’ black capital letters. This is what I wanted. And yet sometimes I feel a loss, like I used to be out there doing things. Important things. Earning money, making decisions, mattering. Sometimes the title of HOUSEWIFE makes me absolutely cringe, and I think to myself, “I’m not a housewife! I’m a mom. And a wife. Who happens to run the household … DAMNIT.”

I know deep down that I am doing the most important job I could be doing, and mattering more right now as I wipe snot from my son’s nose with his dirty sock than I ever could in my old office, but to the rest of the world I’m just a HOUSEWIFE. To his credit, Husband said he argued with the man and said to list me as a DOMESTIC ENGINEER, probably because the title weirds him out as well, but HOUSEWIFE it remained.

But let me tell you something, world. Last night I was minding my own business reading a book on the couch when Maverick said to me, “What would happen if I lost one of these balls?” And I looked over, and he had his TESTICLES IN HIS HANDS. 

Now, the book I happened to be reading was the one I told you about a few weeks ago on raising boys. I had just read the chapter about sexuality and how it’s much better to provide your son with matter-of-fact information when he asks for it, rather than hoping he can figure it out on his own. Right on cue, this happened. So I put my book down, and talked to my 4-year-old son about his testicles. 

Me: What do you mean, “lose” one?

ONE: You know, like if it went up inside me somewhere? What if I lost one?! What would happen then?

Me: You can’t “lose” them, they’re safe there in that bag. Not to worry.

ONE: So they’ll stay in this bag forever? Why do I have them? What do they do?

Me:  Umm … well, they’re a very important part of you. You need to take care of them … put them away now, okay? That’s private.

ONE: But what do they DO?

Me: When you grow up, and you’re an adult, they make the ingredients for a baby. 

ONE: Oh!

Me: (silent relief)
 
And that was the end of that. For now. 

So while on paper I may be labeled a HOUSEWIFE, I am actually much more than that. I don’t know what to label myself exactly, but I can assure you I don’t get paid enough.

ONE: Hey mommy, can I see your uvula?

Me: My WHAT?

ONE: Your uvula. The little punching bag in the back of your throat.

Me: OH …   

So … here is where I realize that moms really are kind of boring, because the things that excite us are not really that exciting at all. But it’s kind of like if you took a person and put them in a tent with no running water or electricity and all they had to eat were crackers, and then you went back to visit and took them to the corner store in your motor vehicle. They would be overjoyed about going somewhere. It doesn’t matter that it’s no place fancy. Their perceptions have changed.

That’s kind of what mothering small children is like.

Today all I can talk about to anyone who will listen is how we finally packed up the Pack N’ Play because TWO slept in his big bed last night. No more of that! No more pink fuzzy bag! This boy got it. Can I get an AMEN!?
 

Napping in his real bed.

Unless you have lived through the trying experience of transitioning a 19-month-old out of a crib and into a twin-sized bed, while at the same time transitioning your 4-year-old into the idea of sharing his room with his brother, all whilst pregnant … you may not understand my excitement. And that’s okay. I wouldn’t have understood it either. I probably would have thought to myself, “That girl needs to get a life.” All the judgy judgerton thoughts I’ve had over the years have now come back to haunt me, manifesting themselves in the small people who are taking over my house.

There are all these major milestones throughout my mothering journey that seem so overwhelming if I allow myself to think ahead. I am absolutely wigging out over having a third child. WIGGING. OUT. If I allow myself to actually think too much about it, I start feeling like I can’t breathe and I just want to go hide in a very large, very dark, very squishy corner full of snacks and never come out.

But as with every other Big Thing looming on the horizon, the time comes, and we all deal with it just fine. Which makes me think … maybe we’re doing a decent job and our children really are well-adjusted. Thankfully, little things happen periodically that remind me that this is a time of excitement, and not a time of OH SHIT. I am grateful to be reminded.

We got this in the mail today! The most fabulous bow holder I have ever seen! I cannot wait to hang it in my daughter’s room.

A fun $5 dress from Target, size 12M, just because.

This is ONE and the girl he’s in love with.

The picture directly above was taken last week during the preschool’s field trip to the zoo. I was definitely not prepared for anything that took place during those 4 hours. I’ll spare you the agony of the details, but suffice it to say that my son wanted nothing to do with his mommy. It was very much like chaperoning a date. He and “K” held hands the whole time while they ran ahead of us, and it was ridiculous and adorable and I really didn’t know what to make of it.  

K’s mom was there too, and I was relieved to discover she was totally cool and normal and has three children herself, so she didn’t seem to judge me when I completely lost it in the zoo playground when both of my kids had simultaneous meltdowns and we left without saying bye to any freaking one. 

My meltdowns are becoming more frequent and my main goal at this juncture is to just try to keep them at a manageable level. I need a kiddie pool and some kind of fruity juice, and from now on I plan to throw the kids in the water every afternoon while I sit as quietly as possible, sipping my mocktail. 

Boring moms, in addition to getting excited about their children’s sleep habits, also drink mocktails. This is simply where I am. I’m embracing it.

Recently one of my friends told me that ALL moms lose it on a regular basis. They just don’t talk about it. 

This kind of pisses me off. What’s so wrong with admitting that motherhood is hard? And I don’t mean Algebra-hard. I had a really hard time with math in school. I was good at the other subjects, but I was at a remedial level in math. In fact, my issues with math almost kept me from graduating college … I could not for the life of me pass a math class, my brain just cannot compute numbers. I still use my fingers to count. At 33 years old.  

So motherhood isn’t hard like mathematics, it’s hard like GOOD GOD I might die.  

It makes me dig deep. There are times when it almost seems insurmountable, like I am so exhausted and over it, and yet there are little kids at my feet who are screaming and snotty and need something. They need their mother, or some adult, but I am the only adult here. Sometimes I feel sorry for them, that they have no other option — just the very pregnant and very hormonal Mommy. And so by the grace of God I find strength when I feel I have none, and patience when I’m out of it, and my love for them carries me through. After they have been asleep for an hour, I think they’re cute again — and after I get a full night’s rest, I am ready to start another day.

This week I had a freak out which involved me thinking I don’t want to be a stay-at-home mom anymore because it’s TOO HARD. If you’re reading this and think, “It can’t be any harder than working full-time and rushing to pick up the kids/cook dinner/take baths, etc,” then I’m here to tell you — I’ve experienced both sides and they are both extremely challenging. Neither side has it easier than the other. Seriously. Being a mom is hard.

I wish more people would talk freely about these things, because I can’t be the only one who requires a glass of wine to get through the hours of 4-7 p.m. I’m pregnant now, so obviously I have nothing to take the edge off except some lemon-raspberry flavored Natural Calm. But don’t worry, I make do with what I have access to.

So back to my fleeting desire to return to the work force: I decided that despite the fact that I feel absolutely batshit CRAZY, I am doing what is best for my family. No one else could do as good of a job of caring for my kids, even when I’m doing a really crappy job, because I do a crappy job with love.
 
Also, this boy …

 … loves to drink water from the toilet.