Monthly Archives: June 2014

Shouting From The Internet (instead of rooftops).

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Today is an important day because I zipped myself into my favorite old pair of jeans without feeling nauseous because they were so tight. They are snug but wearable, and when I realized I got into them without sucking in I ran into the living room and demanded that Robbie take a picture so I could document this blessed event … which I am shouting from the internet because running around my neighborhood yelling, “OH MY GOD MY PANTS FIT!!” in these jeans would be difficult.

I’m self-conscious just like any other woman, and this is a big, exciting milestone.

BUT.

As soon as I looked in the mirror, I noticed that my stomach still pokes out a lot more than it used to (before I had three children), and instantly thought ahead to the next goal (clothes from forever ago when I first got married). And then I got MAD. Why is it that I’m never completely happy with myself? There is always something else to work on, and I feel like I’ve spent my whole adult life working on something. I need a respite.

Today I just want to revel in the fact that I put on these pants, wore them to Target, and didn’t pass out.

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I decided it’s time to let myself be proud of how far I’ve come, and just enjoy it. Tomorrow I can go back to worrying about how I look in a bathing suit when skin tight denim isn’t holding everything in. But as my friend Elizabeth said, and I quote:

“I think this stage of our lives calls for a more forgiving view of ourselves. You have three small children, you manage the majority of your household duties, you take good care of your husband. You need food to fuel you. Exercise is great, too, to help you be strong enough to fulfill your responsibilities and to feel good. But I think the idea that we need to be chiseled and toned at this point in our lives is just silly. Your body is beautiful and it is nurturing people all day, every day.”

Elizabeth is one of my internet friends. I’ve never met her, but I think we might be kindred spirits. She has a way of bringing us all back down to what matters. I wish we could all remember and internalize exactly what she said, because she’s so, so right.

So YES, Elizabeth, I will be forgiving of myself. Today. Next weekend when I’m at the beach, I may need another pep talk.

The Ridiculous Summer of 2014.

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This seems to be a recurring theme in my life, but I’ll go ahead with it anyway: this week was very long and very hard. I guess most of them are, right?

This week, Asher threw his shoe at me while I was driving. Kid’s got good aim; it hit me squarely in the head. Both boys made me so mad (in a separate event) that I pulled the van over, took the toys away that they were playing with and dumped them in a parking lot. I’m sure it made another child’s day.

This week I yelled. A lot.

This week, the next-door neighbor’s dog got out and terrorized my children such that they were unable to play in their own front yard for an entire day. We also got caught in a torrential downpour not once, but thrice.

This week was a blur of crying, yelling, “I’m sorry’s,” meals, cleanup, laundry and Band-Aids — times six. It’s been six days since Robbie last had a day off from work. Every day for the past six days I woke up, got sucked into the vortex, Robbie went to work and came back home to find that I had emerged from the vortex in a shell-shocked state.

This summer is crazy. Oh, what? You don’t know what I mean? Okay … let’s see. How can I rephrase? It’s cray cray up in this bitch. It’s off the chain berserk, RIGHT HERE, IN MY HOUSE, and I am handling all of it by myself because I wanted three children and I wanted to stay home with them and no, I didn’t want to be a Nurse or a Dermatologist or even an Esthetician which my parents strongly suggested and I wish they’d suggested more forcefully. And no, my husband didn’t want to get a degree in Law or Medicine or something fancy because he can sell the shit out of anything and would rather do that instead.

So here we are, nearly 9 years married without much to show for it except a lot more wrinkles and a lot more fingers and toes to pry loose or kiss, depending on the situation.

He sure knows how to make his mother forget he hell he just put her through ...

Equal parts charming and mischievous.

So, about this summer.

I knew it would be crazy, so I don’t feel as jarred by it as I might have … but wow. It’s still jarring. It’s nonstop action from the moment I get up until they are all tucked into their beds at night; I’m suntanned and exhausted and living on an extremely acidic diet comprised mainly of chips and salsa. My husband is working really hard and not enough people are buying cars or warranties so he looks as tired as I feel when he gets home. I have a feeling that when he looks at me at the end of the day he wonders what the hell happened to make me look like that, but he just says, “You look tired.”

We are running on a hamster wheel that would feel monotonous but for the fact that it’s simply never EVER boring because not one person who lives in this house is boring. And when I find myself painting Maverick’s big toenails and telling him, “Here is some paint that you can peel off whenever you want to — no more peeling paint off the house or the back door” I have to wonder if other people are going through anything like this.

Motherhood can be incredibly lonely for that reason. Wondering if you’re the only one. It can feel very much like you’re on an island and you don’t know what you’re doing and you have to just deal, but it seems like everyone else is dealing fine so you can’t speak up and say, “Does anyone else find it crazy up in this bitch?!”

Well, I find it crazy, so you’re never the only one. But sometimes I feel like parenting should be a two-person team against the children, but the other half of my team isn’t home very much. Three against one is kind of tiring. I mean, clearly I’m winning — but it takes a lot of effort.

These are my food groups. (That's salsa in the red cup.)

These are my food groups. (That’s salsa in the red cup.)

This morning, I was in the vortex of breakfast-making when I overheard Maverick saying “Daddy, do you have to work today?” And Robbie said yes, but he will be off tomorrow. Maverick and Asher chattered about how we’re going to a birthday party this afternoon and they wished he could come too. And then I heard my husband, that tired man I ignore a lot, the man I kiss hello and goodbye out of habit and sometimes half pay attention to, talking to them.

He said, “I wish I could go, too. But I have to go to work to earn money. I have to go to work because I want you to have everything.” And I literally almost started bawling into their smoothies, and totally want to cry right now just thinking about it. I know what he meant by “everything.” It’s not a house full of commercialized crap, necessarily. It’s the good things, the important things. He works so hard, and I do too, so that our kids can have “everything.”

He gets embarrassed when I write about him, but I’m telling you … if it weren’t for that man, in all his weird, charming, infuriating ways … I would be locked up in a loony bin somewhere. It would be crazy up in another, padded-walled bitch for me.

My teammate believes in me. So I’m not actually alone, and I suppose that means I can dig deep and stay on this ride called The Ridiculous Summer of 2014. Or TRS for short, which just so happens to be interchangeable with That’s Really Stupid.

My Middle Child.

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I have to work to stay present. If I don’t stay present, I don’t enjoy my children; they simply become another thing for me to deal with.

So this week I’ve noticed that Asher has started that adorable, almost-three-years-old way of talking and I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT. He’ll pipe up from the backseat: “Mommy! Look, birdses!” He says “catses,” “dogses,” and things like “What’s that sound is?” The first time he said “What’s that sound is?” I think I blurted out, “Who your daddy is?” And he said, “Huh? Daddy? Daddy at work.”

Sometimes I miss having other grownups around to get my humor … like when I told him the sound he heard was crickets because nobody was laughing at what I said.

“Cwickets?”

That’s right. Cwickets. They chirp when it’s silent, so … we never hear them.

Sometimes he pats me and asks, “You alright?” if I stub my toe. He wraps his arms around my legs and says “Sowwy, I sowwy Mommy,” when he does something wrong. He says “I wuv you too,” when I put him to bed. It. Is. Adorable.

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Asher at birth.

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Asher’s first birthday.

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One year old.

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Two years old.

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Almost three.

My Asher … he rockets around like he’s been snorting kiddie speed, constantly getting bumped and scraped. He’s my toughest child, rugged with a chipped-toothed, dimpled grin that can win over even the grumpiest cashier at Walmart. I worry about him the most, for very different reasons than the other two. They are all three so special in such unique ways, I know this even though we don’t know exactly how just yet. It’s a knowing that I have, and I just hope I am up to the task of guiding them.

Sometimes it feels like an eternity since he was born, and I guess in a way it has been. So much has happened — we moved, had another child, and moved again. But when I look into his cherub-like face and force myself to be present, I realize it is zipping by faster than I’d like, and before I know it he will be saying “sorry” instead of “sowwy.”

And that kind of breaks my heart a little.

Spin Class.

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Ouch.

Today, as mentioned in my previous post, I needed a break from my children so I chose to attend a Spin class.

I have been to exactly one Spin class in my life before today and it was a very long time ago. I had forgotten how badly it makes you hurt in all the wrong places for all the wrong reasons. I mean, sure, riding a bike for an hour is tiring and I’m a little sore from that — but the bicycle seat is what really gets you. My sit bones feel bruised. I made the mistake of sitting on the edge of the bath tub tonight while I waited for Asher to finish using the potty and I gasped in pain. Apparently that startled him and he nearly fell into the toilet, which would have made for an interesting story … but … he caught himself.

I find it ironic that the hour I spent getting yelled at by a spin instructor was a welcome break from the remaining 12 that I spent getting yelled or cried at by small children. On the up side, I did not pass out during class, fall off my bike, or collapse when it was all over — mainly because I refused to be shown up by all the much older, much more in shape people present. So I walked slowly and smiled brightly, like NO, I DON’T WANT TO VOMIT, WHY DO YOU ASK?

At one point during class, the instructor was explaining intervals and said, “You should feel slight nausea right now — if you don’t feel slightly nauseous you aren’t pushing hard enough. If you actually throw up then you pushed too hard.” I cracked up, like really guffawed from my spot on the back row, but no one else found this to be funny. Maybe they were trying to keep their cookies in check.

I often find myself laughing loudly when no one else is.

There were a lot of men in the class so I immediately texted Robbie that it’s a shame we can’t do this stuff together. He needs the cardio, and quite frankly, I think it would be fun to kick his ass.

He didn’t respond.

I’m not a perfectionist when it comes to my body, it’s always been a little fat and I’m totally okay with that, but if I am going to keep up with the kids I really do need to be in shape. Also, if I’m not going to earn a paycheck I might as well have an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. This is my logic.

 

It Was Fine! How Was Yours?

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Sometime later today, Robbie is going to ask “How was your day?” And here is what I’ll want to say.

Asher sneezed repeatedly with a mouthful of eggs at breakfast.

I found the baby quietly playing with a poop pellet she found. She was batting it around on the floor. How did this happen? I DON’T KNOW.

The only part of the play kitchen set that the boys want to play with is the fake knives.

I went to Spin class only because I wanted a break. Yes, that’s right. I looked forward to 60 minutes of physical torture in a dark room.

Maverick continues to refer to “Ninjas” as “Aninjas.” He says “We’re pretending to be aninjas,” or, “I want to watch Teenage Mutant Aninja Turtles.” I don’t correct him. Just like I don’t correct him when he asks me if I’m wearing a “booby cast.” I guess he means a bra. Is this a problem? I really don’t know. I also don’t make him read or write, it’s been a full month since Kindergarten graduation and I haven’t made him think once. I just let him run maniacally around and mispronounce the name of ladies undergarments. I think it builds character.

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Meet baby Maverick, circa 2008.

But what will I actually say when he asks me? I’ll say, “It was fine, how was yours?” I will not ask him if he thinks something is wrong with our children, or me. I will not ask if I’m a lazy mother. I don’t really want to know the answer to those questions, and if we have all made it to the end of the day in once piece … then it was a good day.

The Worst Selfie Ever Taken.

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The #selfie makes me laugh. I totally take them, because who else is around to take a picture of me? I’ll tell you who. Children who can’t be trusted with expensive devices. If I didn’t take #selfies, there would be very few pictures of me with my kids — so I’m glad I take them.

Today I was thinking, “I don’t have any pictures of me snuggling with my boys. I see people post sweet pictures on social media of them snuggling with their kids at nap time. I want that.” All these moms have such sweet shots where they are smiling while the kid sleeps, or maybe the mom is pretend sleeping while the kid sleeps, which is weird, but whatever — no judgement here. They are adorable and I wanted one.

Ignoring the fact that I don’t have any pictures like this because my sons don’t lie still, ever, I wanted to find a way to make it happen. And then, as if he could read my mind, Maverick asked me to lay down and hang out with him for awhile. LAY DOWN?! Really?? I was thrilled. I was going to finally get a cuddly son #selfie to add to my collection.

And you know what happened?

This.

The Worst Nap Time Selfie Ever.

The Worst Nap Time Selfie Ever.

 

This has to be, without a doubt, the absolute worst nap time #selfie ever taken.

Aside from the fact that I look TERRIBLE, my kid is clearly not napping. And quite frankly, if I was lying next to me, I wouldn’t be napping either FOR FEAR THAT THOSE BOOBS AND THAT NECK WOULD SWALLOW ME WHOLE. It was a failure all around: awful, horrible, and hilarious … which I think we all know means it had to be put on the internet as a shining example of what happens when you try to be something that you’re not.

But do you know what I am? I’m effing exhausted, and here are the #selfies to prove it.

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The kitchen sink.

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The play room.

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That’s my Keurig.

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Today was laundry day. Every day is laundry day.

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Stove. Not dangerous.

My friend Heidi saw the one with me face-first on the folded laundry and thought I was getting a “spa treatment.”

Oh … how I wish. But NO.

It cracks me up how natural the face plant #selfies look compared to the God-awful nap time snuggly one. I have to admit, though, it’s nice to know where I stand in the universe. And I’m sure Robbie will be thrilled to see what I spent my entire afternoon doing while he was at work selling financial products.

 

Pinterest-Perfect.

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If you’re new to my blog, I need to make sure you understand that I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t know anything about anything, so if you’re here because you want to learn how to be a better person … I can’t help you. I write because life is hard and I really don’t have the time or money for therapy. So you’re it. You’re my therapist(s). Congratulations!

This summer is going so well, but I have zero time to myself. Like, none. This irritates me.  I operate best with some time and space to call my own, and if my children would just RECOGNIZE and stop being children I would maybe have the potential to be a Pinterest-perfect mom. Or at least have more time to write about the idea of being one.

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I assume that the moms who are able to be Pinterest-perfect either have an awful lot of help at their disposal, or their children are not real children. My kids are sweet but I literally feel like I’m running in circles all day long just dealing with what they’ve done or stopping what they are about to do.

Ideally I should stay one step ahead of them, but that’s difficult to do when the baby has tipped the garbage can over and you find her playing in raw egg, just at the precise moment your older two decide to start bloodying each other on the carport outside. All of those parenting articles are supremely unhelpful when Salmonella and blood is happening in separate, simultaneous events. Have you ever read anything that addressed that situation? Neither have I.

Apparently, my children do not want a Pinterest-perfect mother, which is working out well since I’m never going to be one. So in that regard, I suppose we really are going to live happily ever after.