Monthly Archives: June 2014

Pirates.

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My dad got a fishing boat for his birthday in April and the boys have been talking about Grandpa’s “pirate boat” ever since. I don’t know why Asher thinks every boat is used for pirating, but he does. I don’t correct him. It will be a sad day for me when he realizes that his Grandpa is not a pirate.

Because a boat is now in the picture, the males in our family have been discussing the need to get a fishing license. In fact, Robbie went to Walmart on Father’s Day Eve to get one from their Sporting Goods department. When he said he was going to get his fishing license there I commented that I had no clue that was even possible. “Oh yeah,” he said, like I was just a silly, ridiculous girl. “You can get a fishing license there.”

So he went and there was nary an employee in sight, as is typical at our local Walmart. He waited at the Sporting Goods counter for 20 minutes before he finally tracked someone down. They didn’t work in that department, of course, so he waited some more while they hunted down the appropriate personnel. That person said they didn’t have the correct forms, and he would need to go to Customer Service — which is where he went, because he was now 45 minutes invested in this experience.

The Customer Service line was very, very long, per usual. He returned to Sporting Goods and happened to notice a fishing brochure which had a website on it, and while he was waiting for Walmart to get it’s head out of its ass he used his smartphone to get his fishing license while standing in the department that is supposed to sell them.

I found none of this surprising.

The other day I was driving down the road with the kids when Maverick, who had been staring out the window deep in thought, suddenly said, “It seems like Grandpa would know how to fish by now.”

Me: What do you mean?

Maverick: He’s old … it seems like he’d know how to fish.

Me: He DOES know how to fish. And he’s not old. He’s 56.

Maverick: Then why is he always talking about getting a fishing lesson?

Me: What??

Maverick: A fishing lesson. I haven’t ever had a fishing lesson, and even I can catch a fish … I’m only 5 … I just don’t understand.

Me: A license. A fishing LICENSE.

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Pirates.

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Father’s Day 2014.

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I can’t let Father’s Day get away from me without writing about my dad, the one who taught me valuable life lessons such as, “If you hit right, you’ll only have to hit once.”

When I was a little girl, I followed him everywhere he went — his blonde-haired, pig-tailed shadow, climbing over car ramps and hopping over mud puddles trying to keep up. I watched him gut fish, fix things, dig holes and fill them up with Quik-Rete that he’d mixed up in a wheelbarrow. He’s a do-it-yourself-er, the kind of man who does things like read a manual on how to rebuild a car engine — and then rebuilds one — because he didn’t want to pay someone else to do it.

At night I would study his beaten-up hands and ask, did they hurt? He always said the same thing: “Nah!” in his Alabama drawl. I believed everything he said, marveling at how he could accidentally stick a screwdriver through his hand and seem unaffected. It took years for me to realize my Daddy was human, and once I did, I loved him even more.

I know Father’s Day is a difficult day for people who are missing their fathers, or never had one worthy of missing. I don’t take mine for granted. He made sure I grew up knowing that I’m a funny, capable, and valuable person. Sure, he said I was pretty too, but through his example and his parenting I grew up knowing that looks are not what makes a person important.

He always said he was proud to be my Daddy. Well, I’m proud to have a Daddy like him.

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“You Make Me Have A Good Life.”

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This morning, before Robbie left for work, he hugged me. I leaned against him, exhausted even though the day was just starting, and told him that I wish he was home more.

I try to avoid complaining about his work schedule or making snide comments about how he’s never around, because it only makes a difficult situation even worse. If I allow myself to go down that rabbit hole it never leads to anything but self-pity and resentment, and that doesn’t help anyone. He doesn’t want to work 60-70 hours a week. He is just doing what he needs to do right now for our family, and so am I. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not fucking hard. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to scream, “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE ALONE WITH THESE CHILDREN!” every morning over coffee.

I feel tired and inadequate and unprepared. I run out of ideas for meals and discipline and I lose my temper. I am so tired that I’m sure that I’m not being the kind of mother that my children need and deserve.

Being on a tight budget means that there isn’t money for a sitter or even for bread sometimes. We just keep pressing on.

Sometimes I wish I had gone to school for something high-paying instead of Mass Communication. Sometimes I wish Robbie was a trust fund baby. But I didn’t and he’s not, and we met when we were both working at a grocery store. Trust fund babies don’t work at grocery stores. Neither of us had grand visions for the future … we just married for the love that struck when we were least expecting it.

Some people say that marriage is luck. I’m not sure what brought us together, exactly, but this morning I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to be a mom. Some days, like this day, everything is a struggle. Some days I need help.

I spent the rest of my morning fighting off feeling like I was drowning under waves of snotty children. I counted down the hours until bedtime and told myself over and over again that I could get through not only today, but the next day and the next. And then it was nap time.

Blessed nap time.

I put the younger two down and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — I needed a shower. I headed into my oldest child’s room and tucked him into his bed with the Kindle. He mumbled something I only caught the end of, so I asked him to repeat it.

He looked at me very seriously and said, “You make me have a good life.”

Grocery shopping.

My eyes filled with tears. “YOU make ME have a good life,” I said. Because he does.

My husband and my children are the very breath I breathe. I don’t just exist; because of them, I LIVE. My days are long and lonely, but that moment reminded me that the energy I pour into my family isn’t wasted or unnoticed. It’s making them have a good life.

So maybe this day isn’t so hard after all.

Teething On Brick.

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I met a friend at the park this morning and we were talking about being uptight, anxious, OCD … whatever you want to call a person who feels the need to jump out of bed in the morning and immediately make coffee and unload the dishwasher. It has to happen right away, immediately, because it would bring universal dread and destruction if dirty dishes pile up before the clean ones are unloaded. DO NOT QUESTION ME.

All I could think as we talked was, “Thank God I’m not the only one.”

Motherhood must be so much easier for people who don’t get all stressed out when there is unfolded laundry in a basket somewhere in their house. It must be nice to not feel like the world is ending if toothpaste gets on the mirror right after you cleaned it, or the baby crawls through your bathroom and emerges with beard hair all over her hands and knees.

So I’ve been trying to relax, and just go along with how things are right this moment — today — and embrace that shit.

But … have you ever seen a baby teethe on brick? It’s unsettling.

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Teething LIKE A BOSS.

I let it happen because I was making a conscious effort to be relaxed. Now that I think about it, this wasn’t the best time to decide to be cool hippie mom. I should have been normal, uptight mom when I saw her start to do it, but I was so fascinated, I just stood there and stared. Clearly, I need more practice.

Can we all agree that the boys have a good reason to fear their little sister? SHE’S TEETHING ON BRICK. That is seriously hardcore.

Gospel Music.

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A few weeks ago, I went to my parent’s house to pick something up. I didn’t have the kids with me — it was just me and my mom. After I was done loading up the van, I plunked down on the couch to chat for a minute.

She seemed on edge, taking lots of deep breaths, which made me on edge. Finally, she said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” The way she said it made me nervous, like I was in trouble. Had I said bullshit too many times on my blog? I don’t talk like that in person — she should be proud. Was she going to try to talk to me about the kid’s moral character, or how Maverick knows too much about anatomy? My mind was spinning, and I tried to brace myself for whatever was about to happen.

“I need you to just keep an open mind about what I’m going to say,” She said. “This has really been weighing on me for a long time.”

I squirmed in my seat.

She took a deep breath. I waited.

“I really feel like Maverick needs to be involved in Southern Gospel music.”

I made the sound I make when I am trying to be polite and NOT laugh. I did what she asked and I heard her out. She explained her reasoning, how much research she had done on the subject, and where the closest school was for learning such a musical skill (Pass Christian, Mississippi, just so you know).

Later on, I pointed out how weird that was and what a shame it is that I can’t talk about all the things I go through with my parents and my in-laws that are just FUNNY. I don’t want to poke fun at them because they are my elders and they are all wonderful, but wow, have I got some stories.

She suggested that I could still share the stories, but change everyone’s names. You know, like Jane and John and the neighbor lady, Patrice. I explained that is something I just can’t do. It takes too much energy to dream up names for my characters and then pretend I’m not talking about my own mother. I’d give up halfway through and just say the hell with it, I AM JANE AND PATRICE IS MY MOTHER. MY MOTHER WHOSE REAL NAME IS ESTHER SAT ME DOWN TO TELL ME MY 5-YEAR-OLD NEEDS TO BE A GOSPEL SINGER.

(Disclaimer: I would totally support Maverick if he wanted to sing gospel music. I also got my mother’s permission to share this story.)

Do we look like the kind of people who have the time to fabricate elaborate stories? Count how many kids you see in this picture.

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This is us, in our too-small kitchen.

When my Scary Mommy piece was published on Friday, traffic to this blog shot to unprecedented numbers. It blew my mind, actually; the entire experience was out-of-body. It was exciting and humbling, and inspired me to keep going — to write more, to continue to aim high. But I have always felt disappointed when I found a really cool blog and then the writer starts getting more and more traffic and then they start writing more and more sponsored posts (not that I wouldn’t do that — I totally would) and seem like they are censoring what they say out of fear that they will offend someone.

If NOT letting that happen here means I never find my way to the big time, so be it. I am a terrible liar, as illustrated above. If I tried to make my life seem glossy, or my kitchen seem spacious or my parents (who I try not to talk about here) seem boring and normal, it wouldn’t work.

Just like if I said my “friend’s” father-in-law is a kind-hearted ghost hunter, you’d totally know I was talking about my own father-in-law.

365 Days And I’m Still Here.

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Meeting Penelope Rose.

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Brothers meeting sister for the first time.

One year.

I don’t know how I did this without antidepressants. I thought caring for three kids would make me eat them like candy, but here I stand, exactly one year later, and nary a prescription. This surprises me more than anything.

We made it. The first birthday of our last child. I don’t know what I thought this year would be like — it was HARD, so, so hard — but it was also absolutely amazing. Like in the kind of way that makes you feel like you need a very long, kid-free vacation.

I woke up every day and gave all of myself that I had. I thought I knew how much I had to give and I gave that and more that I didn’t realize was there. Where did that extra me come from? All that work was worth every single dinner thrown and bottle spit up and rectal temperature taken and whatever other weird mom thing I had to deal with while two rowdy boys rocketed around as the baby blinked at me with this look:

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All worth it. I’d do it again, but Robbie fires blanks now. I kind of mentioned how I regret that and wish we could have a fourth, and he yelled “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and stormed out of the house. He’s probably right.

Now, all I want to do is cry — from tiredness, from gratitude, and from the amazing feeling of getting over a big mountain no one else can see.

It’s called The First Year With Three Kids, and I made it my bitch.

 

What’s The Worst That Could Happen?

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It happened, I didn’t make it up in my head, it really happened — I have been published on Scary Mommy.

Please read and enjoy, and if you liked it, SHARE IT! COMMENT ON IT! You can find it here!

Also, if you have found me via Scary Mommy, then welcome to the madness. Please follow me so I know I’m not alone and insane! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

He Has No Idea.

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I have lost count of how many times I or one of my friends have said, “My husband has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids.”

Before, when I was working full-time and pregnant, then working full-time and balancing motherhood, and then working full-time while pregnant with a toddler at home, I ranted a lot about how my husband “HAS NO IDEA.” And to be fair, he didn’t.

My husband doesn’t really know what it’s like to do what I do, just like I don’t know what it’s like to do what he does. Our occupations are mysterious and confounding to each other; he doesn’t know where the peanut butter or extra towels are kept, and the baby is always in pajamas when she stays home with Daddy. I’m almost certain it’s because he doesn’t know how to dress her. She’s also always missing a sock when I get home, the air smells like farts and chicken fingers, and the boys are drenched with sweat because they’ve all been wrestling.

I used to get upset with him because he didn’t take care of the kids the way I would have — I mean, if I was home, there would be no fart smell or chicken fingers, and certainly no wrestling. But after I quit my job and starting caring for them 24/7, I was so happy to get a break that I didn’t really care what went on while I was gone. Things have now leveled out so that I am just flat-out grateful to him for providing for us, and he is flat-out grateful to me for everything that I do … even though we both realize he isn’t even sure what all that entails, which is probably the biggest reason why he’s grateful that I’m doing it.

But … he has no idea.

He has no idea how much coffee I drink.

He has no idea what it’s like to run errands with three kids.

He has no idea what it’s like to have to change your tampon in front of an audience.

He has no idea how lonely and overwhelming it can be on really bad days when the kids are being terrible and I need an extra pair of hands.

He has no idea how hard it is to watch your body change three different times and have little control over it.

He has no idea how happy he makes me. He can’t possibly, because I’ve never been able to put it into words.

He has no idea how grateful I am to him for continuing to love me even though with each passing year he has seen more of my imperfections.

He has no idea how thankful I am to be in a front-row seat for our kid’s lives, never missing a day, good or bad, and I’m in that seat because he put me there.

He has no idea how hard it can be to be me, but he also has no idea how amazing it is.

So to my husband, who has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids … thank you. I wager that we don’t say thank you enough to the people who love us the most and yet have put up with the most asinine behavior we’re capable of.