Monthly Archives: March 2015

All I Need To Know Today

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I just want to breathe.

Right this very moment, my toddler is screaming from her crib and my middle child is playing with a roll of duct tape behind me, making that “riiiiiiip” sound over and over.

It’s nap time, obviously.

I need to breathe.

I have spent months struggling to find my breath. I have felt the actual sensation of my spirit sinking as I slogged through the hard parts of mothering, digging deep for just one more day of a little more patience and a little more strength. Just enough to get me through the day, because I’m not greedy … and also because I can’t allow myself to think too far beyond whatever is happening right in front of me.

I am weary, turned inside-out, and emotionally rubbed raw. I have found myself asking aloud, when does it end? Because surely, somewhere down the road, I will have a chance to regroup before the teenage years hit. Right? Surely it doesn’t stay this exact brand of demanding forever.

And then, clarity hit. That’s what always happens — months of painful slogging, followed by an epiphany. If my life were to have a working title, it would be “I Had Another Epiphany And Everyone Eyerolled.”

I was cleaning up my daughter after another accident when it struck me that the opportunity to care for others is a sacred thing. Cleaning them, feeding them, looking after them.

Raising them.

The quieting of their cries at the sound of your voice. The endless smiles. The begging for you to sing at bedtime, when you are exhausted and want nothing more than to dump them in their beds and lock yourself in a room alone to stare in silence. But watching those little bodies relax as you acquiesce and sing “Silent Night” for the thousandth time, only walk to the next bedroom and do it all over again with the next one … THAT is a sacred experience.

That is what keeps me going.

Being a parent is hard. It’s so much work, but it is holy work, regardless of what your beliefs may be. Guiding children to adulthood is by far the biggest and most serious responsibility I have taken on in my life. I’ve had people say I must be a sad person if being a mom was the greatest thing I’ve ever done.

Fuck them.

It is by far the greatest thing I have ever done, and if I can somehow manage to shepherd these kids into adulthood as functioning, mannerly, positive contributors to society … then it will be the greatest thing I WILL EVER DO.

My exhaustion is worth something. Yours is, too.

That’s all I need to know today.

20150328_080516If you liked this post, then you will LOVE I Still Just Want To Pee Alone! Click here to find out more!

Bada Bing, Bada Boom.

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My stockpile of “I Still Just Want To Pee Alone” will be here on April 7th and I would LOVE to sell each of you a personalized copy! I mean … if you want. No pressure, because I really, really dislike salespeople a lot. Yet somehow, in the greatest act of irony ever, I married one.

Allow me to explain. I dated a lot of boys before I met my now-husband. In fact, my love life was an absolute train wreck. If you want to hear more about that, you’ll have to buy the book. After a lot of failed relationships, I met Robbie and I am fairly certain he used his sales tactics on me — but because I am so annoyed by salesmen and their pushy ways, I called him on his bullshit.

That might be the moment that we fell in love, but enough about that — let’s get back to the book.

ISJWTPA Cover

I have been published in the sequel to the New York Times Bestseller I Just Want to Pee Alone with a slew of other talented writers.

No, it has still not sunken in.

No, I have not officially celebrated … unless you count drinking wine every night since the day I found out that my essay was selected for the book, in which case, yes. I have celebrated.

If you want to obtain a copy of this anthology for yourself or a loved one who is not bothered by irreverent humor, or even better, a new mother who needs her eyes opened to just how UN-perfect motherhood can be, I would be thrilled to send you a signed copy.

Email me at modernmommymadness@gmail.com with your name, address, and who you want the book dedicated to (if applicable). I’ll send you an invoice for $14.99, which includes shipping and handling. Once I receive payment, I’ll mail you the book! Bada-bing, bada-boom. That’s what a salesman would say.

If you are within the vicinity of Baton Rouge, I have events coming up and I would love to meet you! I’ll be sweaty and I apologize in advance. This stuff makes me nervous. Apparently even my kids know this, proven by the hand-written reminder to barf written right above the task to “order books.”

Yeah, I'll barf alright.

Yeah, I’ll barf alright.

And the answer is NO, I definitely did not make it to 8:30 Pilates or 9:30 Kickboxing.

If you don’t want a personalized copy (Hello — you really need one — what if I make the big time one day?! You’ll kick yourself later.), you can come back here to my blog and click the button on the sidebar that says “BUY THE BOOK!” absolutely any time you want.

I just want to say again how grateful I am to everyone for your encouragement and support. I have, hands down, the BEST group of readers. I have no idea where all this is headed and I am equal parts thrilled and terrified. All aboard the crazy train, bitches!

Courage Is Being Scared To Death.

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BIG WEEK HAPPENING OVER HERE.

First of all, I did a podcast interview about 6 weeks ago (remember that?) and it’s now live and available for listening to!

Yikes. All the yikes.

I was in the middle of Target yesterday when I got the notification that it was live. From now on, I need to leave my phone off when I run errands because otherwise I’m just a hot fucking mess. The shopping cart came to an abrupt halt in the middle of an aisle and while my toddler screeched “OUT!!!!!” I frantically texted my husband to please listen to my podcast and tell me immediately how idiotic I sound.

You sounded nervous but it’s fine, he replied.

Then I took this picture of myself fearfully gripping a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, because I thought later on I might want to see what I looked like on the Day That My Podcast Interview Went Live.

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Terrified in Target.

I look terrified.

I was. I am.

Even though I love doing this stuff, it’s still scary as hell. Apparently this is all a normal reaction on my part and it will continue to get easier as I become accustomed to the ways of Following Your Dreams. At least, that’s what they tell me. And I’m not going to let a little fear get in the way of me doing something. If that was the case, I would never do ANYTHING.

You can find the interview here, but beware — it’s 32 minutes of me talking, and because I was so worried about people not being able to understand me if I jabbered too Southerny or too fast, I overcompensated and talked too slowly and basically sounded like I was high as a kite (I wasn’t. Sadly.).

Second … guess what tomorrow is?!

BOOK RELEASE DAY!

11079547_433655656794354_4695438212564475753_nI am excited and anxious and I can’t sleep and I’m eating all the wrong things.

I’ll post again soon and give you all the details on where you can find the book. In the meantime, let’s all hold hands and quote John Wayne: “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” Right?

RIGHT.

Poop and Redemption

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This is a story of poop and redemption.

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Our middle child is three, which means he is full of words and energy.

I was so excited to send him fishing with my dad and husband last weekend, for the simple reason that I needed a break from the words. There are so many of them, and he’ll throw in a “MOMMY” just often enough to keep me from completely tuning it out.

In my excitement, I threw a change of clothes and a few wet wipes in a backpack and ushered them out the door. I didn’t ask specifically where they were going. I didn’t pack them any food. There was no pomp and ceremony. I said here’s the backpack, don’t forget the sunscreen, kissed them both goodbye, and shut the door.

You see, when you are where I am in life, you don’t ask questions beyond what is absolutely essential. After almost seven years of constant interruption, Robbie and I have learned how to communicate in shorthand:

Hey.

Hey.

(Insert hand signals so the children don’t know that we are discussing going fishing on Grandpa’s boat.)

 Awesome.

Bathroom?

Yes.

Be careful.

Love you.

Love you.

Bye.

Five hours later, I got a text.

Our poor boy got diarrhea, in the boat, in the middle of a body of water. He NEVER gets diarrhea. What are the chances?!

During the second bout, Robbie was holding him over the side of the boat, because apparently that’s what had to happen, as our child simultaneously peed all over him and shat down the side of the watercraft. It was probably at this point that my husband hit rock bottom.

Meanwhile, my dad just kept fishing.

The moral of the story is that from this point forward, whenever I find myself on my hands and knees cleaning congealed oatmeal off the kitchen floor, thinking that today is the shittiest day EVER, I’ll remember the first time Robbie took our middle child fishing.

And then … I’ll feel better.

Namaselfie.

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Sometimes I do weird things in semi-public places, simply for the sake of this blog.

20150320_093217~2An old lady was totally staring at me while this happened. It’s fine.

Yesterday morning, after I had my coffee, I opened up social media and saw glaring headlines about certain wine brands being laced with arsenic. Rather than looking into it further, I texted my husband and informed him that I know how I’m going to die.

I’m going to die of arsenic poisoning.

“No you won’t,” he said. “You’ve built up an immunity to it by now.” Apparently, a person can actually become immune to arsenic over time by putting small amounts of it in their system.

Whew. That was a close one.

Bitches Spelunk.

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I am the mother of three small children.

I am the only child of an ailing parent.

I am a wife, a friend, and a person.

It’s a tight space, where I live. It’s often dark. The oxygen feels low. I have to concentrate to breathe. Sometimes, the air gets squeezed out and I’m breathless.

It reminds me of the time I went spelunking in college. I’ve never been a fan of small spaces, but it sounded like a fun adventure. I could do anything at that point in my life. I was fearless, and would try anything once … which is probably why I have done a whole lot of things exactly one time.

The darkness in that cave was suffocating. I’d never been in a place so pitch-black before. I had to focus my breathing, continually reminding myself that this is fun and I will not die. When we finally burst back out into the open air, I nearly wept with relief.

That’s what this tight space feels like. It feels like spelunking.

I hate spelunking.

But.

I won’t sit down on the cold cave floor and wait for my circumstances to change. I’ll keep moving, keep bumping around and fumbling in the dark because THAT IS WHAT BITCHES DO.

Now, if you know me in real life you know that I’m not a bitch at all. I’m actually a very polite, kind person — the opposite of a bitch, actually. In this case, I am using “bitch” to mean a woman who isn’t lost in the fire, but is made from it. That’s a quote I read somewhere recently, and I love it.

Bitches don’t sit and wait to be rescued from their life. Bitches make their life awesome in spite of. Bitches take situations around the neck and OWN THEM.

I have a good life even though it is happening in a very tight, very difficult space. And I’m still breathing, even though sometimes I have to work at it.

20150317_134010~2This is a picture of my son making the most of his current situation. No, he doesn’t have a swimming pool to play in, but you know what he DOES have? A BIG PLASTIC BOX.

So darkness be damned, I will make the best of today because that’s what bitches do.

I’m going to OWN IT.

Making Bitterness My Bitch.

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Today I took my 3-year-old and my 1-year-old into a public bathroom, not because I wanted to, but because I weighed the options and public bathroom won out over let’s roll the dice and see if we can make it home.

Ironically, because I was so valiant in my effort to keep them from touching every surface within reach, my little girl tripped over my foot and belly-flopped onto the floor of the bathroom stall. Her face may have actually made contact with the tile … it’s unclear because I have already stricken the details from memory.

While I worked to lift her upright and mentally checked into my safe place, my son busied himself with touching every single part of the toilet. Apparently he saw the opportunity to send me over the edge and ran with it.

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After almost four years of being a full-time stay-at-home-mom, I’m tired. My nerves are raw. I feel frayed, just like the green blanket that my child has rubbed and loved on until there is nothing left but a mangled, nubby wad of material. A friend told me when I first quit working that there would be a honeymoon period, followed by an adjustment period and settling in. And then, I would either love it or I would hate it.

I feel like maybe I’m in a transitional time where I’m not sure how I feel about it. I do know that I need to do a better job of being grateful for the privilege of being home. At the beginning of all this, I told Robbie on a daily basis how grateful I was to him for working so hard and allowing me to focus solely on raising our children. Somehow, over time, that has shifted to bitterness. Four years of cooking, shopping, and cleaning — all things that I used to enjoy — changed me.

What happened?

I have allowed myself to get bogged down in responsibilities, and I have lost sight of the reasons why I wanted to do this job in the first place. And remembering WHY I AM DOING THIS is where I find my peace and my joy.

So, you know what? Screw bitterness. I’m going to make bitterness my bitch.

I am grateful that I am the one who gets to wrangle my children in bathrooms outside of our home … because no one else could scrub their little hands as thoroughly, and with as much love.

I am grateful that I am the one who wipes their noses a million times a day, because someone else might not notice, or worse — let it run freely (shudder).

I am grateful that I oversee everything that happens in this house, because while that may be an exhausting endeavor, I know things are done well here. No one will get Salmonella on my watch.

I am grateful. I am grateful. I am grateful.

When I take the time to think those words, roll them over in my mind, and write them, I realize they are true. I really am grateful. I just don’t take the time to say it enough.

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Joy.

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Daddies, daughters, and pigtails. These are a few of my favorite things.

10615468_10155562442005508_85748497890528073_nNot pictured, but also my favorite:

1. When my 3-year-old quietly listens to me read “Llama Llama Mad At Mama” and then says Mommy, I’m happy at you. It makes me happy when you read to me.

2. When my oldest and I go for a long walk and we have time just to chat about whatever, without interruption.

3. When my children are sleeping.

4. Boxed wine.

I’ve struggled lately to find the joy in my life. I’ve found that happens when I get super busy and overwhelmed with things that do not pertain directly to motherhood, and then my kids are all, “WTF, Mother — pay attention to us,” and so they go lick a bunch of toys at the gym nursery and get sick so I will have no choice but to focus on them.

Yeah.

I don’t have a specific answer to the question of “how can mothers find their joy?” But I know that after a good night’s sleep, a strong cup of coffee — okay, maybe two cups — and a close to this hellish week of sick children, seeing their dimpled faces smiling sure did help.

A lot.

It also helped to feed them 4 meals in a row that required zero effort or preparation on my part, the last of which was a trip to our local Burger King, where we allowed them to mash their faces on every possible surface as I prayed for deliverance from whatever germs resided there.

And wine. Always wine.