Sometimes I mourn my before-kids life and wish I could have it back for just a day or two. There was a time when literally all I had to worry about was what I was going to wear. Or how I was going to lose 15 pounds. Those were my problems. I took them very seriously. 

I wasn’t shallow, I was just young. I didn’t appreciate myself enough, which is a shame. If I could have my 23-year-old self back, I would not look at her critically and wish she was thinner. I would appreciate her, just as she is.

Which brings me to my next point — when I am 43, I will most likely look back on this time in my life and wish I had appreciated my 33-year-old self more … instead of getting hung up on all the spider veins that seemingly multiply with each pregnancy or the cellulite that never ends or the fact that I can’t keep up with anything in my life or get my weight down to a certain point. 

I think my older, wiser self would tell me I’ve done a good job. That I’m doing a good job. She would tell me to relax. She would say http://www.babycenter.com can SUCK IT for their stupid articles that say “Congratulations! You’re 20 weeks into your pregnancy! You likely have gained about 10 pounds by now.“ No, Babycenter. I gained 10 pounds over the holidays alone. I hate you and your articles. 

Today I have decided to embrace life as it is and enjoy it, because most of us don’t appreciate ourselves enough — and we will regret it later down the road. So my message for today is … 

YOU ARE AWESOME, AND SO AM I.
 

Here are the moments that make it all worth it.

I need a flu shot.

I kind of thought I should get one, and then my friend Kate (who is a doctor) spelled out for me how vital it is that everyone, ESPECIALLY pregnant women, get vaccinated this year and basically scared the crap out of me … so I did what made sense.

I called my gynecologist.

They said they set aside a few vaccines for their OB patients but they are quickly running out and asked me to come in this afternoon. Even though I’ll have both kids with me and I am scheduled to be in their office tomorrow morning at 10:00 for The Big Ultrasound, I said I’d be there and hung up. Because you know what would suck more than dragging two small children with me in the rain to wait for who knows how long to get a flu shot??

Actually getting the flu. That would be much, much worse than whatever awaits me this afternoon.

When I told ONE that I have to go to the doctor’s office to get a shot today and he and his brother would be coming with me and I expected them both to use their manners, yada yada yada, we had the following conversation:

ONE: A shot? You have to get a shot?!

Me: That’s right. A flu shot.

ONE: Will it hurt?

Me: Nah.

ONE: Are you going to cry like a little girl?!  

Me: Um … no.

ONE: Yes you are. You’re going to cry like a little girl!!!

At this point, I walked away. For the record, I don’t cry much. I am certain my son has never, EVER seen me “cry like a little girl.” Where did he learn that phrase?!

Oh … wait. I know who he learned it from.

I am so tired of hearing about “a new study” reporting that such-and-such is the reason why kids these days have low self-esteem, anxiety, depression, and whole host of negative mental issues. 

Yes … children these days do seem to have a whole lot of issues. But I am so tired of the constant bombardment of messages about parents needing to parent this way or that way because if they don’t, they will turn out kids who have low-self esteem. And with all the bullying that is going on these days, you certainly don’t want YOUR child to have low self-esteem.

You know what makes children have low self-esteem? Parents who have low self-esteem.

You know what makes children anxious? Living in chaos, with adults popping in and out of their lives. Constant upheaval. Fighting, screaming grown-ups in the house who don’t show love to each other.

You know what makes children depressed? Living in a dysfunctional home environment.

I wouldn’t know how to begin to “fix” what is wrong with our society ... it’s full of a bunch of whiny, spoiled, sad, backward-thinking, bratty-brats who get it honestly from their parents … but I can tell you this: whether or not I decide to breastfeed, let my child cry it out, strap my kid to my body or put him in a stroller — these things will not effect him or her becoming a functional member of society.

I wish people would spend a little less time trying to parent the right way and put all of that energy towards loving their mate, loving their children, instilling values, and following their instincts.

BOOM. I just totally wrote a study and it didn’t cost a dime.

I don’t know how anyone can live without concealer. It literally transforms me from Scary Death Creature into a normal-looking person.  

This morning I declared to Husband how impressed I am with what foundation, concealer, and Nars blush do for my skin and he fell asleep during my happy tirade because I went on for so long about it. Normally I would have gotten mad at him, but I looked so glowy and rested that I couldn’t be angry. Do angels get angry?! No, I wager they do not.

If you are a woman who looks in the mirror and thinks, “I look so old/tired/rough,” I BEG YOU TO APPLY SOME CONCEALER AND GO BACK FOR A SECOND LOOK. Sometimes you might need to apply two coats of it, but by the time you’re done you will look like you just got back from the spa. Or at least a lot better than you looked before you put it on.

I seem to be going through a phase of motherhood that is particularly unpleasant. If you are reading this and you have never had children, I’d like to explain: there are phases where being a mom is seriously the greatest thing ever. You glow and feel complete and wonder what meaning you ever found in life before these precious beings came to be.

And then … there are other times like right now where you feel overwhelmed, tired, and resentful of your spouse. I currently resent mine because he gets to go to work every day at a place where no one pinches the SHIT out of him (trying to climb into his lap), pulls his hair (trying to climb into his lap), bites him (trying to climb into his lap) or throws food in his general direction.

I think I’m in the trenches. My boobs hurt — all the time. Not like some of the time, I mean literally 24/7 I have boob pain. Children pinch, bite, pull at me and thrash around when I’m trying to dress them. They smear food all over themselves like it’s their intent to make the post-meal cleanup process as difficult as possible. You’ve won, children. You can stop now.

ONE gripes. He gripes and he gripes in his 4-year-old voice. It’s not whining, it’s griping. Like a crochety old man gripes about his food, with clear words and a scrunched-up face. I’m working on curbing that, but it still chips away at my patience. I don’t feel like grocery shopping or cooking but yet, someone has to feed the children … and they can’t live on pie, which is sad because I would sure love to eat and serve NOTHING BUT PIE. 

But since I am trying to be reasonable, I drag my huge boobs to the kitchen and cook things like fresh blueberry pancakes because the thought of eating them doesn’t make me gag and I think, “Hey, this is sort of nutritious! And the kids will like them, and if I squint my eyes, I can pretend it’s pie.” Only to be met with disdain and complaints from my oldest child. The berries are too mushy. I need more syrup. I want something else. I need another napkin.

He eats them, of course. But not without complaint. And I put a smile on my face and politely ask about his day and politely remind him to use his manners and say please and if you wish to complain, you may be excused … when I really want to scream at him that he is being ungrateful and bratty. And the baby throws another handful of pancake onto the kitchen floor, leans over to look at it, rubs a blueberry-covered hand on his head and says “Uh-ohhhhhhhhhh …”

I complain about all of this to let you know, there are times when being a mom SUCKS. This is what alerts me to the fact that it‘s time to take care of myself. I need a coffee date with a friend, time alone, a good book. Freedom. A reminder that I am still a person, a person who can’t continue to serve and give without refilling my soul … lest I LOSE IT. And no one, I repeat, no one, wants to see that happen.

Especially Husband. Because we all know it would likely be directed at him.

Action figures and race cars are slowly taking over my house. They’re like ants. I find them everywhere, and just when I think we’ve got them all … I find more.

I did a purge before Christmas and a purge afterward too, but my kids have generous people in their lives and honestly they play with almost everything they have. Every time I see a box FULL OF TOYS I think about how there are lots of kids with no toys at all and we need to give more stuff away … so we do … and then the ant-like thing happens where I come home and we seem to have just as much stuff as we had before.

Today we brought a new friend home from Grandma’s house. Meet “Big Bro,” the biggest stuffed bear I’ve ever seen in my life. ONE is very attached to him, he hauls him all over the house and conversates with him as if he’s an actual person. Which is kind of understandable since he’s as large as an actual person.

 
ONE: Here’s the living room, Big Bro. Do you want to lay down?

Big Bro: Yes, thank you. Can I lay like your daddy?

ONE: Sure, Big Bro. Here, you have to put your hand behind your head like this … and prop your feet up like this …

Since Big Bro got here, it’s a lot like having Husband home. All ONE wants to do is hang out with him, and I find situations like this:

Apparently Big Bro is quite a napper.

I am relatively ladylike in person. I don’t curse a lot. I sit with my legs closed. I wait for doors to be opened for me. I was raised right — by good, Southern, God-fearing parents.

Then, I had children. 

I don’t curse in front of my kids, but I curse in writing all the time. Husband gets texts pretty often that say “this is BULLSHIT!!” referring to one problem or another. My girlfriends, bless them, are subjected to MANY an F-bomb daily. Something about spending all day with kids, restraining myself, remaining pleasant despite very unpleasant circumstances, using self-control lest I completely lose my shit in front of them, forces me to be very, very honest in written form. 

I don’t have a choice, people. I can either scream “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP!” at my children, or I can type it and send it to someone who isn’t four years old. I realize once my kids can read, this may become a problem. But for right now, it seems to be working for me.

Today, I tried to cram our beast of a double stroller into the back of our Chevy Malibu. I am sure on a different day, given a different set of circumstances, I would have been able to handle the situation better. But today, I screamed “I HATE THIS FUCKING STROLLER!!!!!!” as I slammed the trunk shut. Unfortunately, the nice lady who lives next door to us, a retired schoolteacher who once paid us a special visit to inform us she doesn’t celebrate Halloween because it’s the Devil’s Day, was in her backyard when I threw my temper tantrum.

Husband then received two texts. The first one said, “I AM TIRED OF BEING A MOM.” The next one said “I am never putting that f-ing stroller in our car again. That is bullshit. We either need to switch cars, or get an f-ing van.”

No response. But boy, do I feel better.

The Beast.

Disclaimer: I have a wonderful mother-in-law. But this post is going to poke fun at her. I am so sorry, but it must be done.

My mother-in-law, Pam, gives us Christmas ornaments every year. Last year was TWO’s first Christmas, and in true fashion she got us an ornament to commemorate it. Actually, she sent it in the mail with some other things. 

When Husband and I opened it, we could not. stop. laughing.

Here it is.

I packed it away and forgot all about it until yesterday when I unpacked my Christmas boxes. Oh man … I laugh every time I see it. Now I face a dilemma: put our blonde little TWO’s picture in there, or leave the adorable black stranger baby?

It’s by far my favorite ornament. Ho ho ho! We’re black!

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