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Category Archives: Motherhood
Get A Proper Bra Fitting (and other wise words).
My Dearest Daughter,
One day you will be old enough to find a computer and Google me or yourself and maybe you’ll find this list of things that I want you to know.
I guess I could write them on a real piece of paper and put it in the top of my closet with your brother’s baby teeth and the shard of glass that I pulled from your other brother’s butt cheek, but I think we both know that it would get forgotten up there. Or lost.
I’m sorry I’m not the normal kind of mother who makes baby books and writes things down on paper, and I hope that when you read this, if ever, you choose to apply it to your life instead of freaking out because OMG MY MOTHER IS SO WEIRD. Please don’t rebel and post half-naked selfies on the internet. That is not advisable.
Just … don’t.
Things I Want My Daughter To Know:
It’s important to act like a lady, but some situations warrant unladylike behavior. If you’re going to act like a crazy bitch, make it count. When the deed is done, fix your hair, reapply your lipstick, and carry on.
You’re beautiful. Make the most of what you’ve got. But also? Your behavior and your words will make or break you. Spend just enough time on your appearance to make you feel confident, and spend the rest of your time being the kind of person that others want to be around.
Be real. I want so much for you to be comfortable enough with who you are to actually be yourself all of the time. That person rocks. Don’t try to hide her.
Other women will try to tear you apart. I want you to carefully select girlfriends who will lift you up and support you. Pick friends who GET YOU. Band together with people who make you laugh so hard you cry happy tears, and who will also cry sad tears with you when appropriate. If you have friends like that, it won’t hurt as much when the haters hate.
Haters are gonna hate. One day you’ll stop caring. Until that day comes, it hurts.
You don’t owe anyone anything. If anyone touches you in a way that you don’t like, don’t just sit there and allow it to happen. This is when unladylike behavior is warranted. Cut ’em.
You’re going to be underestimated. It’s hereditary. I hope that you focus more on the high that comes from surprising people with your intelligence, than the temporary attention you’ll get from being a pretty girl. Anyone can be a pretty girl. No one can be YOU.
Your father and brothers are going to make it very hard for you to date. I’m sorry about that, but hopefully the boy who manages to impress those three will be worthy of your time and affection.
If you find a boy you like, then date him. You don’t have to marry him. Even if he asks you to.
You come from a long line of strong women. I expect you to uphold your heritage by finding yourself, settling in, and being true to yourself no matter what life throws at you.
Don’t have sex until you’re ready to have babies. Don’t have babies until you’re with the man you want to father them. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t stop educating yourself until you’re employable. Yes, I wrote all of in that bold. Take heed.
Even if you’re terrible at it, do something. Eventually you will find the right thing, the thing that makes you happy. The thing you’re not terrible at.
If you don’t like your situation, CHANGE IT.
And finally, go get a proper bra fitting. It’s well worth the extra time and money. And it’s amazing what proper undergarments can do.
(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)
I’ll Drink To That.
It’s Friday night again — how did that happen already?! — and time for what I will henceforth refer to as Virtual Happy Hour. This is when I crash in my jammies, drink wine, and pretend that I’m hanging out with my best girlfriends.
There is no primping. No squeezing myself into real pants. There is no scene to been seen in. The scene is me, gripping a bottle of wine, hiding in a quiet room … because Daddy is getting up with the kids in the morning, and it’s been one helluva week.
Tonight I am in a celebratory mood. Who’s up for shots?!!
Nobody?!
COME ON.
This week, I was minding my own business in Target when a reader approached me … which was a first. I mean, I run into people periodically, but she recognized me from my blog and made a point to speak to me. I, of course, turned around to see who she was talking to. When I realized she was talking to ME, I started laughing and couldn’t stop, because I am not socially awkward or weird in the least.
Let’s all take a moment and be grateful that I’m a writer and not a person who, say, talks on the radio or sits in front of a camera, because wow. I will now take another shot, because just thinking about that stresses me out.
I potty-trained a human this week. And all the mothers everywhere said, “I’LL DRINK TO THAT.”
Modern Mommy Madness was included in this list on Today.com and I am so amazed and elated and also feel like maybe there was a mistake somewhere because how did that even happen?! My kids need to recognize. From now on, my discipline plan will be yelling “HEY! I was on the 11 Funniest Facebook Posts From Parents This Week list, so stop your whining and eat your dinner!” (Sidenote: that doesn’t work. At all.)
Robbie has a sugar ant colony in his car. They’ve been there for 8 months, since he gained ownership of the vehicle. I took it to the grocery store this week and totally freaked when I discovered that the ANTS are STILL IN THERE BECAUSE HE HAS NOT ADDRESSED The ISSUE, and this is the face I made.
I love that man. I really, really do. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and we have no plans and no gifts and my expectations are very low which works for us right now … but … he has an ant colony in his car. That’s really tripping me up. I’ll have to find a way to move past it.
That’s true love, bitch.
Jumping Jacks.
Interviews are not my strong point. At all. Just ask one of the many members of management at my old corporate office where I endured several panel interviews before quitting to stay home with the kids.
Painful.
I have strong interpersonal skills, but when I’m being focused on intently by someone I don’t really know, I go weird. This is why one of my current life goals is to avoid putting myself in a situation where I’d have to go through an interview EVER AGAIN.
Writers and bloggers shouldn’t have to be interviewed, right?
Wrong.
I was very flattered to be asked to participate in a podcast interview recently (details forthcoming). I know very little about the world of podcasts, but I said yes without hesitation because why not, right? Then I proceeded to stress out about it for a week and eat ALL THE THINGS.
Yesterday, the day of the interview, I totally panicked. I paced around the house, checking the clock repeatedly, waiting for it to strike 12:30 so I could dial the number — which I also checked and rechecked repeatedly. I was so nervous and had no idea what to do with myself, so I put on my adult onesie and did jumping jacks. Because that’s normal.
I spent the interview being weird and laughy and trying not to yell “THIS IS TERRIFYING!!!” into the phone. Because, nerves.
If I ever have to return to the workforce, I might wear this to the interview. At least I’d feel warm and cozy.
If I ever end up famous (snort) and someone asks me, “Do you get nervous during interviews?” I’ll totally lie and claim that I never get nervous because I practice daily meditation, eat steamed kale for breakfast, and eschew caffeine.
I will not admit to jumping jacks and camouflaged onesies.
But you’ll know the truth.
Flashback.
The Phases.
Parenting seems to come in waves of holy shit I think I may die and holy shit I totally have this.
Right now I’m in a holy shit I think I may die phase. I don’t want to bore you with the details … like how my youngest child wants nothing more in this world than to run into the street in front of our house, or how, at the playground, she doesn’t want to play on the equipment because she would much rather wander into the woods.
I just found myself on my knees in the bathroom, trying to talk my middle child through his first poop on the toilet. We did yoga-type breathing. We sang songs. I gave him lots of encouragement. Finally, in an act of desperation, I asked Jesus to help my son poop so I could move on with my day. I was on my knees anyway … I figured it couldn’t hurt.
Now more than ever, I find myself exasperated with my children and my life in general. Nothing is easy. Everything is hard. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.
My days aren’t about me. They’re about them. And as much as I love being a mother, I still struggle with the part where my entire life revolves around these other human beings we’ve created. It’s not easy for me to set my own needs aside for another, 24 hours a day. But I do, because I am a mom.
I saw these two hug for the first time the other day, and that moment made my heart swell and my eyes fill with tears. All of the energy I pour out isn’t for nothing. It’s for everything.
Virtual Happy Hour.
It’s Friday night, and if I had the wherewithal to put some real pants on and meet a girlfriend for a drink, I WOULD. Unfortunately, I’ve had the same toothpaste on my zits since this morning and the mere thought of brushing my hair makes me exhausted.
It’s been that kinda week.
If we were to meet for drinks, I’d have a lot to say. First of all, this week of motherhood sucked. If you were silly enough to ask, “How come?” I wouldn’t even feel like rehashing it all. I would just silently pour myself another glass of wine. I would then mention the fact that there is only one of me and there needs to be like, three.
I’m potty-training my middle child again. Hopefully it will stick for real this time, cross your fingers, girlfriend. NOW. Cross them.
The reason my pants are tight.
The potty trainee gets M&M’s every time he uses the toilet, which is working out well except for the fact that I hand him one or two, and then immediately eat a fistful because potty-training is hell and I loathe it with every fiber of my being.
Then there is the matter of my writing. Excuse me while I pour myself another glass.
This week I hit a low point and found myself wondering if writing is a stupid waste of time. I could spend my time doing a million other, more constructive, things that would better my family … like cooking organically, clipping coupons, or remembering to pay the water bill. I don’t know. Shit like that.
If I didn’t write, I would actually have time to be a decent Room Mom, instead of a total slacker who throws random baked goods and hastily-written checks at the school and swears to herself she will do better next time.
I’m not even making any real money.
I already have so much on my plate.
My extended family is mortified by some of the things that I write. My use of profanity embarrasses them.
I AM AN EMBARRASSMENT TO MY FAMILY.
That’s a hard thing to know. I never set out to be an embarrassment. If I didn’t have this compulsive need to write words and share them with people, maybe everything would be easier. No one would know that I do things like eat my kid’s candy and then lie about it, or drink and swear on occasion. They wouldn’t know how much I struggle to parent my children.
No one would know anything about me at all.
But the problem is, my life would be impossible for me to live healthfully if I couldn’t write about it. I’m not writing for my family. I’m writing for me.
For my sanity.
So I can breathe.
As scary as it can be to put myself out there, I continue to show up and write words because I don’t want to cut my own ear off or whatever happens when a creative person isn’t allowed to create. And honestly, I feel it is my duty to announce to women everywhere that sometimes being a wife and a mother is so hard and insanely frustrating that you just want to take the damn hand mixer and throw it through a window.
You aren’t a failure for feeling that way. You’re normal. That’s my message.
And then two nights ago, as I was dumping the third basket of clean clothes on my bed to fold while I waited for Robbie to come home from work and rescue me from our terrible children, my phone beeped.
I had an e-mail.
I’m going to be in another book.
I’M GOING TO BE IN A REAL BOOK WITH PAGES!!!!!!!!
A friend shared this in a writing group I’m in today, and I love it. “A blessed unrest.” That is what it’s like to constantly want to write and share your thoughts, profane as they may be.
There is a vitality,
a life force,
a quickening
that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all time,
this expression is unique.And If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost.
The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine
how good it is
nor how valuable it is
nor how it compares with other expressions.It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly
to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.
You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU.Keep the channel open…
No artist is pleased…There is no satisfaction whatever at anytime
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction
a blessed unrest that keeps us marching
and makes “us” MORE alive than the others.Martha Graham
( – a letter to Agnes De Mille-)
Serenity Prayer.
So … this pretty much sums up my life.
Noise.
I have a lot of noise in my life.
The kids are loud. They interrupt me when I’m thinking. They make it hard to have a conversation. They bang on pots and scream like maniacs, running through the house waving their arms overhead.
They make slides out of sleeping bags and forts out of pillows, and it always results in screaming. Their projects never end well.
The world is a loud place. All the advice and opinions — some sought after, and some not — clash together in a inharmonious way that I find stressful. I felt this way when I first became a mother, like there were too many voices telling me what I should be doing. Telling me how to do this thing that I was meant to do.
I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.
Noise makes it hard to hear. I lose my bearings when it’s loud. I forget which way is up. I lose my sense of purpose. Much like how I had trouble finding my footing as a new mother, I now struggle to hear the inner voice that guides me as a writer because of all the damn noise that gets in my way. I have a strong gut that has never failed me, but sometimes it’s hard to hear what it’s saying BECAUSE NO ONE WILL SHUT UP.
Lately, I’ve struggled to find my bearings. A year ago, if someone would have told me of all the opportunities that were going to come my way I would have laughed until my eyes watered. But now those opportunities are here. They’re happening.
It’s so disorienting to make a goal for yourself and then actually reach it. I can’t say I’m entirely familiar with that phenomenon. Usually I think, “Yeah, I’ll do that,” knowing full well I won’t really, because I either lack the capacity or the motivation. Most often the latter.
I want to savor my achievements, instead of rushing to the next thing. I want the noise to stop so I can quietly say to myself, good job. You busted your ass for that.
I quit my career in insurance because I was terrible at what they refer to as “work/life balance.” Apparently I’m not great at writing/life balance, either. On the surface, it appears I have it all together … but on the inside, I’m angsty. I often feel like I’m stuck in a purgatory of feeding children, cleaning children, sweeping up children’s messes and keeping children from hurting themselves, when I would much rather be sitting somewhere quiet so I could get all these ideas out of my head and into a Word document. And then I think about how feeling that way must mean I’m a terrible mother.
Sometimes I resent my family for getting in the way of my writing. But if I’m honest with myself, I know that without them in my life I would have very little to say. And then there would be no noise at all.
Not even in my head.
Modern Mommy Madness 