Category Archives: Motherhood

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.

 

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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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.

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.

 

The Things I Do For Milk.

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The key to effective parenting is emotional energy, of which I have a limited supply. I have to hoard some from my children so I’ll have a little left over for my husband when he gets home, but when I’m out, I’M OUT.

I used to say that parenting was more physically taxing than anything. I did something to my back last week when Asher threw an epic tantrum in the mall Food Court because the carousel ride ended and I told him it was time to get off. He freaked out, requiring me to lift him up and twist to maneuver around the big metal tiger he had been riding on.

I carried him like a stack of firewood all the way back to our table and my friend Jamie tried to help me jam him back into the stroller. She commented that it’s like he is made of rubber; you push him down or pull on his legs and he just snaps right back. I don’t know how long it took to get him strapped in, but I was full-on sweating by the end of it.

A few years ago, I would have been mortified by that kind of scene — his angry screams echoing throughout the entire mall — but now, I feel like I’ve been hardened against embarrassment by an ongoing series of experiences. I don’t really have time to dwell on anything that happens. We get through it, and we move on. I think that is why so many women have trouble recalling what it’s truly like to live with small children. If you don’t take the time to dwell, the memory doesn’t stick. And then we have more children.

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Mothering is obviously physically demanding, but the emotional demands are what really get you. If my emotional energy is off, the kids pick up on it and things get shitty fast. Sometimes, even when I am emotionally capable of dealing … things get shitty fast. This afternoon was the perfect example.

After nap time, I herded my children through eating a snack and changing diapers/going to the bathroom. I told them we had a few errands to run; most important was the grocery store. Ever since I started transitioning Pepper to milk, WE CONSTANTLY RUN OUT. I’m a milk snob and prefer to give the kids organic, which seems to only be available in half gallons. I need a five-gallon jug. Where can I find that?! Someone please tell me.

So anyway, I cranked up the van and Maverick climbed in. The baby pooped her pants. I changed her and put her in her car seat. I went back inside and find that Asher has also pooped. I tell him it’s time to change his diaper. He screams “NO!!!” because he’s two. He also screams that he wants milk. I tell him he may not have milk, and I leave to get a fresh diaper.

When I returned, I found him standing in front of the open refrigerator guzzling what remained of the milk, directly from the carton. He was displeased when I took it away, and even more displeased when I wrestled him down to change his diaper. He was so displeased, and he fought so hard, that poop pellets rolled away and disappeared in between our couch cushions.

This is when I yelled.

I cleaned up the mess. I put him in the van. We drove to the store.

In the parking lot, I got a shopping cart. Not the big kind that I needed, that looks like a police car. Those are kept inside. I had to get a regular one, and I put Asher in the big part of the basket. Maverick got out and I instructed him to stand right next to the cart with his brother. They were right next to me. I turned to unbuckle the baby, and look up to see Maverick give the cart a hard shove. As it rolled into the road with my middle child in it, Maverick yelled “Look Mommy! Asher’s rolling away!” Presumably he was acting out what took place in January when Asher really did roll away. But who can say.

This is why I feel it’s important to try hard not to be judgmental of the mom you see on her phone at the playground, ignoring her children as they play … or the mom who is drinking before 5 pm … or the many, many mothers who let their kids eat whatever they can find and watch back-to-back episodes of whatever is on Nickelodeon. Those mothers have probably run out of emotional energy. They need to recharge. Let them do what they need to do. If your emotional energy level is high enough for you to look on with judgement, then you might consider offering to help.

Because I love my children, I do things like make special trips to the grocery store to get organic effing milk. But because I did that, the cart thing happened, and I ran out of emotional energy. When we got back home I sat in one place for a really long time and stared at my phone while my children did God knows what. I eventually found all three of them in a closet. Don’t know what they were doing. Probably hiding from me, which worked out well, since I was hiding from them too.

Later on, Robbie asked him, “What were you thinking when you pushed Asher into the road?” And he said, “I was thinking that Mommy would believe me when I said the wind blew him out there.

 

Almost One.

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This girl is turning one on Saturday, and I have so many questions. How did a year pass by so quickly? How did we manage to survive it?

I was terrified each time I gave birth. Of dying, of something going wrong, but mostly of surviving the day-to-day of managing the newborn in addition to whatever else was going on in our house. I worried myself sick before I had each of the boys, but by the time Penelope Rose was born I was beginning to learn the art of low expectations.

This year, I have started to fine-tune it.

Somehow all of the sudden my baby won’t sit still; I find her looking longingly at the living room cabinet that her brothers hide in, wishing she could hide in it too. She copies their monster sounds and dragon roars. When they cry, she cries. When they yell, she yells.

When she smiles, we all do.

Welcome To Hell.

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Today I kinda snapped in the swimsuit section of Kohl’s.

Consider this my public apology to the kind lady who happened to walk up at the exact time of my snappage. I just made that word up, I think. I’ll add that to my Dictionary of Words I Say That Aren’t Really Words, right next to my other fave, “yellisper.”

Anyway, all I remember about the lady is that she had on a family reunion t-shirt and she looked a little surprised when I looked at her and yelled, “WELCOME TO HELL!” but she didn’t seem to judge me.

I tried to reign it in. I silently shopped in several other stores before I got to this one, the frustration building with each problem I encountered. The tankini top was perfect but the bottoms were made for someone with a tiny rear end. The mix-and-match section didn’t have anything in my size. Bikinis are out of the question. One-pieces are frumpy. Swim skirts just drew attention to what I was trying to cover up, and rather than look like I was smuggling potatoes to the beach I WILL JUST OWN MY THIGHS, THANK YOU.

By the time I yelled “WELCOME TO HELL!” I was so angry that I wanted to throw every ill-fitting shred of spandex/poly blend on the floor and stomp. Hard. And I really think I would have, except that I also wanted to hide in the car and cry.

There are a million blog posts and articles out there talking about bathing suit shopping, and they can all be condensed into one sentence.

Shopping for a bathing suit blows.

It would really make me happy if every article titled “Find Your Perfect Suit!” ended with something like, “Here are some tips to guide you, but overall, it’s going to blow. Godspeed.”

I came home and ate a healthy salad followed by Oreos, and thought about the torture women go through that straight men will never understand. Robbie does not realize that I spent the majority of my day self-loathing under florescent lights because I needed something to wear when I take the kids to the pool. He probably thinks I should wear one of the bathing suits I already have, and if he said that to me I would irrationally scream at him that I WOULD LOVE TO WEAR ONE OF THE CUTE ONES IN MY CLOSET BUT THREE DAMN PREGNANCIES MADE THAT IMPOSSIBLE, ROBBIE. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE NOW, SO LET’S JUST BURN THEM.

Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone. I’m ready to get my tan on, in my very sensible one-piece with a ruffle around the bottom.

 

Behold ... it is hell.

Behold … it is hell.

 

Dan and Jo.

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Today was awfully busy. 

I went to Zumba … unpacked some more stuff at the house … hung a few pictures … locked my baby in the van with my cell phone and car keys … and then lost the baby. Yes, the very same one.

Those of you who have never met me probably wonder what is up. Well, I don’t know what’s up except that I have a lot of kids. Believe me, I find myself wondering what the hell is going on here many, many times per day. How do people with more than three kids do it? I guess if we had one more, I’d just give it to Maverick and tell him to take ownership. 

People several generations ago used to have lots of kids and I think they have probably blocked out how hard it was, because that’s really the only way to go about it, until they see a strung-out woman at the fruit stand with a gaggle of children. Then … they remember. I know this because they like to stop and tell me about it, which is actually nice because then I know it is possible to do what I’m doing and live through it.

Today was totally typical until I lost track of time and realized I was running late to pick Maverick up from school. I got everything together and cranked up the van because it was hot outside. I put Pepper in her car seat and started the process of buckling her in. My backpack containing everything under the sun was in my way so I threw it on the front seat, and when I was done I shut her door and took Asher by the hand to walk him to his side of the van.

Except that. 

There is always an “except that.” 

Except that I couldn’t open the van, because he had done something to the locks when I wasn’t paying attention, and the van was now locked with the baby inside. I couldn’t get back in my house and I couldn’t call for help. Naturally, today was the day that I thought to myself, “It doesn’t matter what I look like, I won’t get out of the car anyway.” I don’t even want to go into what I was wearing. Just know that it was bad.

I took Asher by the hand and forced myself to remain calm as we went across the street to start knocking on doors. There was no answer at the first two we tried. The third house was the one right next door, and they were home and more than happy to help us.

Dan and Jo look to be in their 60’s and they have five grown children, the youngest of whom is my age. His name is Paul. He was there working when we arrived, and after introducing himself he immediately ran next door with a coat hanger to try to unlock the van. “Mrs. Jo” took Asher outside to play with her grandchildren, ages 5 and 2.

“Mr. Dan” had the unique experience of getting to watch me freak the freak out as I tried to hold myself together and at the same time look up phone numbers in the phone book and use an actual telephone that was connected to a wall. It’s been a very long time since I have done either of those things. I was frazzled and upset, knowing that Maverick was now sitting at school wondering where I was just made it worse. I couldn’t get through to my husband at work, and MY BABY WAS LOCKED IN THE CAR.

Mr. Dan was unbelievably kind and thank goodness I had someone with sense to talk me through what to do. When I get in these situations, I do a good job of remaining calm but I mentally blank out. I can’t think, I can’t perform simple tasks. All I could think about was Pepper locked in that van and how I couldn’t get to her. But then I had to take that thought and put it away because I have two other kids and one of them needed to be picked up from school, and if I totally lost my shit these nice people Mr. Dan and Mrs. Jo would have no clue where to go to get him.

And so … I rallied.

Since the car was running with the a/c on, I didn’t call 911. I called Pop-A-Lock and they said they would be there within 15 minutes. I finally got through to my husband and he said he would come right home. Asher was happy playing in their backyard. Paul, still working with the coat hanger, said he would stay with the baby until my husband or Pop-A-Lock arrived. Mr. Dan offered one of his vehicles to me so I could go pick up my oldest, and then changed his mind as he watched me continue to struggle to operate the cordless phone. He said he would be happy to drive me instead. I agreed that was wise.

We picked up Maverick from school.

On our way back into our neighborhood, we saw the Pop-A-Lock car leaving. My husband’s car was in the driveway, so Maverick and I got out and I told Mr. Dan I would be right over to retrieve Asher. As he backed out of the driveway, Husband came running out of our house with a stricken look on his face. “WHERE’S THE BABY?!” he asked.

To which I replied, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHERE’S THE BABY?!”

I have no recollection of what I did or said after that. As he tore through the house, I choked down irrational fears and forced myself to think and believe that she was safe with the neighbors. And that is when I heard her crying. She was with Paul, who said that Pop-A-Lock unlocked the van at no charge since there was a child trapped inside. Since neither of us were back yet, he just carried her back next door with him.

Pepper was really upset and it took her a long time to calm down — she required that I hold her for nearly an hour after that, until finally she started acting normal again.

Holy. Crap.

So here’s what I’m taking away from this. I think that crazy things are going to happen regularly because I am outnumbered. I think that my control freak tendencies and overly-ordered way of doing things can’t even stop the madness and it’s high time I accept it. 

Most of all, I think that it’s an answer to my mother’s daily prayers for God’s protection over us that Dan and Jo live right next door. They told me today, “nothing surprises us.”

Well … we’ll see about that. 
 

Just Do What You Need To Do.

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Do we look like normal, functional people? 

Photo credit: Leigh Anne Wilbanks

Like when I see a picture of myself, or my kids, we look totally NOT like we just made a scene in our local Rite Aid. 

After the past few weeks I’ve had, I really don’t think I’ll judge another mom ever again. We’re all just trying to do the best we can, I’ve decided. Usually when I tell stories of public embarrassment it’s because of something one of my kids did or said. Today, I was the one who lost my crap. I was the one who cried in front of total strangers and I was the one who left a trail of items all the way out the door of the drugstore, snatching them from children’s hands and literally tossing them to the floor as we made our way out.

I’d like to forget today ever happened, because wow, but I’m writing about it so I never forget. When things are somewhat manageable, and I don’t have to struggle quite as much to keep it together, I forget what it’s like. This. The impossible task of motherhood when it’s so hard that I’d quit if I could but I can’t because you don’t get to do that when you’re a mother. Even if you’re a horrible mother and you think that you can quit or leave, you can’t. Not really. YOU ARE ALWAYS STILL A MOTHER.

So on days like today, when I feel like I have entirely too many kids and I can’t possibly meet their needs, let alone my own, and my scalp starts itching from stress and I don’t eat real meals for sometimes five days or more in a row … and then I have to run an errand … I am humbled. The people who saw me today totally judged me and I don’t blame them. I would have too. But I hope that the experience stays with me for awhile so I can offer some grace to another struggling mom. 

The experience of parenting three kids is so intense, and adding in a move or illness just sends us spiraling into Crazy Town. I completely stop cooking, we’re never clothed properly, we don’t have food in the house — things unravel quickly. I find myself shouting to my husband, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO FEED THEM!” as I hand a kid an entire box of cereal to eat with his bare hands. Some women say they go days without showering or washing their hair, but I’m too vain for that. I’ll shower and forgo other important things, like bill-paying and family nutrition.

Which reminds me — one of the things I threw on the floor on our way out was vitamins. 

The next time I’m in a store and I see a woman laden with child(ren) really, truly, struggling not to cry or scream or freaking tear into the biggest bag of peanut M&M’s she can find and eat them right there in the aisle and throw the paper on the floor because she is just so DONE … I’m going to tell her I’ve been there and she should just do whatever she needs to do. That’s my new mantra: Just Do What You Need To Do.

No judgement here. I’ll pick up your wrappers. You eat that candy, girl. Better to do that than to eat your young.