Category Archives: parenting

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.

Just Step Over Me.

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Ever since the time changed in October, Asher has been waking up at ungodly hours. He has always been sort of difficult with his sleep, just for the record. And he’s still little, just 2 1/2. I have to repeat this aloud several times a day so I don’t completely lose it.

Anyway, I have a whole series of early-morning photos like these on my phone. Every single one of these were taken before 5:30 a.m. I don’t know how else to cope with what is happening other than to just laugh at it. Okay, sometimes I cry too.


I know it’s a phase. I know there might not be a solution. And yet … I keep trying to fix it, because I simply cannot accept that nothing can be done. My day began at 3:30 this morning, and after a few failed attempts to lull him back to sleep, I said “Asher, you don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve gone too far now. Mommy has been pushed too far.” And he just smiled and said “Far?”

YES. FAR. TOO. FAR.

The mushy part of me thinks that this is a blessing, this is my time to cuddle with our middle child. He is probably still adjusting to having a little sister and maybe he needs that extra reassurance. I’ll probably look back on this fondly one day, when I have forgotten what it is actually like to survive on 5 hours of sleep for months on end. 

That’s around the time I’ll also know what day/date/year it is, I’ll finally feel rested and alert, and I’ll begin chirping at young mothers to “Enjoy it!!! It goes so fast!!!” With a lot of exclamation points because I’m so chipper.

Indeed, it does. It does go so fast, especially when your days are like 19 hours long and they all run together into a nonsensical blur. That’s when you know it’s going fast — when it’s blurry. It’s blurry because we are on a wild, out-of-control ride, we can’t sleep, and we are disoriented. 

When I finally get off, I’ll just crawl to the platform and lie there for a long time while everyone else steps over me.

Talks With Boys.

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I’ve been feeling guilty lately for having trouble giving my first born, Maverick, my full attention. When he comes home after school he wants to talk to me and tell stories about his day, and we are constantly interrupted because I have two other children who are always trying to eat bugs when my back is turned.

So last night after I got the younger two to bed, I turned off the TV and said “Maverick, I want to spend some time talking to you tonight! I put my phone away, and you have my full attention for the next 20 minutes. I’ll read to you or we can talk about whatever you want. If you just want to sit here with me in silence, we can do that.”

He thought for a moment and then he said “Okay!” and pulled down his pants. “What’s this line going down the middle of my balls?”

And without changing my tone or expression I said I wasn’t sure, but I would be happy to look it up if he really wanted to know.  He was like, “No mommy. You need to SEE IT. DO YOU SEE IT?” And I was like … “I have seen it, yes. Pull your pants up now.“

It’s called the perineal raphe. 

At some point my son will come to realize that it’s virtually impossible to shock his mother … but I have a feeling he’s going to make it his life’s work to try. Which means I’ll never, ever run out of stories to tell.

Maverick’s book report on The Cat In The Hat.

 

The Non-Saint.

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This morning, after a long struggle of getting myself and small children dressed, I finally pulled into the gym parking lot and exhaled.

What’s so hard about getting yourself, a two-year-old, and an 8-month-old dressed? They’re just kids, right? Well … every time I turned around, Asher was putting something in the dryer and turning it on — shoes, dish cloths, random objects. He was opening the refrigerator, putting something in the toilet, banging on the computer keys, or trying to open our front door and run away. If you still don’t understand, you are welcome to borrow him for an hour — but it has to be an hour in which you are trying to get ready to go somewhere, cook a meal, or complete a thought. Otherwise it won’t count.

So anyway, right when I was gathering my stuff and getting ready to unload the kids, I got a text from Maverick’s teacher saying that he was sick and needed to go home. I took a deep breath and put the van in reverse, saying goodbye to the gym and my “me” time.

Some people choose to live a life of service. Monks, nuns, people in ministry and medicine. Those people are saints. I am not a saint. I really struggle to live a life of service. Part of me wants to serve, but a bigger part of me just wants everyone to go away so I can do what I want to do. JUST LET ME GO TO ZUMBA CLASS, FOR THE LOVE. Just let me BREATHE.

I keep reading all these articles about motherhood and how it’s a constant sacrifice; a nonstop setting aside of your needs to meet the needs of your children. There is a balance to that, of course, but when children are small they require an awful lot of sacrificing. 

An. Awful. Lot.

There are times when my sacrifices are met with grateful thank yous or big hugs, or an 8-month-old’s voice yelling Mmmmmmmmmmmmm! which I am pretty sure means Mama! but who can say for sure, but the majority of the time I am met with a toilet full of baby wipes instead.

I guess the point of this is simply to say, some parts of motherhood do not come easily for me. Some parts just suck. But I think I’m pretty much a rockstar at a few things, and this allows me to hold onto the hope that one day when all three of my children have all of their teeth and know how to use the toilet by themselves I will morph into an amazing saint. They will call me Mother Harmony and I will never yell.


Tirade Time.

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Everyone on Facebook is all riled up over this article, where the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch flat-out says they don’t want overweight or ugly people wearing their clothes. Also, he states why they only hire very good-looking employees — because, and I quote — “good-looking people attract other good-looking people, and we want to market to cool, good-looking people. We don’t market to anyone other than that.”

Hmmm.

This store has been around for a long time. I remember shopping there in high school, back when they still carried a size 12. I liked their jeans because they were roomy in the ass. Apparently now the largest size they offer is a 10 in women’s, and that size is waaaaaaaay high up on the shelves so you, the fatso who requires a size 10, are forced to ask for help from one of the good-looking sales people. Oh, the shame.

Reading that Abercrombie caters to skinny and pretty people doesn’t outrage or shock me in the least. I mean … duh. They have had chiseled male models standing shirtless in their doorway for years now. I do find it amusing that the man in charge is so open with his douchery. Also, the fact that the company is being accused of “body elitism” makes me laugh. Hello … what about all of the designers who don’t go above a size 6? What about MODELS? What about “vanity sizing,” where a size 6 is actually the size of a 10 (I’m looking at you, GAP), and you keep going back to that store because shopping there makes you feel skinny? It’s all stupid. Stupid, stupid.

Note: I am about to go on a tirade. Keep in mind that this is what I am teaching my own children … you may disagree. And you know what? THAT IS OKAY. Study these abs for a moment before you continue. These are the abs of the Abercrombie models.

(source)

Begin tirade.

There is clearly a problem in this country. We all have it too easy and we feel “bullied” and want everyone to be treated nicely and we think everyone should get a blue ribbon because everyone is a winner. That’s not realistic. Everyone is not a winner. There is only one winner, and that is why there is only one first place.

I think we do a disservice to our kids by making them believe that they deserve a blue ribbon when they came in last. It’s okay to lose sometimes. It’s okay to be dressed differently. It’s okay to be fatter than the other kids. It’s okay to be skinnier than the other kids. Are you healthy? Do you have a talent? Then focus on that, for God’s sake. Everyone has some redeeming quality, but everyone is not beautiful or smart or exceptional. 

Sometimes there are stores that only want perfect people wearing their clothes. Sometimes you get made fun of. That’s life, and it goes to show how spoiled all of us are. There are people on this Earth who have no food or water, and we’re over here squabbling over whether it’s more attractive to have visible ribs, or abundant curves. I’m embarrassed for us all. Our hypersensitivity has made us weak.

There will always be douchebags wandering around telling you that you aren’t good enough. We can’t change them, but we can change how much we allow their opinion to affect our lives. Let this Jeffries guy be a total jerk. Let him waste away reeking of cologne, pumping his face full of chemicals in an effort to turn back time. He fits right in with millions of other people. WHO CARES. If everyone stopped shopping there and he went out of business right this minute, another douche would surely take his place. 

Shallow and horrible parents continue to spawn shallow and horrible children who will most likely terrorize my normal ones at some point in the future. My kids will want to wear whatever is cool and I have no idea if I will be able to afford to dress them in the cool stuff or not. Maybe they’re going to have to deal with being made fun of. Maybe they’ll have to get a job to pay for the clothes that they just have to have. Maybe my kids will never win a blue ribbon or be able to get a job at Abercrombie because they don’t fit the mold. 

I don’t care.  

I readily admit that bullying is wrong, but hypersensitive kids are the weak ones that will probably get bullied the most. Don’t send your child into the world feeling like they are owed something. They aren’t. Sometimes they will lose and you, their parent, need to be okay with that. Let them lose. Let them learn. Show them that it’s OKAY to FAIL, OMG. It’s OKAY to be WEIRD, OMG.

Teach them to be strong: in mind, body, and most importantly — SPIRIT — and it will be harder for the Abercrombies of the world to ruin their lives.

End tirade.

The Eye Drop Experience.

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This week ONE’s school called and asked me to pick him up and take him to the doctor because it looked like he had pinkeye. It turned out to just be allergies. The eye drops she prescribed were $125 with insurance, clearly because someone somewhere put a hex on our budget.

This is what $125 worth of eye drops looks like. So tiny. So expensive.

Naturally, ONE refused to let us put them in his eyes. And if the drops hadn’t been so pricey, we may have half-assed our attempts. But these things cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries, and the bottle is so tiny, AND THEY ARE GOING IN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.

Thankfully, once he realized they didn’t hurt he got over his phobia and we are all free to all move forward with our lives. Raising children can be so hard. Things like the Eye Drop Experience require virtues that don’t come easily to me. Like patience. 

Husband reminded me yesterday, “Eye drops are scary Harmony. Give the kid a break.” And yes, fine, okay. I get it. New things are scary. He is four years old. I tend to be a little harsh and I have zero patience for foolishness, which can be good and bad when it comes to mothering. My rope is a lot shorter than Husband’s when it comes to things like putting eye drops in, OMG, it will be over before you know it so let’s get it over with already. Which is why he was the one who spent nearly 45 minutes talking calmly to ONE about the drops before finally wrestling him down and dropping them in. 

Here is the child who teaches me patience EVERY DAY.

I am reminded on a regular basis of my shortcomings and I have absolutely no choice but to try to do better. I expect my children to grow and develop their character and so I have to as well. 

It’s hard.

Thankfully, we forgive each other when we mess up and we start over and try to do better. It’s a constant cycle that I guess will repeat over and over until the day I die. Maybe at the end of my long life I will be endlessly patient and completely laid back and Husband will be the one mopping the floor while I sip tea and space out. Hffffft.

Festival.

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Me and my boy.
Kelly and one of her cutie pies! I normally don’t associate with skinny people, but I make an exception for this one because she’s like family.
Holding that giant baby. No one told me my bra was hanging out, KELLY.

 We’re making childhood memories! I am giving myself a pat on the back right this minute.

However. No one told me that making childhood memories can be seriously exhausting for the parent involved. I took the kids to the Hot Air Balloon Festival last night. TWO hadn’t had his afternoon nap and I was without Husband. We had to leave early because I could tell that the baby was heading to Crazy Town and I wanted to avoid this. It was a close one, let me tell you. Good for me for spotting the signs and getting us the hell outta there before it happened.

My arms are tired this morning from pushing a double stroller through a field, my feet have definitely seen better days and ONE has a black eye. 

It was totally worth it. We’ll be back next year.

ONE’s First Crush.

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Doing normal boy things.

ONE has his first crush. 

HE’S FOUR. I have no idea how to handle it. I know that sounds dramatic and I’m sorry. I have been in deep denial for about two weeks and now that I can no longer ignore it, I’m coping with it the only way I know how: a blog entry.

Ever since school started, he’s been talking about some little girl who won’t play with him. Not to be confused with the girl who always tells him “NO!“, that’s a different one. 

Anyway, every afternoon he would excitedly chatter about his day, but then would suddenly get quiet as he talked from the backseat about some little girl who refuses to play with him. At first I thought maybe she was mean, probably because she has a mean and snotty mommy, so I encouraged him to play with the other kids. There are lots to choose from, I reminded him.

As the days passed, our conversations evolved into this:

ONE: I don’t want to play with the other kids. I want to play with HER.

Me: You can’t make kids play with you. It doesn’t sound like much fun to try to play with a kid who doesn’t want to play with you … she doesn’t sound very nice.

ONE: SHE IS NICE.

Me: What does she say when you tell her you want to play?

ONE: She tells me she is too busy. I keep following her but she is just always too busy.

It was this same conversation, or slight variant of it, every day. This is when I started asking different questions.

Me: ONE, why do you want to play with this little girl? She doesn’t sound fun to play with.

ONE: (quietly) SHE IS FUN. And … she’s really nice. And … she wears pretty clothes.

Bam. It hit me. My son has a crush. I didn’t say anything to him … in fact, I did that weird parent thing where I suddenly changed the subject, turned up the radio, and went into my safe place. I told Husband about it later that night and as it turns out, ONE has been telling him about “the little girl who won’t play with me.” We decided to ignore it, and we’re certainly not going to encourage it. I’ve never been a fan of telling little kids, “Ooooh, you have a boyfriend/girlfriend!” and such. They’re little kids. They have lots of time to figure out romance and I am certainly not going to plant thoughts in their heads. 

Also, the thought of my son having a crush weirds me out in ways I’ll never understand and it makes me feel quite uncomfortable discussing it. Wow, I’m really uptight and a little bit prudish. That came out of nowhere. But all I can think about is that one day, he really will want to kiss a girl and hold her hand and GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE, and I just can’t think about it right now. He is four. I’m supposed to have more time.

One thing he has going for him is his tenacity, which will serve him well one day. He certainly is a persistent little fellow. I caught him trying to put hair gel in his hair two nights ago. I asked what he was doing and he said, I’m trying to look handsome so that little girl will play with me. Will you help me, Mommy? He looked up at me with his big gray eyes and I just wanted to cry. Of course I will help you. 

I smiled and helped him fix his hair at 7 p.m. and when he took his bath we were careful not to get it wet. The next morning he asked if we could find “handsome clothes” for him to wear to school, and again Husband and I were silent and acted like everything was normal, EVEN THOUGH IT CLEARLY WAS NOT.

Last night, over dinner, he informed us that looking handsome had not worked. The little girl still was too busy to play with him, and so he formulated a new plan to win her affections. Before he could elaborate on this,  I asked her name. He doesn’t know. I said maybe she doesn’t want to play with you because you forgot her name. He laughed. I said she may change her mind, girls are funny like that. And he said, “Tomorrow I’m going to ignore her. And then she’ll want to play with me. And when she says ‘Maverick will you play with me?’ I’ll say … YES! LET’S PLAY!!!!!“


Husband told him that was an excellent plan. 

This morning I found him in the bathroom putting gel in his hair again. He insisted on wearing handsome clothes so I can look handsome so the little girl will play with me, Mommy. And when we got to school, his teacher approached. “He’s got his first crush, Mama.” That’s what she said. And I think I mumbled “Okay,” before I mentally rushed to my safe place.

The little girl’s name is Alissa. ONE follows her all. day. long. Alissa is tolerant of it to a point, and then she gets annoyed.

I feel her. Boys can be a real pain.



To Be That Perfectly.

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“Do not wish to be anything but what you are, 
and to be that perfectly.”

                                        – Saint Frances de Sales

I came across this quote today. It really hit home with me because lately I’ve been having a little bit of a crisis. Not like a serious life crisis — nothing like that. More like a crisis of self.

I’ve been helping my mother get some of her old paperwork organized and I’ve had the pleasure of sorting through bills and report cards from my stint at college. I use the word “stint” because I was one of those in-for-two-semesters, out-for-two-semesters types. I went to a private Christian university and after racking up an obscene bill there, I had a major quarter-life crisis one semester from graduation and ended up moving home, quitting college and meeting a hot boy who smoked and played pool … my future Husband, who had also dropped out of college. 

Finally, seven years after finishing high school, I graduated from Louisiana State University with a degree in Mass Communication. It exhausts me just to type all of that. I can’t imagine how my parents must have felt watching it.

Today I was sitting at the dining room table staring at all the stacks of stuff, thinking to myself how many thousands of dollars were poured into an education that I’m not even currently using. I am a stay-at-home mom. That’s what my job is. I get paid exactly zero dollars. And that’s when I came across that quote, written on a scrap of paper in my mother’s script: “Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and to be that perfectly.”  

I know down deep in my soul I am doing what I’m meant to do. No question. So I stood up, and fixed my ponytail, and had a sandwich. When TWO woke up from his nap I told him, “Asher, I am your mother and Maverick’s mother and Daddy’s wife and I wish to be nothing else at this time. I’m going to do the best job of it today that I possibly can.” 


He smiled and said “WHEE!!!!” 

And just like that … life is perfected.

Just Another Tuesday.

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TWO seems to be intent on making a trip to the Emergency Room. All I had to do was pee. I just left for a minute.


It looks like what happened was he was walking around his room and fell face-first onto a hard surface. His eye has a cut across it and was bleeding, which totally freaked me out because I was sure that the blood must have been coming from his EYEBALL.

He’s fine now. You should see the other guy.