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.
Throwback Time.
It’s Throwback Thursday again! That special day of the week when all the awkwardness of my former life comes back to haunt me.
As you can see by the bushy hair, petulant attitude, and vegetarian bacon (known as “Stripples,” and yes, they are a real thing), not much has changed since 1993.
Except for the price of bread.
Toddleritis.
For approximately 6 weeks, I have felt like I just cannot get it together.
I’m forgetting things. I’m struggling to get simple tasks accomplished, like keeping food in the house and making sure Maverick’s school uniforms are clean. Robbie would ask me something like, “Where are all my boxers?” and I would get irrationally angry.
At first I thought I was just tired from the holidays. Then, I thought it was probably because I’m trying to write and get published more, and that takes time and energy.
Maybe I was anemic. My mother-in-law asked if I have had my thyroid checked recently … maybe it was that. Maybe I’m not sleeping well enough.
I bought some ZzzQuil.
My mother asked me on several occasions, “Are you okay?” or, “Why are you so tired?” I could never come up with a good answer, because what am I supposed to say?! I HAVE KIDS. But my husband was starting to give me concerned looks, and I was starting to wonder about myself. What was my problem?! Did I need to cut back on writing? Did I need to start going to bed earlier? Take more vitamins?
And then, it dawned on me.
The toddler.
Pepper, with her always-sunny disposition, has become a true toddler. She runs from me, darting between my legs. Half of the time, when we are at home, I have no idea where she is. She’s a climber. She tries to touch the cooktop when I’m boiling eggs. She attempts to grab the hot frying pan. Tonight, she opened the oven when it was set to 425 fish-stick-cooking degrees.
She bites. She pulls everything out of every drawer, cabinet, basket, and box. She hits and pulls hair. I am forever grabbing her hands and reminding her, “Be gentle.”
She locks herself in rooms and closets. She learned how to open doors and loves to sneak into the bathroom to play in the toilet. She tries to strip herself naked.
She enjoys trying to dive headfirst into the bath tub when her brothers are taking a bath, but her very favorite thing is eating wet sand at the playground.
Pepper has started really talking. She screams “EAT!” or, “I HUNGRY!” when she needs food. She says “I SOWWY!” when she bites me. She exclaims “I DID IT!” and “HI, PEPPER!” because she mimics everything her older brothers say and do. This includes yelling “SHUT UP!” at inappropriate times. She also will randomly yell the word “poop.”
I am not anemic. I am not depressed or stricken with another bout of mono (I had a terrible case of it in high school). It’s an even graver condition, I’m afraid. One that will last another 12, maybe 18 months.
I have toddler.
Pepper does not enjoy being judged.
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Happy Birthday, Robbie.
My husband turned 33 today.
When I fell in love with him, he wore navy blue Pumas. Today, he bought a pair of cowboy boots.
This is just one example of how love conquers all.
Those are cowboy boots.
Advice To Underclassmen
Straight from my high school yearbook.
Recently, I came across my high school yearbooks. There I am, in all of my overachieving glory.
My parents were lucky. I was a good kid. The stuff that got me into trouble was not drugs or teen pregnancy … it was doing things like spending my Friday night tying all of the doors in the girl’s dorm shut with ropes made of panty hose so no one could get out the next morning. I lived in a dormitory during high school, which is another story for another day, and suffice it to say that those types of activities were frowned upon.
Other things that were frowned upon:
1. Secular activities
2. Unnatural-looking makeup (I didn’t know how to make the most of my appearance until well after high school)
3. Dancing
4. General worldliness
5. Immodesty
Now, I don’t know how you feel when you think about your high school years, but my feelings can’t be felt at all due to the extreme level of cringe taking place. It wasn’t all bad, but there are a variety of reasons why I feel sick to my stomach every time I think about that time in my life. Again, another story for another day.
My Advice to Underclassmen states, “If you feel like screaming, don’t.” In the spring of 1998, the entire population of the girl’s dorm had to spend a Sunday afternoon sitting in the Chapel. I can’t remember the details, but I remember that someone had done something (it was not me) and the Girl’s Dean wanted to know who. She instructed us not to say a word while we were in there.
Not a word.
I was 18 years old, graduation was approaching, and it had been a long 4 years. I was tired of not being allowed to kiss my boyfriend or wear whatever I wanted. I was tired of hiding my good music in the ceiling of my dorm room. I was tired mostly because by this point, it was becoming very hard for me to find new ways to have fun without getting expelled.
Maybe it was that I had a feeling deep inside that there was a life for me outside of this that would involve lattes, wine, and secular activities … or maybe I was just sick of sitting on the hard pew bench … but regardless of the reason, I just couldn’t take it anymore and I TOTALLY SNAPPED.
I waited until our dean turned and left the room, and I screamed the absolute loudest scream of my life … second only to the medication-free birth of Asher in 2011.
I remember her talking to me in her office later, and I swear she was trying not to laugh. Dean Griffin, I put you through a lot and I’m sorry. But I never, ever did drugs, caught anything on fire, or had sex in your dormitory.
Most of us spend our days repressing what we really want to say or do, because we are wives and mothers or simply trying to be polite members of society. Self-restraint is a virtue, and I try to set a good example for my children by being polite and gracious, even when I don’t want to be. I’ve met people who read my blog and they seem surprised to find out that I am actually a very calm, kind, polite person.
That’s because if I went around doing and saying whatever the hell I wanted, I would be a miserable person because no one would ever want to be around me … and then I wouldn’t have anything to write about.
If I were in a yearbook now, which would presumably be comprised of mothers who are frantically trying to keep it together, my advice would read: “If you feel like screaming, YOU TOTALLY SHOULD. It’s going to eventually come out, one way or another.”
Girl’s Night Out.
Four hours. I was gone for FOUR hours, and this is what happened.
Modern Mommy Madness 