Womanizer.

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Every so often something will happen that reminds me of how grateful I am not to be out there in the dating pool. Marriage is hard work, but dating was exhausting. I wasn’t very good at it. I could give you a list of reasons why, but frankly I’d rather not rehash it.

Just know that it wasn’t my specialty.

Yesterday before Zumba class, I was standing off to the side of the room minding my own business when an older woman approached and said, “I thought of you today when I got dressed.” I had never spoken to her before, but she was delightfully engaging/borderline rowdy/possibly crazy, which is exactly what I love in a geriatric.

She showed me her cute workout outfit (complete with large hoop earrings — I high-fived her for that one) and I stood there mouth agape as she rattled on about how she has a son who is single. It took me a few minutes to catch on that she meant she has a son who is single and she wanted me to meet him.

“He’s very tall — like 6’5 — and SO handsome. Honey, he’s a catch. Recently divorced, two kids, makes a lot of money. A lot. You should see his home, it’s gorgeous. Let’s see … he’s a very good cook. Almost too good, really. Sometimes you just want to tell him to get out of the kitchen.”

She then grabbed my left hand and said, “You aren’t married, are y— OH, DAMMIT.” She threw her hands up in the air in what I can only describe as disgust, as I assured her that her son won’t have any trouble finding love.

“It sounds like he won’t have a problem finding someone,” I offered.

That is when she looked straight at me and said, “He won’t find anyone, honey. HE’S A MAJOR WOMANIZER.”

Oh … I see. That IS a problem. But thank you anyway for trying to set me up with your whore of a son.

This is my husband.

Robbie has long said that there is no way he could handle more than one woman in his life. The emotional outbursts, the need for discussion, the complicated bodies, the feelings … my husband is not cut out for philandering. This is why I have surrounded him with light.

The Toddler & The Toilet.

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FOR THE LIFE OF ME, I CANNOT KEEP THIS CHILD OUT OF THE TOILET.

10849725_1565162037052276_6916118220399881664_nIt is her favorite thing. I’m pretty on top of the situation I’ve got going on over here, meaning I generally know where my kids are and I have the scissors stored in a safe location, but she still manages to sneak in there and splash with all her might. Mouth open, lovey in hand.

I am so tired of washing loveys.

I am so tired of wiping up toilet water.

Someone please tell me that this will build her immunity, and it will all pay off in the end somehow. Like in the case of a major Ebola outbreak in the U.S. — at least the one who drinks toilet water would survive it, right?

Right.

My Personal Ad.

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Mom dating adIf we lived in a perfect world, there would be an online friend-matching service for busy moms who don’t have time to waste making small talk with people who bother them.

And this would be my ad.

Noise.

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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.

20150119_155246The 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.

First Grade Journaling.

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First graders at our neighborhood school are required to write in a black-and-white journal every morning. They aren’t allowed to bring it home and they aren’t allowed to draw in it.

This afternoon, I got a text from Maverick’s teacher. It was a picture of today’s entry.

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The year is supposed to be 2015. I hope he didn’t lose points for that, because I keep doing it too.

One of the most traumatic events in my life thus far was the day that Asher, who was only a year old at the time, went to the refrigerator looking for juice. It was on the same day that Aunt Nancy and Uncle John were coming to see our new baby girl for the first time, and Robbie and I were busy cleaning the house.

I heard him saying “Mommy, juice,” but I was busy and figured I would get to it in a minute. Always the self-reliant middle child, he went to the refrigerator to get the juice himself. He then proceeded to lug out a gigantic bottle of wine that was stored in the door, dropped it on the tile floor, slipped, and fell in the glass. Just thinking about it makes me upset — my heart starts to race, my stomach flip-flops.

I NEVER drink white wine. I don’t know why I bought it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was living in The Blur, so I probably just saw it on sale somewhere and thought YES, I NEED THAT. I need ALL of that. EVERY LAST DROP, right this minute. I don’t have time to rip the cork out with my teeth in the parking lot and drink it immediately because the baby is hungry and screaming, so I’ll just take it home and chill it. Isn’t that what people do with white wine? I usually drink red. It’s much more low-maintenance. Yes — I’ll chill it — and as soon as I get the chance, I’m gonna down this mofo like the sleep-deprived bitch that I am.

That chance never came, because my child beat me to it.

When the ambulance arrived, our entire house smelled of alcohol, the baby was screaming, and I was covered in blood, crying with a toddler on my lap. The biggest chunk of glass that lodged itself in his ass left a large, crescent-shaped scar on his butt cheek that still makes my heart sink every time I look at it.

Maverick wasn’t home when it happened, but one of his most favorite activities is to meet a new person and tell the exciting tale of The Time Asher Broke A Bottle of Mommy’s Wine. If you hear the story from a charismatic 6-year-old, it’s actually quite entertaining.

His teacher informed me during our textversation today that this story, as told by Maverick, is one of her very favorites. “This one’s a keeper,” she said, referring to the journal entry. Yes, indeed it is. I never made baby books for any of my children, but I do have THIS.

I’ll just store it right next to the bloody chunk of glass I have stored in a box in my closet.

Mommy Doesn’t Pay Her Bills.

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Remember last week when our water got shut off because I forgot to pay the bill?

No?

Oh … it’s because I forgot to tell you. Well, our water got shut off because I have too much on my plate and can’t remember to pay anything on time. As soon as I realized what was happening, I called the water company, paid the bill plus a reconnect fee, and all was well. I feel like I have to clarify that I got the water turned back on, lest you believe that we’re living in squalor. But if this were real squalor, I wouldn’t have internet access, now would I?!

Oh, wait. I spoke too soon.

This morning it happened again, this time with our TV and internet. I tried to turn on Curious George for the kids and the message from AT&T popped up which said, basically, “Pay up, bitch.” I stood in the living room, terrified of the thought of life without TV or internet while my oldest child stood next to me and read the words on the screen.

“YOU FORGOT TO PAY THIS BILL, TOO?!” he gasped.

Yes. Yes, I did, because I have too much on my mind. I forgot because I am a wife to a very messy man and a mother of three little kids and I recently got serious about my writing because I’d like for it to become more than just a “hobby.” I forgot because I was too busy thinking about story ideas or emails I needed to send, and I heard splashing and didn’t know what it was and it turned out to be your little sister splashing in the toilet with both hands, with her mouth open. I forgot because you and your brother beat the ever-loving shit out of each other every time I leave the room. I forgot because bills are stupid and they are the opposite of fun.

My husband saved the day by paying the bill from his work computer, and all was right in the world once more.

A few hours later, we found ourselves at the pediatrician’s office for checkups. I love our pediatrician. She has three boys and doesn’t judge me or my children. She just gets it. Her office is new, and small enough for everyone to hear what is said if you bellow it loudly from the front desk, which would be good if, say, you needed an emergency tourniquet. But bad, if, for example, you’re me.

As we were getting ready to leave, I stopped at the front to ask the doctor and her husband (who also works there) what I needed to pay before we left. My exact words were, “Is there a bill?”

That is when Maverick said, in his very loud, bellowy voice, “MOMMY DOESN’T PAY HER BILLS.”

I tried to laugh it off, because thankfully I have a great relationship with our pediatrician, but I could feel my face reddening as he continued: “NO, REALLY. LAST WEEK OUR WATER GOT SHUT OFF AND TODAY THE TV GOT TURNED OFF. MOMMY REALLY DOESN’T PAY THE BILLS.

DON’T GIVE HER ONE.

SHE WON’T PAY IT.”

Yeah … so that happened. Let’s just go ahead and file this under Embarrassing Moments In Motherhood, and then strike it from memory.

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Disgruntled Gypsy.

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Last Friday night, Robbie took me on a date …

Wait for it …

That he arranged all by himself. My husband is awesome about doing that on occasion. I am very lucky in that respect, but unfortunately for him, I am not the date I used to be. At all.

On this particular night, I was exhausted and emotional and not very much fun. I tried to rally. I was there, wearing real clothes, standing upright. We had dinner, went to see Guns N’ Roses and Metallica cover bands, and didn’t get home until after midnight.

On the surface, it appears that I rocked that shit. But I think we all know better.

20150109_204111 1. My toddler bit me on the shoulder twice this week. If you look closely, you can see the bruises. If that’s not sexy, I don’t know what is.

2. Since I was going to be in a classic rock-type situation, I tried to channel Gemma from Sons of Anarchy. I quickly realized that I lack the leather, the attitude, and the body type, so I went with disgruntled gypsy instead.

20150109_225543 3. Despite the fact that I constantly tell myself I’m not out of touch, every time I leave my house and go to a place outside of my corner of suburbia, I am slapped in the face with the fact that I AM OUT OF TOUCH. I haven’t seen the inside of a collegiate music venue in so long that I got all weird and made Robbie retrieve the free draft beer because I didn’t want to have to ask the bartender for my free draft beer. “It feels rude,” I told him. When he hesitated, I made my disgruntled gypsy face.

4. Youths make me nervous. I don’t know if it’s because they draw attention to the fact that I’m yawning every 5 minutes (they aren’t), or because I’m bitter that I’ll be up at 6:00 a.m. with small children (they aren’t). When one got near me, I scooted closer to Robbie, but not too close, because …

5. I am officially at the point where I can’t even muster energy for sexy time on date night if I’m tired. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. Up until this point, I could be the tiredest I’d ever been, but if it was date night, it also meant sexy time. Those days are now over. What used to be “the tiredest I’d ever been” is now my normal resting state. My “tired” has taken on a new level. See #6 for details.

6. Apparently, when I’m as tired as I was last Friday, I get weepy and weird and even though I try really hard not to talk about our children (because, date night), I JUST CAN’T HELP IT. I ended up bringing up a stressful topic involving one of the kids and working myself up over it on the one occasion that I didn’t need to think about it. Because that was clearly the sensible thing to do.

7. When a girl ran onstage and flashed the audience, I gasped in horror. She escaped the security man and popped back up later. I kept thinking about her mother. This is how I know I’m not the date I used to be, because I stood there thinking, if my daughter ever pulled a stunt like that and I heard about it, I would be equal parts mortified and concerned and OMGWHATWOULDIDO?!

8. Metallica, and their cover bands, terrify me.

9. Head-banging terrifies me. Brains should not be shaken like that.

By the time I got home,  I just wanted to put on my adult-sized fleece onesie, take out my contacts, and insert my earplugs. Which is exactly what I did.

Don’t judge me … you don’t want to see my disgruntled gypsy side.

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Axl Rose impersonator, in his underwear.

The Light.

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Last quarter, Maverick’s report card contained straight A’s, except for one C which was in conduct. Did you know they give letter grades for conduct now? Well … they do, much to the misfortune of elementary-aged talkers and disruptive types all across America.

He never mentioned anything to us about it, until one day when it came out in conversation that he thought he couldn’t go to the Honor Roll ceremony with his friends because he “has bad grades.” I remember standing at the sink when he said it, stopping in my tracks and looking straight at him. “What?! Maverick, you make EXCELLENT grades!” I looked into his big eyes and realized that for almost three months, he had been operating under the assumption that his grades sucked.

After I explained that the reason he didn’t make Honor Roll was because he had a C in conduct, I watched a fire start to burn in him as he said “I am going to do better next time. I want to get on Honor Roll. If they can do it, I can do it.” I remember my mouth dropping open a little, but I collected myself and said something like he can do anything if he works hard enough.

We have never pushed him to excel academically — unless you count putting him in first grade when he was 5 years old, the youngest in his class. This year is an experiment, we are fumbling through it in the dark and just waiting to see how he does. We congratulate him on a job well done, for working hard when he does well — but we leave it at that. There is no pushing. Most of the time, I am running around like a cat tied to a stick just trying to keep him from burning the house down or poisoning a sibling with one of the “potions” he likes to mix up in the bathroom.

Parenting a child like Maverick requires a skill set that I’m not even sure I have, and energy I only possess occasionally. Lately, most of my days have been pretty rock-bottom terrible. It’s just another valley; a time when I feel too exhausted to keep pressing forward, but I have no choice but to keep going, lest I be trampled or dragged along with my face in the dirt. Sometimes I find myself in a pit where it feels like everything I’m doing is wrong. It’s lonely there. And dark.

But it doesn’t last forever.

Yesterday, Maverick came home with a report card peppered with A’s and B’s. He was bursting with pride over making the Honor Roll. I’d totally forgotten about his resolve to improve until I held the report in my hands. He did it, just like he said he would.

He has that fire.

He’s six.

20150110_14574720150110_145745I am so proud and I am so terrified. That boy can do anything he puts his mind to, whether we want him to or not. In my soul I know that if we ever slip up and pressure him to succeed, he will fail on purpose to spite us. So we remain calmly encouraging, careful not to make too big of a production of things, all while still acknowledging his hard work. It’s like walking a tightrope.

It’s exhausting.

Sometimes I lie awake at night terrified that somehow we will screw up and that fiery self-motivation will redirect to something else, something negative. What if he becomes a scientist and figures out how to make blue meth like on Breaking Bad? What if I make him really mad one day and he slips me a roofie? What if he teaches himself how to drive before he’s legally allowed to and he leaves home with a road map of the U.S., finds a life as a con man, and never comes back? WHAT IF HE TAKES THE OTHER ONES WITH HIM?

Maverick is clearly my greatest challenge, so when he does well without any prodding on my part, it’s a huge victory for me. All the battles we wage in our household take their toll on my psyche, and just when I felt like I couldn’t possibly go on because I AM A TERRIBLE MOTHER WHO CAN’T UNDERSTAND OR FIGURE OUT HOW TO BEST PARENT MY OLDEST CHILD …

The light came through.

Finally.