Biscuits & Gravy.

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I spend a lot of time writing about how my kids are driving me to drink.

I have blogged for almost 5 years about all the ways motherhood stresses me out. I’ve talked about the things my children have broken, peed on, or otherwise damaged. I’ve lost kids, locked kids in vehicles and houses, and made a fool of myself at drive thru windows. What makes it all so comical is that I really do consider myself to be a relatively capable and intelligent human being. When I got married in 2005, I was a woman who was always put together, knew what day it was and how much money was in her bank account. That person read magazines and newspapers and knew what was happening in the world. I was going to be somebody. I had plans.

I am now none of those things and I know none of those things. With age, I have realized I AM someone right in this moment. There is no more aspiring to become someone. I made three someones, and my plans now consist of getting those people to adulthood in one piece.

I don’t know the date. I don’t know which bills are due when. I don’t know when I last mopped. I don’t know where several important documents are located, or where the slips are that I signed for Maverick’s school. We do not have a family dentist and that FALLS ON ME. The burden of our oral health is resting on my shoulders. It feels heavy.

Women carry an unbelievable load that often is not recognized or applauded, because no one can see it. We carry emotions and feelings and worries and love. We carry plans, aspirations and schedules and love. We carry lists that are written on a million scraps of paper and love. We carry every sad look from our children, every wrong word spoken in haste, every runny nose and strange-looking dirty diaper and nuance that tells us something might be wrong, and love. We notice smells and changes in behavior before anyone else. We see when things are wrong and when things are right, and we know when the toilet is really, truly, absolutely clean … because we love.

Sometimes that invisible load is just so. damn. heavy. I get bitter and resentful and I take it out on my husband and my children, just because they’re there AND THEY WANT SOMETHING. I feel unhappy and alone and certain I’m the only person ever who has to cart around this kind of load. Does any of this sound familiar?

Today I remembered that as much as my children, with their chaos and incessant demands, add to my load … they can also lessen it if I let them. Because children — messy, sticky, loud children — emote joy over things like tall bar stools with seats that spin. They press their faces to glass cases and peer inside at all the different kinds of cake balls like it is the MOST AMAZING THING EVER.

They touch everything. Because they must.

They wake up excited to see what they new day has in store for them, and at night after they have run us ragged, they snuggle down deep in their beds and whisper “I love you, Mommy.” Children love life, and they breathed life into what would have been my very boring existence of knowing the exact date and time.

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If you’ve ever wondered why people have children, this is why. If you’ve ever wondered why Robbie and I have three of them … well, there you go. They give us as much as they take and more, in their weird, loud way, and I love them more than biscuits and gravy.

So Many Questions.

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This advertisement from Soma was in my inbox today. Can someone please explain to me how a bra can be “age-defying?”

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The arrow was added by Harmony.

I clicked on the link because I wanted to learn more about this magical undergarment, but it was already sold out. So … does it work?! Is that why there aren’t any left? DAMN IT.

I am now in search of age-defying panties and hats. See you on the flip side.

News!

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I have NEWS!

Last month I was invited by Jill Smokler of Scary Mommy to contribute to an ebook she is putting together titled “The Scary Mommy Guide to Surviving The Holidays.” This is part of the 2014 Scary Mommy Thanksgiving Project, which you can read about here. It’s still unclear if the book will be for sale and the proceeds will help feed families on Thanksgiving, or if she will give it to the donors as a thank you gift, but either way I’m going to be part of it.

Right after I screamed WHAT?!?!?!?!? YES!!!!  after reading the email and firing off a reply, my life seemed to go into overdrive and a bunch of major things happened that affected my ability to write. The stress of the approaching deadline (this Monday) and the knowledge that God-knows-who is going to read this ebook was almost too much for me … I was waking up at 4:00 a.m. thinking panicky thoughts with a constant feeling of impending doom and dread that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But with the support of my husband and friends, and the aid of a Bota Box, I think that I did. And now that it’s written, all I feel is excitement that I will be published, and all my hard work is in support of a fantastic cause.

Scary Mommy is totally irreverent, but so is motherhood. This gig is one part Holy Mother Mary, and one part Linda Blair (of The Exorcist). In my real life, I’m very calm and kind and I smile a lot. But the Linda Blair part of me just wants to yell “FUCK” about 10 times a day, like when my kids have food fights or when Asher is having a complete meltdown because he can’t make the banana he broke in half stick back together.

And that is where Scary Mommy comes in.

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(Did you miss my Scary Mommy piece? You can find it here!)

We Do Not Own A Bar.

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Yesterday afternoon Robbie texted me something called “23 Brunch Recipes To Knock Your Socks Off.” He asked me two different times if I’d had a chance to look at it, and I just shrugged him off.

This morning he mentioned it again and, fueled by my coffee, I proceeded to explain that NO, I had not looked at it, because why should I go to all the trouble of making Nutella and Bacon-Stuffed French Toast? The kids never eat anything I cook, and half of the time you don’t either because YOU ARE SO DAMN PICKY and I have never in my life experienced a grown man who wrinkles his nose at nuts in banana bread.

Once I got going, I couldn’t stop. I ranted on and on about how at the beginning of our marriage I was so gung-ho about cooking for my husband and while I tried to work around his absurd pickiness it seemed like I always fell short — the man much preferred McDonald’s over whatever I cooked at home. Sometimes I make things that aren’t fantastic, obviously, but most of the time everyone else eats it so it can’t be that bad. One Christmas I made, from scratch, a huge chocolate cake from a Southern Living recipe and brought it to our family gathering. Robbie was the only one who didn’t even want to taste it. I recall my grandpa being aghast. I just shrugged and said “He’s picky,” but really and truly, it hurt my feelings.

I don’t know why I chose this particular situation to air my frustrations over almost 9 years of trying to feed a man who won’t eat anything that doesn’t come from a box. But I did. And even as it was happening I thought, I need to shut up. But I didn’t.

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A few hours later I chatted with one of my gym friends after our class. Her three children are grown now, and one is dating a boy she really likes. “I don’t want to get too attached to him,” she said. I nodded in understanding before telling her my mom tried hard not to get attached to my boyfriends after I had a really bad breakup. But then I went on to say that when she met Robbie, she really liked him even though my dad couldn’t STAND HIM for at least the first year.

She laughed and asked me why. Oh … let’s see. Probably because the first time he met my parents was when they popped in at my apartment at 7 a.m. to hang blinds and I was like, “Oh, hi, you were supposed to call first. Mama, Daddy, meet Robbie.” And once it became apparent that he was sticking around for awhile, they took us to dinner and my father asked him “What do you want to do with your life?” And he answered, “I’d like to own a bar.”

But here we are, 9 years and 3 kids later and still married. Robbie and my dad work together now. We do not own a bar. My friend cracked up before saying to me: “Love your husband. Love your kids. You’re doing something right — you just keep doing it. ”

So Robbie, I’ll keep trying to cook for you if you agree to keep trying to eat it. But I draw the line at Pancake Fried Sausage Patties.

My Best Friend Brother.

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If you passed by our house this evening and didn’t stop to stare at us through the kitchen windows, you missed out on quite a show.

It was 6 p.m. The boys were wild, the baby was that teething kind of cranky, and I was exhausted. Robbie arrived home excitedly trying to tell me that he won tickets to the LSU game this weekend, and I wanted to hear all about it, but couldn’t focus — the high-pitched shrieks of our third born were filling my ears. A few minutes later, I left my half-eaten dinner on the table and swept her out of her high chair for a bath.

As I got her dressed for bed, I could hear dishes clinking and voices chattering and I relaxed a little, thinking that in just a little while the kids would be in bed and I could breathe. Robbie came to tell the baby good night and lingered for a few minutes, talking to her.

And that is when the boys had a food fight.

Before we realized what was happening, our kitchen was covered in sticky white grains of rice and ketchup. It took me a full hour to clean it all up while Robbie addressed discipline. I considered briefly making them help me, but the rice coating the floor was turning into a grayish glue that got stickier the more I touched it.

It. Was. A. Mess.

As I wiped ketchup off the baseboards, my rage turned into exhaustion which turned into tears. I easily could have asked Robbie to clean up the kitchen (he had already started sweeping) while I dealt with the boys, but I was so angry I chose to be sequestered in the kitchen where no one could talk to me until I was done. And now my kitchen is spotless; the floor under the table was mopped properly for the first time since we moved here.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend about how hard this phase of life is. Every year is hard, in a different hard way. They say it gets easier and I can see that it does, but “easier” doesn’t necessarily mean “not hard.” It just means “not as insanely difficult as it is right this minute.” But even as angry as I was, picking gluey, dirty rice off of my kitchen floor and pausing to wipe mascara and tears off my face (I put on an even better show than the boys did — be sorry you missed it), I was still grateful. Is this what I’ll miss one day when they are grown up and gone? Because I’m fairly certain I’m going to block it out.

When I hugged my boys and kissed them goodnight before bed, they each apologized for what they had done. Asher smiled his dimply heartbreaker grin and whispered “I sowwy, Mommy.” Maverick looked at me worriedly with his big round eyes, concerned that he’d really done it this time — he’d pushed me too far and I didn’t love him anymore.

“I love you NO MATTER WHAT, Maverick,” I said. “Now … don’t ever do that again.” And I felt his body relax.

These boys that cause me so much grief and leave so much destruction in their wake have my heart in their hands. So maybe what I’ll miss one day won’t be the cleaning up after them so much as the wide-eyed, “I’m sorry I threw ketchup at my best friend brother, Mommy, really, I am,” apologies that follow. Because they call each other best friend brother. And really … who can stay mad at that?!

20140818_173057(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)

Six.

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Suddenly, Maverick is six.

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He rides his bike without training wheels. He stands at the end of the driveway alone and waits for the school bus while I watch through the kitchen window. He insists on wearing boxer briefs.

On his birthday, I offered him a special pin to wear to school. He insisted on putting it on himself and I was silly enough to argue, warning that he might get poked, but he wrested it from my grasp and pinned it directly in the center of his belly. “I’m SIX now,” he said. “I can do things myself.”

He can. And he does. Maverick has always been fiercely independent, and it’s hard to find that line between being available when he needs me and backing off when he doesn’t.

Being a mom is hard.

His room is scattered with Legos and he keeps the door shut at our request, so the baby won’t sneak in there and eat them. A few nights ago I found him sleeping on the floor, surrounded by tiny helicopters and fire trucks he built from his stash, and I tried to pick him up to put him back in bed. But I can’t anymore — he’s too heavy. I stood in the dark realizing, this is it. This is the end of the little years for Maverick, and the beginning of the bigger ones.

I try to embrace all the stages — some have been easier than others — but this boy has a way of making me SO mad, and laugh SO hard, I can’t imagine him belonging to anyone else. As much as I struggle at times to parent him, I know I was specifically chosen to be his mother.

The other morning before I pushed him out the door to meet the bus, I whispered a prayer in his ear. He looked straight at me and said “Thank you for doing that, Mommy. It makes me feel less nervous.”

And then, he was gone.

 

 

The Boutique.

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All of the sudden I’ve realized through a series of events that I am completely out of style, out of touch, and wearing today’s version of the “mom jean.” I can’t even explain to you how much this has thrown me off my game.

I mistakenly assumed that by avoiding the style of high-waisted mom jeans with bad pocket placement that I picture in my head when I hear the phrase “mom jean,” that I was doing all right. That is not correct. I AM ACTUALLY A WALKING POSTER CHILD FOR THE MOM JEAN. I know this because I brought a stack of high-quality, too-large denim to several consignment places in town and no one would buy them from me. They all kindly said, “These labels are very old and out of style.”

“But they’re nice jeans,” I said. “The only reason I’m not keeping them is that they’re too big.”

Crickets.

And then I knew. The pants that were in style 8 years ago? The ones I’ve worked so hard to fit back into? No one wears those anymore … except for out-of-touch moms like me. You see, I used to have a job. I used to buy nice clothes. Then I got pregnant and worked really hard to fit back into all of those nice clothes, which were by that point two years out of style. I then repeated that pattern two more times, and BOOM. I now have a closet full of outdated crap that I want to keep wearing because it is still in decent shape and it cost a lot of money ages ago when I bought it.

I now accept that it’s time to let go.

Yesterday my amazing mother-in-law came over to hang out with the kids so I could go do something fun. I went to this cute little store near my house that I’ve never been in before. I walked in and for the first time in my life I felt overwhelmed in a clothing store. Nothing was familiar — when did fringe become popular?! Is this a dress or a shirt?! The sweet sales girl could see it written all over my face: I needed help. I babbled on about how I am just now, right here in this store, having an identity crisis because I’m suddenly almost 35 years old and a mother of 3 and I have no idea what size I am or what even looks good on me anymore. And when she asked if I’d like for her to help me put together outfits to try on “just for fun,” I said YES! a little too loudly.

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I didn’t buy anything (yet), and I don’t love the outfit pictured above, but I took a picture of it as proof that I finally decided to embrace the skinny jean. They come in every color! I now know what size I wear! I tried on leggings and tunics, long sweaters and maxi dresses, and lots and lots of interesting shirts. I loved it all. Each time I put on an outfit I emerged from the dressing room so the sales people could see, because I truly needed professionals to tell me if I was wearing something the correct way. This was also a first. But I am so grateful that they HELPED ME!

Here’s what I learned: today’s style is really perfect for moms. Everything is layered, easy, and loose, the pants are stretchy just like yoga pants. It’s time to step out of my American Eagle time warp and into real womanhood, where people shop at boutiques. I feel like I’ve been living in a blur of gestation and diapers, but now it’s time to move past that stage and into the next one … fashionably.

 

Stuffin’.

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Joan Rivers died this week, and that makes me sad. I was never sure exactly what I thought of her — she seemed too snarky to be someone I’d enjoy in person, like maybe she was a toxic kind of hilarious — but after watching her on Celebrity Apprentice a few years ago I decided she was awesome. She was 75 years old, smart, energetic, and crazy as hell. In other words, right up my alley.

Laughing saves me, and I know that God gave me funny kids because He knew I’d need the laughs. The past few weeks have been difficult and I don’t know when or if I will write about it here, but I have to at least acknowledge that I’ve been stuck in a bad place. This blog used to be my confessional, where I’d say whatever I wanted to and it didn’t matter because only 27 people read it. But now more people read it, which is awesome and terrifying all at once, and I’m slowly realizing that what I say does matter.

I’m trying to be responsible. Sometimes (read: all the time) that’s a real drag.

This week I cried in an exercise class. It was totally embarrassing, but I just went with it. I used to be a stoic kind of person and now I cry all over town. My friend Donna said she often cries during massages because the “emotions get released.” As a mom, I spend my entire day keeping my emotions in check, so the moment I don’t have to keep them in check for whatever reason, the floodgates open and I can’t shut them back. Basically? Crazy comes to town.

It’s like the time I kept myself in check for several months straight and then my husband made me so mad that I literally threw four loads of laundry all over the house before driving around at 11 p.m. in my p.j.’s sobbing like a lunatic. I kept thinking that I would love to get pulled over just so I could yell at someone else. Then maybe I’d get put in jail, and Robbie Hobbs would have to come pick up his puffy-faced, pajama-clad wife. Bet that would teach him.

I don’t know about you, but women who cry all the time freak me out a little. And hi, it seems I’m one of them now. It’s okay if you need to sneak away. But I’ve come to realize that the reason why a lot of moms are crazy is because they operate under an insane amount of pressure all the time and they can’t ever say or do what they really want to say or do because they have children present. It’s a thing, people.

The point of all this is that after I hit rock bottom of my emotional pit this week and finally started to come back up, I was reminded that life really is short and unpredictable. It is my intent to enjoy each day as much as I can with the people I love the most, because no one knows what tomorrow holds. I will try to love everyone around me right where they are because while I may not be able to change them, I can love the STUFFIN’ OUT OF THEM. Just like how they love the stuffin’ out of me.