The One About Death and Wedding Dresses.

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An injured bird has been flapping around our yard for two days. We would have captured it yesterday (when Robbie was home) and get it to someone who could help it, but it disappeared, so we continued about our business. Today the boys found the bird and were trying to catch it when I realized what was happening and explained the bird was hurt and they were scaring away what life it had left.

LET’S HELP IT! They yelled.

HOW CAN WE HELP IT! They shouted.

Like I’ve said before, handling normal life circumstances is a whole different experience when you have small children talking loudly at you while you try to think. I spent about an hour trying to figure out the best course of action, during which I forced myself to carefully pick up the bird and put it in a pot … which I then proceeded to carry around with me.

I called Robbie because that’s what I do now. I used to be the kind of woman who handled stuff on her own and then called him after the fact to tell him how it went. But now I’m the woman who can’t make sound decisions because children are jumping up and down yelling things like, HEY, BIRDIE! YOU’RE GOING TO LIVE! RIGHT? RIGHT BIRDIE? DON’T DIE! and asking questions about life and death.

Chirp, chirp.

In the end, I fell back on what I was raised to do and told the boys we were going to pray for the bird.

Maverick reverently whispered a beautiful prayer before we went inside for lunch. I explained over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that if we took it to a vet, they would probably just put the bird to sleep. Maverick nodded like he understood. A little while later, he disappeared to his room. When he came back, he said “I was just in my room putting all my birds to sleep. Shhhh … they’re all tucked in.” Which is when I realized that I never properly explained what put to sleep actually meant.

There’s probably a “right” way to do things, which is not ever the way I end up doing them. The “right” thing would be to transport the bird to someone who could help it. But I have three little kids, and the logistics just weren’t in my favor. I fear by writing this honest account of our day, I’m bringing judgement upon our home. I’m sure there are people who would have woken up the sleeping baby, loaded all three hungry kids into the car with the bird, driven to LSU, somehow finagled their way into the Vet School and delivered the bird. I hope when the kids are older, I can be that mom. Today, I’m not. Today I did what I could, which was not very much, may that sweet bird rest in peace.

Sometimes I snap out of my fog and realize that there are adults who somehow manage to do things the right way. They send birth announcements, follow etiquette, bring food when appropriate, say and do the right things, visit the dentist regularly … and then there is me. I often feel lonely in my corner of irresponsibility, wedged somewhere between moms who smoke meth in their bathrooms, and moms who have their manicurist on speed dial. I’m here in the middle with the other cracked-heel-skinned women who don’t have a primary care physician, I suppose.

This weekend I went to my parent’s house to help organize a few things, and my mom pulled a white garbage bag out of a cardboard box full of random items. “What’s that?” I asked. And then I saw the three items of clothing inside: a white eyelet shirt, a floral skirt with the same eyelet running through it, and some kind of gown. It’s her wedding dress. She cut it up after they married and made clothes out of it because she’s that kind of practical. And I thought, okay, so this is clearly where I get it from. After my wedding I had my gown preserved in an attempt to be a real grown up. My preserved gown is now safe in its box.

In a black garbage bag.

In a closet.

It just makes me laugh that both my mother and I had our dresses (or what’s left of them) in a garbage bag,  in a closet. Robbie tells me I can’t ever think my mother is ridiculous because I’m very much like her. And you know, I don’t mind. I think she’s pretty great.

Tonight I walked into the bathroom to find Maverick gnawing the heads and hands off of action figures. “I’m playing a game where they’re supposed to be hurt,” he said, as I gathered tiny hands and heads and threw them into the garbage can.

“Oh, and Mommy? The cowboy lost his hands and then he went down that tube in the back of the toilet tank.”

May he rest in peace.

Mother Knows Best … Eventually.

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There are many, many things I’m terrible at. Basic math, for example. Folding sheets and towels properly. Any game where I must hit a tiny ball over a net.

Sticking to budgets. Giving the silent treatment. Running. Swimming. Packing light. I could go on and on listing things I either have to really work hard at, or flat-out avoid because I’m just THAT BAD at. It’s quite a lengthy list.

Read the rest of my latest post for Baton Rouge Moms here!

Waiting For Christmas.

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DUDE.

I need school to start, like, yesterday.

The summer was pretty manageable at first, with a music camp and a few Vacation Bible Schools, going to the beach and such. But now we’re in this miserable stretch where I think I’m seriously about to lose. my. mind. This morning I went to the calendar and actually counted the days until school begins. 17 days.

Robbie’s last day in the car business is in 6 days, and at that point my husband will be home approximately 25 more hours per week. I calculated the hours myself, just now. That’s a whole lot of meals, baths, teeth-brushing and play time that he’s been missing out on (and I have been doing alone). Both of those dates seem impossibly far away; like waiting for Christmas does when you’re little. This is my grown-up version of Christmas. There will be Peace on Earth and in the bathroom.

Now that all of the math is out of the way, let me tell you what’s been going on over here.

Pepper is into everything

Allow me to clarify: she dumps out every container she can find with items in it, pulls laundry out of baskets, stuff out of cabinets, locates markers and tries to eat them, pulls stuff on top of herself, gets stuck in between things, tries to climb into bath tubs and toilets, and randomly escapes the house if a door is left slightly ajar.

Maverick has been raising hell.

I don’t know how else to put it, and I don’t love putting it that way because, is that really a nice thing to say about my own kid? No, but it is what it is and I love him anyway. We’ve had a really rough patch that I feel like I can’t even talk about because I just want to forget it, honestly. Because of that patch, though, Robbie and I made some discoveries that have been really helpful. I’ll share them with you in another post dedicated to the emotionally exhausted parents of strong-willed children.

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Asher has been a normal two-year-old.

We took the paci away and six days later gave it back hoping he would go back to normal, but no such luck. He still won’t nap. He’s still waking up every night. In one fell swoop, I screwed myself out of having a small amount of peace in the middle of the day, otherwise known as nap time, AND a full night’s sleep. If I lock him in his room, he screams and wakes up napping Pepper. If I let him out, he finds Maverick and they fight, also waking up napping Pepper. Either way you slice it, someone’s going to be crying and sometimes it’s me. I was really angry over the whole situation for a day or two, but that has subsided into tired acceptance. Because really, what can be done? I have small children. It will eventually be okay. Like in about 17 days.

Today, Maverick screamed like the Tazmanian Devil and woke up the baby. I send the boys outside with smoothies and ask them to be careful not to spill them everywhere, it will attract ants. I go to Pepper’s room and find this.

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Awwww. I had to take a picture.

Meanwhile, the boys are shampooing their hair with the smoothies on the carport. Yes. Rubbing strawberry-banana-peach goodness into their hair with both hands as it ran down their bodies onto the ground. Pepper screamed from her high chair the entire time I hosed them down and rinsed off the concrete, and the elderly man who lives across the street stood by his mailbox and stared. He stopped from getting his mail, turned around, and watched in silence.

My nerves are shot from constantly dealing with things kids do when they’re little. I probably won’t remember any of it six months from now, which is for the best. But at the beginning of this summer I said I just want to make it to the end without having to make a trip to the E.R. or eating handfuls of crack and miraculously, it looks like we’re going to accomplish those goals.

WINNING.

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Locked Out.

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Yesterday afternoon, I was home with Asher and the baby. All was well; they played happily while I spaced out.

I said, “Hey Asher, let’s go check the mail!” And we walked out the back door, leaving Pepper to play alone for a few moments while we went to the mailbox.

I shut the door behind us and realized too late Asher had turned the lock on the doorknob before I shut it, locking us outside and the baby inside. I know you’re probably all wondering why I don’t just keep a phone tied to my hand, or at the very least, AN EXTRA KEY OUTSIDE OF MY HOUSE. I have wondered these exact things myself, friends. But as I stated earlier this week, I can’t even think straight to ask for help or answer the question “What can I do to help you?” So no, there was no extra key. I’m lucky I had proper clothes on.

Yet again, we walked next door to the sweet neighbor’s house, where Mrs. Jo let me use her phone and phone book to call for help. But this time, she kindly said “You know … I’d be happy to keep a copy of your house key here.”

And I said, “Yes … I think you should.”

Thankfully, my mother-in-law was home and answered the phone, drove right over and let us sit in her air-conditioned car as we kept a watchful eye through the window to make sure Pepper stayed safe while we waited for Robbie to arrive with his house key. She also proactively made copies of our house keys to prevent this absurdity from happening again. What would I do without these capable people in my life?! I really don’t know. This morning I lost and found my wallet twice in the span of 10 minutes, then lost it again in line at the coffee place.

I need school to start.

Now.

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Effing Hard Work.

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This week I hit my rock bottom of parenting. It doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, it’s ugly.

Thank goodness for my village, is all I can say. Sometimes I can’t even put into words how much it helps just to have grandparents close by who can pick the kids up and take them for a few hours, or have Maverick come spend the night.

Sometimes I forget to ask for help because I’m too busy focusing on what is right in front of me: a screaming baby, figuring out what’s for dinner, determining who hit whom first … and before I know it, I’m drowning. Robbie will come home and say, “How can I help?” And I just look at him blankly because the work for the day is already done, and asking that question just means I have to think of a response. I have to say something. I have to answer another question.

Sometimes I can’t answer, and sometimes I can’t ask. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to keep it together amid two toddlers and an extremely challenging 5-year-old. Sometimes I spend my whole day exerting the energy it takes not to yell, to handle things I don’t feel up to handling, to remain calm in the face of defiance. The physical part of my job, I can handle. The emotional part is what takes a toll.

The old me wouldn’t have understood that. The pre-child Harmony was an exceptional communicator who was in tune with her feelings and needs, and would never have believed that one day she would find herself unable to ask or answer. I would have thought, How is that possible? You open your mouth, and you voice your thoughts.

And yet, here I am. I’m so tired. I’m tired of answering questions and I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of thinking and I’m tired of making major life decisions. I’m tired of trouble shooting problems. I’m tired of trying to creatively handle issues. I have nothing left today and maybe even tomorrow, because I. Am. Tired.

This week, I clipped Asher’s paci because we felt like it was time to break him of that habit and all of the books and people around us said so, too. Robbie took him on a special trip to the store today for a new bedtime toy, a Ninja Turtle Dream Lite. He was so excited, and we were optimistic. Perhaps this would be the magical solution, a replacement for the paci that he clearly missed so much.

Asher with his new toy.

Asher with his new toy.

But tonight, six hellish bedtimes and super-early morning wakings later, Robbie was home to witness the insanity for the first time. The Dream Lite did not do the trick. Asher screamed and cried almost just like he did when we had to teach him how to sleep in a big boy bed. Nothing is ever easy with this kid. He doesn’t do change well.

“We can’t do this,” said Robbie (I’m paraphrasing). I wanted to yell, “I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS! YOU JUST HAVEN’T BEEN HERE TO SEE IT!” But instead I said, “Well, what do you think we should we do?”

He went to the store for more pacifiers.

While he was gone, I thought about all the people who told me it was time to nix the paci, and how none of those people were the ones who actually had to deal with the reality of it. Even my own husband couldn’t make it more than one night, and so I decided, once again, that mothering is Effing Hard Work.

I think we can all agree that no one can pass judgement on another person when it comes to Effing Hard Work. When I see city workers out there rummaging in man holes, running wires or digging in concrete, I acknowledge that is Effing Hard Work. I wouldn’t want to do it, and I wouldn’t try to tell them how to do it. I just appreciate that they are there, digging and running wires and making sure the traffic lights are working. No judgement. I applaud.

I write this for the mothers who are in difficult situations — and there are many shades of difficult. Being a parent is hard enough, and parenting a challenging or unique kind of child is … well … it’s impossible, really. I don’t know how we do it, we just do, because mothers are amazing creatures who should be exalted. And if you know a mother who is parenting alone for whatever reason, she deserves double exaltation.

And for the people who love those mothers, but don’t know how to help them, know this: it doesn’t matter what you do, just DO SOMETHING. Any word or act of kindness is an incredible gift. My friends and family are a constant source of support, mostly via text or email as I am locked in the purgatory of my kitchen. They help by listening and by encouraging. When I say things like, “I just want to be the mother Maverick needs,” Amy says “YOU ALREADY ARE.” When I tell my mom “This is so hard,” she says, “Don’t give up.”

Mothers need hugs and encouragement. We are all just digging and running wires, really, and if you have a challenging child like Maverick then you basically feel like you’re doing it all with a blindfold on.

I may hug the next mama I see, and thank her for sacrificing her sanity and her uterus, her vanity and her self-respect, in the hopes that one day her child(ren) will make this world better.

That’s a lot.

That’s Effing Hard Work, actually.

I had an eye exam this week. Occupation? B.A.B.

I had an eye exam this week. Occupation? B.A.B.

At Dinner.

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Maverick: “Am I handsome?”

Me and Robbie: “Of course you are!”

Maverick: “Oh good … then I can marry Pepper.”

Robbie: “No.”

Me: “You won’t want to marry your sister, buddy.”

Maverick: “Too bad we don’t live in another country. Then I could marry my sister. Like if we lived in San Francisco or something.”

Me and Robbie: “Um, no.”

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Gravity.

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Do you ever feel so emotionally raw from dealing with the people in your house that you feel unable to cope with “real life?” I am so there.

I can’t watch the news. I don’t want to hear about children dying in cars, I don’t want to think about the President or what’s happening at the border. Anything that requires extra thought or emotional energy, I don’t want to know it. And if it’s too late, I want to un-know it.

The other night I was completely shredded mentally and emotionally from dealing with Maverick. He’s a difficult, smart, hilarious, handful of almost-six years. When Maverick is awake, you know it. When Maverick is upset or bored or happy, you know it. He shouts every emotion and thought from the rooftops. EVERYTHING IS LOUD. EVERYTHING IS HARD. This type of child is really, truly exhausting to parent. If you don’t have a kid like this, you might think you understand.

Nope. You don’t.

I could write pages and pages about this topic alone — raising a so-called “spirited” child — but I can’t right now because raising my spirited child is sucking the life out of me. And also, would it be fair to him for me to tell the world about our struggles? No. Not yet, not until later on, when I have gotten out of the thick of things and I can see better. Right now I don’t have perspective, I just know it’s ass-hard, and people who have never met us would unfairly assume that he’s a sociopathic brat and/or I’m a horrible mother.

Anyway, I’d had a rough day. Robbie got home and turned on a movie called “Gravity.” Have you seen it? It’s about astronauts being lost in space and I could not handle it. I want to un-know that debris can hit a space station and kill astronauts, and that a person can just bob away in space, gone forever. I’d never thought about that happening. I’d like to never think of it again, but oops, it’s too late.

I now know something I want to un-know.

Robbie said something like, “You’re so much more sensitive to stuff than you used to be,” as I sobbed because Sandra Bullock was flying through the air, grabbing at things, failing to get a hold of the space shuttle. I just knew she was a goner.

YES, I AM. I am more sensitive. I am more exhausted. I am an emotionally-raw person who shouldn’t be allowed to interact with others or have access to the internet. So many moms in this same season of life talk about how becoming a mom has made them feel lobotomized, like they can no longer carry on normal conversation or even act like a normal human being.

It’s because we’re just way more of everything. Whatever I was before has been amplified, good and bad. I’m way more of a mess, and I pour way more of myself into raising my kids to be good people than I even realized I had to begin with.

So. While I may not have the answers to anything I’ve lamented above, hear this: I’m never, ever going into outer space.

Ever.

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Thank you, but no thank you.