My Middle Child.

Posted on by

0

I have to work to stay present. If I don’t stay present, I don’t enjoy my children; they simply become another thing for me to deal with.

So this week I’ve noticed that Asher has started that adorable, almost-three-years-old way of talking and I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT. He’ll pipe up from the backseat: “Mommy! Look, birdses!” He says “catses,” “dogses,” and things like “What’s that sound is?” The first time he said “What’s that sound is?” I think I blurted out, “Who your daddy is?” And he said, “Huh? Daddy? Daddy at work.”

Sometimes I miss having other grownups around to get my humor … like when I told him the sound he heard was crickets because nobody was laughing at what I said.

“Cwickets?”

That’s right. Cwickets. They chirp when it’s silent, so … we never hear them.

Sometimes he pats me and asks, “You alright?” if I stub my toe. He wraps his arms around my legs and says “Sowwy, I sowwy Mommy,” when he does something wrong. He says “I wuv you too,” when I put him to bed. It. Is. Adorable.

P1010602

Asher at birth.

P1010825

Asher’s first birthday.

976112_10152812860190508_1320602702_o

One year old.

IMG_20131217_132641

Two years old.

1969414_10154105545370508_3884382027441819836_n

Almost three.

My Asher … he rockets around like he’s been snorting kiddie speed, constantly getting bumped and scraped. He’s my toughest child, rugged with a chipped-toothed, dimpled grin that can win over even the grumpiest cashier at Walmart. I worry about him the most, for very different reasons than the other two. They are all three so special in such unique ways, I know this even though we don’t know exactly how just yet. It’s a knowing that I have, and I just hope I am up to the task of guiding them.

Sometimes it feels like an eternity since he was born, and I guess in a way it has been. So much has happened — we moved, had another child, and moved again. But when I look into his cherub-like face and force myself to be present, I realize it is zipping by faster than I’d like, and before I know it he will be saying “sorry” instead of “sowwy.”

And that kind of breaks my heart a little.

Spin Class.

Posted on by

0

10320569_10154302462505508_4258231051554186228_n

Ouch.

Today, as mentioned in my previous post, I needed a break from my children so I chose to attend a Spin class.

I have been to exactly one Spin class in my life before today and it was a very long time ago. I had forgotten how badly it makes you hurt in all the wrong places for all the wrong reasons. I mean, sure, riding a bike for an hour is tiring and I’m a little sore from that — but the bicycle seat is what really gets you. My sit bones feel bruised. I made the mistake of sitting on the edge of the bath tub tonight while I waited for Asher to finish using the potty and I gasped in pain. Apparently that startled him and he nearly fell into the toilet, which would have made for an interesting story … but … he caught himself.

I find it ironic that the hour I spent getting yelled at by a spin instructor was a welcome break from the remaining 12 that I spent getting yelled or cried at by small children. On the up side, I did not pass out during class, fall off my bike, or collapse when it was all over — mainly because I refused to be shown up by all the much older, much more in shape people present. So I walked slowly and smiled brightly, like NO, I DON’T WANT TO VOMIT, WHY DO YOU ASK?

At one point during class, the instructor was explaining intervals and said, “You should feel slight nausea right now — if you don’t feel slightly nauseous you aren’t pushing hard enough. If you actually throw up then you pushed too hard.” I cracked up, like really guffawed from my spot on the back row, but no one else found this to be funny. Maybe they were trying to keep their cookies in check.

I often find myself laughing loudly when no one else is.

There were a lot of men in the class so I immediately texted Robbie that it’s a shame we can’t do this stuff together. He needs the cardio, and quite frankly, I think it would be fun to kick his ass.

He didn’t respond.

I’m not a perfectionist when it comes to my body, it’s always been a little fat and I’m totally okay with that, but if I am going to keep up with the kids I really do need to be in shape. Also, if I’m not going to earn a paycheck I might as well have an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. This is my logic.

 

It Was Fine! How Was Yours?

Posted on by

1

Sometime later today, Robbie is going to ask “How was your day?” And here is what I’ll want to say.

Asher sneezed repeatedly with a mouthful of eggs at breakfast.

I found the baby quietly playing with a poop pellet she found. She was batting it around on the floor. How did this happen? I DON’T KNOW.

The only part of the play kitchen set that the boys want to play with is the fake knives.

I went to Spin class only because I wanted a break. Yes, that’s right. I looked forward to 60 minutes of physical torture in a dark room.

Maverick continues to refer to “Ninjas” as “Aninjas.” He says “We’re pretending to be aninjas,” or, “I want to watch Teenage Mutant Aninja Turtles.” I don’t correct him. Just like I don’t correct him when he asks me if I’m wearing a “booby cast.” I guess he means a bra. Is this a problem? I really don’t know. I also don’t make him read or write, it’s been a full month since Kindergarten graduation and I haven’t made him think once. I just let him run maniacally around and mispronounce the name of ladies undergarments. I think it builds character.

3daa7-desktopphoto

Meet baby Maverick, circa 2008.

But what will I actually say when he asks me? I’ll say, “It was fine, how was yours?” I will not ask him if he thinks something is wrong with our children, or me. I will not ask if I’m a lazy mother. I don’t really want to know the answer to those questions, and if we have all made it to the end of the day in once piece … then it was a good day.

The Worst Selfie Ever Taken.

Posted on by

3

The #selfie makes me laugh. I totally take them, because who else is around to take a picture of me? I’ll tell you who. Children who can’t be trusted with expensive devices. If I didn’t take #selfies, there would be very few pictures of me with my kids — so I’m glad I take them.

Today I was thinking, “I don’t have any pictures of me snuggling with my boys. I see people post sweet pictures on social media of them snuggling with their kids at nap time. I want that.” All these moms have such sweet shots where they are smiling while the kid sleeps, or maybe the mom is pretend sleeping while the kid sleeps, which is weird, but whatever — no judgement here. They are adorable and I wanted one.

Ignoring the fact that I don’t have any pictures like this because my sons don’t lie still, ever, I wanted to find a way to make it happen. And then, as if he could read my mind, Maverick asked me to lay down and hang out with him for awhile. LAY DOWN?! Really?? I was thrilled. I was going to finally get a cuddly son #selfie to add to my collection.

And you know what happened?

This.

The Worst Nap Time Selfie Ever.

The Worst Nap Time Selfie Ever.

 

This has to be, without a doubt, the absolute worst nap time #selfie ever taken.

Aside from the fact that I look TERRIBLE, my kid is clearly not napping. And quite frankly, if I was lying next to me, I wouldn’t be napping either FOR FEAR THAT THOSE BOOBS AND THAT NECK WOULD SWALLOW ME WHOLE. It was a failure all around: awful, horrible, and hilarious … which I think we all know means it had to be put on the internet as a shining example of what happens when you try to be something that you’re not.

But do you know what I am? I’m effing exhausted, and here are the #selfies to prove it.

20140623_141238

The kitchen sink.

20140623_141017

The play room.

20140623_140922

That’s my Keurig.

20140623_140541

Today was laundry day. Every day is laundry day.

20140623_140405

Stove. Not dangerous.

My friend Heidi saw the one with me face-first on the folded laundry and thought I was getting a “spa treatment.”

Oh … how I wish. But NO.

It cracks me up how natural the face plant #selfies look compared to the God-awful nap time snuggly one. I have to admit, though, it’s nice to know where I stand in the universe. And I’m sure Robbie will be thrilled to see what I spent my entire afternoon doing while he was at work selling financial products.

 

Pinterest-Perfect.

Posted on by

0

If you’re new to my blog, I need to make sure you understand that I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t know anything about anything, so if you’re here because you want to learn how to be a better person … I can’t help you. I write because life is hard and I really don’t have the time or money for therapy. So you’re it. You’re my therapist(s). Congratulations!

This summer is going so well, but I have zero time to myself. Like, none. This irritates me.  I operate best with some time and space to call my own, and if my children would just RECOGNIZE and stop being children I would maybe have the potential to be a Pinterest-perfect mom. Or at least have more time to write about the idea of being one.

FB_IMG_14028703929317636(1)

I assume that the moms who are able to be Pinterest-perfect either have an awful lot of help at their disposal, or their children are not real children. My kids are sweet but I literally feel like I’m running in circles all day long just dealing with what they’ve done or stopping what they are about to do.

Ideally I should stay one step ahead of them, but that’s difficult to do when the baby has tipped the garbage can over and you find her playing in raw egg, just at the precise moment your older two decide to start bloodying each other on the carport outside. All of those parenting articles are supremely unhelpful when Salmonella and blood is happening in separate, simultaneous events. Have you ever read anything that addressed that situation? Neither have I.

Apparently, my children do not want a Pinterest-perfect mother, which is working out well since I’m never going to be one. So in that regard, I suppose we really are going to live happily ever after.

Pirates.

Posted on by

2

My dad got a fishing boat for his birthday in April and the boys have been talking about Grandpa’s “pirate boat” ever since. I don’t know why Asher thinks every boat is used for pirating, but he does. I don’t correct him. It will be a sad day for me when he realizes that his Grandpa is not a pirate.

Because a boat is now in the picture, the males in our family have been discussing the need to get a fishing license. In fact, Robbie went to Walmart on Father’s Day Eve to get one from their Sporting Goods department. When he said he was going to get his fishing license there I commented that I had no clue that was even possible. “Oh yeah,” he said, like I was just a silly, ridiculous girl. “You can get a fishing license there.”

So he went and there was nary an employee in sight, as is typical at our local Walmart. He waited at the Sporting Goods counter for 20 minutes before he finally tracked someone down. They didn’t work in that department, of course, so he waited some more while they hunted down the appropriate personnel. That person said they didn’t have the correct forms, and he would need to go to Customer Service — which is where he went, because he was now 45 minutes invested in this experience.

The Customer Service line was very, very long, per usual. He returned to Sporting Goods and happened to notice a fishing brochure which had a website on it, and while he was waiting for Walmart to get it’s head out of its ass he used his smartphone to get his fishing license while standing in the department that is supposed to sell them.

I found none of this surprising.

The other day I was driving down the road with the kids when Maverick, who had been staring out the window deep in thought, suddenly said, “It seems like Grandpa would know how to fish by now.”

Me: What do you mean?

Maverick: He’s old … it seems like he’d know how to fish.

Me: He DOES know how to fish. And he’s not old. He’s 56.

Maverick: Then why is he always talking about getting a fishing lesson?

Me: What??

Maverick: A fishing lesson. I haven’t ever had a fishing lesson, and even I can catch a fish … I’m only 5 … I just don’t understand.

Me: A license. A fishing LICENSE.

10414559_10154168962515508_3118832820979966641_n

Pirates.

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

Father’s Day 2014.

Posted on by

1

I can’t let Father’s Day get away from me without writing about my dad, the one who taught me valuable life lessons such as, “If you hit right, you’ll only have to hit once.”

When I was a little girl, I followed him everywhere he went — his blonde-haired, pig-tailed shadow, climbing over car ramps and hopping over mud puddles trying to keep up. I watched him gut fish, fix things, dig holes and fill them up with Quik-Rete that he’d mixed up in a wheelbarrow. He’s a do-it-yourself-er, the kind of man who does things like read a manual on how to rebuild a car engine — and then rebuilds one — because he didn’t want to pay someone else to do it.

At night I would study his beaten-up hands and ask, did they hurt? He always said the same thing: “Nah!” in his Alabama drawl. I believed everything he said, marveling at how he could accidentally stick a screwdriver through his hand and seem unaffected. It took years for me to realize my Daddy was human, and once I did, I loved him even more.

I know Father’s Day is a difficult day for people who are missing their fathers, or never had one worthy of missing. I don’t take mine for granted. He made sure I grew up knowing that I’m a funny, capable, and valuable person. Sure, he said I was pretty too, but through his example and his parenting I grew up knowing that looks are not what makes a person important.

He always said he was proud to be my Daddy. Well, I’m proud to have a Daddy like him.

10173791_10154061691335508_3659123391816851332_n

 

“You Make Me Have A Good Life.”

Posted on by

0

This morning, before Robbie left for work, he hugged me. I leaned against him, exhausted even though the day was just starting, and told him that I wish he was home more.

I try to avoid complaining about his work schedule or making snide comments about how he’s never around, because it only makes a difficult situation even worse. If I allow myself to go down that rabbit hole it never leads to anything but self-pity and resentment, and that doesn’t help anyone. He doesn’t want to work 60-70 hours a week. He is just doing what he needs to do right now for our family, and so am I. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not fucking hard. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to scream, “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE ALONE WITH THESE CHILDREN!” every morning over coffee.

I feel tired and inadequate and unprepared. I run out of ideas for meals and discipline and I lose my temper. I am so tired that I’m sure that I’m not being the kind of mother that my children need and deserve.

Being on a tight budget means that there isn’t money for a sitter or even for bread sometimes. We just keep pressing on.

Sometimes I wish I had gone to school for something high-paying instead of Mass Communication. Sometimes I wish Robbie was a trust fund baby. But I didn’t and he’s not, and we met when we were both working at a grocery store. Trust fund babies don’t work at grocery stores. Neither of us had grand visions for the future … we just married for the love that struck when we were least expecting it.

Some people say that marriage is luck. I’m not sure what brought us together, exactly, but this morning I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to be a mom. Some days, like this day, everything is a struggle. Some days I need help.

I spent the rest of my morning fighting off feeling like I was drowning under waves of snotty children. I counted down the hours until bedtime and told myself over and over again that I could get through not only today, but the next day and the next. And then it was nap time.

Blessed nap time.

I put the younger two down and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — I needed a shower. I headed into my oldest child’s room and tucked him into his bed with the Kindle. He mumbled something I only caught the end of, so I asked him to repeat it.

He looked at me very seriously and said, “You make me have a good life.”

Grocery shopping.

My eyes filled with tears. “YOU make ME have a good life,” I said. Because he does.

My husband and my children are the very breath I breathe. I don’t just exist; because of them, I LIVE. My days are long and lonely, but that moment reminded me that the energy I pour into my family isn’t wasted or unnoticed. It’s making them have a good life.

So maybe this day isn’t so hard after all.