Teething On Brick.

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I met a friend at the park this morning and we were talking about being uptight, anxious, OCD … whatever you want to call a person who feels the need to jump out of bed in the morning and immediately make coffee and unload the dishwasher. It has to happen right away, immediately, because it would bring universal dread and destruction if dirty dishes pile up before the clean ones are unloaded. DO NOT QUESTION ME.

All I could think as we talked was, “Thank God I’m not the only one.”

Motherhood must be so much easier for people who don’t get all stressed out when there is unfolded laundry in a basket somewhere in their house. It must be nice to not feel like the world is ending if toothpaste gets on the mirror right after you cleaned it, or the baby crawls through your bathroom and emerges with beard hair all over her hands and knees.

So I’ve been trying to relax, and just go along with how things are right this moment — today — and embrace that shit.

But … have you ever seen a baby teethe on brick? It’s unsettling.

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Teething LIKE A BOSS.

I let it happen because I was making a conscious effort to be relaxed. Now that I think about it, this wasn’t the best time to decide to be cool hippie mom. I should have been normal, uptight mom when I saw her start to do it, but I was so fascinated, I just stood there and stared. Clearly, I need more practice.

Can we all agree that the boys have a good reason to fear their little sister? SHE’S TEETHING ON BRICK. That is seriously hardcore.

Gospel Music.

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A few weeks ago, I went to my parent’s house to pick something up. I didn’t have the kids with me — it was just me and my mom. After I was done loading up the van, I plunked down on the couch to chat for a minute.

She seemed on edge, taking lots of deep breaths, which made me on edge. Finally, she said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” The way she said it made me nervous, like I was in trouble. Had I said bullshit too many times on my blog? I don’t talk like that in person — she should be proud. Was she going to try to talk to me about the kid’s moral character, or how Maverick knows too much about anatomy? My mind was spinning, and I tried to brace myself for whatever was about to happen.

“I need you to just keep an open mind about what I’m going to say,” She said. “This has really been weighing on me for a long time.”

I squirmed in my seat.

She took a deep breath. I waited.

“I really feel like Maverick needs to be involved in Southern Gospel music.”

I made the sound I make when I am trying to be polite and NOT laugh. I did what she asked and I heard her out. She explained her reasoning, how much research she had done on the subject, and where the closest school was for learning such a musical skill (Pass Christian, Mississippi, just so you know).

Later on, I pointed out how weird that was and what a shame it is that I can’t talk about all the things I go through with my parents and my in-laws that are just FUNNY. I don’t want to poke fun at them because they are my elders and they are all wonderful, but wow, have I got some stories.

She suggested that I could still share the stories, but change everyone’s names. You know, like Jane and John and the neighbor lady, Patrice. I explained that is something I just can’t do. It takes too much energy to dream up names for my characters and then pretend I’m not talking about my own mother. I’d give up halfway through and just say the hell with it, I AM JANE AND PATRICE IS MY MOTHER. MY MOTHER WHOSE REAL NAME IS ESTHER SAT ME DOWN TO TELL ME MY 5-YEAR-OLD NEEDS TO BE A GOSPEL SINGER.

(Disclaimer: I would totally support Maverick if he wanted to sing gospel music. I also got my mother’s permission to share this story.)

Do we look like the kind of people who have the time to fabricate elaborate stories? Count how many kids you see in this picture.

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This is us, in our too-small kitchen.

When my Scary Mommy piece was published on Friday, traffic to this blog shot to unprecedented numbers. It blew my mind, actually; the entire experience was out-of-body. It was exciting and humbling, and inspired me to keep going — to write more, to continue to aim high. But I have always felt disappointed when I found a really cool blog and then the writer starts getting more and more traffic and then they start writing more and more sponsored posts (not that I wouldn’t do that — I totally would) and seem like they are censoring what they say out of fear that they will offend someone.

If NOT letting that happen here means I never find my way to the big time, so be it. I am a terrible liar, as illustrated above. If I tried to make my life seem glossy, or my kitchen seem spacious or my parents (who I try not to talk about here) seem boring and normal, it wouldn’t work.

Just like if I said my “friend’s” father-in-law is a kind-hearted ghost hunter, you’d totally know I was talking about my own father-in-law.

365 Days And I’m Still Here.

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Meeting Penelope Rose.

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Brothers meeting sister for the first time.

One year.

I don’t know how I did this without antidepressants. I thought caring for three kids would make me eat them like candy, but here I stand, exactly one year later, and nary a prescription. This surprises me more than anything.

We made it. The first birthday of our last child. I don’t know what I thought this year would be like — it was HARD, so, so hard — but it was also absolutely amazing. Like in the kind of way that makes you feel like you need a very long, kid-free vacation.

I woke up every day and gave all of myself that I had. I thought I knew how much I had to give and I gave that and more that I didn’t realize was there. Where did that extra me come from? All that work was worth every single dinner thrown and bottle spit up and rectal temperature taken and whatever other weird mom thing I had to deal with while two rowdy boys rocketed around as the baby blinked at me with this look:

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All worth it. I’d do it again, but Robbie fires blanks now. I kind of mentioned how I regret that and wish we could have a fourth, and he yelled “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and stormed out of the house. He’s probably right.

Now, all I want to do is cry — from tiredness, from gratitude, and from the amazing feeling of getting over a big mountain no one else can see.

It’s called The First Year With Three Kids, and I made it my bitch.

 

What’s The Worst That Could Happen?

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It happened, I didn’t make it up in my head, it really happened — I have been published on Scary Mommy.

Please read and enjoy, and if you liked it, SHARE IT! COMMENT ON IT! You can find it here!

Also, if you have found me via Scary Mommy, then welcome to the madness. Please follow me so I know I’m not alone and insane! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

He Has No Idea.

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I have lost count of how many times I or one of my friends have said, “My husband has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids.”

Before, when I was working full-time and pregnant, then working full-time and balancing motherhood, and then working full-time while pregnant with a toddler at home, I ranted a lot about how my husband “HAS NO IDEA.” And to be fair, he didn’t.

My husband doesn’t really know what it’s like to do what I do, just like I don’t know what it’s like to do what he does. Our occupations are mysterious and confounding to each other; he doesn’t know where the peanut butter or extra towels are kept, and the baby is always in pajamas when she stays home with Daddy. I’m almost certain it’s because he doesn’t know how to dress her. She’s also always missing a sock when I get home, the air smells like farts and chicken fingers, and the boys are drenched with sweat because they’ve all been wrestling.

I used to get upset with him because he didn’t take care of the kids the way I would have — I mean, if I was home, there would be no fart smell or chicken fingers, and certainly no wrestling. But after I quit my job and starting caring for them 24/7, I was so happy to get a break that I didn’t really care what went on while I was gone. Things have now leveled out so that I am just flat-out grateful to him for providing for us, and he is flat-out grateful to me for everything that I do … even though we both realize he isn’t even sure what all that entails, which is probably the biggest reason why he’s grateful that I’m doing it.

But … he has no idea.

He has no idea how much coffee I drink.

He has no idea what it’s like to run errands with three kids.

He has no idea what it’s like to have to change your tampon in front of an audience.

He has no idea how lonely and overwhelming it can be on really bad days when the kids are being terrible and I need an extra pair of hands.

He has no idea how hard it is to watch your body change three different times and have little control over it.

He has no idea how happy he makes me. He can’t possibly, because I’ve never been able to put it into words.

He has no idea how grateful I am to him for continuing to love me even though with each passing year he has seen more of my imperfections.

He has no idea how thankful I am to be in a front-row seat for our kid’s lives, never missing a day, good or bad, and I’m in that seat because he put me there.

He has no idea how hard it can be to be me, but he also has no idea how amazing it is.

So to my husband, who has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids … thank you. I wager that we don’t say thank you enough to the people who love us the most and yet have put up with the most asinine behavior we’re capable of.

Just Say Thank You.

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Just Say Thank You.

Do you struggle with accepting compliments? How do you respond when your significant other tells you that you’re beautiful, when you feel the exact opposite? IT IS SO HARD TO JUST SAY THANK YOU.

For more on this topic, check out my latest post for Baton Rouge Moms! The link is posted above, or you can just click here!

The Things I Do For Milk.

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The key to effective parenting is emotional energy, of which I have a limited supply. I have to hoard some from my children so I’ll have a little left over for my husband when he gets home, but when I’m out, I’M OUT.

I used to say that parenting was more physically taxing than anything. I did something to my back last week when Asher threw an epic tantrum in the mall Food Court because the carousel ride ended and I told him it was time to get off. He freaked out, requiring me to lift him up and twist to maneuver around the big metal tiger he had been riding on.

I carried him like a stack of firewood all the way back to our table and my friend Jamie tried to help me jam him back into the stroller. She commented that it’s like he is made of rubber; you push him down or pull on his legs and he just snaps right back. I don’t know how long it took to get him strapped in, but I was full-on sweating by the end of it.

A few years ago, I would have been mortified by that kind of scene — his angry screams echoing throughout the entire mall — but now, I feel like I’ve been hardened against embarrassment by an ongoing series of experiences. I don’t really have time to dwell on anything that happens. We get through it, and we move on. I think that is why so many women have trouble recalling what it’s truly like to live with small children. If you don’t take the time to dwell, the memory doesn’t stick. And then we have more children.

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Mothering is obviously physically demanding, but the emotional demands are what really get you. If my emotional energy is off, the kids pick up on it and things get shitty fast. Sometimes, even when I am emotionally capable of dealing … things get shitty fast. This afternoon was the perfect example.

After nap time, I herded my children through eating a snack and changing diapers/going to the bathroom. I told them we had a few errands to run; most important was the grocery store. Ever since I started transitioning Pepper to milk, WE CONSTANTLY RUN OUT. I’m a milk snob and prefer to give the kids organic, which seems to only be available in half gallons. I need a five-gallon jug. Where can I find that?! Someone please tell me.

So anyway, I cranked up the van and Maverick climbed in. The baby pooped her pants. I changed her and put her in her car seat. I went back inside and find that Asher has also pooped. I tell him it’s time to change his diaper. He screams “NO!!!” because he’s two. He also screams that he wants milk. I tell him he may not have milk, and I leave to get a fresh diaper.

When I returned, I found him standing in front of the open refrigerator guzzling what remained of the milk, directly from the carton. He was displeased when I took it away, and even more displeased when I wrestled him down to change his diaper. He was so displeased, and he fought so hard, that poop pellets rolled away and disappeared in between our couch cushions.

This is when I yelled.

I cleaned up the mess. I put him in the van. We drove to the store.

In the parking lot, I got a shopping cart. Not the big kind that I needed, that looks like a police car. Those are kept inside. I had to get a regular one, and I put Asher in the big part of the basket. Maverick got out and I instructed him to stand right next to the cart with his brother. They were right next to me. I turned to unbuckle the baby, and look up to see Maverick give the cart a hard shove. As it rolled into the road with my middle child in it, Maverick yelled “Look Mommy! Asher’s rolling away!” Presumably he was acting out what took place in January when Asher really did roll away. But who can say.

This is why I feel it’s important to try hard not to be judgmental of the mom you see on her phone at the playground, ignoring her children as they play … or the mom who is drinking before 5 pm … or the many, many mothers who let their kids eat whatever they can find and watch back-to-back episodes of whatever is on Nickelodeon. Those mothers have probably run out of emotional energy. They need to recharge. Let them do what they need to do. If your emotional energy level is high enough for you to look on with judgement, then you might consider offering to help.

Because I love my children, I do things like make special trips to the grocery store to get organic effing milk. But because I did that, the cart thing happened, and I ran out of emotional energy. When we got back home I sat in one place for a really long time and stared at my phone while my children did God knows what. I eventually found all three of them in a closet. Don’t know what they were doing. Probably hiding from me, which worked out well, since I was hiding from them too.

Later on, Robbie asked him, “What were you thinking when you pushed Asher into the road?” And he said, “I was thinking that Mommy would believe me when I said the wind blew him out there.

 

Almost One.

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This girl is turning one on Saturday, and I have so many questions. How did a year pass by so quickly? How did we manage to survive it?

I was terrified each time I gave birth. Of dying, of something going wrong, but mostly of surviving the day-to-day of managing the newborn in addition to whatever else was going on in our house. I worried myself sick before I had each of the boys, but by the time Penelope Rose was born I was beginning to learn the art of low expectations.

This year, I have started to fine-tune it.

Somehow all of the sudden my baby won’t sit still; I find her looking longingly at the living room cabinet that her brothers hide in, wishing she could hide in it too. She copies their monster sounds and dragon roars. When they cry, she cries. When they yell, she yells.

When she smiles, we all do.