Technology, Schmechnology.

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I’m one of those people who can’t do math, like, at all. I also do not understand satellites or radio waves. I have just now, after several years of owning a smart phone, begun to understand how to use it for real. As in, how to download an app without help.

I’m seriously challenged when it comes to all things technology. This includes all of our TV sets which I always seem to mash the wrong button on, resulting in a phone call to Robbie where I yell “HOW DO I MAKE THE STUPID TV WORK?!” Because if it’s technological and I can’t seem to operate it, it’s always his fault. I yell and he answers and then I hang up. No goodbye, no thank you for helping. I just. hang. up.

So, a few weeks ago my friend Laure totally revamped my blog.  As you can see, she did an A-M-A-Z-I-N-G job. Every time I look at it, I get a little giddy.

If you have been with me for awhile, I’m sure you recall the weird grandma’s-wallpaper thing I had going on over at Blogger for (ahem) 4 years. If you don’t remember, allow me to jog your memory:

modern mommy madness

Laure kindly suggested once or twice that a redesign might be fun, but I’m sort of always overwhelmed with my life and I had to table that idea until I felt ready to deal with the realities of moving four year’s worth of my writing, photos, and links from Blogger to WordPress. There was also an issue with my domain name, which I can’t say I completely understand, mostly because I am disorganized and never have a complete handle on anything that is going on in my life. I just keep moving forward with the assumption that it will all work out. The signs say CARRY ON and that is what I do. I IGNORE AND CARRY ON.

Anyway, one day I was trying to add a widget to my Blogger blog and it wouldn’t let me and I just … snapped. THIS, I decided, THIS was the day I was moving over to WordPress. So, I did what made sense and Googled, “How do I move my blog from Blogger to WordPress?” Pretty quickly, I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Robbie was no help — he’s a gadget guy but he doesn’t know the first thing about what I was trying to do. So I texted Laure. Once she figured out what was going down, she probably gasped aloud and said “OH NO! SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL SHE’S DOING!” But who can say for sure, she lives in Thibodeaux and I live in Baton Rouge.

What I do know is that she immediately offered to help me, and she somehow saved my domain name from being sucked into the black hole of the internet. She took stock of everything she knew about me and created an awesome design that makes me happy just to look at it. I can’t praise her enough; she is amazing. So if you’re like me and need help with your website and don’t know what the hell you’re doing — even after you’ve seen a ton of YouTube videos on how to do this or that — get help.

If I were you, I’d get Laure. You can find her here.

She also has a fun blog about finding local, fresh food and every time I read it I feel both embarrassed about the Totino’s pizzas in my freezer, and inspired to get my butt in gear and make it to the produce stand more often. Baby steps. A girl can only handle so much in a day.

Victory.

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This is the first week of the first summer that I will spend with all three of my children home with me, all day, every day.

I am 34 years old.

All day long, I count the hours until the next hurdle is reached, and at night, when I’m reflecting, I think about years. Next summer I will be 35. Thinking about this is what made me decide to start weight training and getting serious about eye cream. I’m almost halfway to 70, and shit’s getting real.

Last summer I had a baby, and because I know my limits, we shipped our oldest off to day camp. It was a sound decision, worth every penny of the $1,000 that I had to scrounge up for it. One thousand dollars is a lot of money to us. Sometimes I feel like people assume that if someone is staying home with the kids, it’s because you have so much money that you simply don’t know what to do with it all. In such a case, according to those who are assuming, OBVIOUSLY the thing to do is to quit your job and space out in pajamas while infants and toddlers teethe on your fancy wares.

I do not fall into this category.

I’m home with the kids because I know in my gut it is what I am to do. I’ve tried to go against my gut before, and it never goes well. I feel like I needed to mention that, maybe more for my sake than for yours, because this week I have found myself asking myself WHAT I AM DOING trying to take care of all these children. Where did they come from!? How did this happen?! These are the questions I ask myself when I am standing in my kitchen surrounded by wailing, tiny people who throw things when they are angry.

I don’t have the time or the energy to fabricate lies. I’m going to tell it to you straight. If I make it through this summer without doing something absolutely bat shit crazy, it will be a miracle.

Things that qualify as “bat shit crazy:”

  • Leaving my home in a state of undress, noticing, and not caring.
  • Seeing my kid(s) drink my coffee, noticing, and not caring.
  • Breaking any number of laws, noticing, and not caring.

Yesterday, it became apparent that they boys were going to tear apart the house — no, I’m totally serious. Tear. It. Up. — if I didn’t do something to snap them out of it. A walk, I thought. A family walk will calm them down. To clarify, “family” walk consists of me and three kids, because it was Wednesday and Robbie was at work. So after dinner, out we went.

We got three streets over and Asher tripped and fell, skinning up both knees and his hands. Two minutes later, Maverick tripped and fell, bloodying one knee so badly that it was running down his leg into his rain boot. Both boys were limping and bleeding and crying, and the baby started crying too, just because. I hyper-focused on getting us home, but little did I know that getting there was the easy part. The hard part was trying to triage two bleeding boys, plus a teething, cranky, crawling baby. The bathroom looked like a crime scene when I was done, bloody hand prints on the wall included.

Today brought a whole new set of totally weird and unprecedented experiences that I didn’t have time to dwell on until now. For example, the baby ate a ball of dirt at the indoor playground. I’m not sure if Maverick drank any water. I had pie for dinner.

I was supposed to be saving it for Robbie, but I ate it because I HAD TO. But you know, as long as I’m not eating a handful of crack because I HAD TO, I consider the day to be a success.

See how we all have our arms raised up in victory in the family portrait below? That’s because we just made it through another day where none of us ate a handful of crack.

Our family, drawn by Maverick, age 5

Our family, drawn by Maverick, age 5

We look like we did … but trust me, we didn’t.

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y.

Mom Suit Monday.

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Yesterday I tried on my new bathing suit so Robbie could see it.

He studied me for what seemed like forever before he said, and I quote, “Hmmm.”

I then explained why THAT is why women get frustrated with men. If I walk out in a bathing suit, whether I look God-awful or not-too-awful, you absolutely cannot say “Hmmm.” You must find one thing that you like about what you see, and say that thing out loud. For example, “I like your shoulders in that bathing suit. You look nice.”

ONLY THEN MAY YOU SAY “Hmmm.”

He said the reason why he didn’t say anything is because he wasn’t thinking anything. How can this be?! I will never understand. Just like he will never understand how I think about five different things all at the same time. It must be nice to look at someone wearing a dresskini and think absolutely nothing. How can someone not think anything when faced with that?! IT’S CALLED A DRESSKINI, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

I submit that he is lying.

He wanted to know why I can’t just wear a bikini. My facial expression must have led him to follow up with, “You could always get one of those see-through cover up thingies.” And you know, he might be onto something. Is it better to wear a total mom suit, or just rock it in a bikini with some sort of cover up? It’s not like I’m going to look like a fitness model either way, and trying to use the bathroom with a one-piece on really sucks.

As I stood there in gripped in spandex ruffles, I told him I’m trying to be practical. As far as wrangling kids in the pool, I don’t think a bikini’s going to work. Someone, somewhere, would see something they would never be able to un-see. But if he takes me on a vacation … or sends me to a magical spa where a thousand tiny hands can beat the cellulite off me … or to a surgeon to make miracles happen … I will consider it.

Until then, a mom suit it is. And possibly a wide-brimmed hat.

Image

Welcome To Hell.

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Today I kinda snapped in the swimsuit section of Kohl’s.

Consider this my public apology to the kind lady who happened to walk up at the exact time of my snappage. I just made that word up, I think. I’ll add that to my Dictionary of Words I Say That Aren’t Really Words, right next to my other fave, “yellisper.”

Anyway, all I remember about the lady is that she had on a family reunion t-shirt and she looked a little surprised when I looked at her and yelled, “WELCOME TO HELL!” but she didn’t seem to judge me.

I tried to reign it in. I silently shopped in several other stores before I got to this one, the frustration building with each problem I encountered. The tankini top was perfect but the bottoms were made for someone with a tiny rear end. The mix-and-match section didn’t have anything in my size. Bikinis are out of the question. One-pieces are frumpy. Swim skirts just drew attention to what I was trying to cover up, and rather than look like I was smuggling potatoes to the beach I WILL JUST OWN MY THIGHS, THANK YOU.

By the time I yelled “WELCOME TO HELL!” I was so angry that I wanted to throw every ill-fitting shred of spandex/poly blend on the floor and stomp. Hard. And I really think I would have, except that I also wanted to hide in the car and cry.

There are a million blog posts and articles out there talking about bathing suit shopping, and they can all be condensed into one sentence.

Shopping for a bathing suit blows.

It would really make me happy if every article titled “Find Your Perfect Suit!” ended with something like, “Here are some tips to guide you, but overall, it’s going to blow. Godspeed.”

I came home and ate a healthy salad followed by Oreos, and thought about the torture women go through that straight men will never understand. Robbie does not realize that I spent the majority of my day self-loathing under florescent lights because I needed something to wear when I take the kids to the pool. He probably thinks I should wear one of the bathing suits I already have, and if he said that to me I would irrationally scream at him that I WOULD LOVE TO WEAR ONE OF THE CUTE ONES IN MY CLOSET BUT THREE DAMN PREGNANCIES MADE THAT IMPOSSIBLE, ROBBIE. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE NOW, SO LET’S JUST BURN THEM.

Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone. I’m ready to get my tan on, in my very sensible one-piece with a ruffle around the bottom.

 

Behold ... it is hell.

Behold … it is hell.

 

Graduation Day 2014.

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I’m having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around how my kid went from this roly-poly wad,

To this handsome boy, the youngest in his class, graduating from Kindergarten with an award in Reading Excellence.

He wants to be a geologist when he grows up. I told him he can be whatever he wants to be. He’s Maverick. He’s a doer. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something’s going to happen. That’s just how it is.

It’s weird how intimately you know your child, without them realizing you know them at all. I see qualities in him that he isn’t even aware of yet. I’m so proud of him, and so proud of me, because for a very long time I struggled and felt like I was failing because he was just … well, he was just awful. But now I think the awfulness is behind us because he understands that he doesn’t run our house.

It took a very long time for him to come to this understanding.

Maverick does not cower under authority figures, older kids, or bigger kids. Robbie and I took our three to the park a few months ago and we saw some of our friends there. One of the little girls climbed up a pole and was sitting on a bar. A mean little boy started yanking on her leg, trying to pull her down. Robbie and I noticed this because we heard Maverick’s voice, calm and clear cutting across the playground:”What are you doing? Leave her alone.”  

But the mean kid didn’t leave her alone, and Maverick didn’t back down. The kid pushed Maverick, but he stood his ground. He asked the boy to leave his friend alone, and the boy pushed him again and again, harder and harder. Maverick just popped right back, undeterred. Robbie and I discussed if we should get involved, but we decided no. We waited.

That was hard.

The mean kid ended up punching Maverick and it erupted into a fight, so we intervened at that point. I don’t want my son getting into playground fights on the regular, but I was proud of him for standing up for his friend. I was proud of him for not being afraid. I may have trouble knowing how to deal with some of his qualities, but I love his boldness — even when it manifests in questioning me. I love that he doesn’t just accept an answer. He pushes for more information, more explanation, more examples. 

So to my son I’ll say today, and again when he graduates from high school and then hopefully college: never stop pushing for more. There is an endless amount of knowledge, love, and fun to be had. 

I want you to have it all.



NEWS!

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I have exciting news! 

I’ll be published on Scary Mommy June 6th! SOMETHING I WROTE IS GOING TO BE POSTED THERE.

Now, if you have never heard of Scary Mommy I suggest you check it out. Go ahead, I’ll wait. 

Chances are, you have seen the books or the author without making the connection. Jill Smokler is incredibly down-to-earth for someone who has been on the Today Show multiple times along with a slew of other things that make my heart race. Like when I start thinking about who this person is that I actually had e-mail conversations with, I start to freak out like I-can’t-breathe-because-I’m-so-excited.

I may have told her she had fantastic hair. 

I have a lot of trouble reining it in. Lucky for her, all of our conversations have taken place via email.

Anyway, I’m incredibly proud of this accomplishment and I hope this is the beginning of something amazing. When it goes up, I’ll post a link here and I fully expect each and every one of you to comment, share, do something to show your support because THIS IS A BIG DEAL FOR ME, Y’ALL. 

I appreciate each person who takes the time to read my work. A whole new world is slowly opening up for me, and I’m excited to see what happens. My kids won’t always need me to hand them a tissue or make them a sandwich. I have to have something else to do, because I’m certainly not going to bake bread.

How To Be Better.

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You know those women who need to be needed, the ones who seem to be at their best when taking care of others? 

Yeah … that’s not me.

There are parts of who I am that do not fit with motherhood at all. I hate messes and filth and body fluids and whining. I don’t like interruptions or chaos or lack of personal space. I’m not a caretaker type person. I am scheduled and ordered. I have a temper. I’m maybe too businesslike when I should be more … motherly.

I’m maybe too harsh. But the world will be harsher.

Over time, those sharp edges have smoothed out and refined — but only because I allowed it to happen by first having a breakdown. It took a few stretches on anti-anxiety meds to straighten me out, but eventually I learned to stop fighting against the tide and roll with it instead.

When I threw up my hands and gave in, motherhood finally had the freedom to shape me. So while I continue to struggle with how best to maneuver through raising three small children, I am so, so grateful to them for teaching me how to be better.

How to better handle messes.

How to better handle mischief.

How to have patience when a boy must build an army men fortress before he can go to bed. It takes forever … just so you know.

How to better care for injuries.

How to enjoy fussy, slobbery, teething babies who won’t let me out of their sight.

Thank you, my three children, for being patient with me as I learn how to lead by example. And thank you to my husband who trusts me to be able figure it out — whatever “it” happens to be — while he is at work.

My role in life isn’t a burden, it’s a blessing. I forget that sometimes, but today I remembered, and I hope that you do too.


 

Mother’s Day.

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I started this blog in 2010 when Maverick was a toddler. I was so overwhelmed with the stress of balancing motherhood and my career that I felt like if I didn’t write about it, I would straight up lose my mind. Since then, I’ve used my writing to channel emotional energy to keep me from doing irrational and terrible things. If you are a long-time reader, then you know the interesting experiences my children have put me through, and if you just found me … then welcome.

Until I became a mother, my writing material was lacking. Now I have so much to say I can’t keep up with it, mostly because every time I start to write someone gets an earthworm in their boot or puts something up their nose that does not belong. I have always hated being interrupted. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves, and yet, I have three children.

That is just the beginning of the black hole of juxtapositions in my life.

So much of my day gets caught up in this whirlwind of other people and what they need. I have written, and will write, countless entries about giving myself daily to creatures who often do not thank me, and how hard it can be to remain constant despite the tantrums, the poop, and the food on the floor. But there are so many moments that make what I do make sense.

The other night Maverick and I had this conversation:

Maverick: “What’s the prettiest thing in the world you’ve ever seen?”

Me: “Hmmm … I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that. 
What’s the prettiest thing you have ever seen?”

Maverick: “You.”

Later on, he presented me with this. I said I wanted to keep it forever, so he promptly erased it.

Before I put him to bed, he looked at me and said, “Thank you for being my mommy.” 

In that moment I had a flash of every good and bad thing the past almost-six years have brought. Every emotional meltdown and temper tantrum and mistake and triumph, every time I wondered what was wrong with my kid or what was wrong with me. I am flawed and sometimes kind of a disaster, but I’m a damn good mother.

I hugged him and whispered, “It is a PRIVILEGE to be your mother.” And it is.