Tag Archives: motherhood

When Christians Curse.

Posted on by

13

What happens when a person (me) who calls herself a Christian (I am) uses inappropriate language in print?

1. Upon seeing herself in an actual book, she screams “HOLY SHIT!”

2. She burrows under the covers, fearing judgement from those who will read it. Her husband coaxes her out with coffee and scrambled eggs.

1503887_10155065464365508_5549365216137649948_n

3. Her husband also finds her bio with the rest of the authors, and points out the irony of the F-word being in the same sentence with “loves God.”

Screenshot_2014-11-19-11-58-02

4. They laugh. And cringe. But mostly laugh.

The language. The admission of drinking. The brutal honesty. Is this “Christian?” Some would say no, and I accept that. I was raised a third-generation Seventh-day Adventist, surrounded by wonderful, warm, God-loving people who did not drop F-bombs. I’ve never heard my mother use inappropriate language, and I myself don’t use it out loud that often. I’m thankful for my conservative upbringing, because I do believe in God and I do hold my children to a high moral standard.

I also drink wine at night after I have prayed with them and tucked them into bed.

I try my best not to scream expletives around them, ever.

I sometimes fail at this.

But you know, some people get my writing and some people don’t. That is totally okay. I do not expect everyone everywhere to agree with me or love what I do. I understand if there are people who think I’ve gone off the deep end or turned my back on my upbringing, although both of those assumptions are incorrect.

You know what is a virtually impossible achievement? TO MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY.

I realize that there are lots people out there who don’t want to read my work, and I get that, because I am also very picky about what I read. We are all different and we like different things. That’s a good thing! I embrace diversity. I also know that thinking too much about the opinions of others is the quickest way to kill creativity. My one big rule is this: if my husband is not okay with it, then it doesn’t get published.

I guess my point is, I refuse to allow the fear of judgement to hold me back. This is the one thing I have in common with Taylor Swift. That, and the fact that we’re both very, very white.

This — my writing — is me, in honest form. If I tried hard to glaze over the grittiness of life, then I would not be speaking my truth. Some people are good at writing nicely. I’m good at writing honestly. And honestly, life is hard.

I only recently started referring to myself as a writer. When I say it out loud, it makes me weirdly and inappropriately emotional. My eyes well up and I choke a little, and then I feel stupid. Maybe eventually I’ll get used to saying it, but for now I just feel blessed to be able to back up that title with some pretty awesome accomplishments.

Buckle your seatbelts, bitches.

No Go.

Posted on by

0

I was gone for the weekend and it was absolutely glorious.

When my dear friend — who is due to deliver her first child next month — spotted me at the airport, she ducked underneath the railing that you’re supposed to stand behind when you’re waiting for arrivals, and we embraced in front of a rather enormous audience. There was a vague awareness of people saying AWWWWW, but we were in our own little world, off to vegan restaurants and IKEA.

I guess I have a lot of friends, but that is because I’m an extrovert and I have this weird need to connect that doesn’t make sense to the introverts in my life. Particularly since becoming a mother, I NEED TO CONNECT.

People mistakenly assume extroverts are never lonely and always feel understood, but that isn’t true for me. At all. I think it’s because I am always looking for my kindred spirits because they “get” me and I can understand them on a deeper level. I have a small number of people in my life who truly know me, know who I am, all the way down to my soul, and love me because of it or in spite of it or maybe both. Kate is one of those people, and I was so, so happy to see her.

20141116_112537

I loved every quiet moment of my weekend away. I sat down a lot, laughed a lot, and cried a lot of happy tears. I was happy to get home last night, but I really wasn’t ready to leave my friend.

Here we are before her baby shower. Isn’t she awfully cute for a 34-weeks-pregnant person?

20141115_125553

I felt self-conscious because I was supposed to be wearing a pair of black skinny jeans. I bought a brown pair which were identical in design and size, and they fit fine, so I never bothered to try the black pair on.

Always try the black pair on.

I couldn’t get them on my body. I ended up going with the brown leggings which are basically tights, and my “dress” or “shirt” or whatever the hell it was is pretty short. I was not comfortable with any of it, but I told myself that Kate was much more uncomfortable than I was because she is kangaroo-pouching an unborn child the size of a small pot roast … so, I kept my complaints to myself.

I returned home to this. Among other things.

1932271_1551444398424040_7905139845212426958_n

When I went into Pepper’s room to get her out of her crib this morning, she was so happy to see me and I swear she said “I wuv wu.”

AND THEN, as I told her I loved her too, and I am so happy to be home but I had SO MUCH FUN while I was gone, she said “Mommy.”

I stopped talking and listened.

And that is when I heard my daughter say her first real, intelligible sentence: “Mommy no go bye-bye.”

I guess when you have three kids, you no longer feel guilty for taking time for yourself because it is a NEED THAT MUST BE HAD. If I didn’t leave sometimes, my family would get the very worst version of me, and no one wants that. No one.

When Pepper said what she said, I hugged her warm, roly-poly body close against mine and said, I’m not going anywhere.

Not today, anyway.

 

We’re Meant For Each Other.

Posted on by

4

I have a lot of new readers!

HELLO. I LOVE YOU. YES, ALREADY. I’m sorry if that scares you, but I really believe that when you know, you know.

I just have to share a few things with you today, and I numbered them so it’s easier for you to skim over because I know you have a lot of other things you probably “should” be doing right now. But you aren’t. You’re with me instead. See? Don’t fight it … we’re meant for each other.

1. Last night, Robbie happened to mention during a conversation that he “puts banana peels down the garbage disposal sometimes.” Is this normal? Have any of you done this? I was flabbergasted.

2. My aunt gave me this sign, and I can’t decide where to hang it. I stand in my kitchen wishing for this EXACT CONCOCTION on a daily basis, but if I put it up in a visible location, will people who happen to see it (i.e. my neighbors, the pest control man, random play date moms who I haven’t decided for certain if I like or not) think I’m an unfit mother?

10616212_1549584421943371_8249998329026160873_n

3. Do I care if anyone thinks I’m an unfit mother?

4. Pepper (17 months) now hits and bites, which started this week. She sidled up behind me when I was standing in the kitchen wishing for a mocha-vodka-xanax-latte, and chomped down on the back of my thigh. The backs of my legs appear to be the most abused part of my body, because between bruises and varicose veins they are straight up blue.

20141111_173349

Yes. I admit it. I took a selfie of my child smacking me in the face.

5. I’m boarding an airplane in the morning ALONE to go see one of my dearest friends and I absolutely can’t wait. But also, flying makes me so nervous since I had kids. The last time I flew, I had like 3 glasses of wine. My flight leaves at 8:30 a.m. so I’m considering mimosas. That’s classy, right?

6. Do I care about being classy?

 

P.S. Make sure to “like” my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, blah blah blah.

 

I Totally Cried.

Posted on by

0

Wow. Just … wow.

This morning I was awakened at 4:55 by Asher, who said his legs were itchy. I rubbed lotion on and got him all tucked back in, I climbed back into bed … and decided to check Facebook.

This is when I learned that WE DID IT.

thanksgiving11

Not just you and I, but all the other “Scary Mommies” and not-so-scary mommies and businesses and kind-hearted people.

We did it. We made sure 2,152 deserving families will have food on their table on Thanksgiving Day.

TWO THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO.

That’s a lot.

Well done, you.

The Baby Is Not A Baby Anymore.

Posted on by

6

“The baby,” who isn’t actually a baby anymore and I guess I need to stop calling her that, crawled at 10 months.

Exactly 7 months later, she started walking. It also turns out that she’s quite the climber.

20141111_155816

I am so relieved to have use of my arms again. So, so relieved. Picking her up and hauling her all over the place — because when you’re trying to walk into a store with an unpredictable three-year-old, you have to have the other one either strapped in a cart or on your hip — has given me unprecedented upper-body strength. I can do man push-ups. Okay, only like three. But STILL.

And while I am so excited to finally close the door on all things baby in this house, I admit that I’m also so sad about it. My last child has truly turned into a toddler overnight who drunkenly wanders the house saying “Bye-bye! Cracker?”

She sings, she laughs, and she is a complete and utter joy. Except when she’s trying to eat Cascade gel packs, or when she watches me lace up my shoes and unties one while I tie the other one, and then when I re-tie that one she unties the other one. I mean, it’s cute now that it’s over and I’m telling you about it, but when I’m in a hurry and I can’t get my damn shoes tied and Asher is standing by the door screaming “I DON’T WANT MY CLOTHESES TO TOUCH ME!” it’s not cute.

At all.

I’ll never have another baby-turned-toddler again. This is it, and I’m glad … but also there is a part of me that wishes I could make it stop. Just for a moment.

I’ll never again have the joy of seeing one of my children take their first steps. Now there will be new firsts, each one taking them farther away from babyhood. And to be honest, I’m relieved because this has been incredibly hard. But also, I need to have a good cry about it.

This is the beginning of goodbyes, and everything about it is bittersweet.

20141110_163325

Just Be You.

Posted on by

0

My cousin Jackie came over the other day with her son, who is Maverick’s age. We tried unsuccessfully to hide from our children so we could have adult conversation while they beat the hell out of each other with action figures. I lost track of how many times I shouted “JUST GO PLAY!!!”

What is it that makes them want to crowd around the grownups? We have no candy. We’re talking about pulled chest muscles. Nothing fun is happening over here, and I’m sick of spelling out s-e-x.

Just. Go. Play.

Jackie — and I’m not just saying this because she’s my cousin — truly inspires me. With what she has been through in her life, she should have been a statistic. But she’s not. She’s amazing, and I AM SO STINKIN’ PROUD OF HER.

The fact that she is extremely successful in her business has nothing to do with luck; she has a deep, unstoppable drive to succeed. When the zombie apocalypse hits, I’m going to Jackie’s house. I don’t know how or why, but she could talk the zombies into leaving us alone … and I fear I do not possess that skill. Robbie does, but what if they got him first? I feel better knowing that she’s my backup plan.

I confessed to her that sometimes I wonder if I am doing the right thing by writing so honestly and putting everything out there. Will my kids one day grow up to read that they drove me batshit fucking crazy and get irrevocably screwed up, even though I also write about how much I love them? Because … I really do love them. But also … I really do feel batshit crazy.

The other morning I was talking to Robbie about a post I’m working on for Scary Mommy, and Maverick looked up from his breakfast — I didn’t even think he was paying attention — and very seriously said to me “Mommy, I believe in you and I think that you’re the best.” GAH. Will that same kid one day read my words and be warped by them?! These are all the questions I posed to Jackie.

She listened to everything I had to say, and shook her head before speaking. “You won’t regret any of it,” she said, “Because you’re being YOU. You’re not trying to sound a certain way or act a certain way … this is WHO YOU ARE. How can you ever regret just being yourself?! Your family loves and knows you, just how you are, and the rest of the world will love you too. Just do your thing, girl.”

I seriously almost ugly cried.

Sometimes it’s nice for a person who is close to you, who really knows you, to bring it all back into focus. I am not pretending to be a certain way. I just am. And even though I don’t personally know everyone who will read these words today, I’m still going to tell you this: JUST BE WHO YOU ARE AND DON’T APOLOGIZE FOR IT. It is truly the best way to live.

And also? If you want to wear sunglasses like these when you’re about 15 years too old for them, that’s totally fine. Rock that shit.

10431459_1547888872112926_2967262926207659356_n

This is how women in their 40’s and 50’s end up walking around in sweats with sparkly words emblazoned across the ass, isn’t it? I can see my future very clearly right now.

The Highs.

Posted on by

8

Someone I love sent me this piece from The New Yorker this morning. I got it after a nearly-two-hour experience in the pediatrician’s office, which ended with me trying to peel my middle child off their front door when it was time to go. What kind of kid wants to STAY at the doctor’s office?!

Oh, wait. I know.  A three-year-old. Because nothing with a three-year-old makes sense.

I’m reporting to you from the trenches. And I could go into a tirade about who snotted on my one pair of clean yoga pants today or why bath and bed time has me wanting to rock in a corner, clutching vodka … but I won’t. You already know that parenthood is hard; the highs are always followed by lows that we get through by telling ourselves “everything is a phase.”

But everything is.

Maverick got a little wound up in the days following Halloween. All that extra red dye # 40 did a number on him, apparently. After a particularly long and difficult day, I finally said that he was going to bed early. He got mad, I got mad, we both dug in. I ended up dragging him to his room after reminding him in the living room who was in charge.

20141008_153903

I gave him time to calm down and then tried to talk it over, but he was so angry and he just kept yelling that I was a horrible mommy — a very bad mommy — and he wished I belonged to someone else. “I understand that you’re upset with me,” I said as I covered him up. “But I am glad I belong to YOU.”

He replied with an angry noise.

Sometimes it’s hard to know if you’re doing the right thing. I’m all the time wondering if I’m too hard on them or not hard enough. Am I respected? Am I a doormat? I’m a fairly self-assured person, but I find motherhood to be discombobulating.

The next morning, Maverick crept into our bed at 6:15. It was still dark out, and I was fumbling around for my glasses when I heard him say the following words. I hope I never forget them, because it was the sweetest apology that has ever come out of that boy’s mouth.

“Mommy? I’m so sorry I yelled at you last night. You’re a good mommy and I love you. I really love you. And you know what else? I really WAS tired, like you said. I konked right out after you left! Man, I was tired. I feel better now. You know what I was thinking? Maybe I could go make you some coffee. I know how much sugar to put in it, and Daddy showed me how to use the Keurig. I’ll be really careful.”

Speechless. I still tear up when I think about it.

I struggle. We all do. And sometimes, yes, it’s even barefoot in the snow like the essay from The New Yorker suggests. That would be a low point. But the highs … they are so, so sweet. Just like my coffee.

 

The Slacker Mom Table.

Posted on by

9

The PTA is hosting a “movie night” at the school with pizza, hot dogs, and a bake sale to raise money for a new playground. I got the flier in my son’s paperwork on Friday, which said to send wrapped baked goods with your child on Monday.

Which is today. And I forgot. Of course I did.

So this morning, I got him on the bus and then dressed the little kids and went to the grocery store for some of those bakery cookies with icing on them … you know the ones. I bought three huge containers of them and took them to the school. Two secretaries were sitting in the entryway when I walked in.

I explained that these cookies were for the bake sale, and then I said, “I’m sorry, I know they aren’t individually wrapped — is that a problem? I guess I’m a slacker mom.”

Secretary #1 said “That’s fine,” at the same time that Secretary #2 pointed to a table behind me and said “You can put them over there on the Slacker Mom table.”

I turned around and spotted a sad little table that was filled with sad little boxed bakery goods. There was no flair. No cellophane wrappers with ribbons tied around them. No little happies. Just plain, clinical-looking, clear boxes with plain cookies in them, and here I was about to add my flair-less stack of store-bought goods to the pile like the slacker mom that I was. Everything about it said “Slacker Mom.”

I pictured all the non-slackers who worked furiously the night before making tiny turkeys out of Little Debbie snack cakes, or whatever it is that they do (I wouldn’t know), and then I pictured the other moms like me who just grabbed whatever random cookies were sitting in the front of the grocery store, and I started laughing so hard that no sound came out.

Secretary #2 started to freak because I was just standing silently (shaking with laughter) with my back to her, staring at the table in front of me. She started apologizing profusely, saying “I’m just kidding! You’re not a slacker! We appreciate them so much! Thank you so much!!” I nodded and waved bye, and as the door shut behind me I heard her call out one more time, “WE APPRECIATE IT!”

I know they do. And I’m totally owning this title from now on. I am a Slacker Mom who shows her love simply by showing up, sipping a coffee, and sharing her enthusiasm.

WHAT MORE DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME?!

Slacker Mom