Tag Archives: motherhood

Negative Moms Prevent Pin Worms.

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My 7-year-old informed me the other night at dinner that I’m “kind of a negative person.” I think Robbie saw the crazy flash in my eyes, so he immediately said “YOUR MOTHER IS SUPER FUN.” (No one believed him.)

I want my kids to see my fun side, but it’s hard to show it — especially for people like me who are very goal-oriented and focused on results.

Okay, FINE. I’m uptight.

In my defense, someone has to be. I mean, if I were as laid-back as my husband … I really don’t know what would happen. Probably nothing. But also, maybe something terrible. Like pin worms.

I think this picture proves that I'm not COMPLETELY uptight.

I think this picture proves that I’m not COMPLETELY uptight.

Every day in parenthood, there are approximately 67 tiny goals to accomplish between the time I get up and the time I go to bed. Put on clothes that make me look like a mother and not a hooker. Ingest coffee while it’s still hot. Pack three semi-nutritious lunches.

School drop-off presents its own unique set of goals: Keep my composure in the face of tantrums. Refrain from screaming at the woman who damn near ran over my child. Try not to look too excited as I hurry back home.

Back at home, I begin my next set: Write. Laundry. Call my mother.

You get the picture.

I am regimented and focused and uptight, but it’s not because I’m unhappy. It’s because I have a lot of worries. I worry about my children. I worry about my parents. I try not to talk about it too much, but my mother has cancer. That’s concerning. Maybe men do a better job of compartmentalizing everything, but my entire life is a jumbled up heap that tumbles around in my brain like shoes in a dryer.

I have a lot of joy in my life, but I have lot of stress as well.

Until I figure out how to keep my worries from manifesting in negativity towards my immediate family, I will be referring to myself in the third person. Hi, I’m Negative Mommy. For example, “You don’t want to miss the bus today, Maverick, and end up stuck with NEGATIVE MOMMY all day.”

I tested this out a few mornings ago when he was dragging his feet.

He got on the bus.

Maybe I can make this work out in my favor after all.

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I’ve Never Been As Happy As I Am At 35

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I’m 35 years old.

People around me are using terms like “advanced maternal age” and “yearly mammogram.” I know I’m getting older because all of my friends are, but you know what? FUCK THAT NOISE.

I’m not old. I’m loving my mid-thirties, and here are a few reasons why.

Enjoying the rooftop view in New York City.

Enjoying the rooftop view in New York City.

When I go shopping, I know exactly what will fit my body. I no longer waste my time trying to jam these hips into “boyfriend jeans.” It ain’t happening. Ever. It’s liberating to breeze past that bullshit and head directly for the “curvy” cut. Those suckers will slide right on and I won’t even break a sweat. Boom. Done.

I spend less time in hell, otherwise known as the fitting room. I remember a time, back when I was fresh-faced and only had two bills to pay, when I went shopping every single Friday. Apparently, I had nothing better to do with my time or my money than to peruse the sale racks at Gap and try on things just for fun. I know, I hate me too. That silly, rested BITCH.

I am a better person. I used to lie awake in bed at night and dream up my outfits for the week. Outfit planning. That’s what kept me up at night. I’m not gonna lie, it was grand — but also self-absorbed, shallow, and unimportant. I like my 35-year-old self a lot better. My current nighttime train of thought is significantly weightier: I forgot to sign the permission slips AGAIN. I have to remember to do it before school tomorrow. What is our escape route if there is a fire? Is the mole on my husband’s back cancerous? I better Google it in the morning. Right after I sign those permission slips. But not until I have my coffee. Are we out of creamer? OH MY GOD, WE ARE.

See? Much better.

I know who matters. The people who matter now are stuck with me for LIFE: through sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer. And I’m not just talking about my husband. My true friends — the same ones who loved me even when I was a silly, rested bitch — still love me now as a tired, frazzled one, and they’re like family. What life lessons and terrible breakups have joined together, let no man put asunder.

I have more fight in me at 35 than ever before. I don’t know if it’s age, experience, a buildup of hormonal rage, or what, but if something riles me, God help whoever stands in my way. As the years tick by, I have begun to grasp the weight of things that are weighty and the infinite value of things that are precious to me. The things that are important are worth fighting for, and at halfway to 70 years old, I better make the most of the time I have left.

I have finally learned how to use profanity in a way that suits me. That takes time and practice. 35 years of practice, to be exact.

I can hail a cab, fall down in public, use a cocktail shaker and light a match without screaming like a girl. This is monumental. Shut up.

Being 35 is awesome. You should totally try it.

© 2015 Harmony Hobbs, as first published on Scary Mommy.

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Why God Made Wine.

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Have you ever felt like your life is so intense that you never have time to process anything that happens?

Crazy things go on here all day, every day. I’ll find myself thinking, okay … my child just got bleach in his mouth. I need to process that. But before I have a chance to work through it, someone is digging around in the can of garbage containing raw chicken, and then someone is standing precariously on a tall surface, and then someone else is eerily quiet. Which is never a good sign.

My marriage and my kids and my career and my extended family and MYSELF. That’s a lot to juggle without having adequate time to process things. It feels like I have been hurtling through life for the past few years. Maybe this is what they mean when they say “it goes so fast.”

It does go fast.

Too fast.

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Me and my big girl.

I want to tell my kids to stop for just one day — just ONE! — to let me collect my thoughts. I’ve had a lot of weird things, both good and bad, happen recently and am struggling to gain my footing. But they can’t stop, because they’re children and their job is to spend their days learning how to dismantle kitchen appliances to see what’s inside, and my job as their mother often gets in the way of me dealing with my shit.

I can’t deal with my shit when I’m cleaning up literal shit.

Mothers have a deeper need for emotional and physical space than anyone else, and yet we are the ones who are least likely to manage to make that happen for ourselves.

Personally, I like to process things. I enjoy actively working through the stages of elation and grief and change and emotion because I want to feel every step. To me, that’s LIVING — because life, with all of its heartache and anger and happiness and love, is rich. I relish it.

My current processing methods are ineffective and outdated. I can no longer spend hours on a running trail walking and thinking. I can’t be alone anytime I wish. I’m a mom now. Sometimes I have to put my own needs on hold in order to deal with someone else.

Life is happening faster than I expected. Faster than I have time to process. And it doesn’t stop, not even when I say “WAIT!” I don’t know if there is a solution for that, but I do know that the Good Lord gave us wine.

And I am going to drink it.

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Be Who You Are.

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Maverick, my 7-year-old, recently walked up to me and said, “You are who you are, Mommy. And you’re just right. That’s what you always say to me.”

I stared at him, speechless.

“Don’t let anyone judge you.”

And then he walked away.

I have poured my heart and soul into my children, and there have been times when I felt like my spirit was breaking. Or maybe it was already broken. It can be hard to tell the difference.

I fuck up all the time. Daily. Multiple times per day.

I’m probably not supposed to admit that, right? I’m probably not supposed to say that I screamed like a lunatic this morning when the kids wouldn’t stop fighting. I’m so calm, until that one thing — like milk boiling over on the stove, or poop that gets smeared all over the toilet seat  — sends me over the edge.

I don’t give myself enough grace.

When you’re doing the impossible, you should give yourself some grace. My kids, who see the best and worst of me, give me grace. They somehow absorb what they see and hear, assimilate it, and regurgitate it in their charming kid way.

Pepper will say “Maybe way-ter, okay? WAYTER,” when I ask her if she’s ready to take a bath.

Maybe later.

I say that a lot.

My middle child uses big words in an attempt to sound important. “Actually, Mommy …” He says “actually” all the time. I guess I do too, but it’s a lot cuter when he says it.

But what my oldest said — you are who you are, and you’re just right — struck me. I’ve said that to him, many times. I believe that for my children, but do I believe it for myself?

I have to model what I want my children to value. And even though I feel like a dismal failure most days because I haven’t done enough or said enough to make me feel like I truly nailed this parenting thing … these moments drop out of nowhere that remind me that I’m doing a damn good job.

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Surviving An Indoor Playground In 6 Easy Steps

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I live in the Deep South, where soaring temperatures and obscene humidity levels make being outdoors a miserable experience for approximately one half of the year.

It’s not that I hate being hot. Many lovely places — like spas, saunas, and beaches — are hot. Being hot in the right situation is acceptable to me. What I find unacceptable is the feeling of makeup running down my face, my inner thighs sticking together and ripping apart when I walk, and what happens when a sweat-covered child lands in dirt.

Indoor Playground image

Because of these reasons and more, I know the location of every indoor playground within a 20-mile radius and I visit them on a rotating basis. But be warned — indoor playgrounds are just as wretched as their outdoor siblings. The temperature is more tolerable, but there are a lot of other things to watch out for … like the poop diaper that someone left next to the inflatable ball pit.

Here are some tips to help you navigate your way through what may be the germiest, most obnoxiously tolerable place on Earth: the indoor playground.

1. Stake your claim. Indoor playgrounds are crowded, so staking out prime seating is a top priority. Ideally, you should be near an outlet, the bathroom, and within earshot of your children. Wait, no. Scratch that last one.

2. Bring a friend. You may be tempted to go alone, since the indoor playground is a confined space and there is little chance of your child wandering off. But who’s going to catch you up on the latest gossip or discuss nipple hair with you?  Who will hold down the fort while you go look for the child you lost track of because you were so wrapped up in talking about anal sex? Your friend. Bring the nonjudgmental one.

3. Smuggle in alcohol. What?! Don’t judge me. We all know that intolerable parenting situations are much easier to handle when you have a glass of something in your hand. Pour your beverage into a benign-looking container, bury it in your oversized purse, make eye contact, and try not to look like you’re being a totally irresponsible rule-breaker. Sneaking vodka into an establishment full of giant inflatables was the only way I made it through my last trip. I offer no apologies.

4. Leave your pride at the door. It’s likely that you, your children, or all of the above, will make complete asses of yourselves before you make your exit. Go in with that knowledge, and you will feel a lot less embarrassed when your child screams “MY DADDY HAS A BIG PENIS!” Encourage your kids be as loud as possible while they aren’t in your house. Revel in the fact that you won’t have to clean that glass door that your child is licking. Whatever your kids are doing, worse has happened here. Trust me.

5. Be prepared — for anything. A throw up, a poop, a hunger, a thirst, a headache, a period, a nervous breakdown, a fire. Ready yourself for the world to end right there on the bumpy slide … because if the kid going down right before your kid has diarrhea pants, it might.

6. What happens in Vegas … you know the rest. Did you show your literal ass when you bent over to help little Jimmy get out of the toy car? Did your deodorant fail you? Did you cry, scream, or curse in front of small children? Did you over-share and immediately regret it? Did your toddler throw a tantrum and slap you in the crotch? It happens to all of us, because playgrounds — indoor and out — are terrible, God-forsaken places and motherhood can be a real bitch. The good news is that once you leave, you can just forget any of it ever happened and enjoy the silence of worn-out children.

Unless, of course, one of you touched that abandoned poop diaper.

Never touch the poop diaper.

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This post originally appeared on Scary Mommy.

13 Surefire Ways To Make Life Difficult For Your Family

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After writing this post yesterday, several people have emailed or commented asking to see my list.

You know … the list. The one I pull out when I have heard too much needless whining. The one I refer to when I have picked up other people’s dirty clothes for too many days in a row or spent time cooking a meal and breaking up fights and keeping a toddler from touching the stove, AND NO ONE EATS IT.

That.

This list strikes fear in the hearts of those who have to live with me. Want to compare notes? OF COURSE YOU DO!

13 Surefire Ways To Make Life Difficult For Your Family:

  1. Omit items from the grocery list that everyone else likes, and buy what I like instead. Example: instead of Honey Nut Cheerios, I will buy fat-free granola with dried berries. Instead of whole milk, I will get almond milk. Instead of sweet tea, you will drink PLAIN WATER.
  2. If the situation in #1 grows dire enough, someone will eventually suggest going to the store. I will then produce a lengthy and complicated list of hard-to-find items. Can’t find the fresh coriander? LOOK HARDER.
  3. Fail to charge all of the iThings.
  4. Lose the chargers.
  5. Insist that we listen to the “Sunday Jazz Brunch” Pandora station all. weekend. long. It’s good for brain growth.
  6. Assign additional chores to anyone who talks to me. “Oh, hi! I was about to ask you to fold these towels!” or, “Hello, child! You have so much energy. Here’s the Windex — you’re 4 now. You can totally clean windows.” Pro tip: this one is my favorite.
  7. Go on a health kick. The mere idea of throwing away all of the Pop Tarts makes them gasp in unified horror.
  8. Suggest a bike ride and then say, “Daddy will take you! Have fun!” Disappear.
  9. Enforce educational-only books and TV shows for as long as it takes for them to become sufficiently educated.
  10. Sing in the car.
  11. Stop washing clothes. Hint: no one will notice or care until they start running out of underwear. Prepare to look confused when they ask where all of their underwear went.
  12. Consider military-style consequences for unwanted behavior, i.e. push-ups, digging holes, and running laps.
  13. Leave the house.

Adios

Bonus points: hang this banner in a common area.

I found this on Pinterest, and it is amazing. I have no idea where it originated from, but I WANT ONE.

I found this on Pinterest, and it is amazing. I have no idea where it originated from, but I WANT ONE.

There you have it! My list is ever-changing and ever-growing. What’s on yours?! I’m always looking for new ideas.

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10 Surefire Ways To Enrage Your Mother

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No matter how calm and collected a woman may be, you can rest assured that there are countless ways to piss her off. I don’t mean just irk her a little — I mean send her flying into a rage reminiscent of 2007 Britney Spears.

Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all have those moments.

I’m almost certain that my children have a master list hidden somewhere in the house where they keep track of the behaviors that seem to make me the angriest, which they refer to when they need some quick entertainment.

When and if I am able to locate this list and decode it, I imagine that it will go a little something like this.

10 Surefire Ways To Enrage Our Mother:

  1. Emerge from a bath without drying off. Proceed to wrap your entire body in toilet paper.
  2. Refuse to poop when she encourages you to, even if you really do have to go. Hold it in until the worst possible time. Repeat as needed.
  3. Poop in the backyard.
  4. Grind your Goldfish crackers into dust and blow them across the kitchen.
  5. Allow her to painstakingly part your slippery toddler hair and affix it into two perfect pigtails. Stare at her without emotion while slowly pulling them out.
  6. Wait until she leaves the room. Scream like you just got your fingers chopped off. Laugh when she comes rushing into the room with a panic-stricken look on her face. Pro Tip: You’ll probably only be able to do this once.
  7. Say the same thing over and over. Say the same thing over and over. Say the same thing over and over.
  8. Use her fancy shampoo as bubble bath.
  9. Play with her makeup … in her closet. (Allow your imagination to run wild with this one! Maverick once painted the closet carpet like a rainbow!)
  10. Pretend to be a cat. Do all the things a cat would do, such as hiding under the bed when it’s time to leave the house, pawing at others and yowling when someone is brushing your teeth. Don’t forget the most important part: eat and drink without using your hands. (See #3 for extra points!)

Rest assured, friends … I have a list of my own that I refer to as needed. It’s called “Ways To Make Life Difficult For Everyone Around Me.”

No one wants to see me pull that list out.

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Seven.

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You are 7 years old today.

I was taught that seven is a perfect, magical number — God created Heaven and Earth in 6 days and then rested on the 7th. The number seven shows up repeatedly all throughout the Bible, meaning, I assume, that you will be absolutely angelic for the next 365 days. Because seven.

You have given me so many gifts in your short life, I cannot imagine what else there is to experience. And yet I know, because of what the past seven years have shown me, that my mind is too small to imagine the joy that is yet to come. I could weave my words into an eloquent summary of what it means to be your mother, but that wouldn’t suit us. I’ll stick with what I know and keep it simple.

You are ear-to-ear grins too early in the morning.

You are pizzazz, personified.

You are stubborn and so incredibly difficult. Like … so difficult. You dig your heels in unlike anyone I have ever known, and it’s terrifying and wondrous all at once to know that I am supposed to shape you into a man of character, because you already have so much character. How am I supposed to know what to do with it?! There is so much of it, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, like pizza dough.

Being your mother makes me uncomfortable because I have to admit almost daily that I don’t know what the hell I am doing. But I think you think I’m pretty great, so that helps.

You are fun.

You are full-volume.

You eat like a chinchilla, and you get that from your father.

You like to catch people off-guard. When I least expect it, you’ll say “Mommy! How many Sith Lords does it take to change a lightbulb?” And I will stop whatever I’m doing and think about it, but before I can answer, you blurt out: “NONE! BECAUSE THEY PREFER IT ON THE DARK SIDE! Get it?! DARK? SIDE? HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!”

Oh, Maverick. My life would be so boring without you. Like I tell you all the time, you are just right, just the way you are.

SEVEN!

SEVEN!

Happy 7th birthday, kid. You are a gift to me every single day.

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I’m Medicated And It’s Fantastic.

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There are a thousand different ways to say this, but I don’t feel like being fancy so I’m just going to blurt it out … just like I did yesterday while attending a family barbecue.

I was standing in the middle of the kitchen with my cousin and my aunt, and I said (out of nowhere and completely unrelated to the conversation), “I’M MEDICATED AND IT’S FANTASTIC.”

I’m no stranger to anxiety, but I have noticed an uptick in recent months. I’d mention it to my husband, but he didn’t seem concerned. I was still functioning, still doing everything I’ve always done. He didn’t know that my chest was tight from the moment I woke up in the morning, until long after the kids were in bed. He didn’t know what it was like to be me … because he isn’t me.

And if he was me, I think we all know that he would probably just sit in one spot all day long and hold my/his boobs.

Then, I was surprised with some amazing news — we’re going to New York City next month to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary! I was so excited … until the worrying began. I can pinpoint the moment that it started — we were sitting on the couch, and Robbie showed me a video of the building we’re staying in. As the camera zoooooooooooomed up, panning the structure from bottom to top, I couldn’t breathe. The irrational thoughts were cutting off my air supply.

We haven’t flown together since our honeymoon. What if the plane crashes? What if there is a fire in the building where we are staying? WE HAVE THREE KIDS NOW. What would happen to them? We have nothing to pass on, they don’t have official Godparents. We are fucking terrible at adulting! Fucking terrible! WHO LET US BECOME ADULTS? WE ARE GOING TO CELEBRATE 10 YEARS OF MARRIAGE BY DYING A FIERY DEATH. I NEED A SHOT OF WHISKEY.

I can’t breathe. I can’t look. I think I’ll just double over.

Four days after that, my mother sat me down on that same couch and told me she has cancer.

This was when I realized I had a problem.

Before now, I have never had a need for a “primary care physician,” but I procured one immediately. I needed a pill or a therapist or possibly a tranquilizer dart. I sat quietly as the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me a series of questions:

Nurse: “Are you sexually active?”

Me: “Yes.”

Nurse: “Do you use protection?”

Me: “No.”

***

Nurse: “Do you drink alcohol?”

Me: (OPEN LAUGHTER)

Nurse: “How much and what kind?”

Me: (STILL LAUGHING)

***

My new doctor came in and we shook hands. She praised my self-awareness, coping mechanisms, and overall health. She informed me that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and prescribed me a pill that will help me get through this challenging time in my life. Then I mentioned my weight, which is up. She said, “Yeah, your Body Mass Index is high … but you know what? You don’t look fat, SO WHO CARES?!”

This solidified her spot as My Most Favorite Person Ever.

I have now fully embraced my medicated state. I honestly can’t recall the last time I felt this calm and relaxed, while at the same time being sober. I’m not bothered by the little things, so I can focus on the big things with calmness and clarity.

This must be what it feels like to be my husband.

Today, instead of running around in a panic, picking up toys and cleaning already-clean surfaces, I cuddled and played with my kids.

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Photo credit: Robbie Hobbs

I don’t know what the future will bring, but between now and then, I’m going to take my medication.

I also plan to make a lot of memes like this one, because I have priorities.

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