The End of an Era

                As a few of you may have noticed, I haven’t blogged lately. I’ve been swamped with work, trying to finish one novel and edit another, and honestly, I just haven’t had much worth saying. But today, I do.

                Today, I attended my last meeting of a particular group for stay at home moms that I joined back in 2009. The meeting wasn’t monumental by any noticeable standards. We ate brunch, we talked, and we colored (yes, you read that right). But for me, it marked the end of an era.

                I joined this group as a brand new stay at home mom. I had one insanely wild one-year old and no clue what I was doing. I left a 60 hour a week job to stay at home with her and was surprised to find not working full time to be significantly more exhausting and overwhelming than working. My new pint-sized boss had not read the Fair Labor Standards Act, didn’t allow me lunch breaks and refused to even let me pee alone. I came to my first meeting thinking she needed to socialize. As it turned out, I did too.

                I’m no longer a new mom. Now, I’m old and experienced, but every bit as exhausted overwhelmed and clueless as I was 9 years ago. As much as I’ve loved this group, it is time for me to move on and let today’s newbies experience the bliss that you find when you arrive at these meetings and eat food you did not cook while other people watch your children. If you do not understand why I describe that experience as blissful, you are likely not a new mom.

                Over the years, the ladies composing this group have changed. Many “graduated” as their children reached school-age. Others moved. New moms joined. Despite the different faces from year to year, the group stayed the same. These ladies saw me through three rough pregnancies and two premature deliveries. They cooked for my family when I was in the hospital, texted me during NICU stays, and diagnosed random toddler rashes via emailed pictures. These are the moms who didn’t judge me when I refused to wear maternity clothes until long after outgrowing my normal clothes…or when I subsequently kept wearing the maternity clothes as my youngest turned one. These moms understood you could be busy all day and yet never accomplish a single measurable thing. These are the moms that recommended good devotionals for preschoolers, shared recipes for lactation cookies, and dragged me out of the house to see 50 Shades at the theater.

                We’ve laughed together, prayed together and cried together more times than I can count. We’ve welcomed dozens upon dozens of new babies as a group, but we’ve also attended funerals together, and we've supported members through cancer, job-loss, and divorce. Some of the moms I’ve met through this group will be friends for life. Others I may not recognize in a few years. But collectively, they’ve all touched my life in a pretty significant way. They helped me be the best mom I could be.

                As Mother’s Day approaches, I hope that every mom has this—her own special mommy tribe. Every new mom needs a friend or two who will listen to her describe the contents of her newborn’s diaper when she’s worried about a dairy intolerance. Every toddler mom needs someone who will bring her wine and gummy bears after her child grabs a bottle off the shelf at Target and throws it, causing the contents to explode all over the store—and all over multiple strangers. Every kindergarten mom needs friends who understand how she can be so annoyed all summer at her child’s behavior, then sob the second the yellow bus drives off.

Motherhood can be so isolating, but the more moms I meet, the more I realize how much we all have in common. Happy Mother’s Day to all my mommy friends out there, and thanks for being a part of my mothering adventure!

One Day Later

            Today I am not writing about parenting or the humor in modern suburban life. This is a political post. There, you’ve been warned. But please keep reading—this is not an endorsement for any one candidate or view, but it may just help you feel better.

            Today, Americans everywhere are hungover. Some of us literally, whether from celebrating or lamenting, and some of us are just so fatigued from the late night election coverage that we feel hungover. As a result of that, I’ve seen many emotionally-charged comments about the election that remind me of the sort of thing my kids say when they need a nap.

And I will tell you the same thing I told my children when I informed them this morning about the election results: it will be okay.

            Here’s the thing: Donald Trump is not America. Trump is one American. There are some 325 million other Americans. I’m not going to pretend that one person can’t make a difference in our world, because we all know they can. But if Trump can make a difference, so can each of the other 325 million of us.

            Trump has pledged to make America great again. I happen to think America is already pretty awesome, but with some room for improvement. If you believe Trump is going to make America great again, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too. Because here’s the thing- Trump is one person. One person cannot make or break America. But 325,000,000 people? Yeah, we can.

            This election seemed to divide the nation more than any other in recent history. There was a lot of nastiness in this election, but because of that, this election offered us the opportunity to teach our children many valuable lessons, including the importance of democracy and exercising our right to vote, the importance of treating everyone with dignity and respect, the importance of thinking about how your words will affect others before you speak them aloud, and the importance of accepting everyone’s differences and beliefs. The problem is, I don’t think we as a nation have learned any of those lessons.

            I have heard many who oppose Trump express their feeling that Trump doesn’t value them because they’re female, homosexual, Muslim, or Hispanic. I understand completely how people get that impression and to be honest, it bothers me greatly that our President doesn’t appear to value all of our citizens equally.

I have heard many others take this view one step further, and say that they also feel anyone who supports Trump or even voted for Trump doesn’t value or respect them as a person. And again, I can follow this reasoning. To those of you who feel this way, that’s okay, you are entitled to your feelings. But I happen to know many people who I am certain have nothing but love in their hearts for all of these groups of people, who still felt compelled to vote for Trump for one reason or another. And to criticize Trump for failing to respect the differences in all of us Americans while refusing to respect opinions of other Americans who voted differently than you strikes me as a bit hypocritical. So does criticizing his tendency to stereotype people right before you say only uneducated people voted for him.

I’d venture to guess most Trump supporters didn’t vote for him because they hate women, for example. But they might have voted for him because they’re nervous about losing gun rights or don’t like Clinton’s health care policies. Do you have to agree with their opinions? NO! But are others entitled to those opinions? Well, yes. That’s kind of the whole point of democracy.

            It’s too late to change the election results, so let’s stop the campaigning. Let’s stop the hate, and let’s move on. I did not wait in line to vote in a crowded gym with multiple antsy children and a full bladder for 2.5 hours so that we could all whine about how horrible everything is now. The candidate I voted for did not win this particular election, but I don't see how badmouthing everyone who disagrees with me will help.

            I don’t expect everyone to stop commiserating on Facebook about the election. But after you complain about the bad image you worry Trump gives America, think about how you can change the way the world sees Americans. You can’t control the way Trump speaks about women, but you can control the way you speak. You can teach your children that words are powerful and that they not only reflect on the character of the speaker but also affect the listener. You can make America greater.

            When my kids get home from school today and are still anxious about the election, I plan to remind them that whether or not the next four years are great for America is up to us—the 325 million Americans, not the one guy who got elected. And I plan to tell them that they can do their part every day if they follow this simple recipe: Treat everyone with respect, whether they look different from you, think differently from you or even vote differently than you. Acknowledge and celebrate all of our differences. Be empathetic. Be kind. It starts with you, not Trump.

Fall Break Breakdown

            I woke up this morning feeling particularly grateful. I don’t know why I felt this way today out of all days—I slept terribly last night, have been battling some mystery illness resulting in massively swollen lymph nodes throughout my body for weeks now, and I’ve had several very stressful weeks where I’ve had so much unpleasantness to do that I didn’t have any time for the things or people I do love. Despite that, when the baby started screeching like a perturbed pterodactyl, I couldn’t help but smile as I lifted her adorable, stained pajama-clad butt out of her crib. Even when I attempted to nurse her and she managed to spill my coffee, bite my shoulder, and pinch my neck—all while blowing raspberries on my bicep like it’s her job, I felt happy.

            Maybe it’s because my 3.5 year old can finally tolerate real milk. Maybe it’s because my 6 year old rocked her standardized math test and finally—hopefully—realized that her sister isn’t the only smart kid in the family. Maybe it’s because my 8 year old did four perfect backwalkovers in a row at gymnastics last night, which I saw—and better yet—that she SAW that I SAW (because, you know, if a kid does something cool but the mom doesn’t see it, does it even count in the kid’s mind?). Or maybe it’s that my 15-month old who JUST started walking pointed to her nose on demand this morning, demonstrating that while she might be on preemie time for the milestones, she IS getting there, slowly but surely.

            My attitude changed pretty quickly, though. Let me just say that today is Day One of our fall “break” staycation. I question the “break” aspect of this because while my kids are not at school during this break, the flip side of that is that MY KIDS ARE NOT AT SCHOOL. In other words they are all four home. My husband is not. As of 9:30 today, I was feeling amazing about this break. My kids enjoyed the freedom to play before breakfast and then I let all four of them eat on the floor in front of the TV. I even whistled happily while sweeping up the insane mess that made (ok, technically it was more like a hum since I really suck at whistling). I dressed everyone in adorable coordinating Halloween shirts and pants. My kids all played well together while I worked out. Seriously. I did an entire Insanity DVD while my kids all played together. No joke. Then, I showered. Alone. In hot water. While singing a song called “I love fall break” to the tune of the ABCs. I put on makeup and jewelry and cute new black leggings because, well, I had time for once, since all my angels were happily playing.

            Fast forward to the present. It is 2pm. We made pizzas for lunch. We did Halloween-themed crafts. I drove five kids to a birthday party. We made cupcakes with orange frosting and homemade purple fondant shaped like (slightly asymmetrical) bats. The ideal day, right?

So why am I sitting here resisting the urge to add a splash of rum to my massive diet coke and licking the frosting off a Barbie shoe?

I’ll tell you why. Behind every Halloween craft is a Google search of “how to get permanent marker off finished wood surface” (why oh WHY do we even own permanent markers?!?). Behind every orange-frosted cupcake is a freaking orange smear of crud on my cute formerly black leggings. And homemade pizza? Well, let’s just say I don’t even own a broom that can reach as far under the fridge as the shredded cheese flew. There are cheerios in our high-pile rug. No one is napping. The baby got a smear of poop on her outfit and I haven’t yet taken the dang pictures to memorialize the ONE time they all wore coordinating Halloween shirts. There are orange stickers and orange glitter and orange frosting on every surface of my house. Our playroom looks like a daycare center that was evacuated in a rush. The baby took a bite of a bar of soap. The three year old ate uncooked spaghetti she found under the trampoline. The eight year old has pronounced the six year old “wicked,” and said six year old has informed me that she only has two sisters from this day forward, but that she still wants five sisters total. Since I’m currently in the corner of the room, rocking myself in the fetal position and chanting, I don’t think I could handle an additional two children.

People often comment on how often I take the kids out in public to various activities. Occasionally, they’ll even go so far as to call me a good mom because I’m so active with the kids. But if I’m being honest, it isn’t about that. So tomorrow, if you see me taking the kids out to lunch after a morning matinee and before our trip to Conner Prairie and then for an indoor evening swim, please know that I am not competing for Mom of the Year. I’m simply trying to wear them out and keep them from killing each other or trashing the house. Now excuse me while I brew more coffee to survive the afternoon J

Embracing the Gray

          If you’ve been on Facebook lately, you’re probably fed up with all of the people trying to use the site as a platform for whatever political, social, or other message they want to promote. If it isn’t sweeping conclusory statements about a particular political candidate, it’s an assumption about another person based on one occurrence (i.e. “this random mom in the news is a bad parent”), or stereotyping an entire group amidst a discussion of equality (i.e. “all cops are good” or “all cops are racist”).

          While I miss the cute baby pictures, crazy cat videos, and recipes as much as the next gal, what really bothers me about these posts are the way they portray complex issues as black and white. Few things in life are straightforward. Almost nothing is cut and dry. Let’s take the parenthood issue, for starters. I like to think of myself as an advocate for children’s rights, but as a mom, I don’t particularly appreciate the double standard for moms vs dads nor do I enjoy seeing society hanging a mom out to dry for one moment of less-than stellar parenting.

          I’ll give you an example from my personal experience. I generally consider myself to be a good parent. I will never claim to be perfect and I’m sure you could all suggest areas of improvement for me, but for the most part, I think I’m doing just fine. Had a news crew been following me around yesterday, however, I think CPS might come and take my children from me. It started with a busy morning—I was tired from a baby who sucks at sleeping and I was rushing to get four kids and myself fed, dressed, and out the door for camp drop off. Somewhere in this chaos, the baby speed crawled (seriously—she’s wicked fast!) to the table where one of my lazy kiddos had left out a spoonful of peanut butter and she began to wolf that peanut butter. Not a big deal unless you consider that the pediatrician advised us not to let her have peanut products due to a family history of nut allergies and that peanut butter in particular tends to be a choking hazard. Flash forward to afternoon, when I’m rushing to meet a work deadline and make lemon bars for a dinner party. For a brief moment, Jeremy and I lost track of the baby, each assuming the other was watching her. Of course we found her in the bathroom, standing at the open toilet, EATING USED TOILET PAPER OUT OF THE TOILET. Yes, you read that correctly. Still thinking I’m an okay parent? After that incident, I scrubbed the baby’s hands, lectured the kids about flushing and putting the lid down, rinsed the baby’s mouth, and dry heaved for a good ten minutes. By this point I was fully flustered, so as I packed the diaper bag and got the wine, beer, and desserts ready to take to the neighbors, I quickly agreed to let my big kids walk on over ahead of us since we were just going across the street. Jeremy picked up the baby, and we locked up the house. After sitting everything down at the neighbors’ and taking off our shoes, someone asked if we’re missing a child. Jeremy and I looked at each other and realized yes, indeed we had left our three year old at home. Alone. Granted we were only across the street and it was only for a few minutes (translation- please don’t call CPS!) and she hadn’t even noticed our departure as she happily rearranged furniture in the Barbie dream house while singing “Let it Go,” but still…

Frankly had any of these incidents been splashed in the newspaper, I would’ve been crucified by society and labeled as the latest Bad Mom. You wouldn’t see in the short, biased articles that I work extra hours to afford fun classes for my kids, how I rub their backs at 4am when I’ve already been up twice, the way I happily steam broccoli every night since it’s the only vegetable they all eat, or any of the other many many things that make me feel good about my parenting overall. Why? Because the media’s job is to make it look simple, straightforward, and black and white.

Anyway, the point of this post is not to let you all know I’m secretly only moments away from accidentally maiming or losing one of my children at any point of time. My point is that things aren’t always what they seem. People are complex, issues are complex. Few social, political, or economic issues have a clear cut right or wrong stance because so many elements come into play on any given problem.

So instead of launching into principled tirades about X being awful or Y being the only solution, can we instead just embrace the gray area and focus on meaningful discussions about the problems we all seem to agree exist? I’m trying to teach my kids to question the world around them but when every form of media encourages us to take a firm stance and defend our position no matter how extreme it may be, I’m fighting an uphill battle. I don’t want kids who accept conclusory statements at face value, and whether you realize it or not, you probably don’t either. What we need is for the next generation to break away from what they think they should believe and focus on what is actually there, ideally while working towards a real solution, which, let’s face it, isn’t going to be black or white.

Rules of the Game

            “Parenting is so easy,” said No Parent Ever.

            Surely we can all agree on that premise, but there might be some disagreements as to the reasons why it’s such a challenge. Here’s my theory—as soon as you figure out what you’re doing parenting-wise with any given kid, they change the rules of the game.

            It’s kind of like playing “I Spy” with my toddler. I swear I taught her the actual rules, but every time we play (which is often, because toddlers never do something once when they could do it seven million times in a row), it goes a little something like this:

            Toddler: “I spy something you don’t see and the color is green.”

            Mom:   “Hmm…is it a…”

            Toddler: (interrupting before I can finish a thought) “It’s a giraffe!”

            Mom: (glancing out the window perplexed) “You see a green giraffe out the window?”

            Toddler: “Is it a bush?”

            Mom: “Wait, I’m supposed to guess.”

            Toddler: “Guess ‘tree’.”

            Mom: “Is it a tree?”

            Toddler: “No, it’s not a tree!”

            Mom: “Is it the grass?”

            Toddler: “Is it that sign?”

            Mom: “What? I’m trying to guess what you saw.”

            Toddler: “It’s a….da-da-da-da (yes, she actually does her own drumroll) TREE!!!”

In other words, while the game itself has rules, a toddler certainly does not follow them and at points it may even be unclear who is playing which role. That’s precisely how parenting works. As soon as you learn the rules of the game, the rules will change. Sometimes, you might even switch to a new game without realizing it.

            If you don’t believe me, sleep train your baby. Once she starts sleeping through the night, pat yourself on the back and think how glad you are that you followed the manual precisely and how all your hard work paid off. But don’t get all cocky and start staying up past your baby’s bedtime because I guarantee within a week, she’ll learn to crawl or stand or get a tooth or it will rain or there will be a full moon…and you’ll be back at square one with the night wakings.

            Have you mastered the art of getting your kindergartener to eat a food that doesn’t fall into the category of white starch? Good for you, but here’s a tip- don’t bother with the same tricks on your next kid. She’ll probably only want dairy products anyway.

            You can ask all your facebook friends for tips on getting your toddler to nap so she’s not a wreck when your second grader plays the 7pm soccer game. But beware- when she’s finally quiet and you start texting your friends to proudly announce that you got her to nap—she’s most likely layering all her swimsuits on top of each other, ripping the tape off every overnight diaper in the box, and seeing if she can fit all 100 loom bracelets on her arm in a row, not sleeping.

            Admit it- you didn’t fully master the morning pre-bus routine or the evening homework-dinner-sports circus until April or May, just in time to start training your kids to sleep past seven am. Spoiler alert: they’ll start sleeping in on or around August 1.

            My point is this: none of us knows what we are doing, even those of us who have so many kids that you’d assume we would have figured something out by this point in the game (although really, if we actually knew anything about kids, would we have intentionally had more than one?). So while your children will keep you guessing, sweating, and Googling right up until the day you die, take comfort in the knowledge that you’re not the only one trying to figure out what the heck is going on. So good luck, and may the best player win.

Death by Threenager

          In the grand scheme of early parenting, I’ve survived a lot. I made it through four REALLY rough pregnancies, four complicated emergency csections, and some liver and kidney failures thanks to my little cuties. I handled three thankfully brief NICU stays and the stress of preemies. Next, I endured colic. Not the witching-hour crying most babies get, but the full on 18 hours a day of inconsolable screaming that lasts five months (which, karmically speaking, is never supposed to happen with your fourth child. I mean come ON!). I even managed (so far) to endure 8+ years of sleep deprivation. I’ve dealt with severe reflux, developmental delays, teething, three rounds of potty training and two tearful (by me, not the kids) first days of kindergarten. 

            But this?

I. Just. Can’t.

            I should’ve known the threes wouldn’t be easy with a child who had her own hashtag at 13 months to label her mischievous stunts. And yet here I am, stunned at how inexplicably rotten an adorable twenty-seven pound creature can be. In my defense, she’s just so cute that it’s hard to envision the full breadth of her naughtiness. I mean, this is the kid who peacefully snuggled against me in a sling the first 8 months of her life. What happened to that sweet baby?

It’s not just the tantrums, or the stubbornness, or the scores of never-ending messes, or even the complete lack of logic or reasoning. I can accept that she may never willingly wear clothes and that I’ll always get to be THAT parent, wrestling my kid into clothes next to the car and then forcefully fastening her into her carseat before she can strip again. I’m okay with the fact that if I don’t feed her exactly what she wants in the exact red-colored bowl she wants—even if she tells me a different color the first 8 times—she may not eat a single bite of food for three days. I can even deal with the sassiness and the eye rolling that I suspect isn’t even developmentally feasible for most young threes.

What I can’t handle is that look—the way she glances at me when it’s like she really sees my soul. She knows exactly what I need her to do at that given moment and then she smiles, as sweetly as can be. Then she says that one short word: “No.” There’s a special glimmer in her eyes as she continues smiling and I can just hear her internal monologue taunting me “whatcha gonna do now, Mommypants?”

That’s just it. I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest clue how to tame her or what to do. And she freaking knows it.

            I know this is just a phase. I know someday she’ll wear socks without screaming like I’ve amputated her foot. I know someday I’ll drop her off at preschool and not feel like an enormous weight has been lifted. I know it will all get easier.

            You might be tempted to tell me that someday I’ll miss the toddler years, but let me just say I don’t need to hear that s**t now.

 Right now, what I need is an obscenely big glass of wine and some warmer weather so my threenager can play outside without the pants she refuses to wear.

DST = Daylight Savings Time or Day of Surviving Toddler?

 

            It seems no one likes daylight savings time changes, least of all parents. Trying to survive the DST change with a toddler is like trying to get through a zombie apocalypse. Well, except not only do you have to make sure the zombie doesn’t kill you but you also have to actually keep it fed, bathed, and safe.

            DST results in tired, cranky toddlers, and when kids lose sleep, well, that results in tired, cranky parents. Toddlers can sense weakness, and they will capitalize on it. That is why DST results in a particularly challenging day for parents.

            To help you celebrate this beloved (not) indicator of spring, here are 23 (in honor of the hours in this day) tantrums for your reading enjoyment, courtesy of my beloved toddler.

1.      5am tantrum because she can’t find the missing toy cupcake. Why are there toy cupcakes in her bed? Why is she awake at 5am which, incidentally feels a lot like 4am to my sleep-deprived time change body.

2.      7am tantrum because her pancakes are too big.

3.      7:02 tantrum because I cut her pancakes in response to the last tantrum (apparently she wanted small, whole pancakes).

4.      7:15 tantrum because she wants the silver remote to operate the Roku.

5.      7:30 crying because her swimsuit straps are twisted.

6.      7:34 angry because I dared attempt to help her with her swimsuit straps.

7.      7:35 really angry that her swimsuits are in time out after being thrown at my head.

8.      7:40 upset because I won’t let her pour her own milk.

9.      7:45 mad because it’s raining.

10.  8:15 randomly shouting “stop saying that” to the unsuspecting narrator on Super Why.

11.  8:30 politely requests a snack of goldfish. Then insists on getting it herself. Drags bar stool to pantry, climbs onto it then begins to scale remaining pantry shelves. I point out that her snacks are on the bottom shelf (easily reachable sans chair). Launches self off chair onto top shelf and shrieks like a monkey when I attempt to pull her down.

12.  8:40 removes all toys from baby’s reach because “she’s not using them right.” When I explain babies play and learn differently from big girls, she begins writhing on the floor screaming “stop putting that in your mouth Bella!”

13.  9am heads upstairs and dresses self in blue velour sweatpants and matching zip up hooded sweatshirt, no shirt underneath (if you’re picturing a 70s porn mogul here, you’ve got the right image). I attempt to brush her hair and the brush—along with all others in the home—are hidden.

14.  9:30 we head outside to play. She takes off down the street on her tricycle while I’m still fastening baby into the stroller. I catch her and take her back to the driveway, prompting the tantrum.

15.  9:40 she is too hot in her sweatshirt so she takes it off. I tell her we need to go get a tee shirt to put on because she can’t play outside topless (particularly with 12 construction workers next door now gawking). Cue the tantrum.

16.  9:45 While we are inside looking for a shirt, she finds a bra and asks to try it on. Then she proceeds to throw a tantrum because her “boobies are too little.”

17.  10am I hand her goldfish in a bowl in hopes that the tantrums are a result of low blood sugar. Bowl is thrown at my head.

18.  10:03 Just as toddler is completing her time out, I notice the massive puddle surrounding her.  I see that she has peed, soaking herself and her surroundings, and ask why she didn’t go to the potty. She says “because my time wasn’t up in time out yet” with a knowing smirk on her face.  Well played, Toddler, well played.

19.  10:30 We take a shower. She throws a fit because the water is “too wet.”

20.  10:45 Another tantrum because her hooded towel “superhero cape” keeps tripping her as she sprints back and forth down the hall, much like the dog does after her bath.

21.  11am We are working on a Sesame Street puzzle, and she can’t get an end piece to fit in the middle where she wants it to go. Puzzle piece is thrown.

22.  11:15 I’m feeding baby and she’s eating lunch. Or so I think. Actually, she’s painting her toe nails. With lip gloss. I spot her, and she takes off sprinting, trekking the lip gloss all over the floors.

23.  12:30 tantrum over nap time because she’s “really and truly not tired yet, Mama.” Ummm yeah…

 

There you have it folks. Now we have just a few months to get adjusted to the new time and then we can do this all over again come fall!