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!

Motherhood the Mess

 

Motherhood is messy.  There’s no denying that, although we moms spend lots of time and money trying to hide that truth.  And motherhood is messy in all the ways that are encompassed by the word “messy.”  I tend to think of the term in the sense of untidy or dirty, but “messy” also means confused, muddled, chaotic, disorganized, confused, cluttered, disordered, and in disarray.  I can’t think of a better word to capture my experience as a mom.

Motherhood is messy from the actual childbirth, which is messy both in the sense that a lot of cleanup is required after and in the chaotic, confused, meaning of the term.  And I’m guessing that motherhood will continue to be messy right until the day you ship that kiddo off to college only to realize there are 18 years of dust bunnies and old mementos stuck under their bed at home.

My early parenting days were filled with spit up, spilled bottles, leaky boobs, and of course, baby poop.  Anyone who has never lost sleep analyzing the frequency, color, and texture of another person’s bowel movements is clearly not a mom.  When you have a baby, your house is a mess.  There are baby toys and equipment everywhere, diapers, wipes, onesies, bibs, and so forth, but there’s also all the non-baby stuff that is just all sprawled out everywhere simply because you don’t have the time or energy to pick up.

The mom of the baby is also necessarily a mess.  I remember the day I thought I had it all together as I returned to work only to realize halfway through the day that the rancid smell I’d noticed several times was dried spit up caked over the back of my shoulder from that last hug I stole before leaving the house.  I had milk stains on many of my shirts and on more than one occasion, I actually had baby poop somewhere on my clothes or person. 

When I just had one infant, I assumed the mess would improve as my child grew.  It didn’t.  To be sure, the mess changed. The toddler years brought much less spit up, but more spills and, although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, even more poop. I realized that, whereas the chaos of a baby could at least be contained as long as you could physically strap the infant in a carseat, there are days where nothing can contain a willful, independent toddler. As a mom of a toddler, I was always running behind. Some days, it was because she needed to do “it” by herself, the “it” changing day to day but generally involving getting dressed, making breakfast, tying shoes, or some other developmentally impossible task. Other days, I was late because I had finally found a moment of peace—the baby napping, the toddler happily playing or watching TV, and I couldn’t stand the thought of ending it a moment too soon. As a toddler mom, I am also constantly one step behind. As my toddler begins to wreak havoc on the playroom, I’m still picking up the cheerios she upended in the pantry. By the time she moves on to play-doh, I’m still re-creating the Lego tower masterfully crafted by her sisters that she knocked over while twirling in the playroom.

As my oldest reached preschool, the mess changed again. Now she was old enough to not only create messes, but to create an even bigger mess by attempting to clean up on her own. By elementary school, the mess began to include dozens of papers brought home each day which my kids mourn like lost puppies when they are recycled. Of course it doesn’t help that as my oldest reaches this new phase of messiness, I still have children in the preschool, toddler, and baby stages of mess.

Suffice it to say, I’ve given up. I mean, I’ll still spend hours each week wiping the same dirty counters, picking up the same toys, tidying the same fort walls formerly known as my couch pillows, and sanitizing the same area on the floor around the toilet. But for the next eighteen years, I’m just going to embrace the mess. I’ll keep trying to be on time. I’ll keep trying to have a car that doesn’t look like a trash can spilled in it. And of course I’ll keep trying to figure out some master plan for controlling the chaos in my house and brain, but I doubt I’ll succeed at any of that. Why? Because motherhood is messy and that’s just how it is supposed to be. Just as it takes our children eighteen years to grow and figure out their place in the world as adults, it takes us moms the same amount of time to grow and figure out our place in the world as moms.   

I still on occasion notice another mom whose kids are wearing weather-appropriate, matching clothes, who is arriving on time to preschool, and who has clearly showered and put real clothes on herself, and I wonder how she has it so together.  Then, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve ever come across to anyone as that mom who has it all together.  Well, on the off chance that’s the case, here’s the truth: I am a mess.  My kids almost always look like they got dressed in the dark.  Some weeks they only get one bath.  I’m never on time to anyplace anymore.  I can’t remember the last time I showered in the morning.  I abuse coffee and diet coke to compensate for lack of sleep.  On more than one occasion, I’ve awoken in the morning and found popcorn stuck in my nursing bra from my bedtime snack.   

I swear like a sailor, spend nights worrying over the dumbest things, and have actually driven past my own house more than once because I’m so tired or distracted.  I can eat an entire bag of jelly beans without a belly ache and only feel a little guilty when I enter all 8 servings into My Fitness Pal.  If you come over and my kitchen looks clean, I promise you the laundry room, mudroom, and/or loft are overflowing with crap.

So what? This is the mess that comes with four amazing little girls. It’s my mess and I love it.

Someday

            My youngest is not an easy baby. She came into this world early, and instead of spending those first few days snuggling with her, I whispered to her over the beeps of her many NICU monitors, pumped around the clock in her sterile hospital room, and struggled to hold her despite the many tubes and wires sustaining her tiny body. She has reflux and colic and cries more than any baby I’ve ever known. She nurses incessantly then spits up most of her feedings. She doesn’t smile or play like other babies her age because of her prematurity.

The challenge of the past twelve weeks has been overwhelming and exhausting. At times like this, it can be hard to find the goodness in life, but as a mom to four children, I know a secret: It won’t always be this way.

            Someday she won’t snuggle against my stomach for a peaceful nap after nursing.

Someday I won’t be able to strap her to my chest while we shop.

Someday her cries won’t remind me of a bleating sheep.

Someday she’ll talk instead of coo.

Someday she won’t need me to hold her all day.

Someday she’ll stop pooping so loudly she wakes herself from a deep sleep.

Someday she won’t let me kiss her tummy after every diaper change.

Someday she’ll be too big to squeeze inside my coat on cold mornings at the bus stop.

Someday she won’t let me kiss the top of her head and breathe in her perfect baby scent. Someday she won’t even have that perfect baby scent.

Someday she’ll outgrow her miniature baby tub. Someday she’ll outgrow baths altogether.

Someday I’ll nervously wait for her to return home late at night instead of rocking in a dark nursery with her.

Someday her hair won’t rest smoothly across her tiny head like the fuzz on a peach.

Someday her cries will be less frequent but harder to soothe.

Someday she’ll insist I sing the same song fourteen times in a row. Someday she won’t let me sing to her at all.

Someday these tiny moments will be distant memories I’ll recall with a smile and a tear as I flip through photo albums. 

I refuse to wait until that day to treasure these precious moments. When it’s three a.m. and I’m covered in spit-up, pacing the room with a screaming baby and counting the minutes until the other kids wake for the day, it’s hard to appreciate the moment. So I take a deep breath, kiss that sweet baby’s head, and remind myself that someday, I’ll miss this day.