Crash Test Mommy

Crash Test Mommy Driver's License Pic :)

It’s almost 9PM as I plop down on the couch for the first time that day without something I HAVE to do.  As I zone out looking at the ceiling, the only uncluttered space in the house, a Acura commercial comes on.  A researcher is testing vehicle safety, placing dummies in a car, but this time they look like him and his family.  You can see the concern on his face as they barrel toward the wall.  A striking commercial for sure, but I was struck by the “Mom”.  I could relate to her. How many times have I felt myself, metaphorically, racing toward a wall – a crash test mommy.

My walls are a less obvious than the steely one in the commercial, adorned with warning symbols and caution tape.  Mine are the deadlines, events and obligations that dot my calendar, or sometimes the pressure I impose on myself to be the parent I think I’m supposed to be.

There is no formal training to be a mom.  No Bachelors in Momology or Master in Mommyhood. You can learn what you see from your parents, friends, and long winded parenting self help books, but we’re all alone in applying that knowledge and the results are sometimes less than desirable.

By some miracle, I’ve avoided an all out collision with one of these walls.  But I can’t count the number of times the fenders have been bendered. 

The whole purpose of being a crash test dummy, or mommy, is to collect data to improve performance, right?  Or at the very least, find the lowest possible acceptable level you can maintain without people wondering if they should call in professional help. So far the crash test mommy data has uncovered some interesting discoveries:

 1.        Laundry creates a soft landing.
If something has got to give, it’s going to be laundry.  The kids can wear mismatched socks and “flood’s coming” jeans – although preferably not together, for obvious reasons. And no one will die if they have to wear the same PJs three days in a row. 

2.       Don’t work so hard on dinner.
Sure, occasionally I want to make a prep heavy, “nice” dinner – lasagna, meatloaf, roast with taters and gravy, baked chicken etc., but don’t do it for the sake of the children.  They’ll always be more excited to see pizza, tacos or hamburgers on the table.

3.       The little things are way more important than the big things.
If you mess up and disappoint your kid during a holiday or birthday, it’ll sting and you’ll feel the impact of it like that steel wall, but the kids will move on in a matter of moments.  However, if you consistently fail on a small thing: bedtime snuggles, the note in the lunch box, or forgetting to get the granola bars they like in three consecutive visits to the store. You may think it’s a not big deal (or even notice the mistake) but the kid will feel forgotten.

4.       Plans are for amateurs.
But old habits die hard, so I still waste time trying to control the uncontrollable with detailed, timed, list inspiring plans, only to have them run over by that car I’m trapped in.  Plans are like the toddler’s security blanket clutched so tightly until he notices everyone else is off having a wildly fun time.  So he leaves the blankey lying on the ground by his overturned sippy cup and joins in.  The plans just need to be forgotten.

5.       Work: But did you die?
Sure it’s embarrassing to perform below your abilities at work, especially when others notice, but usually (in most professions) even messing up a project in every way possible won’t result in your demise.  Sometimes good enough is good enough.  You can always try selling the mess up as “thinking outside the box”.   Managers love that.  Of course some professionals (doctors, pilots, cops etc) should ignore this completely and absolutely not mess up.

When it comes to those walls that keep appearing as I’m flying through life at a 100MPH, I wonder who’s got it out for me. Then I realize, I can only blame myself:

The person who would rather paint 210 Dalmatian spots on a white sweat suit and sew a fleece headband with ears (finishing seconds before he has to leave for school) to make my youngest’s Halloween costume, than shell out $20 for the Disney version.  The person who likes to make pizza from scratch rather than buy the $3.99 frozen version.  Or write notes for every lunch box, every day, or give into the begging child that wants to do one more after school activity, or insist on going a bit nuts with the cake and décor for the kids birthdays.  It’s all on me.

This afternoon the kids and I were talking about what we should make for Christmas cookies and treats – now I have a list of caramels, two kinds of truffles, 4 kinds of cookies, and a handful of other must make Christmas treats – all to be made in the next three weeks.  I can feel the acceleration already.

It’s okay to want to try and be the best at work and home.  It’s okay to load up the calendar and only get a chance to breathe at 9 o’clock in the evening… as long as you get a chance to enjoy all the effort you put into all that you do. 

Just over the horizon I can see the next wall being built.  In couple weeks the chaos of Christmas, with its last minute shopping, baking and wrapping, will be in full swing.  At this point I can only hope to avoid a full on crash into that festive wall, and instead, maybe land on a nice, soft, heaping pile of dirty laundry.  The truffles will make it all worthwhile.   

Dad's a Wonderful Guy

My Dad and I as Beetlejuice
for Halloween in the late 80's

"Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" "Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" That's what he would make us yell, his very own version of "Mercy!" during tickle fights, whisker burn, or my favorite, the "stop hitting yourself" game where he'd control our arms and make us bonk ourselves on the head, all in good fun. No amounts of "Stop! I'm going to pee my pants!" or "I think I'm going to puke!" shouted through fits of giggles would release us.

And it’s true, my Dad is a wonderful guy.  He’s also hilarious, a great storyteller, a hard worker, critical thinker and so much more, it only made sense to share a bit of my appreciation for my pop on Father’s Day.

My Dad was outnumbered from the start, having three girls to deal with before he finally got a boy.  But he didn’t let us be prissy girls and some of my fondest memories are of my Dad packing up all of us kids and taking us to fish off the shore on Bald Eagle Lake.  He taught us how to cast, bait our hooks, even dig a hook out of a fish’s gut.  And when we were old enough, about 11 or 12, he taught us how to clean them. Skills I don’t use often enough lately, but I’m still grateful for them.  

At about that age we got to cut down little trees with handsaws at our family’s tree farm, drag them to a brush pile and in the cleared areas, plant hundreds of little Black Walnut saplings. It was hard work, but pretty cool to see a forest that we planted.  He’d take us to the park to practice basketball in the small indoor court, which was usually occupied by a half dozen tall black guys playing full court, most under 6 foot white guys with 3 or 4 kids in tow would have been nervous about asking them to share the court, and they weren’t going to unless you pushed the issue, but not my Dad.  Us kids would spend the next hour or so practicing lay ups and free throws while my Dad impressed anyone watching by hitting three point and half court shots, we also learned you have to ask for what you want, and a confidence goes a long way.

My Dad was always serious about us trying and doing our best, when we played softball he’d be out in the yard playing catch with us, or the whole family would hit the park to bat and field.  In school A+’s were a must, and boy, we tried.  We all did well, even if it wasn’t all A+’s, but Dad never let us get too proud of ourselves, he was kind of our anti-ego.  He always thought we could do better, and because of that we always tried.  It may seem a bit harsh, but if you think you’re the best, you might use it as an excuse to stop learning and growing.

My Dad was in charge of teaching us about all things with wheels, I remember vividly trying to learn how to ride a bike.  We lived on a busy road in St. Paul and our backyard sloped down to our garage.  We spent many a terrified, tearful try rolling accelerating (without even having to pedal) toward the man door of the garage as we tried to learn to ride, I think that was called motivation.  Years later he taught me how to drive, the terror was all his this time, 20 years later he’ll still bring up our death-defying trip to my first drivers test, when I took a 25MPH clover leaf exit at 60MPH on two wheels.  Not sure what the big deal was…we made it just fine, didn’t quite pass my test though.

I inherited a lot from my Dad, I remember being 8 years old, standing the length of the kitchen from my parents trying to read a box of Raisin Bran and discovering I had my Dad’s bad eyesight. I spent the rest of my childhood wearing chunky, plastic framed glasses looking like an animated cartoon bug.

I also got his sense of fun and humor, from making up silly songs, to teasing the kids.  You haven’t heard “Tip toe through the tulips” until you’ve heard my Dad sing it.  He also has his own “special” (loud and crazy) way to sing Happy Birthday to the grand kids.  Every once in a while, a quiet afternoon would erupt into full blast “Black Magic Woman” by Santana and “Hair” by the Cowsills when my Dad decided to put his old records on, and us kids thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I also inherited my Dad’s ability to worry oneself sick, as evidenced by my acid reflux and TUMS soaring stock prices.  In the pre-cell phone era, my sister and I worked. I was at a grocery store and my sister at Kmart, just up the road.  My sister didn’t drive, so I was often her ride.  One night I got off at 9PM and because my sister wasn’t done until 10PM I just hung out for a bit.  My Dad, expecting us home shortly after 9PM went into panic mode and decided to go out looking for us. By the time he got to Kmart we were already on our way home, safe and sound.  He didn’t have to worry so much, we were good kids.  And we’d do anything to avoid a vein bulging, butt chewing from Dad. 

While I don’t have a bulging forehead vein, I hope, I realized I had my Dad’s temperament the day I heard myself yelling about tiny scraps of paper, one of his biggest complaints. The paper was the kind that falls off the edge of a sheet of notebook paper when you pull it free from the wire.  Trying to keep the house clean with a pack of kids is nearly impossible, and I started to see scraps of paper everywhere.  They must be invisible to kids, I never noticed them when I was young and my kids sure don’t see them.  I had to laugh and call my dad to tell him I could finally see the little scraps of paper.

My Dad’s also the perspective behind my politics, although he’s never preached to us, he’d just point us in the direction of the information and let us come up with our own conclusions.  He still sends us articles to read, and if ever the subject comes up on the phone, the next hour and a half is always an impromptu “solve the world’s problems” brain storming session.

You know how they say “Work smart, not hard”?  My Dad works smart and hard, which rubbed off on all of us kids, we don’t make excuses when there is a job to be done.  He’s also a handyman; an electrician by trade, but a mechanic, plumber, and contractor when need be.  He added on to our childhood homes so each of us could have our own rooms, he made us all dressers, one of which is still used by my daughter today.  Now that he’s retired, he takes requests, making toy-sized wooden garages for my boys, a baby cradle for all the granddaughters, picnic tables for each of us and more.

As I see my husband try to balance work with time for the kids, I realize the struggle my Dad endured to make sure we had a great dad and role model, and that we were prepared for the world when it was time to take it on ourselves.

He even found a little fun in that preparation, when it was time to head off to college, my Dad did the “here’s how to check oil/fill washer fluid/change tire” refresher course. He also put a bucket in the trunk with supplies we may need: sand, tire gauge, air pump, rag, etc.  It was only after I had been gone awhile that I went to check the oil and found the rag was an old pair of his tighty whities, which were only made more hilarious with a big brown streak of oil on them.

You should meet my Dad, he’s a funny, smart, strong, wonderful guy. Thanks Dad, for all you do and all you’ve taught me over the years!

Building Character One Crappy Parenting Moment at a Time.

I think most of us start out thinking we are going to really ace this parenting thing.  How hard could it be?  You just have to love them and teach them right from wrong and they'll turn out perfect, right? But that first sleepless night when your darling infant refuses to accept love, and pleading, and endless boob as a good enough reason to go to sleep, you may have realized this wasn't going to be a piece of cake.

The slow-learner parents might not realize this until a year and a half later when their angry toddler refuses to take "no" for an answer and an epic battle of wills follows, ending with a sobbing heap of parent and a giggling toddler flinging applesauce and eating those smelly fruit puff things, because... well, because the winner in a battle of wills is the one without the to-do list.

Over my past decade of parentdom, there have been many times when, my child(ren) refuse to accept my wise guidance, my incessant pleading, or loud - dare I say - yelled instructions, and I've said and done things that I wish I could take back or do-over.  Many of those times, the kids have deserved a do-over.  But there is no pause or rewind in parenting, and maybe in the minor ways that is for the best.

I was pondering this the other day, as I often ponder things.  After a not so "gold star" mom moment, I thought, wouldn't it be great if time could be returned, like the ill-fitting pair of jeans I impulsively pulled off the clearance rack and bought without trying on first?  You could just grab your receipt for a crappy parenting moment and Father Time would pony-up a few fresh minutes that you could use a little wiser, or a little nicer?

But nothing is so simple... here's where this blog turns into more of a story... [roll dream sequence footage here... everything is wavy, and there are chimes!]

An old man sits behind a simple counter with a small cash register.  His face is a web of wrinkles carved so deep into his flesh you wonder if they hurt.  A beard, frizzled and white, falls from his face, ending somewhere behind the counter, just barely revealing the ironic "Got Time?" logo on his standard issue customer service polo shirt.

As I approach the counter I can see that while time has left its mark on his skin, hair and stature, it has spared his eyes, which remain bright and wise and kind.

He watches as I place my purse on the counter, waiting.

I feel a bit nervous and stumble over my words as I dig through my purse.  "I'd like to return some time", I say, "Can I return some time?"

"Depends", replies the Old Man, "If it was truly poorly spent, I'd consider it, I suppose."

I pull out the first receipt, "Oh.." I say, "this was one of many times where I had to work and the kids were bored, If I had this time back, I'd spend it doing something they'd enjoy, or maybe something educational?"

The Old Man studies the receipt and passes it back to me.  "I can't return this." He explains, "this was educational.  Your children learned that life isn't always fun and games but it takes work and dedication.  That's a valuable lesson they're learning."

"Okay." I say skeptically, "I understand, but what about this..." I pull out another receipt, a long one. "This is all the times my children have hurt themselves in some minor way, and I told them to "walk it off" or "you'll live".  Surely I should have been more of a doting mother, tending to every paper cut and scratch, right?"

The Old Man laughed, "Did they live?"

"Yes."

"Then they learned that they can pick themselves up when they fall. You can't always be there for them.  You don't really want to return that do you?" he asks.

"No, I suppose not."  I agree.  I dig through my purse determined to find some time he'd return.

"Oh! This one!  You've got to agree this one is bad, I burdened the kids with a problem that was above their age range." I explain, "Money, house, car, people issues, I've probably given them too much information regarding all of them!"

The Old Man thinks for a moment, I thought I had finally got one, until he slid the receipt back across the counter.  "No." he says, "Of course it's not ideal to make kids worry about grown up things, but none of these are out of their realm of understanding, and a little reality when they are little will make a lot of reality easier for them to handle when they are grown."

I frown. Man this old guy is tough! Frustrated, I start lining up my remaining receipts, "What about this one?  The time I didn't take time to admire their art work?  Or this one, my poor kid had a nervous breakdown at the table when I made him eat his peas?  Or this - when I didn't let my daughter go to a party and it broke her heart?  You've got to admit these are..."

"Not returnable." He interrupts, pointing at each receipt he explains, "When you didn't have time to look, he had time to be proud of himself without others approval, and this one, well... peas are good for you..."

"That's what I said!"

"And this one? There are other parties right?"

I nod.

"And she learned that missing out on a little fun here and there isn't the end of the world."

"Right, Okay..." I say, "but, I saved the worst for last...."

"Alright." says the Old Man, "Let's see it."

I gingerly pull the last receipt from my bag and slide it across the counter. "This happens more than I'd like to admit."  Feeling ashamed I explain.  "I often can't shake a bad mood and it effects the way I treat people, including my kids.  If the work is piling up, or I have an annoying client hounding me, or nothing is getting done around the house, I get short tempered and snappy and have literally  no patience for what is really normal kid behavior.  No amount of taking deep breaths seems to help and I feel terrible for my tone and attitude when they deserve better."

"I see." says the man looking at the receipt.  He opens a drawer behind the counter and takes out a pen.  Finally! I think. At least I'll get a second chance to right this wrong.

Taking his time he scribbles something on the receipt and slides it back to me.  Before he removes his hand he asks "Do your children know you love them?"

I nod.  He releases the receipt and I read what he's written.  In shaky old man handwriting I see "No Returns. All Time is Final."

I look up at him confused and a little annoyed.

"Every day I sit at this desk and decline those who want to turn back the clocks, my clocks." he says.

"But... but why do you have a return desk?"

"Because," he explains.  "its important to review your life's moments, especially the ones you're not proud of, so that you can learn from them and decide how you'll react when you encounter those situations again in the future."

I nod.

"And," he continues, "most often the moments you feel you're failing as a parent are the moments your kids are learning the most valuable lessons.  They can learn their ABCs and 123s from anyone, but they need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love."

They need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love.

"Their trust and belief in your unconditional love lets them see past the tone that comes with your bad mood.  It teaches them empathy... and," he says with a chuckle "when to run their little butts to their room and quickly clean it before mom really blows her top."

I smile.

"The best parents not only worry about their mistakes, but they own them.  Take time after the moment has passed to explain or apologize and in return teach your children the most important lesson, that being perfect is not possible, but being accountable is."

As I stand there wrapping my mind around his wisdom, the old man starts to fade away, before he's gone he says "Your flaws build their character."

[Insert wavy coming out of a dream sequence and chimes here]

Our flaws build their character.

Imagine how little the child of a perfect parent would know.

Trying to be the best parent is still the goal, of course, but when I inevitably mess up, I don't need to save the receipt in hopes that I can get a re-do on that moment someday.  I can own it. I can explain it and I can apologize when necessary.  Saying "sorry" doesn't fix mistakes, but explaining them builds a base of understanding.  With that base, my kids will learn compassion, empathy and a way to understand people, not by what their actions are, but why they do those actions. And hopefully, this knowledge will help them to grow up to be better parents, and people, than we are.

My Mom is...Magic

When you’re a kid it’s easy to name the best qualities of your mom.  Usually they are scrawled in crayon on Mother’s Day projects sent home with your first grader or kindergartner.  Simple things like “she’s nice”, “she’s funny”, “she helps me”, or “she’s a good cooker” as my youngest says.  As you get older it gets harder to put into words what makes your mom great, because it’s less about what she can do and more about what she has done for you – how she made you great.

It's impossible to describe with words the amazing lady who made me.   I have one of those moms that’s good at everything, which makes it a real challenge to be “just like mom”.   She reminds me of Barbara Eden on “I Dream of Jeannie”.  Whatever you need she can wiggle her ears (instead of her nose) and get it done.

My mom raised four kids too, except she had three girls and one boy.  We were fairly confident kids, we new mom was there, but never overbearing.  I don’t ever remember my mom complaining either, even though I’m sure we were worth a “good long complain” a few times a week.

She taught us early how to do the dishes, sweep the floors and do our own laundry.  Maybe it’s because I have more boys, but I haven’t been as lucky in teaching mine.  They love to do the chores, but if left unsupervised, they go a bit overboard – using a quarter inch of water to clean the floor, or a half bottle of dawn just to rinse the dishes before they go in the dishwasher, and at least 18 paper towels to clean up the smallest spill.

My mom had patience beyond what I can muster.  As she created craft sale items, she’d set us up to make our own little projects – decorative pins, hair bows, painted things, boo boo bunnies, and she’d let us sell them at the show and keep the money.  I still drag out the a good ol’ glue gun and a tin of buttons to make a masterpiece or two with the kids, but when a button ends up glued to the table, and the tin gets tipped, spilling the rest to the floor, I’d rather call it quits than laugh it off.   She always let us decorate the cookies for the holidays, and painstakingly paint molds with candy melts to make fancy Christmas chocolates. She’d even put the splotchy, hideous ones we made out on the tray for Grandma’s house, so we could show them off.

My mom taught me the right way to play with your food – like creating pancakes in any shape we can imagine.   I’ve gotten pretty good at making pancake snowmobiles, 4-wheelers and princess crowns. I also remember all of us kids crowding around her, mesmerized as Mom carved a watermelon into an animal shaped fruit bowl and hand-decorated whatever we wanted on our birthday cakes.

Mom is quite the seamstress, making us clothes when we were little, as well as Halloween costumes, and  holiday dresses – letting us pick our own patterns and fabrics at the fabric store.  She even made our school uniforms and my wedding dress and all my bridesmaids’ dresses.

She walked me through crocheting a dress for my baby doll when I was about 12.  Taught me how to sew, cook, balance a checkbook, and even got us “jobs” at her jobs – mostly filing - during our Christmas and Spring breaks, but we loved feeling so responsible.

I realize now how my mom could have done things easier and faster by herself, but she always took the time, as excruciating as it might have been, to let us do and learn. I forget to do this sometimes, when dinner is already late, or I have a million things to accomplish and not a million hours to do them .  But the best way to learn is to do and my mom did this well – she continues her admirable patience with the grandkids now, letting them each add their ingredient to the pancake batter and mix it in, when she could just dump them all in at once.

Even now that we’re grown, my Mom is always there for us. In college my laptop wasn’t working and was sent in to be repaired.  When Best Buy wouldn’t fess up to what happened to it, it was gone longer than it should have been, and multiple visits to pick it up only resulted in lies and excuses,  my mom went to the customer service desk and in her perfected Queen Bee tone, told them they were producing my computer or getting me a new one.  After scaring the pants off the poor service guy, he confessed my computer was being held hostage due to a bankruptcy at the company that was supposed to repair it and I walked out of there with a new computer.  I must learn this skill!

And when my first child was born, she came to help for a few days, it was such a relief to have a pro on-site when you’re worried about doing everything wrong.   She came for the next three arrivals too, watching the siblings-to-be and keeping them busy when I came home with a new little one.  She stayed only a few days, as we settled into a new routine.  Then she’d float away like Mary Poppins leaving a well-prepared house behind.  I shed a few tears each time she left.  Partly hormones, I’m sure, but mostly because I was so grateful to have a mom willing to give not just her time, but care, comfort, and a clean house, at a time when I couldn't really give anything in return (unless you count the new grandchild).  And she always made it look so easy.  I hope I can return that favor to my kids someday.

Maybe the best way to describe my Mom is “Magic”.  I’m in the midst of this mom thing and I’m still not sure how the trick works. But I’m getting an idea.  As parents we have an audience all the time.  We are the show, and our biggest fans, who may occasionally get a little rowdy and throw tomatoes, are mostly mesmerized by what we moms can do.

The magic of mommyhood isn’t from fairy dust or some lucky kid rubbing a lamp to find an ear-wiggling genie.  It’s love.  Plain and simple.  It’s love in every handmade Halloween costume and decorated birthday cake.  In every time I didn't have to eat the Lima Beans.  And that night we spent changing each other’s scribbles into pictures.  In every time I pick up a crochet hook, sewing needle or spatula and think “my mom taught me this”.  And, when I sing to my kids and remember all of us in the living room singing “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree”, trying to get my little brother, Ricky, to fall asleep.  Your actions, patience and all the effort you put into teaching us was the best kind of love, and it made us the capable and maybe even a little bit magical adults we are today.

Thanks Mom, for being “magic” for me, and now the grandkids. I’m still mesmerized

Hobbies for Moms with No Time to Have Hobbies

Sometimes in the process of deep cleaning (the scary, spiders are a real possibility, kind), you find things that surprise you. Pieces of yourself that have either been forgotten or put away "for a bit", that instead end up lost behind the vacuum, extra sheets and some interesting wedding gifts for an eternity.

On a mission to find some rummage sale donations, I found some of these... my old hobbies.

As I dug through our big basement closet for a tote full of garage sale left overs, I came upon my old
high school sketch pad.  As I looked through it I was surprised by how good I was.  Over the years I've bought new pads and pencils, planning to draw again, and out of about 8 pads I've used a grand total of 0 pages.  Not for lack of wanting, mostly just a lack of time or at the very least timing.  The kids make up for it though, using every page - so at least those $10/50 sheet pads of paper aren't wasted...

As I dug deeper, I found a half finished needlepoint, a whole tote of yarn, a box of oil paints, brushes and a half finished canvas, a box of VHS aerobics tapes.  There were probably a notebook or two of poetry in there too.  A whole closet of things I did when I had nothing to do.

And yes, I do realize I have the hobbies of an older middle-aged woman.  I also have a collection of decorative plates, what does that say about me?  If I had a half dozen cats and 25 days worth of ugly Christmas sweaters I could probably inspire a skit on Saturday Night Live. Luckily I derailed the crazy cat-lady train when I got married and had kids.

That's also when I realized that free time is taken for granted in the pre-kid years.  Meals aren't timed by impending tantrums.  You can pick up a book and spend an hour reading without interruption.  You might even just slip on your shoes and take a walk, without a plan, supplies or a half an hour spent looking for one small shoe.

I didn't intend to quit my hobbies when the kids came along, but it was just easier than trying to do them while being interrupted...every time.  Juice splatters on the sketch pad, tiny hands trying to tip the turpentine and not a single second of silence to ponder poetry or read a book. I traded wilderness photo shoots for candid baby shots, and aerobics for 100 reps of "pick up the toy and return it to the child in the high chair".  I still get to be creative with birthday cakes, decorations, and Halloween costumes, but all my hobbies now have a kid element.

Some parents manage to keep their hobbies post-kid, I get a mini guilt attack going for a walk and leaving the bedtime duties to dad.

Hobbies make people interesting, they give you something to talk about, to share with others, and since I don't have time to squeeze in some glamorous activities to make me seem cool and worldly, I decided to make some of what I have to do everyday my new hobbies, including:

1. Professional Driving.
   Whether I'm headed to school, the store or back home, the kids are loaded and locked, the radio is under my control and nobody can get into anything, what's not to love.
   
2. Repeating Myself.
   If I say it once, I say it 4 to 8 times. This hobby is a bit tedious, I'm considering giving it up and getting a parrot or digging a large valley between the living room and the kids bedroom so when I yell "Clean your room!" it will echo a few times at their end and I won't have to do it myself.
   
3. Yelling. 
   I think before I had kids there were years in a row when I didn't yell once, now with just a few years of practice I'm able to reach volumes and tones beyond my wildest imagination. I can also project not only sound but a sense of urgency loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
   
    
4. Making PB&J Sandwiches.
   I challenge anyone on Food Network to take on my PB&J skills.  Of course, I'd lose because JIF, Welch's Grape and Target brand white bread does not a Next Food Network Star make, but the efficiency of my sandwich assembly is a sight to be seen.
   
    
5. Saying NO.
   From the simple "No" to more sarcastic "Ahhhhhhh No." and occasionally the rapid machine gun firing "No no no nonononono NO!"  My faves include the "interrupting no": "Mom can I.." "No." and "read my mind no": "What do you think...." "No?" "Right." The "Art of the No" is an ancient one, but a challenge worth investing some time into.
   
6. Reading the same books over and over and over. 
   Which leads to other hobbies just to cope with the 14th night in a row of "Little Blue Truck", for example: singing books that weren't intended to be songs - if it rhymes it's fair game.  And reading books with accents and changing the words - Oh, you didn't know Curious George was Italian? Now you do.
   
7. I said.... Repeating Myself!
   Sorry... it's just a habit.
   
8. Questioning kids' cartoons. 
   
   
   Why does Mickey wear pants and Donald wear a shirt? Why is Goofy a dog that acts like a person and Pluto a dog that acts like a dog?  Why does Daniel Tiger's home have tiger patterned window curtains.  If I had human skin pattern curtains people would be totally freaked out, but PBS must think this is fine.
   
9. Clock Watching. 
   10 minutes to lunch... that'll keep them quiet for 7 minutes. 3 hours to bedtime, I can do this.  I. Can. Do. This.
   
10. Karaoke.
    Because sometimes I want an audience that isn't picking their noise, telling me to be quiet, or interrupting me at my favorite part of a song every single time.  And I don't have a real mic at home.
    
11. Thinking about wine way more than I actually drink it.  
    I wish I could be more dedicated to an actual wine drinking hobby, but since it's one of the more expensive ones I want to make sure to give it my all - so I don't drink when I'm tired or when I know I can't finish the bottle, so that's pretty much not a lot.
    
12. Sharing my kids mischief, mistakes and occasionally their cuteness and achievements for all of social media to enjoy.
    I figure, since I made them I own the copyrights to everything they do and say until they are 18 and I better take advantage of it while they are still too young to retaliate.
    

Someday I'll get back to drawing, photography, writing poems that don't have potty words in them. Until then I'll focus on perfecting my mom hobbies and hope they make me just interesting enough that I don't have to get a cat and a closet full of Christmas sweaters.

9 Ways Love Hurts When You're a Mom

Watch your back, the floor, and your heart when these guys are around.

No woman plans for having a child without expecting a little pain, and most little ones don't disappoint in arriving with a soul splitting dose of ouch, but it's the hurt that follows that moms aren't prepared for.  The mom truth is, unconditional love hurts ... as the song goes loves scars, love wounds and mars...

Here's just a few of the many ways:

1. The Newborn Burn
   Stitches, hemorrhoids, tender tatas... those first few weeks are the pop quiz of Mom pain and you forgot to prepare, even when the birth injuries start to heal, that darling 7-8-9-10lb baby in a few weeks will be a 9-10-11-12 pounder and hauling that darling and their endless gear is a "feel the burn" kind of workout that doesn't end for a good 2 years.
   
2. Brutal Babies
   One day your child is a sweet snugly angel, sucking on her clinched fists, swaddled in your arms, the next day the arms are flailing and those clinched fists have become velcro mitts ready to grab and grasp anything with in reach.  Favorites include: your ears, handfuls of hair, your nose, your favorite necklace and occasionally they'll get in a good eye poke or head butt to your mouth or nose and you're left looking like you just went 10 rounds with that know-it-all-mom down the street.  Why must face holes be so enticing and baby heads so hard.  I'm pretty sure the inventor of Scünci hair binders was a mom just trying to save what was left of her hair.
3. Tough Toddlers
   A year or two of hauling your spawn has left you with enviable biceps, but the added strength doesn't always make up for the awkward stances you have to take when holding your well-coordinated toddler. No, you don't need the help of a tiny hand when writing a check, answering your phone or stirring the mac & cheese, but they refuse to believe you're capable of managing these tasks on your own.  The result is awkward hip angles, neck stretching and back twisting that leaves you hoping there's still time for a hot bath at the end of the day.  Spoiler Alert: Not gonna happen.
   
4. You're Killing Me Kids!
   Once the children can be trusted to walk on their own, your spine starts to straighten and your head can safely center itself over your body, but the hurt doesn't end.  Whether you're hauling a dead fish tantrum thrower out of a store (how do they make their 50lbs feel like a 100?)  Or just poor decision making, like when I thought 3 weeks after gall bladder surgery I could carry my sleeping seven year old to her bed, only to tear some not quite yet healed stomach muscles.   The bigger kids bring the pain with their pounds, they also bring a new kind of hurt...
   
5. Don't Go Breakin' My Heart
   You send your kids off to school with hugs and smiles, knowing full well you're throwing them to the wolves. Sure enough, they bring home heartache.  It's impossible to prepare them for a world where they aren't the center.  It's impossible to explain why people are mean. Why "so & so" says you can play with her one day and not the next.  Why they didn't get the part in the the school play they wanted.  Because if it were up to you, they'd get everything they want.  So you join in their misery, but a mom's heart breaks twice, once for their pain and once for not being able to make it better for them.  The same goes when your child is sick or injured.  It hurts to see them hurt, that's how you know you're doing this mom thing right.
   
6. Insane in the Brain Pain
   Children bring the noise.  Before kids the sound in your home was mostly controlled - the music was loud when you wanted, there was silence when you wanted, when you heard a strange sound, you could usually find it without too much trouble.  But, the baby bag of tricks is mostly noise, uncontrolled noise, noise from them, noise from their things and eventually strange noises from their battery depleting toys, and a whole room to search for the Stinky the Garbage Truck that's saying in a low, creepy, dying battery voice "Heh. Heh. Thaaaaaat'sssss Grrrrroooossss!"  All that noise usually ends in a pounding headache and sometimes a sore throat from all that yelling at them to be quiet...because that always works.
   
7. Weapons of Mass Foot Destruction
   My kids love to collect weapons of mass foot destruction, from Monster High Doll shoes to Legos and Hotwheels cars with hard little spoilers.  You learn to walk so your feet brush the ground before you fully step down, and night vision goggles are a must for the 10PM bed check. Even the most innocent looking jacket left on the kitchen floor can bring immense pain when you land on a zipper just right.
   
8. Self-Inflicted Wounds
   Self-inflicted pain is the most common in love, especially the unconditional, from my loins, type of love.  Of course you want the best for your kids.  You think you know what they will enjoy, so you plan something special for them and it's received without the anticipated, "I love you Mom! You're the best, most amazing, hilarious, and down right beautifulist mom in the whole world... wait, universe!".   Okay.. that may have been expecting a bit much as a reaction for a surprise trip down to the beach before running errands, but, they could have at least given a tiny jump for joy. Next time we'll just go straight to the grocery store.
   
9. Back to the Burn...
   My kids are getting older and I find as the physical demands of care decrease, the mental and emotional elements increase, along with the levels of acid in my stomach.  Before one month is done, the next is full of obligations, doctor's appointments, dance, nature club, school events - just trying to remember when to pick up who is a challenge, let alone which kid definitely needs cold lunch because they are on a field trip that day.  And, that doesn't even take into account my own work, household chores and the dozen loads of dirty laundry that await me each weekend. The answer: Tum Ta Tum Tums.  Some maybe able to handle all that with style and grace.  I, on the other hand, am a tornado of blond hair, weekly planner pages and Tums causing a path of destruction while trying to get my world under control.  My middle name is Ironic.  The stress is probably doing irreparable damage I won't won't learn about for years, but all the calcium in the antacids should at least protect me from osteoporosis, right? 

I'm sure the worst is yet to come when my kids enter the teen years and bed time snuggles that help heal the pains of the day are replaced with a "knock, knock, good night" on a bedroom door.  That's why moms suffer the baby head butts, heartbreaks and stress with a smile (even if forced or wine induced).  Unconditional love hurts, but it's for the most precious of people, our darling kiddos, and who wouldn't endure anything for them. 

It's in My Purse

My Purse: Enter at Your Own Risk.

Few words strike fear into a man like hearing a woman say “It’s in my purse”, when they ask a simple question like “Where’s the stamps”.  They wonder if what they need is worth the danger or the wrath of messing with a women’s purse.  It’s often not.  But if an urgent need arises, most men choose between two purse entry approaches:  “The Jaws” – complete with shark attack soundtrack playing in their head as they gingerly peer inside, anticipating something horrible lurking in the murky depths.  Or… the “Indiana Jones” – agilely jumping obstacles and swinging out of there with the stamps before the whole thing blows.

Purses are a symbol of womanhood, often bestowed on us at a young age to haul polly pockets and assorted lip glosses.  My nine-year-old daughter has probably a dozen purses and first realized the hassle of hauling one around with a panicked, tear-streaked revelation that she left her “favorite” purse, full of Barbie clothes and an empty gift card, hanging in the ladies restroom at Gander Mountain.

Our purses are a testament to our preparedness.  They are the grown up girl scout way to succeed in life.  

“Buy new purses, but keep thee old.  One is purple and the other has gold…embellishments.”  

When on a scene, we may not have the brute strength, mechanical know-how, or solid right hook of our male companions, but with our purse, we are part hero, part MacGyver, and part Muhammad Ali.  Ibuprophen, Tums, floss, nail clipper, tampon, hair-tie, Kleenex, we’ve got it.  And all together, a semi-aimed swing of that 12 pound bag could take out most bad guys.

For me a purse became a necessity when I was in high school and learned to drive.  It was impossible to fit my house and car keys in my pocket when they were tethered together by half a dozen awesome and completely necessary key chains.   The college days sported a bag with rolls of film, male genitalia shaped straws from parties,  the frequent patient card from the local plasma donation center or a bar coaster that just had to be kept from a memorable night nestled in next to my clunky “free with contract” Nokia phone.

By the time you have kids, most of that stuff has worked its way out of your bag.  Heaven forbid little Timmy pulls a penis shaped straw out of your bag and starts chewing on it during his two-year well-child doctor appointment!  But, being a mom makes you a literal bag lady.  Your biceps are never better than the years you’re hauling a diaper bag, purse and baby in a car seat. 

As the need for the diaper bag fades, the size of your purse grows.  Part pantry, part emergency baby kit, you need room for the pacifier (and backup pacifier), toys, teethers, fruit snacks, fish crackers, freeze dried yogurt and those stinky baby cereal puffs, not to mention an emergency diaper and wipes.  At this stage it’s a toss-up to what weighs more, the bag or your baby.

The baby days are behind me now, but the contents of my purse are still a sight to behold, mostly garbage, crayons and hot wheels, very little actual money.  My current purse is falling apart, that’s what inspired this blog.  I’ve actually purchased a new bag, but I haven’t worked up the courage to make the switch yet.  After three years of the same bag, I’m afraid of what I may find!

From the top it looks okay.  A few dozen receipts and wads of the coupons that printed with them float at the top, a stack of junk mail lines both sides, and there’s a little pocket that safely corrals my business cards and my cell phone.  The rest is a bit like the Little Mermaid’s cave of treasures:  

“I’ve got lipgloss and tic tacs a plenty, I’ve got whozits and whatzits galore. 
You want packs of gum? I’ve got twenty… but who cares, no big deal, it holds more!”

The mid-level is where my wallets, personal and business, settle.  But the real trouble is in the seedy underbelly.  I made the mistake of tossing a button from our local fair in my purse last summer.  Somehow the sharp end got loose from its holder and the button, now armed and dangerous, attacks without warning whenever I venture past my wallets.  He hides out down there with the other unsavory characters and I worry he’s training a tiny army of forgotten tic tacs, hardened fruit snacks, restaurant mints and naked pieces of gum that have escaped their little silver straight jackets.

I’m pretty sure they are planning a takeover of the upper 2/3rds. I think I can see tiny bunkers made out of cough drop and drinking straw wrappers. Once the wallets cave, the receipts and junk mail don’t stand a chance – it’s time to pull out!  That’s how I knew it was time to for a new purse.  It’s time for me to man up and make the switch… I’ll leave the army and their evil button leader behind, but my new bag will still have room for the important stuff - hot wheels, crayons and the two dozen pens that I’ll never find when I need them.

The Best Kind of Mom

The mommy wars have been waged since the first ladies with babies donned their pencil skirts and heels and took their places behind typewriters.  Decades later the debate rages on over who makes the best kind of mom – the stay-at-home mom or the working mom.  And the battle is a bitter one.  Every Mom wants to feel like they are doing the best for their kids, and when you call into question a major aspect of their parenting, feelings are easily hurt and tempers often rage.  Is there a best kind of mom?

The Stay-at-Home Mom

What working-from-home looks like.

Oh those lucky stay at home moms… Their hard working husbands toil away to bring home the bacon so they can stay home making cookies and playing 1950’s housewife.  It’s all pinterest projects, lullabies and pot roasts.  Or at least that is the stereotype.  And while stay-at-home mom’s have the privilege of being the main person in their children’s lives, they have also shelved their other ambitions to be home with their kids.  They are often the moms volunteering at school, chaperoning field trips and volunteering in classrooms.   They are the moms that on a snow day, end up with extra kids at their house, so their working mom friends can make it to the office.  And while they have more one-on-one time with their kids, and can mold them into early readers and get them to memorize all the former presidents, before they are in kindergarten, it doesn't necessarily mean their children will turn out better than others.  Yet, as they are making personal sacrifices to try and do the best for their kids they can be looked down upon or looked at with envy.  When people find out “I’m a stay-at-home mom”, the response is often “Oh, isn’t that nice for you”, in a tone that makes it seem like you’re doing something wrong.  Some get the impression that because you’re not dressing up and going to the office that you’re not educated, that your decision to stay home wasn't pro’d and conned to death, that you simply hung up your Wal-Mart vest, took off your McDonald’s visor and stayed home. They expect Peg Bundy with bon-bons, when the truth is most stay-at-home moms made a choice to give something up to be with their kids, and even if the list of pros was 10 times longer than the cons, they still left something behind in the decision.

The Working Mom

Also known as the Nights & Weekends Moms, have pro’d and conned their way to the office –  they do it because they have to or because they want to.  Their kids may attend daycare, school, or spend days with grandparents while mom is at work.  And while the kids may not get as much time with mom during the day, the separation can help them build confidence and independence.  The quantity time they lack during the work week they make up with quality when they are home. They rearrange schedules, coordinate their support system for pick-ups and drop-offs, skip lunch to leave early and bargain with bosses for an afternoon off to see their kids in the holiday concert.  They not only have to keep their kids and spouse happy, but their boss as well.  When they put on their daughters mood ring while playing dress up, it instantly turns to the murky black color that means “stressed”.  These are the moms that you find racing through the grocery store at 5PM or lingering in the empty aisles with a Starbucks long after their kids are snuggled into bed. They thrive on the least amount of sleep, they’ve got the morning routine down to a science and live off coffee with a side of guilt.  Whether they have to work or they love their job, they still feel the disappointment when they miss their kids’ important moments, but they can take comfort in knowing that the people they’ve chosen to help care for their kids when they aren’t available create a special group of people that their kids can turn to and trust in   addition to their parents.  The working mom may argue that modern stay-at-home moms are a relatively new phenomenon – Not too long ago dishes and laundry didn’t wash themselves in fancy machines, food came from the family garden and livestock that needed constant maintenance and care, and family fun time was less pinteresty and more you feed the chickens, I’ll go pick carrots.  The curse of the working mom is that no matter how hard they try, or how much they do, they still lay down to sleep wondering if they are doing enough.

But What About the Work-at-Home Moms?

I’d be remiss to not mention the work-at-home moms, being one myself. I work-at-home in marketing and design with my 4 kids.  Us work at home ladies have the best and worst of both worlds.  Being able to work at home means more time with the kids, it also means dedicating a big part of your day to getting work done – which isn’t what the kids mind.  Every day is a balancing act, every “just 5 more minutes guys” is more like 20 minutes, and every phone call is a gamble.  You wonder, if I answer this, will they be quiet? Will the littlest one start screaming from the bathroom “Wipe my butt!!”? Will they undoubtedly realize you’re compromised and take that opportunity to raid the snack cupboard/color on the wall/turn the bar of soap into a mushy mess in the bathroom sink? Those answers would be Yes. Yes. And most definitely Yes.   And those clients often have a knack for calling at the worst possible times. If you can clean up a poopy diaper explosion while talking email marketing with a customer, then you have the skills needed to be a work-at-home mom. And while we can make the daytime events at school, squeeze in chaperoning a field-trip now and again, and hit Target at 2PM on a Tuesday when there is practically no one else there, our schedules can be crazy.  We have to give the illusion of working 9-5 for our clients – which means answering emails in the Target parking lot and making calls while your kids eat lunch.  But our hours are more like 8-Noon, 2-4PM, and 8-11PM and with a little luck I manage to throw enough dishes in the dishwasher at some point to set the table for dinner.  There is no turning off work or family, they intermingle and overlap, and try as you might not to work on the weekend, you’ll end up with an urgent email from a client who needs help ASAP – and because you feel like you can’t hide: “Sorry, I’m out of the office for the day” to which they say “That’s okay, I’ll wait the thirty seconds while you walk downstairs to your office.”… you take care of it.   Managing your priorities with your sense of duty to both your clients and your family can be overwhelming, so you let the dishes stack up and the floor may not get swept for a day…or four, and you just hope your best is the enough for everyone counting on you.

The Best Kind of Mom

If we really want to know what makes the best kind of mom, we can ignore the experts, the TV talk shows and that loud mouth mom at your kids’ school.  If you want to know who the best kind of mom is – just ask your kids.  I just asked my youngest and with a darling smile he said “you”.  I have to agree. 

The best kind of mom is “You”.  You – who knows which of your child’s cries means “I’m hurt” or “I’m scared” or “man, this has been long day”.  You - who can spot a cold coming on just by how they are eating of the color in their cheeks.  You – who can cure the hiccups with some tickles and chase away the boogie monster by snuggling them in their favorite blanket.  You - who may once in a while lose your temper or not handle a tantrum just right, but You – who has the best hugs, smooches and smile to make it all okay in your kids’ world.  So let’s stop worrying about what all the other moms are doing, thinking and saying, let’s not propagate these mommy wars by pointing out the differences in how we get things done and let’s just do what we know makes OUR kids feel they have the best kind of mom.

Six More Weeks of Sniffles

I should have known when January swept by without so much has a sneeze, that something (or things) ominous were waiting for February.  And sure as that rotten little groundhog predicted six more weeks of winter, the antibacterial bubble we were thriving in popped, flooding the house with germs.

It always starts so innocently, a little cough, a sniffle, a little throat tickle. If you’re lucky, it ends there. But, I've never been lucky.  So when I saw the shadow of my youngest whimpering in the glow of the nightlight a week ago I knew there’d be six more weeks of sniffles.

The little one’s whimpers signaled a sore throat and fever that ended up being Strep, which was promptly shared with his brother… as I waited for the oldest two to follow suit, something strange happened.  They felt fine and I started to cough. 

I’m not one to get “stick a fork in me I’m done” sick.  A little cough/sniffle/throat thing one or two times a year, sure, but nothing that isn’t gone in a day or two.   I actually felt perfectly fine the morning of “the cough”.  I thought it was just a little dry throat, but by that afternoon I was wearing two sweaters and a robe, debating burial or cremation… leaning toward cremation because it sounded like the only way I may ever be warm again.

As my fever rose, I thought, at least the antibiotics worked on the younger two, they were feeling better.  Until I remembered the only thing worse than worrying about your sick kids is trying to take care of your healthy kids when you’re sick.  They still want to eat and play and be loud.   I just wanted to sit and shiver in my blanket igloo.   When I woke for the 3^rd day with a fever I thought I better go in, my throat was irritated, maybe I have Strep too.

My go-to place for this stuff is the Qcare at Cub Foods, when I got there it was closed. The staff all had strep.  The boys were diagnosed there earlier that week, so that was probably our fault (and the half dozen other people we waited with who were all there for strep tests too).   This made me feel even more confident that I must be suffering the same thing.  I followed the instructions on the door and headed to the nearest Urgent Care where I waited 2 hours to take a 6 minute test to find out from a doctor who’s shoes sound like bubble wrap popping with each step, and who smelled like a fart (I could still smell at this point, unfortunately), that I did not have Strep.   He didn't offer any other thoughts on a diagnosis, just told me to “Treat my symptoms.”, and bubble wrap-popped his way out the door.

When I was emailed my lab result later I found the dictation for the visit in the Patient Portal, imagine my surprise to learn that “Treat my symptoms” means: “She is encouraged to take vitamin C and zinc supplements in combination with increased water consumption to alleviate her discomfort. She may also take Acetaminophen 500mg 2 tabs p.o. q.i.d. p.r.n.; or Ibuprofen 200mg 4 tabs p.o. t.i.d. p.r.n. discomfort. Use of lozenges is also encouraged.”.  Fabulous advice I never heard.

The dictation also said “It is not necessary for her to remain home from work or school at this time.”  The “all-clear” to spread my fevery germs far and wide.  Not so fabulous advice.

Two more days of fever later, as I’m serving up roast beef, taters and gravy for the kids, my temp’s running about 102 and I’m feeling a little wobbly, but I’m not supposed to take anymore medicine for another hour.  I’m pouring gravy on a plate while holding it, not realizing its tipped ever so slightly until the scalding hot gravy starts pouring through my fingers.   The jolt of pain transports me back to the last time I felt this sick. I was 17, so sick I could barely move, I really wanted a cup of tea, so I put some water in the microwave that hung over the range.  My mom had just taken dinner off the stove, and as I waited for the microwave everything went black. I passed out and when I came to I had this strange burn on my hand, apparently from trying to catch myself on the hot stove.   It was the flu then, and I realized, even though my brain has been slow-cooking for the better part of a week, that it’s the flu now.

Hours later three of the four kids are coughing, two with a fever.  Another trip to the Urgent Care and luckily a visit with a much (so much) better doctor, and now our fridge has more medicine in it than food. But this morning, while the horrible cough is lingering, no one’s temp is above 100, a small victory.  The next week will probably be a long one.  I was too far in for Tamiflu, so I’ll just have to wait this out, on the bright side, I could almost smell my coffee this morning.   So I’ll leave you with this advice Nyquil Severe Cold and Flu pills actually let you feel almost normal when you’re trying to fall asleep, and if you’re at Urgent Care and hear bubble-wrapped footsteps coming your way, plug your nose and get a second opinion. 

No One Ever Told Me About "The Lasts"

Pretty soon the training wheels will be a thing of the past too.

I’m hyper aware of how much my baby isn’t a baby anymore.  As I’m directing the morning production of “Let’s make it to the bus stop without having to run!”, my youngest groggily stumbles into the kitchen and raises his arms for the big morning squeeze that wakes him up for the day.  At 4, he can best be described as an afternoon person.  But that morning hug from mom is pretty much all he needs from me these days. 

I set him down and ask what he wants for breakfast as he gathers his own cup, bowl and spoon.  “Cheerios, please.” followed by a “I said pleeeaaassseee!” because I told him it’s always important to say please and he wants me to notice that he did.

He pours his own milk and cereal like a big boy, gobbles his cereal and when done announces he’s going to get dressed, all while I’m still trying to get the other three out the door. 

A little voice in my head tells me those must-have morning hugs won’t last.  Pretty soon my youngest will be cast in the off-to-school production and the “I can’t find my library book!” panic will eat into the hugging time. My heart breaks a bit thinking of it.

No one ever told me about “the lasts”.  Every baby book only ever talks about the firsts.  The first poop, tooth, word, sit, roll, crawl, walk, and on, and on, and on.

 As the kids get older you start to realize their firsts are your lasts. Their first time getting dressed themselves is almost your last time helping them, their first shower is your last bathtime fun, the first time you forget to do the silly bedtime tuck in routine and they forget to remind you is the day after the last and you rarely go back. Sigh. Most of the lasts signal the end of a routine and special little daily moments parents share with their kids.

The impact of my older kids’ lasts, while still bittersweet, were not as profound as my youngest’s.  With the others, there was always someone still working through their exciting baby firsts to make the “lasts” of the others seem less final.

Now I find myself having changed my last diaper, given my last bath, dressed my last toddler and frantically looked for my last pacifier or blanket at bedtime. Those moments went without the fanfare of the “firsts”, there was no proud documentation in the baby books, probably, because they sneak by so slowly.  It feels like you’ll never change your last diaper until you finally realize you have, three days later.

The cruelest part of parenting is that you teach your children to do without you.  And while there’s some days their independence can’t happen soon enough, most days it’s hard to imagine them not needing you… and you not being the most important person in their life.  And while I can’t stop them from growing up and doing for themselves, now that I’ve realized the significance of “the lasts”, I’m going to watch for them, and take a minute to mostly celebrate them, and maybe mourn them, just a little, while I wait for the next big kid firsts to happen. 

9 Reasons Moms Can Only Hope "We'll sleep when we're dead"

When they say “a baby changes everything”, they mean everything, from your body to your brain and even your relationships.  While the stretch marks fade, the “mom-brain” lessens and the Daddy finally realizes it’s just easier to do it all mommy’s way, there’s a change so prolific its effects last for years. And years.  And more years.  It’s the relationship with  your pillow.

I expected, like most, the sleepless nights with a nursing infant, the predictable awakenings of the toddler years, even the random bad dream or “I’m sick” snooze wrecker here and there, but not the near decade of substandard sleep I’ve endured since my first was born.   While the rest of the world REMs away, I am the nocturnal creature stumbling about the darkness herding children back to their beds with water, reassurance, new sheets or a puke bowl.

So I offer you 9 reasons Mommy can’t sleep.

1.  Moms sleep like a baby.  Let’s be real here, babies are crappy sleepers.  Sure, when they’re out, they’re out, but it never lasts long and grown up brains don’t really function on a two hours down, one hour up sleep pattern.  The result is actually sleeping like a baby, falling asleep on our lunch, at the computer or even while folding laundry.  I remember being so tired I actually felt nauseous.  I’ve put the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge. The only upside was that when my kids were babies, I never had trouble falling asleep at night 
2. Rotten Little Deal Breakers! After a few months, my tiny kids and I were able to strike an agreement – I fed them at 11PM with the understanding that they would then sleep until 4 or 5AM.  We were both happy, or so I thought, and the arrangement worked for weeks.   Then one night I hear rustling and a whimper at 2AM.  What the hell!  We had a deal! As I tried to console their desperate cries, my sleep deprived mind takes a journey through an emotional jungle – from concern and confusion (What. About. The. Deal?!) to “Why are you ruining my life, child!?” until we’re both crying until we fall back asleep.  In the light of day you notice the new tooth or that their 9 month pants are now suddenly an inch too short and it makes sense. Luckily within a few nights the deals back on, for now.
3. . Night Ninja  Once the kiddos start sleeping through the night (or so you tell people, it’s never actually through the night, most nights).  Of course, I have the quantity disadvantage – even if it’s just one kid waking up once a week, with four kids it’s still 4 nights of crappy sleep.   So you try to prevent the waking and to do so you develop Night Ninja skills.  Let’s set the scene:  its 4AM and the youngest wakes to a dark and eerily quiet house and panics, wouldn’t you?  As a mom, I can miraculously sleep through the snoring next to me, but my supersonic ears perk up to hear the telltale rustle of the waterproof mattress pad, the littlest baby moan or the PLINKO sound of the pacifier bouncing down the crib bars to the floor.  Like a ninja I slide out of bed, avoiding squeaky floor boards and knowing instinctively where the paci dropped, finding it by feel and returning it to the fussing baby without him even knowing I was there.  The ninja maneuvers are especially crucial for someone as nearsighted as I am.  My crappy vision puts me past the threshold for being legally blind and wasting time feeling for my glasses before “Operation Paci Retrieval” is the difference between a whimper and all out house waking wail.
4.  Sleep, the Musical  If you miss the whine to wail window, you’re in their room for the long haul, but that’s nothing a little choreography can’t fix.  One and two and three and four – five and six and seven and eight, rock-rock-rock, lay down slowly, three and four and butt pat, butt pat, butt pat, drop to floor, five and six and seven and army crawl, two and three, watch that floorboard, seven and eight.  Slide into bed … and sleep, or repeat.
5. Small Bedfellows  When the choreography falls flat and I give up, having my head on or at least near my pillow is more important than keeping my child in their own bed.  You 0, Them 105.  They win again, but I take comfort as a loser just having my own bed under me, even when there’s a toddler’s butt  on my head.
6.  Polk High’s Best Football Player  Now that the kid is in bed with two giant people on each side some precautions have to be taken, especially when one side could roll over the tiny human without even noticing.  So I give up my pillow to the little one and position myself in what can best be described as “Al Bundy’s 4 touchdowns in a single game” pose.  One arm around baby, one straight out, locked against the wall of dad to prevent or at least alert you to an impending roll.  Ahh, sleep, kinda.
7. Sick and Scared and Wet and Tired  My oldest is nine and I haven’t slept through the night once since she and her three younger brothers were born.  Even with my youngest, now four, every night someone is sick, or has a bad dream or gets up to use the bathroom and tries to pee in a closet, or just forgets to get up before going to the bathroom.   I’m beginning to think this is the longest phase and it requires the most supersonic senses and the most alertness in the wee morning hours.  You’ve got to assess the situation, find puke bowls and new sheets, banish mountain lions, white wolves and bears, oh my.  And then try to go back to sleep.
8. Spooked Sleep  On the rare occasion I don’t hear the rustle of the waterproof mattress covers, I usually awake with near heart attack to a small, dark figure standing bedside near my head, whispering “maaaamiiii” Ahh!  After you get them their glass of water or whatever, you’re heart’s still racing too fast for you to fall back asleep.
9. Did you hear that?  Even when the odds of a full night’s sleep are in my favor, my brain won’t let me believe a full night’s sleep is possible.  As I lay, one ear pressed to my pillow, trying to clear my mind, the white noise from the fan, the dishwasher, the furnace or the #&%$@ rock tumbler rumbling downstairs, starts to sound like a child.  Was that a cry? One of them talking? I lift my head and listen, and hear nothing.  Just the fan/furnace/dishwasher/handful of rocks on their 8^th day of rotation.  But, every time I put my head down, I hear it again, like the phone ringing when you turn on the vacuum or shower. 

I’m sure the tween and teen years will bring all sorts of new sleep issues and by the time the kids are out of the house, I hear menopause packs an insomnia punch.  The catch phrase “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” is a favorite with the party crowd, but I’m pretty sure it started as a mom’s mantra.  So, we’re gonna own this no sleep thing.  We’ll pretend the giant, puffy bags under our eyes are high cheek bones and maybe cereal tastes better from the fridge. If not, at least our pillows will have a longer than average lifespan.

Ruts for Dinner

Meatball Soup again?!

It’s 4 o’clock again and I know that within the next 15 minutes four or more people are going to be asking me the question I’ve already been asking myself for the last two hours, without answer. “What’s for dinner?”

We've got beef and pork and chicken.  There’s pasta, potatoes and rice.  At least some frozen veggies in the freezer, why can’t I think of anything for dinner?

The dinner rut happens a few times a year, usually as the seasons signature meals lose their novelty.   Meatloaf, soup, pasta and hot dishes have lost my interest as they've been taking turns on the menu for the last couple months.  When you cook for your family 325-plus days a year, you’re bound to run out of ideas at some point.  And, we’re in a rut at our house.

I start my grocery shopping prep by planning 10 days of meals and it usually works great.  But lately it’s a pasta dish, Mexican dish, meatloaf/roast, pizza, soup, repeat.  I recently found myself looking to the kids’ school lunch menu for inspiration. 

I've got over 500 pins on my Pinterest “Yummy Things” board, the AllRecipes.com app on my phone and no less than a dozen cookbooks in my house.  I should be able to crawl my way out of this rut somehow!  A year ago I even went through all my “pins” and recipes and made a kind of index of meals, sorted by type of meat, type of cooking, quick meals, kid faves, etc.  There were 125 ideas on there at least, but it went missing – probably has a crayon drawing of a tractor on it and is probably mixed in with the kids’ stash of “Mom!!! Don’t throw that away!” artwork.  I haven’t been motivated to recreate it.

So what’s for dinner? Tonight it was meatloaf and besides the side of peas there were no complaints.  Maybe the rut isn’t the food itself, but my enjoyment in making it.   It might be time to work a few new recipes into the rotation, trying something new is always fun, even if my picky, 7 year old, food critic doesn't approve.   And if that doesn't work, it’s only a few more months until nights of pasta salads and grilled steaks, brats and burgers with the occasional longing for a hot bowl of soup.