A Nut-Free Squirrel or Don't Feed the Gremlin

No eggs, no nuts, no peanuts, no lentils, no chickpeas, no soy protein. It is our mantra. Our Squirrel* was born with food allergies, which makes each meal an adventure. Every time we eat, we hope that his food is safe. Restaurants are no longer relaxing but instead a source of stress until I’ve watched him eat and then I wait. If ten minutes elapse without any excitement, I switch from being worried about food to worrying about people overhearing my children having an inappropriate conversation about plugging a toilet at the library (true story.)

What a stressful way to live. Sure, I guess. From what I read on blogs and discussion boards, there are people who avoid life because of food allergies. And that was certainly my knee jerk reaction too. “We’ll never be able to travel! To eat out! To visit friends and family!” We lived like that for a little while too. Life is definitely easier and safer at home. But what fun would that be? After the initial shock of learning about the severity of his allergies, we decided that we weren’t going to let it limit us. We’d just adjust. We pack snacks and meals if needed. We call ahead to restaurants and birthday parties. I research cities we are staying in for friendly restaurants. We wipe down plane seats. We watch the playground for kids eating picnic lunches of peanut butter sandwiches. We have a supply of cupcakes in the freezer for birthday parties. We travel everywhere with epipens and benadryl. I refuse to let some fucked up blood fuck up our lives. Is it scary? Yes. But life, if lived well, is scary.

Did you know that food allergies are considered a disability? Yet, I read articles about people making fun of kids and people with peanut allergies. We don’t make fun of other disabilities or people with cancer so why food allergies? This was how he was born; trust me, I wish it was different. “Why should we not eat a peanut butter sandwich just because it could ‘kill’ your kid. It’s called survival of the fittest!” Hey, I love peanut butter too! I eat nuts and eggs whenever I’m not around my Squirrel. However, not to get dramatic, but yes, a peanut butter sandwich would probably kill him; it has killed others. To say that your right to knowingly** expose my kid to peanut butter so you could eat a sandwich, well, that makes you a jackass in my eyes. Maybe you’ve never watched your child dying because their body was strangling them. I sure hope you haven’t. Car accidents, sky diving and emergency surgeries don’t touch the fear you feel when you see your son’s eyes roll back in his head as he turns gray, and loses consciousness as his body shuts down because of a bowl of cereal with the wrong milk. Milk. People, it’s supposed to do a body good…unless it is poison to your body. Then it will shut it down faster than a sober coed shuts down an obnoxious drunk frat boy. To hear someone callously laugh about how a peanut could kill someone and that’s just nature taking care of the weak makes me sad and also want to punch them in the face. Hard.

Food allergies don’t mean we are picky. It means that we have to take all food into consideration and God help us (literally) if we screw it up. If we screw up just a little, it looks like the Exorcist. If we screw up big time, then it is an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. And that is why it brings tears to my eyes when other people watch out for my Squirrel. There are so many of you out there! I am overwhelmed by good people! Maybe you are the mom who told him to watch out because someone was eating a peanut butter sandwich at a basketball game. You might be the group of parents at the party that want to make sure you bring the right food so he’s safe. You might be the parent who emailed me the day of the birthday party, when I am sure you are running around trying to get ready, to see what candy he can have in the piñata and then you go out and put together a special bag just for him. Perhaps you are his teacher, who called me at 6:45 a.m. to double check with me if the school lunch would be okay for him. Maybe you are my family who learned how to bake without eggs so we can have safe meals every time we are at your house, including Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. Whenever I experience these moments, I am emotionally brought to my knees because you cared about someone I love with all my heart. It might just seem like you are being a human being, but to me, your concern is worth more than gold. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a city to raise one with food allergies.

Because of people like those I’ve described above, I can drop my son off at school, birthday parties and playdates. Thank you all for inviting the scary food allergy kid! I just tell parents to think of him like a Gremlin. Don’t feed him or water him and he stays nice and cuddly. And if you do feed him, please use the cupcake I brought along. I can deal with a kid jacked up on sugar, as long as it doesn’t have a side of nuts or eggs.

*Yes, I know it is ironic that I call him Squirrel but he can’t have nuts.

**I said knowingly because you do actually have a right to eat what you want. You don’t have to apologize for eating a peanut butter sandwich! I’m talking about the dicks that would go out of their way to expose my kid to an allergen. They are assholes. You, eating a peanut butter sandwich at a picnic, you are fine. You don’t know that my kid has allergies. How could you? And even if you know we are going to be there and you take precautions like washing your hands and giving us a heads up, great! You are totally fine. Basically, if you are worried about it, then you are not an asshole. 

Effing Phone or Living a Ben and Jerry's Life

Facebook, email, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. So many ways to connect with people in our attempt to distance ourselves. Are you sick of reading about how we should be “hands free”? How our kids are drying up without our attention because we are glued to a screen? That we feel our self-worth based on the number of likes we get on Facebook? That someone is a social media celebrity as opposed to just being a celebrity? What the hell does that mean anyway? I’m sick of reading about it too but I think it’s because I’m guilty of it rather than being bored from another cliché article about screen time. So here’s one more!

Hello. My name is Jenny and I’m addicted to my phone. I’m not alone – in fact, you might be reading this while your family is running around you in the kitchen. Maybe you are killing time waiting for practice to get over. Maybe you don’t want to actually talk to anyone right now so you peek in to see how your 246 Facebook friends are doing. Maybe you just need to escape.

I’m not judging. I get it. I so so get it. There are moments that I need to be alone and if I’m in a crowd, looking busy on my phone will do the trick. Maybe I’m messing around on my phone because I’m bored and hate waiting. Sometimes I’m feeling lonely and this makes me feel connected. Whatever the reason, at the end of the day it numbs and feeling numb can feel way better than feeling isolated, ignored, overwhelmed and anxious.

This phone addiction is not something I’m proud of. I hate it when I realize I want to grab it when I’m chilling out with my family and honestly, I’m doing my best to curb it. But it’s not easy. And that pisses me off. How did I get attached to some stupid device? Why do we feel a need to overshare? And why can’t I remember that everything looks better through social media tinted glasses?

I was talking to my sixth grader about social media. He says everyone is on Instagram in sixth grade and I asked him if he wanted an account. He said no. He doesn’t like it when everyone only stares at their phones.

The first thing I thought was “Goddamned motherfucking phone! I have got to quit this shit!” (Yes, this is how I think. I’m not proud of the swearing either but you have to pick your battles.) I think I finally found my motivation. I would do anything for my kids* and here is my baby saying he doesn’t like it when everyone is always on their phone.

Oh the shame. He wasn’t referencing me but he might as well have been. And I’m so happy that he hasn’t started being on his phone 24/7 yet. There’s still time! I’ve got to act now before he starts to think that it’s normal to look down instead of looking people in the eye. My first step is to stop reaching for that fucking phone all the time. Start small and keep it in a different room when the kids are up. Maybe progress to ignoring it when everyone has gone to bed. What will I do with my time?! I could cure cancer, create world peace or just go to bed so I could actually try to get 7 elusive hours of sleep.

It’s not often when our kids catch us in bad behavior but thank goodness it happens occasionally. Because nothing motivates me more than the Moose and Squirrel. If this bothers them, then that’s all I need to help stop the madness. I might need a support group in a church basement to get me there, but I’m going to do my best to log off more than I do now. Just like ice cream, everything is good in moderation. I’ll take a full-fat life over a fat-free online presence any day.

*However I refuse to ever wear those team color overalls. That’s a hard no and a second tier golden rule in my house. No team color overalls. Period. I also won’t purchase them for anyone and I told the boys if I saw them wear them in public, I would literally cut them off their bodies right then in there. Hopefully they are wearing something underneath.

Games, Tournaments and Walking Tacos or Where is my Medal?

We have become THOSE parents. The ones whose weekends are dedicated to gyms and fields, who have gameday gear, and are constantly running a load of wash late at night so my kid’s uniform doesn’t stink out the other team on day two of the tournament. And to quote McDonald’s, we are loving it (mostly.) How the heck did we get here? Who have we become??

Years ago, back BK (Before Kids), we used to enjoy going to movies, eating out, sleeping in, dedicating weekends to long runs (enjoy might be a strong word for this) – basically doing whatever we wanted. And we’d look at our friends running to soccer and basketball tournaments that lasted the WHOLE WEEKEND and think, “Ugh. That looks disgusting. There is no way we are doing that when we have kids. We are not giving up our weekends just for our kids to play in tournaments. We will maintain that sense of self and not live our lives solely for our kids.” (Ha. Ha. Ha. Older me is laughing cynically right now as I type.)

Then we had kids. Mic drop.

I contemplated ending the blog there for a dramatic finish but I’m far too narcissistic to leave my thoughts unsaid. So as I was saying, then we had kids and found out that you don’t really have free will to do whatever you want when your job is to keep someone alive at least until they get to the age where they can reach the poptarts on their own. As our first kid grew, we put him in the typical sports programs through parks and rec. Then soccer league and basketball league. And then the day came when we agreed he could play his first soccer tournament. And I dreaded that weekend because I knew how bad it was going to suck. I was going to have to sit there under those stupid tents, WAITING around all day for my kid to play a couple of games against crazy soccer teams, WASTING a WHOLE weekend of my life when I could be doing much better things like anything else. UGH! I was gnashing teeth and pulling out my hair at the thought.

And then the dreaded weekend came and lo and behold, I got it. That tournament was a blast! I loved it (I think he did too…) This was so much fun – the anticipation, the excitement of the game, the comradery, hanging with the other parents. Sure it took up my whole weekend, but so what? I finally understood how my friends “gave up their freedom” for their kids’ sports and didn’t lose their souls in the process.

Maybe it’s because I just love sports in general. I am that parent yelling during the game, and admittedly I am pretty competitive. Not in that “living vicariously through my child” kind of way but because I love a good game. And I love my kid. And when those two worlds combine, a loss or a win is that much more emotional. My head is in my hands when we are down 2 points with a minute to go and my kid is at the free throw line, I’m jumping up when my kid blocks a goal, and I’m jerking around in my seat when the running back is running down the field as though my movements will somehow shift the space he can run through.  Through these short years I’ve already figured out to keep my mouth shut after a bad loss except to say that I love watching him play, to unpack the sports bag first when you get home to avoid serious stinkage, and to pack lots of snacks because I have yet to read research that says donuts are an appropriate pregame snack.

I’m not going to lie, it can get tough to get everything that needs to get done in a weekend completed in a few short hours because we are at tournaments Saturday and Sunday. Don’t get me wrong - I love the games. However, I’d like to make a couple of quick suggestions to anyone organizing these tournaments.

First, can the championship game please be played first at the end of the tournament? I feel like we are being penalized for being good because the number one teams in the brackets always play last. Why do we have to wait the extra two hours? Just a suggestion…

Second, has anyone considered setting up a discreet mini bar? There are times where just one beer would really take the edge off. We could be limited to just one, unless we are waiting an extra six hours and playing the 9 p.m. game because we are in the championship game and then we’d get one more.

And finally, can parents start getting the swag too? Sometimes after a particular tough and long-houred tournament, I feel like I too deserve a shirt or medal – really whatever you are giving out. Because even though it is Sunday at 8 p.m. when we get done, I still have to get groceries for the week. And that deserves a medal.

Regardless if my suggestions are ever taken into account, I concede that my 21-year old self didn’t get it. I understand how much fun it is to sit in a gym or on a soccer field for the whole weekend. I have learned to maximize those short hours in between games to run errands if possible. My bleacher seats and soccer chairs take up a permanent place in my trunk. I bought a Subaru Outback over other cars solely because I was picturing whether football pads would fit in the back. I would probably wear facepaint to a game if another parent suggested it. I am all in. Now if only the music concerts could be as entertaining. My youngest seems to be more of a rock star than a soccer star and I already have a headache at the thought of his recorder concert – only 4 short years to mentally prepare myself for that one.

Choose Your Own Adventure - It Really Doesn't Matter or A Bucket Full of Sugar Makes the Medicine Go Down

Everywhere you look, there are ways to increase your child’s happiness for a fulfilling childhood. We can throw “Just Being You” parties, customize every item of clothing and accessory for them, celebrate fake holidays (“National Hot Dog Day!”) and check out the list of 50 great things to do on an average day. Life is fun every minute! And then with another click of a button we can read a lament about how we should go back to the way things were, when we drank real Kool Aid and watched Three’s Company without understanding the sexual innuendos. Our kids should be doing homework at night – but not too much homework – and doing chores around the house to earn money. No screen time and family game night...every night.

It makes me wonder (and laugh, and tag the article to refer to later, and roll my eyes because I can’t decide if I’m on board or think it’s insane), what the heck is “good” parenting anymore.  I look over my day, week, year and sometimes I’m Super Mom and sometimes I’m Barely Holding It Together Mom. Every day is a highlight reel and a bloopers clip. Depending on the time of day, you could think I’m amazing or be on the phone to DHS.

For example, here’s a sample of my successes and failures:
• I refuse to do Elf on a Shelf or the stupid leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day. Why would I want to create more of a mess in a house that borders on a Red Cross disaster zone? I am a fun hater.
• Reportedly, I make fantastic monkey bread in the mornings after sleepovers.
• I like to bake from scratch and have no problem whipping up a batch of cookies after a long day at work.
• I don’t keep track of screen time, not because they aren’t on the ipad and TV, but because I’m lazy.
• I bring healthy snacks from home instead of eating at concession stands during games. I hate concession stand food.
• Sometimes I skip stories at night and my bedtime routine consists of repeatedly saying in louder and louder tones “Brushyourteethgopottyandgotobed.” I simply do not have the energy at the end of the day for elaborate bedtimes and besides, they don’t go to bed anyway if I do. Instead, please go eat one of my fresh baked cookies right before you brush your teeth.
• I make breakfast on Wednesdays because it’s hump day.
• I swear. A lot.
• I have endearing (in my opinion) nicknames for my babies.
• We eat dinner as a family almost every night and go through everyone’s Pit and Peak, including any guests (sorry if this is awkward for you - no one is exempt.)
• We haven’t been to church since Easter and I’m not even sure where our church is going to be next.
• Game night often ends in someone being sent to their room.
• I make a fruit tray every week so there is always fresh fruit available, if hell should ever freeze over and they choose that for a snack instead of pretzels or a granola bar.
• I coach my son on how to text a girl.

Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books from our childhood, where you could decide what happens to the character next and it changes the outcome of the story? Well life isn’t always that easy. There are people out there with horrific childhoods that are amazing adults and people who grew up in privileged homes that are assholes. You can hit all the marks as a parent and it still does not guarantee how your kid turns out.

Am I a good mom because I make dinner every night at home or am I a bad mom because the boys eat sugar like Buddy the Elf while on the ipad? Neither. I just get some things right and other things not so right. And you do too. Who cares? What I’m saying is do your best. And there are days your best sucks. And I’m going to try not to judge you for it. Well, I’m totally going to judge you if you hit your kid or intentionally emotionally scar them – because then you are a piece of shit. BUT if you are out there doing your best, there will be sunshine and accidental bruises along the way. Heck, you look the wrong way at a hormonal middle schooler and you'll make them cry or stomp off - and that's without even TRYING to tick them off! None of us have this figured out and trust me, I only highlight my successes on social media, just like everyone else. No one is posting that they found a bucket full of candy wrappers in their six-year old’s room (true story) but they are snapping pictures of the super healthy dinner they just served. Too bad my six-year old is too full of sugar to eat it.

The New F Word or You Can Be an Asshole, But Not a Fat Asshole

Friends, if you know me well, you know that I swear like a sailor. I am not saying I’m proud of this trait but it does seem to be well-engrained. The one thought that helps me sleep at night is that at least my children will know how to drop a swear word here and there properly because nothing makes you look sillier than stringing random swear words together in the attempt to look cool – people will know that my kids mean business when the swear comes out of their sweet little mouths. Naturally I’ve set ground rules which are, unless you are in severe pain, you cannot swear until you pay income taxes, in which case, you’ve earned it.

Now there are only a few words I won’t utter. Most of them refer to female anatomy which I find just vulgar. Can a cuss word be uncouth? But there is another word I won’t say when referring to a human (animals are exempt because well, they are animals) and that is the F word. Now you are thinking, hmmm…she is a liar because I’ve heard her say “fuck” in front of her own mother and just last night I whispered very quietly “for fuck’s sake” as my sweet Sugar Bear pitched a whining fit for 20 minutes in the car because I didn’t take him to the gym (I was trapped and was exerting all my effort to not yell.)

No Friends, I’m talking about the other F word. It’s a word that has been tossed around forever and used casually but viciously. I’m talking about the word Fat.

I thought we had an unwritten rule in our house that we don’t use that word as a derogatory adjective about people. Sure, I call my cats fat all the time – because they are fat and my cat Sydney is lovingly called Fat Syd or Shamu (she is black and white and likes to bite so this is really a genius nickname if I do say so myself.) But I was having a conversation with my Moose and we were talking about a kid he doesn’t like. He told me that he calls the kid Fat XXX (leaving the name out for obvious reasons) within his circle of friends. I was stopped in my tracks with horror. “Absolutely not! We do not ever use the word Fat to put someone down! You won’t say it again. I don’t care what else you want to call him – jerk, asshole, douche – whatever. But you will not say the word Fat. And you can tell your friends that Fat is the ONE word your mom won’t allow.” (Side note, I think I will also outlaw the word Cunt but that’s for another time.) I was shocked that my sweet demeanored baby would say something so hurtful; all I can think is that he really doesn’t understand the damage that the F word does. I’m not going to get into how society perpetuates beauty with success, blah blah blah. I could get on a soapbox and never stop typing but let's be honest, you've read it all before. It’s crazy the power shapes holds in our society but it is life in America until we see a major change in thinking. Fat is the one last acceptable form of discrimination (btw, it’s not acceptable.) But I’ve got a more personal reason why the word is simply not allowed.

See I come from a long history with the F word. Somewhere during my teens I decided that nothing could be worse than being fat, which has led to a twenty plus year cycle of either starving, over exercising, or binging - all with a healthy helping of self-hatred. I wish I could explain how insidious an eating disorder is, that even when I look healthy or even (gasp) fat, I am constantly battling with it. You could call me the worst name in the book and I wouldn’t think twice but if you say I’m fat or big-boned, I will literally curl into a fetal position for 12 hours. After more than two years of therapy I am finally getting to a point where a setback in life doesn’t equal a fast. Much like an alcoholic, I realize that this will be something I will likely deal with forever. Honestly I wouldn’t wish it on anyone - and sadly there are a lot of anyones out there dealing with it too. I recognize that I can relapse at any time and what’s fun about an eating disorder is that when you are really skinny, people cheer you on, which just further perpetuates the behavior, until you look like a skeleton and people think “Ew, gross.” And it all starts with the F word. Which brings us back to this moment.

I don’t think my Moose understood the hurt that the F word can cause. He’s not the kind of kid that looks to destroy people’s feelings, which is why it’s important to cut him off at the pass early. He’s going to meet a lot of people in his life and if he can avoid inflicting major damage, even if they deserve it, he will sleep better at night when he’s 80. He’s got my permission to call people a Motherfucker for all I care (well, maybe we’ll save that one for high school.) But just don’t call them a Fat Motherfucker. Because then you’ve crossed a line.

Celebrating the Fail or Those Disney Princesses Need Therapy

What a week. I missed the gym too many times. I got chewed out by a student at work. I had 4 instances of missed communication at home. I ate a cupcake which put me way off my healthy eating plan. I still have yet to find the time and energy to paint the small bathroom. I was on Facebook too much and when I wasn’t, I bought another dress on Zulily. The clean sheets still haven’t been put on the beds. I honestly have no idea what my new middle schooler has in terms of tests or homework. I forgot to turn in the Squirrel’s paperwork at before/after school care. Overall it was a typical week full of small failures and while moments sucked, it was still a good week. And let’s be honest, most of these failures were things that only I was keeping track of – nothing of true significance that raised alarm. And as it turns out, that is an issue.

See during one of these moments of failure, I learned that my dear Moose thinks that he has to be perfect. And that is a problem. While I have been walking around blissfully unaware of tests and homework in sixth grade, some of my mom friends have been more successful in getting information from this new tribe of secretive moody pre-teens. And one of those mom friends alerted me that there was a Math Quiz and that it was Bad. Hmm I think. That’s funny because I have asked Moose how things are going and he’s always said they are fine. Lesson learned. Preteen “fine” means ask again.

So over dinner I ask, “I heard there was a tough math quiz. How did it go?” And that’s when things got real. Tears erupted and my brain started sounding one of those alarms that are on submarines that signal that water is onboard and everyone is going down. Turns out math is in another language this year, we don’t know what’s going on, we are flunking, we are stupid. Whoa. Where did all this come from? I thought everything was “fine.” Nope. Things are decidedly not fine. Things suck. Moose cries as he explains that he flunked the test and everyone else didn’t. He is a Failure.

And that’s when it occurred to me that while I have learned that I experience failures, I know they aren’t typically Failures. And even if they are, I regroup and ask for help. But Moose doesn’t know that. He doesn’t see that I fail epically on a daily basis. He somehow thinks that the rest of us are getting things right all the time and that we know everything (insert laugh track here.) Turns out looking like I have my shit together is a failure – did not see that plot twist coming.

“Moose, did you ask questions in class if you don’t understand the math?” A look of horror crosses his face – of course he didn’t; everyone would KNOW that he was stupid then. Someone cue the Full House music, we are about to have a moment. And I start to explain the following:

1. You have to ask questions. Your teacher’s job is to explain things in a way that you understand. If he isn’t doing that, he isn’t doing his job, but he doesn’t know until you ask. I ask questions all the time. People who know everything are boring. Curious people are interesting to be around.

2. We all need help. I ask for help every day. Whether you need to stay after school for study hour or need a study buddy, there are people here to help you. I am here to help you. Needing help is not a sign of weakness.

3. Failing now is fantastic! I’m glad it feels terrible – it means you will fight hard not to feel like this again. And flunking a test in sixth grade is perfect because doing it early means you will learn how to study differently and ask for help before it really matters like in late high school and college. Please. Fail now. I’d much rather we get this out of the way in sixth grade than have you fail out of college because you didn’t know how to ask questions. Now is the time to learn how to make good habits.

4. We will always be on Team Max. We will always be proud of you and love you. Follow the Four Golden Rules* and we will always be fine. A sixth grade math quiz is not one of the Four Golden Rules. We will get upset when it matters but not before then.

Where did this tendency to be perfect come from?  Meh, I can answer that since I struggle with it too. But I can break this cycle of perfect. I can be more transparent about my failures. I can show that you can brush them off or that they are not the end of the world – that eventually the sun rises the next day and that things will smooth over. You can ask for help and you will find people who care – and if they don’t care, they are assholes and don’t deserve to be in your circle of trust. As we see babies fall into holes so deep and dark that they think the only way out is to end it all, believing that high school drama is forever and that Facebook is for real, we need to start celebrating failures for what they are - opportunities to learn and grow. Do you really think all those Disney princesses really rode off with the princes happily ever after? No. You know that Cinderella has an obsessive compulsive cleaning disorder driven by her need for acceptance from a hostile step parent – that shit isn’t going to change just because she lives in a castle. She’s going to need some serious therapy.  I’ve got the name of a great therapist -you just have to book her early because she is so fabulous.

Hopefully next time the Moose feels alone and lost he knows to come to his parents. As his parents, we will try to high five the failure and come up with a game plan so it doesn’t happen again. And if it does again – big deal - we learn to regroup and brainstorm other solutions. I am prepared for the fail to not be as simple as a math quiz too; eventually this will get more complicated so I’m glad we had this test run. As Mom, maybe I’ll use this experience to highlight my epic failures to show that we all struggle and aren’t perfect. Perfect people are boring anyway - at least that's what my therapist says.

*The Four Golden Rules
1. Don’t smoke.
2. Don’t do drugs.
3. Always respect women.
4. Always practice safe sex.

The Second Class Second Born or Why Is Mom Crazy

“Crap. Library was today wasn’t it? Looks like you’ll have to take your book back next week,” I tell my youngest. Here it was, only the second week of school and I had blown the first library due date. It’s not like I hadn’t had fair warning – I got the newsletter AND the email that clearly stated that library books were due back on Friday. And still I forgot to stick the book in my kindergartener’s school bag. Nothing like setting low expectations with the kindergarten teacher early. Unfortunately this was not the first time it was evident that my Squirrel was a second born. 

See, I never would have dropped a library book due date with my first born, the Moose. Heavens no! And if I had come down with a severe case of food poisoning and was physically unable to lift the book and place it in his book bag, I would have sent a long apologetic email to his teacher, promising that he (and I) were responsible human beings. With my second born, I simply shrugged and figured library day would come around again next week. 

Thus is the fate of the second born. While the first born received books from every book order form that darkened our kitchen counter, the second born is directed to the bookshelf in our house which holds all the previously purchased book order form books and his order form is quietly “filed.” The first born had Friend Birthday Parties beginning at the age of four, complete with themes, goodie bags and treasure hunts. The second born is getting his first this year when he turns six. Instead of a whimsical party at home, I am looking at prefab parties at the Science Center or Skyzone. 

Maybe I’m just getting senile or maybe I just am constantly dropping the ball. But the second kiddo is definitely getting the shaft. I am up to my arms in washing football pants and soccer socks now, which was never a distraction when I was bringing up the first born. While my first born has every second of his life documented in photos, my youngest will have to settle for Facebook posts instead. 

Do I love these babies differently? No and yes. I love them both the same – so much that my heart literally bursts when I think about them. But with my first born, everything was a first and we were EXCITED and ANXIOUS for each new milestone, pushing him through them and forgetting to enjoy the moment, always reading what was supposed to happen next week. I have deleted every single one of those weekly emails with my second born. With my second born, everything is a last – the last time I will experience first steps, the last time I will hear a first word. I rejoiced the day I stopped nursing my oldest. I sobbed for two days when I stopped nursing my second, and still now it tugs a little at my heartstrings when I think of it. With my first born, everything is new – we are starting to experience hormones and I’m already looking forward for that newness to pass. With my second, he will catch me just staring at him and will smile at me, probably wondering what happened to the mom who ha her game together. All I’m doing is soaking in these moments of his age, wishing they would never end – because I know what happens next. Not that the future is bad, but there is nothing like whatever age he is at the moment. I know now not to speed it up.

Maybe if I am still long enough, time will stop and I can revel in it a little bit longer. In the meantime, I am begging forgiveness on library fines and promise to hit the bookfair at conferences. Ask my first born, he’ll vouch for me.

Unexpected and Strange or Rabies and Wet Dreams

The best part about parenting is that you absolutely have no idea what will happen next. I feel bad for all of those parents who have those laid out birth plans that actually were executed. Didn’t you know that the birth process is our initiation into the world of the Unexpected and Strange? That’s why babies are born early and late, why we have emergency C-sections and why you always get the doctor you’ve never met hanging out to see your lady parts do acrobatics while they are delivering your bundle of joy. If you didn’t catch the clue that life will always be Unexpected and Strange from delivery, then babies continue the hazing by not latching on if you are trying to breast feed, being allergic to the formula you bought in advance (because you are always Prepared dammit!), and by peeing all over the going-home-from-the-hospital outfit you bought so that you have to use some old hospital onesie instead (true story.) If our love bundles have done their job well, we leave the hospital as very different people who realize life will never be the same again.

If you are like me, this was a terribly hard transition. I am Type A(+) and am overly organized. I have been known to have meals planned out two weeks in advance, I book flights 8 months before a trip and can’t believe it when my flights change, and will discuss weekend plans with my husband, only for him to realize I’m talking three weeks out. Needless to say, I don’t do spontaneous well. So when my wonderful first born was two weeks early, I was in denial that I’d had a baby until his actual due date had passed. Can we say Post-Partum? This was my first clue that life would always be Unexpected and Strange.

Now we are all accustomed to the last minute projects that come home from school, the birthday party invitations that arrive less than a week in advance, and when the stomach flu strikes. After a while, this becomes the norm in your house. We can roll with the punches with the best of them. And that’s when we get cocky. “We’ve got this parenting thing down! I am a seasoned veteran.” Heck, throw in a constipated dog – we are still cool under pressure!

That’s why when the life gets truly Unexpected and Strange, it warrants a moment of pause and respect. After 11 years of parenting, my husband and I were getting complacent. We thought we’d seen everything. We’ve handled food allergies and moody hormones, jeans that overnight turn 2 inches too short and expired medicines that you replace at 2:30 a.m., projectile vomiting and hornet attacks. So when our 5 year old came home and announced he’d been bit by a wild hamster, we looked at each other and knew what to do – assume he’s lying. But no, there was an incident report documenting the attack and a band-aid as proof. No problem – we are still calm, in fact laughing. Wild hamsters! Of course. Naturally we have other places to be and things to do that night, namely our older son’s first middle school open house. Lockers need to be “organized” and class schedules need to be mapped. And we can’t miss The Parent Meeting at the end. And as soon as it was over, we had to zip to soccer practice. But we are used to this type of schedule and weren’t sweating it.

But still, wild hamsters are nothing to be laughed at (well, they totally are, but I digress.) Due diligence calls for me to phone the pediatrician and make sure we just need some antibiotic cream and a lecture about keeping our kids away from wild animals. Blah blah blah. Until the nurse says you need to go to the ER for observation for rabies. Say what? Shit just got real. Hello Unexpected and Strange. Frickin’ hamsters!

We know the drill. Divide and conquer is the only way to react aka survive. Dad gets the ER visit while I do the middle school shuffle, completely distracted by the fact my youngest son is Old Yeller. Didn’t they put that dog down in the end? But please, let me focus on how middle school is a journey, a story, a…what the heck, I wasn’t listening until I received the text that we were free and clear of rabies. Phew, glad that moment of crazy is over! Much happier, I reengage and run my new middle schooler to soccer practice and come home. Home sweet home. Time to relax.

But then I go into the oldest’s room to gather his clothes from his hamper and see a strange sight on the floor. His sheets. Wait! Shit had already gotten real once – I cannot deal with more Unexpected and Strange! He’s 11, he’s been moody, he’s getting close to puberty. Holy crap, it can only be a wet dream! Can. Not. Deal. I frantically text his dad – the only explanation for him to strip his sheets is because they are dirty and the only reason they can be dirty is because he is getting to that dreaded age. Girl moms, you get that first period.* Us boy moms have to have the wet dream, which I want to say is way grosser because Tampax doesn’t make anything for that. Rabies and wet dreams in one night? I have hit the motherload of Unexpected and Strange. I am having a quick word with a higher power that doesn’t mind explicit language and my husband promises to have a word with the oldest son when he picks him up from soccer. I impatiently wait for answers from both. 

Eventually everyone is home. I tentatively ask my sweaty 11 year old why his sheets are on the floor, mentally bracing for yet another sex talk. He looks at me and says, “You told me to strip my sheets – that you were going to wash the sheets today.” Now, it is entirely believable that I might have said these words and completely don’t remember it. I am getting old. But I think it is easier to believe that my oldest had a wet dream than to believe he actually listened to me. Now that is truly Unexpected and Strange. 

All in all the night ended without rabies or wet dreams – what a relief on all accounts! And knowing my babies, I’m sure I’ll be having these concerns again for both of them. Next time I will be prepared though and life will have to try a little harder to be Unexpected and Strange. Not that I’m daring it! I’m good. Cockiness is over! I’ve been humbled. 

*Girl moms, you so have to watch this. Funniest thing I have ever seen. This is my gift to you:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NEcZmT0fiNM

Summer Lovin' Had Me a Blast or Hold the Sunscreen

It is the last day of summer – well the last day of summer break. I don’t think anyone is excited to go back, which is funny because I never left – I worked all summer long. But I digress….the KIDS are going back and we all know, that’s really all that matters because they are all little suns that we simply orbit, tending to every need and making sure there’s always a clean swimsuit available. But I won’t dispute that there really is something about summer break that feels magical. There is a certain attitude of laissez faire – where late nights watching fireflies and movies and eating junk food is acceptable. It’s a 3 month long vacation mentality and it is coming to a close. Sigh.

Or is it? Do we really have to give up our summer attitude? What if we treat every day like summer – with that sense of fun and excitement? Do we have to give up impromptu trips to the park and picnics because we have to be in school all day? Heck, I was at work all day and still celebrated summer.  I feel like the Grinch when he realizes that Christmas isn’t about the wrappings and presents but about the feeling you have in your heart. My summer heart just grew three sizes. Now I’m not talking about going all Pintrest on you or skipping Halloween or Thanksgiving (I am talking about skipping May Day though – seriously. That day is crap.) But maybe instead of acting all “homework and busy schedules” we start looking for those pockets of time for fun. Maybe you already do this. And if so, I tip my cute summer hat to you and say “Good for you – you should have blogged about this sooner!”

Now I’m not telling you to go crazy and not make up those meals in advance (it’s the only way to survive the jungle that is sports/music/homework/friends) or ignore the spelling words. But this year while I’m juggling how much homework there is, getting to sports practice, and washing uniforms in time, I’m going to try to keep the summer spirit in my heart. I’m going to try to stop and enjoy the small moments and have spontaneous unstructured fun when we’ve got a chance. 

Don’t get me wrong – I love fall. I really do and my Type A personality thrives on crazy – honestly, unstructured time makes me a bit tweaky. I want to know what homework is due, I love watching all the sports, I enjoy having a set schedule that by the end of the day makes me feel accomplished for managing. So a summer attitude is really a challenge for me – even in the summer. It requires me to look for that carefree moment that I usually try to avoid, to not constantly have a set serious agenda for every day. I’m going to admit, I did keep a list of fun things we could do so I had something to fall back on if we had a free moment. But they were fun things like farmer’s markets, parks, events. So I’m going to make one for the fall so I can remember to sneak in the fun stuff with the work. Who said summer ends in August? It’s only begun.

New School Year's Mom Resolutions 2015

 Ah, another summer comes to an end and we find ourselves about to embark on a year full of promise – promise of yet another insane schedule of sports practices, homework, school drama, school lunches and extra laundry. It’s almost like a new year – the school year. And nothing kicks off a new year like resolutions. So here are my New School Year’s Mom Resolutions for 2015!

New School Year’s Mom Resolutions 2015

1. I will only serve chicken nuggets and mac and cheese once a week. I know this is an awesome meal for you. It feels like an awesome meal for me too because I have to use a stove top AND an oven to make it, which means I’m practically Julia Childs. But I am pretty sure that your pediatrician would frown if he found out this made the menu more than once a week. Unless dad and I are going on a date because then this falls under the “Babysitter Dinner” category and doesn’t actually count.

2. I will leave cutesie notes in your school lunch only a few times a semester. Look, I feel like a Pinterest mom when I do this and that feels good to me. Parents magazine actually writes whole articles about the school lunch note! But while my kindergartener will find this cool, my middle schooler will find this mortifying. Bear with me – there are times throughout my day that I just want to give you a hug and this is the only way I can sort of do that. And I know that my older son will love the note secretly, but will hide it under his bag of chips. (Yes there is a bag of chips in the lunch  - don’t judge!) Which brings us to number 3…

3. All school lunches will only have a bag of chips OR a dessert, but not both. I really don’t need to hear it from Facebook, Parents magazine, any and all parenting articles and my pediatrician that you need to eat healthier. I know. I also know that the crunch of a carrot is simply not as satisfying as a chip nor is fruit truly nature’s dessert. In fact, my personal philosophy is that if dessert has fruit in it, then it is considered a fruit group, not dessert and you are justified to grab chocolate as soon as you can. (But what about banana splits you ask? That sounds like fruit covered in milk to me! Help yourself to a piece of chocolate cake…after the banana split. You deserve it for eating so well!) BUT I love you and do want you to be healthy while wanting to be a somewhat of a cool mom so I’ll make a concession. Dessert or chips but not both. Unless dad makes the lunch because then we all know it’s a free for all.

4. I will not to yell at you for not getting out of bed on time more than twice a week. I’m going to try to be zen mom while also knowing this isn’t my natural steady state. So offering three days a week of being the mom who gently gets you dressed and eating breakfast on a schedule seems like a stretch goal to me, but I’m going to shoot for the stars this year. Three days. That’s what you are getting. I’d suggest you try moving in the mornings so that we can all see this one through.

5. This year I am straddling a kindergartener and a sixth grader. Those are opposite sides of the spectrum for moms. I will try my best to remember my audience based on the child. For example, both boys playing football this year. I will do my best to keep my overly exuberant cheering to a dull roar during the kindergartener’s flag football games while coming decked out in school spirit for my sixth grader’s tackle football games. In my defense, I used to be an aerobics instructor and part of the gig was cheerfully yelling at people to MOVE! I really can’t help it…

I was going to keep going but who am I kidding. This is a gargantuan list as it is. I was feeling pretty confident in goals 1-3 but I think goal 4 is a deal breaker and I’ve failed at number 5 in the past. But this is a new year right? That’s what resolutions are all about!

And now for a resolution to all my mom friends out there: Every time I do something AMAZING, like make a bunch of food from scratch all in one day and freeze it because I am so organized it’s hateful or cut my kiddo’s lunch sandwich into fun shapes, I promise not to post it on Facebook. Well, not EVERY time. I need to brag a little but I will save it for the times I am feeling like a failure in other areas or have done something so truly above and beyond, angels are singing (like the Moose’s birthday cake I made – seriously, did you see it?) I ask that you make the same resolution. And if you are on board, I will know that when you post that you made your kid’s Halloween costume by hand and it is unbelievable, you really truly need a pat on the back because you are feeling low, not because you are gloating at how you are a Pinterest mom. (Save the gloating for Pinterest.) I’ll be under the assumption from here on that you are amazing even if you yelled at the kids to gettheheckoutofbedalready AND served chicken nuggets for dinner that night. We are all in this together.


P.S.  I never did find the elusive orange plastic folder that was on the school supply list. The secret is out: It does not exist. Suggested teacher resolution for next year? Only request school supply items that can be found in one store location.

The Crappy Soccer Mom or Hypocritical Me

For years I’ve been reading the blogs and articles about how parents should act during kids’ sports. We should always be supportive. We shouldn’t yell or get frustrated. We should make sports fun, not work. At the younger ages, we don’t keep score because sports aren’t about winning. And I’ve always nodded along, agreeing and of course pointing fingers at those parents that get uptight and scream at their kids during games. Wow, they are crappy parents! Little did I know that I was turning into one of them.

To my defense, this isn’t how I started. I was very granola about sports when The Moose first started playing. “It’s not about winning or losing; it’s about having fun!” It turns out that this is an easy attitude to have when your child is athletic. And let’s be honest, winning is more fun than losing. And if kids are supposed to be able to count to a hundred before they go to kindergarten, then you can sure as heck bet that they now how to keep score no matter how much you tell them that points don’t matter.

For the past eight years I’ve watched my oldest play his heart out on every field and court. And it’s been a blast – even in intense games where I’m biting my nails, I’ve been having fun. If he lost, I knew that he had tried his hardest and those Full House moments of “What matters most is that you left it all on the court” were easily delivered and truthfully meant. Now I’ve not been the perfect parent. I’ve had moments where I criticized too much and learned my lesson of when to back off and when to wait to give feedback. But I felt like I had this sport-parent role down pretty solid.

Then along came The Rock. While highly competitive, he is also eclectic. His interests range from music to science to sports. He wants to be just like his big brother (on good days) and play sports too. Or so he says. I’m beginning to suspect he just wants the uniform…I should have known what was to happen next when he seemed more overly concerned about putting embellishments on his cleats than about kicking around the ball.

As I did with The Moose, I volunteered to coach The Rock with his U6 soccer team. I’m trying my best to be the fun coach, putting in lots of games at practice and openly admitting that I know very little about soccer (as The Moose can attest.) Practices are a bit challenging with The Rock as he and I have a very special relationship called “See How Much We Can Push Each Other’s Buttons in the Name of Love.” But otherwise, I am surviving. Until I had to coach our first game.

As I said earlier, kids can count. And no matter what you say, they are keeping score. And we are getting slaughtered. It’s 10+ to 1 and regardless of what I’m saying, the kids know that we are not tied. As a competitive person, I’ll admit, I’m getting a bit frustrated for the kids. Losing sucks – even “we aren’t keeping score” losing sucks. But they are working hard out there on the field and I’m trying to find positives to keep them going.

Except for one player - The Rock. He’s out there prancing around, half-heartedly following the ball. He’s carrying on conversations with me, the other coach, the players and himself more than he’s playing a soccer game. And all he wants to know is how many more minutes he has to play.

Oh, I was pissed. He TOLD me he wanted to play soccer. He is the reason why I am giving up my Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings. And here he is, asking me what’s for lunch at 10:15 a.m. All I wanted to do was yell at him to run after the goddamn ball and get his shit together! I must admit, it took all of my restraint to not swear on the field.

Then he asked me why I hadn’t high-fived him during the game. And I told him maybe if he’d start playing some soccer, he’d get a high-five. And that was the moment I realized I was one of those shitty parents that becomes overly competitive during sports. Because here’s the truth: It’s easy to be supportive when your kid is good in sports. It is not easy to be supportive when your kid, regardless of his ability, sucks. And I’m not saying The Rock sucks at sports – quite the contrary. He could be very good – he’s definitely got the competitive spirit and he’s got talent…when he wants to show it. And that’s the rub. He just doesn’t want to play competitively – at least not yet. He wants to simply play. And I’m not used to that. I’m used to a kid that comes out of a game sweating, always looking to improve his performance regardless if it was a win or a loss. I’m not used to a kid that wants to make dirt fireworks (I am not making that up – that’s what The Rock told me he was doing as he threw dirt clods in the air during the game.)

I have always appreciated that The Rock marches to his own drummer. He is the kid that will be opening art galleries, making new chemicals in a lab and putting on fashion shows. And this is something I absolutely love about him. But I thought he’d do that while kicking around a soccer ball too. Guess I’m wrong. I realized that maybe some kids just need support because they got out there and played even if it wasn’t their most favorite thing to do. And that deserves cheering too – because doing something you don’t love is just as hard as playing your heart out when you love the sport – in fact, it’s harder because you don’t have that drive that pushes you when you are tired. And I didn’t deliver. I guess we both were screwing up on that soccer field Saturday.

So this week, I’m reforming. I’m still not going to let The Rock wear a bunch of bling to a game but this time he will get a high-five for simply being out there. I know he’s not always going to be a contributing member to his team. And that’s still going to piss me off - I can't lie. But I’m going to remember that he gave soccer a try and that’s going to have to be enough for me. He’s only 5 and that’s too early to predict his future. Who knows, maybe if I play my cards right, he’ll eventually fall in love with a sport and want to give it his all. Or maybe he’ll just start designing soccer shoes and make millions. Either way, I’m going to find my peace with it and cheer him on regardless if I’m at a soccer tournament or sitting by the catwalk.

My 2015 Annual Review for the Job Title: MOM

2015 Annual Review for the Position of MOM

I’d like to start this year’s annual review by thanking you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with me to discuss my performance. By the nature of our relationship, I know that all conversations must usually revolve around your bodily functions, dinosaurs, or what your brother has done to you lately. So I really do appreciate the thought you’ve put into this. Also, thank you for taking into consideration that I didn’t go to school to be Mom; working my way up through the company has been an eventful and educational 11 years. I am grateful for the opportunity to advance in this company.

Before we formally begin my review, I must note that this year’s continuous feedback has been extremely helpful. They always say that an annual review shouldn’t be a surprise. Knowing that you have been dissatisfied with my service and policies during various times of the year provided real-time feedback that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I always learn something from these conversations. For example, after I threw away the Moose’s math homework by accident, I apologized profusely and announced that I was a “crappy mom.” When the Rock said, “yes, that’s what I always say,” I was able to take that constructive criticism and really work with it. Knowing that status quo is “crappy” has really helped me set some reachable goals, such as being mediocre, unfair and not-sucky.

Ah yes, you’d like to talk about some specific examples of when my work could be improved. Great idea.

Quitting Time aka Bedtime: You are right, I have been knocking off early each day. While I know that the work day should last until you fall soundly asleep, there are times I have a difficult time remaining friendly past 9 p.m. when your bedtime is 8:30 p.m. I know my demeanor deteriorates as the day progresses and after dinner, night time activities, brushing teeth and reading stories, I do sometimes fall short on patience after I’ve told you 8 times to go to bed and stop poking your brother in the eye for God’s sake!  I will work on remaining cheerful from the hours of 4:30 a.m. – 10:30 p.m. You are absolutely correct – 6 hours of rest is plenty. I’ve been lazy.

Refreshments aka Meals: I understand you have been unhappy with your table service lately. I deeply apologize. I felt I was following corporate guidelines by offering a variety of food choices at mealtimes, but I see I have misunderstood the policies. By variety, you meant different kinds of pizza, not different foods themselves. Now your groan over the answer to “what’s for dinner” makes more sense to me. And you have a point – I should always be prepared to answer the question “what’s for dinner?” regardless of time of day or situation. Just pulling into the driveway after a day of work is no excuse for not being able to answer this simple yet critical question.
Oh, and snacks. Yes, I know you are have been dissatisfied with the snack schedule and options. The “cool” snacks have been exhausted by Tuesday afternoon and you are left with crackers, cheese, fruit, veggies and cereal bars as options. I will work more closely with the purchasing department to better plan for our week.

Company Outings: First, I’d like to thank you for giving me the responsibility of planning the company outings. Yes, I know sometimes I do better at this than other times. I will work harder to schedule Skyzone into every weekend – obviously it’s a time management issue on my part. Between basketball tournaments, house showings, birthday parties and general upkeep of the house, I have had a hard time fitting in activities that are clearly detrimental to your well-being. I will adjust my priorities accordingly. Your idea about automatically including a pack of Pokemon cards and a visit to the toy section into every trip to Target will be taken into consideration. Also, I will do a better job of preparing you for the “length of the list” for the grocery store. I understand it would be more convenient for you if I did these things when you were not around or sleeping.

Procurement Procedures: I was pretty sure you were going to bring up last week’s soccer shoe debacle. Again, I was under the impression we were supposed to run a quick ROI before making purchases which is why I declined your request for $40 soccer shoes for your U6 spring soccer season and requested you choose a pair of $27 soccer shoes instead. I now understand that I neglected to take into account that the $40 pair of soccer shoes had a skull on them, which made up for the fact that you would wear them for a total of 16 hours (8 weeks of soccer x (1 hour game + 1 hour weekly practice)). Obviously my math was wrong and didn’t include the part of the equation for the cool factor. While I cannot make up for your broken heart (again, thanks for the real-time feedback!), I did practice drawing skulls for 1 hour so I could add them to your soccer shoes personally. I know it does not adequately make up for my misjudgment but I have learned a valuable lesson. I have learned how to draw skulls.

I appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to set my goals for the next year.

1. Reply to the words “Hey Mom” the first time, regardless of what other activities I am undertaking.
a. Stretch goal: Reply to multiple requests of “Hey Mom” simultaneously.

2. Purchase candy every time you must attend the dreaded grocery store trip.
a. Stretch goal: Purchase candy for you every time I go to the grocery store or really anywhere with candy whether you are there or not.

3. Update our bedtime routine to include a floating hour, endless stories and less hygiene.
a. Stretch goal: Lay in bed with you until you fall asleep at 10 p.m. and THEN make your lunch, clean up the house, etc. Obviously these personal agenda items should not take place during “your time.”

4. Stop “breaking your heart” every day with unjust policies.
a. Stretch goal: Anticipate said “heart breaking” activities before they happen.

I believe my merit raise of 2 less brotherly fights/day is more than generous. I would have been happy with just 1 less brotherly fight/day. I will work hard to earn that raise. I look forward to your continuous efforts to make me an acceptable mom and next year’s annual review.

No Crying Over Spilled Sauce or It Takes a Lot to Make Me Blush

All of us are born with a sense of wanting to preserve our dignity. Throughout middle school and high school we try to act like and look like our friends, all in the attempt to not be embarrassed and ridiculed. In college we try to be different because in being unique, we are still conforming to a norm – but this one means that to be the same, we must be different. Just this week a college student explained to me that being called “basic” is a major insult – no one wants to be average. I thanked her for keeping me cool by updating my slang and smiled inwardly because not being “basic” is actually the same thing as trying to fit in and be normal.

So throughout most of our early years we strive to avoid publicly shaming ourselves. And then we have children. I had no idea that what would have embarrassed me in my early 20’s wouldn’t even register on my Richter scale now. Tripping and falling in public? Who cares! Walking around with a huge hole in my pants? Hey at least I’m wearing pants!

I’m not sure when we transition to being immune to humiliation. I think our adjustment starts when our sweet babies are born. Maybe it’s when we are delivering our babies and we have people all around our woo-hoos poking and prodding in there. Just think, when we were 21, we really tried not flashing our panties* while we were a little too drunk at that skeezy bar. And now people are huddled around that area quite matter-of-factly. And once we have that first baby, we’ve got lactation nurses in the hospital, grabbing our boobs trying to shove our nipples in just the right position. “Um, hey lady, my main goal for the past 27 years was to make it so that my nipple wasn’t out for the world to see. But hey, you just keep on going since you seem on a mission and my baby is screaming. Yes, I’m totally relaxing so I can ‘let down.’” And have you seen what nursing bras look like? That is a humiliation in and of itself.

As our babies grow, they strengthen our immunity to embarrassment. It’s like they are training us for a crazy adventure race. Once at a wedding reception (where we were sitting right by the buffet table) the Moose vomited, Exorcist style, all over me. Like he stood up, looked at me and opened his mouth and everything he’d ever consumed landed in my lap. To this day, I think he puked so hard that it went through me because when I stood up, despite being puked on in my front, I had puke on my back and butt. My neighbor apologetically wiped the back of my pants so I could careful walk out of the reception, with my drenched clothes hanging on me, my husband gagging at the smell, and the Moose skipping along asking when we were going to have dinner. At that stage of motherhood, I still felt embarrassed. Little did I know I was just training for that portion of the race where you crawl through the mud. We haven’t even started getting ready for the part where you run through the electric wires.

At that point I didn’t realize how many times I’d be puked on or pooped on yet. Or how babies only blow out their diapers in Target or restaurants. Or how you can be sitting in church and notice that your toddler is sticking his hand down your shirt. Dealing with these minor indignities prepares us for a day of spectacular portions.

It takes a lot to make me embarrassed now. Two weeks ago I was at the grocery store checking out and managed to drop a glass jar of spaghetti sauce on the ground. Of course it shattered, not only leaving glass fragments but spaghetti sauce EVERYWHERE. Clean up in aisle 10…literally. Moose was mortified. The Rock was bemused. And I looked down and thought, “So do I just keep putting stuff on the conveyor belt?” I did and we checked out minus one jar of spaghetti sauce. My lesson? Maybe I should start buying the cheaper sauce that comes in cans instead?

So I was feeling pretty invincible when it came to public spectacles. Oh friends, you and I both know that when you get cocky about life, you will get it shoved right back in your face. Just this week I was fortunate enough to increase my training level for my tolerance of embarrassing moments.

We were house hunting and visited a house that the owner was showing himself. We are looking around, making that friendly small talk that you have to make because you are in an awkward situation of judging someone’s home while they are there watching you. That’s when the Rock took off to go to the bathroom. “Oh, we are so sorry,” we said, and to be honest, it really wasn’t that awful. Rock needed to pee, no biggie. We continue looking around the house. Then I notice that the Rock is nowhere to be found. Where did this kid go? Was he climbing on the beds? Because he had just gotten a lecture about that at the other house we looked at! Oh but no, it was so much better (or worse depending on how you look at it.)There, with the door wide open, is my baby, sitting on the potty. Friends, it is one thing to pee in someone’s house. It is another thing to poop in someone’s house, especially a stranger’s. And I thought, “Yes, this is the tipping point. THIS is embarrassing.” Now we are apologizing profusely and really meaning it this time. Peter runs in to help clean Rocco up and I am still trying to smooth over this amazing moment in parenthood. The guy, who looks just as embarrassed as we do, laughs it off but we all know, we have made a name for ourselves. “Hey guys, you think selling your home is tough? Try having a preschooler crap in your bathroom!” It’s like we were homeless and looking for a place to tidy up.

Well played Rock. I now have a new threshold for being embarrassed. My new benchmark for awkwardness is now, well, is my son pooping in a stranger’s house we are considering buying? No? Then who cares! I’m sure this isn’t the worst thing that will happen. And I am depending on other parents like you to look at me and think, “Hey, no judging here! My kid doesn’t shut the door when he poops either!” I promise to be just as gentle minded when your kid does something even more impressive. And just remember as we dodge the mudpits and electric wires of parenthood, we are simply making special memories that will all come to light at their senior parties. Paybacks are hell.  

*If you have an issue with the word “panties” please read one of my prior blogs and get over it.

From Poop Schedules to College Or I Will Leave You Alone as Long as I Can Call You Whenever I Want

Dear Moose,

We are in a transition period. I know that you are growing up. Soon you will be eleven and in middle school. And because I am dramatic, I recognize that this means you are practically in college. Knowing that time is of the essence, I am already working on letting go, even if you can’t tell. I refuse to become a helicopter parent. I see it too much and it is not someone I want to become. But….it turns out, this is quite hard.

You see, I have been watching your every movement like a stalker since I found out I was pregnant. We were instructed to count your kicks every hour in utero. But micromanaging did not stop once you were born. I received weekly updates from overly helpful websites telling me exactly what developmental delays I should be on the lookout for. Your every move has been scrutinized and you didn’t even know it! Even in daycare, I would receive a daily sheet telling me what you ate, how much you ate, when you ate, when you slept, how many wet diapers you had and when you pooped. Little did you know that we have been tracking everything you do since you were born!

Of course starting kindergarten was quite the change because it turns out, kindergarten teachers don’t watch how much you eat or how many times a day you go to the bathroom. How am I supposed to know if you are safe and healthy if I don’t know these intimate details about you?! I’m just supposed to expect you to tell me? But when I asked you what was for lunch, you couldn’t remember. What? Argh! Did you eat? Are you wasting away? Naturally kindergarten was the first step as it forced me to let go a bit and rely on you to know how to take care of yourself when it came to your basic needs. I’d like to think you are fully capable of taking care of the base needs now, yet sometimes I find I still have to tell you that you need to wear shoes. But I digress…

Now you are getting to the age where you can be dropped off at places without me. Just this weekend I let you watch your friends play basketball and I wasn’t there. I know that very responsible parents that I trust were around. But while I may have seemed cool and collected on the surface, I was ready to text you every 5 minutes to make sure no one had drugged you in the bathroom and taken you across state lines. Obviously I made you take your phone. I can track you with it, which you may not know. Fun fact, did you know I literally hyperventilated the first time I let you use a public restroom on your own? I still actually watch the bathroom door waiting for you to reemerge. Sorry!

These are baby steps for me. Soon you will be driving. Wait, no you won’t. I can’t actually go there mentally so I’m going to deny that you will have the capability of being able to transport yourself to different location and come home on your own accord. Let’s skip over driving. Soon you will be going to college. I think you should go wherever you want, even if it is far far away. But you need to understand that weird shit happens in college. Although all of my weird stuff was from guys, I’m sure girls are just as able to stalk you, leave strange notes on your door and steal your underwear as well. And I won’t be there to protect you. I won’t know every detail of your day or even if you went home at night. Oh my gosh, don’t do drugs or smoke and always use a condom! If those are the only things you remember from your upbringing, I am happy. I’m going to breathe through this panic attack I’m having at the thought of college.

I know you will need to branch out. You will need to make your own decisions. I will not raise a son who cannot think on his own. Your wife would hate me. And I would hate me too. You have to be independent. And I am learning that this is harder on me than it will be on you. So I’m going to keep trying to let things go, because soon I’ll have no choice. You’ll be a man and your decisions will bear consequences only you can accept, no matter how much I want to take care of you. I’ll transition from someone who takes care of you to someone who supports you. There is a difference. And I think that’s what a good mom does – she finds that balance.

So here’s to the next stage in life. I trust that you are a smart kid and you’ll make the right decisions. And when you don’t, I’ll be there to help you out. And for goodness sake, remember to take your phone. I’m not cutting the cord entirely.

Love,

Mom

The World Needs More Assholes or Bedtime Deep Thoughts

Disclaimer: I really shouldn't have to put a disclaimer on this because if you know me at all, you would know how much I love my children. They beat my heart and fill my lungs with air. I truly don’t know who I’d be without them. But that being said…sometimes they are assholes.

Have you ever had a boss that screams at you for two hours straight, despite you basically running the company for them? They call you names and tell you how much they can’t stand you. If so, it sounds like your boss is an asshole. Now picture yourself madly in love with this boss. And the boss is about five years old. And ironically enough, you've had lengthy conversations about how YOU in fact are the boss, not someone who doesn't know how to tie their shoes yet. This boss is my baby and even though he is my baby, he is still being an asshole.

Sometimes kids are assholes. I suppose if I were a better person, I could come up with different adjectives for them. Perhaps “determined,” “self-assured,” “persistent.” And those words would all be true. But if you put them all together and add a side of “abusive,” you get a common asshole.

It turns out that I too can be an asshole at times, so my children come by it naturally. It also means that while exhausting, I can handle it. It sucks. It wears me down. It makes me question every parenting choice I've made. But I can (barely) handle it when my handsome five year old becomes a gremlin and yells and screams at me for two hours because it is bedtime.

These moments become a bad psychology experiment for both of us. The Rock tries pleading, negotiating, yelling, screaming, name calling, then backtracks to regret, only to find that it still means it’s bedtime, then spirals back to screaming and name calling. On my part, I exhibit patience, persistence, sternness, yelling, screaming, then regret, only to find it still doesn't work, then I fall back on humor. At a certain point, I’m waiting for Super Nanny to walk in with her video camera and tell me everything I’m doing wrong to get little Rock to go to sleep peacefully. Fortunately documentation does not exist and unfortunately no one drops in to defuse the situation. The Rock and I are on our own to figure out whose willpower is stronger.

At some point in the madness, one must find something funny about the situation or else you risk losing your mind. There is something therapeutic for me when I realize that my sweet baby has turned into an asshole for the moment. Maybe I put my babies on pedestals a bit and it’s kind of reassuring that they are also human, and all humans are capable of being assholes sometimes in my opinion.

And the more I think about it, the world could use more assholes, as long as their powers are used for good, not evil. We need people who push and push for their agenda, who get angry when they don’t get their way, who continue to look for ways to make it right, and keep trying until justice is served.

So after The Rock and I had both calmed down, embraced the fact it was indeed bedtime (for both of us), and said our apologies, we had a conversation.

Me: “You know, someday it’s going to be a good thing that you get so angry about things. I want you to get angry about children being hungry. About babies being sick. About people being mean to others. I want you to get as angry about kids not having enough to eat as you do about going to bed. And then I want you to do something about it.”

Rock: “What will I do about it?”

Me: “Well, you are going to get so angry about kids being hungry or sick that you are going to save the world.”

Rock, pausing: “Will you help me?”

Me: “I’ll always help you Baby.”

That night I went to bed, knowing that The Rock would be okay and that I would be okay. That one day his personality was going to help him do big things in the world. We just have to work together to channel that energy, one bedtime at a time.

A Mom Pep Talk or Puke is a Part of a Rock Star Lifestyle

You know those mornings. You wake up early, ready to start the day. You hit the gym and have an amazing workout - the kind where you feel 10 years younger. When you get dressed, you find you can squeeze into your pre-baby fat jeans (please see chart below) – score! As you start working on your look for the day, your hair miraculously cooperates and you remember that this type of day is the reason you didn’t cut it last week. This is one of those mornings where you are a rock star! You are a mom, but you still have IT. You are a fierce warrior woman – hear you roar!

Then you hear the roar. The kids are fighting again. It’s okay, it’s okay. You are a warrior woman – you can handle this with a sense of calm justice. You are going to rise above and wait them out – perfect parenting technique by making them work out their differences themselves. You are amazing.

Then you hear the roar again. The dog is constipated and needs to go out AGAIN for yet another fruitless walk. It’s okay, it’s okay. This walk will just allow you a little more exercise, right? Those pre-baby fat jeans don’t just wear themselves – you’ve got to work for it, right?

Then there is another roar. The kids fought to the point of the youngest getting so worked up that he started barfing all over. What the hell? Come on! The last thing you want to do wearing your cute fat jeans with your awesome hair, is clean up the toilet and surrounding areas of barf – especially when you know it’s not the flu, it’s just an overreaction.

And that’s when it happens. Your fierceness starts to fade. You are kneeling in your once cute outfit, scrubbing the floor, stripping your youngest down so he can shower, and basically starting the day over. The blooming flower you once were has started to droop. The dog starts whining again – of course she needs to go outside once more!

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and instead of that rock star from the morning looking back at you, you see a harried mom, hair now up in a ponytail, make up smeared and you resign yourself to thinking about your next grocery list, knowing the only thing your kids will ask you about yourself today is not “how is it that you are in your late 30s and still look so hot?” but instead “what do you plan to make me for lunch?” You might as well change out of those cute fat jeans and put on a pair of mom jeans. Maybe you still have a maternity pair lying around – they are good for cleaning in at least.

STOP! Don’t do it! I am here to tell you that you can still be a rock star cleaning up puke. Rock stars are around puke all the time – most of the time it’s probably theirs! You don’t have to be a dowdy mom (unless you want to be – that’s your choice of course and I respect it.) You still have IT. You just have to have IT while you are doing the mom stuff too. I know you don’t have the nannies, chefs and personal trainers that the stars do. I know when you go out of the house looking messy it’s not a fashion statement like it is for Katie Holmes but a statement on the day. But don’t let that stop you! 

Every mom is a rock star. Some of us just have harder tour schedules and play for rougher crowds than others. Let your awesomeness shine. And sure, it’s going to fade now and then. There will be times you are more concerned about your dog pooping than you are that you got your workout in. But rise above my friends. Those are merely temporary setbacks in the game of life. Remember who you are. You are a mom who fit into her pre-baby fat jeans for Pete’s sake! Now wash your hands, put the kids in clean clothes and hit the mall like you wanted to. Don’t let a little barf and lack of poop stop you from being fierce! 

RANKING OF JEAN SIZES

Skinny Pre-baby jeans	Already gave them away
Pre-baby jeans	One can always hope
Pre-baby fat jeans	A goal to strive for
Post-baby jeans	A typical day
Post-baby fat jeans	Must be the holidays
Maternity jeans	Just wear a long shirt and no one will notice the wide elastic band on top