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

I Am a Fallen Angel or At Least It’s Clean

Fun fact #1 about me: My best girlfriends and I were fortunate enough to work together at Victoria’s Secret for two years. 

Fun fact #2 about me: I used to own over 30 different bras. 

Not so fun fact #3 about me: My bras and panties* no longer match.

Now this may not seem like much of a confession to you, but for many years, not a day went by when I was not wearing a matching ensemble. At times, I’d even match my outer wear outfit that you saw with what I was wearing underneath. Even my sports bra and panties matched when I went to the gym. And now before you is a sad remnant of the past, someone who is simply excited that she managed to find clean panties that don’t dig into her flesh.

How did I get here? This was not a sudden drop in personal care, oh no. I held it together with my first child. While the number of my bras diminished from 30+ to 10, I still managed to pull it together enough to match, because what you wear underneath sets the tone on top (or something like that.) I may not have been awake enough to drive safely or make major decisions, but I could still tell my colors apart. I still had my standards. Then I had my second child.

Then one morning I was getting dressed and realized I was wearing some crummy cotton panties with a nice bra. What?! What had happened to me? What had I become? Well, a working mother of two, but that’s besides the point. When had I let myself go to the point that I was wearing orange flowered panties with a black bra? Ack! The horror! And then I finished getting dressed, walked the dog, and dropped my kid off for the bus before going to work.

It’s funny how the little things that were important aren't anymore. I've got bigger fish to fry than my undergarments. Do we have bread, sunbutter, and applesauce in the pantry? Are the kids wearing clean clothes? Does everyone have their lunch packed for tomorrow? Did someone feed the dog today? (Usually this answer is no – thankfully we have a very patient dog.) But “do my panties and bra match?” no longer makes my radar.

We were watching the Victoria’s Secret fashion show this week and the “Angels” were commenting on how nervous they were to walk the runway. It was a major job responsibility obviously and caused them much angst. I understand that perspective is everything, but I thought about my Victoria Secret girlfriends and I, managing motherhood and jobs the best we can; being stressed about walking down a runway in my bra and panties, wearing huge wings and heels seems a bit laughable. I’ll take a runway over running my kid to the ER any day. Now that’s stress.

I may be a fallen angel who wears cotton with satin and mismatches daily, but I’m still pulling off quite a bit every day. Can I still earn my wings? And the stuff I do you can actually see, as opposed to being hidden under my clothes. It’s all about acceptance, right? Although don't get me wrong, a few new matching sets would still be nice…

*Men wear underwear. Women wear panties. You may not like the word "panties" but you'll just have to get over it. 

Make Every Day a Holiday Syndrome or Enough Already Day

I have an illness. It is Make Every Day a Holiday Syndrome. Basically I’m obsessed with trying to make every second of our daily lives a Kodak moment. (Side note – should that now be an IPhone moment? Honestly I don’t know the last time I used a real camera.)

It all started out innocently enough. Of course you have the regular major holidays every year – Christmas, New Year’s, etc. Those are always easy to make special. Then you get your secondary holidays, like St. Patrick’s Day, May Day and Valentine’s Day. And if you are a parent, you start to realize that the leprechaun and Cupid have started taking crack because now we have to mess up our house because the St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun does tricks and Valentine’s Day has become a week-long art project to make the best Valentine’s Day box for school. I shun the leprechaun – this is a holiday I hate second only to May Day (to spare you yet another May Day hate filled rant, please see one of my first blogs). But I put Valentine’s Day on steroids when I started leaving little gifts in the house 4 days before Valentine’s Day, mostly as an excuse to justify buying my kids more stuff. (Because I love my kids and buying them things makes me happy but I don’t want to look like a parent that spoils them. Even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.) Even Halloween now includes Booing people, which goes beyond the practice of trick or treating and starts to look oddly like May Day for spooks.

But then you read about how to make your kids excited to go to the grocery store. “Make it a game!” screams parenting magazines. So you do. Getting groceries and taking the cat to the vet becomes an Adventure (which in truth, if you have children, any trip outside of the house becomes an adventure to see if you can keep your sanity intact. Can you make it through your errands without an emergency stop at the gas station bathroom because children never have to go when they are in the vicinity of a decent bathroom? Double points if you do!)

And this is how the slippery slope of Make Every Day a Holiday Syndrome starts. Soon you find yourself ignoring the rules of grammar and you start making every moment a proper noun. Library Day! Taco Tuesday! Gym Night! Movie Night! Technology Free Tuesday! (Tuesday is a big day.) For goodness sake, we’ve even done it in our adult lives on Facebook with Throwback Thursday (which I hate but also occasionally do anyway.)

This brought me to my low point - the night that I declared it was Stay Home Night! (Yes, every made up holiday requires capitalization and exclamation marks.) I realized that I was fighting to make every moment special and in a way, structured. The kids love it because it did make every moment in our lives a celebration, which (sappy moment) it is. And if I’m being Dr. Phil Real, it helps me get through a mundane day by putting a little spin and excitement on a regular task. But what the heck are the kids going to do when they realize that their lives will also include Pay Your Rent Or Be Evicted Day! Or Cram For Your Test Because You Have Poor Study Habits Day! Or Your Roommate Ate All Your Food and Now You Are Hungry Day! Will Laundry Day still have that sparkle when they are plugging quarters into a washer at their dorm? Am I setting my kids up for disappointment later in life by making every moment a Moment? What if just for a minute, we do nothing. Not Nothing Day! But nothing.

So I did. We had to take a week off of screens due to the Rock getting a mild concussion. Like a moth to a flame, any screen would draw him in so we had a complete moratorium on screens in the house. It’s all well and good during the week when we are running in circles anyway. But this special week also fell on a weekend when we had very little to do – which never happens so it must be fate. A whole Saturday with no plans. I got hives thinking about it. But rather than name the day and turn it into an exhausting circus of special, I did nothing. The boys looked at me. “What do we do?” I said you can do anything that doesn’t involve screens or wrestling. And I left it at that.

There were a few complaints of being bored, which turns out that kid-bored can be remedied with the threat of housework. After a bit, the kids found ways to entertain themselves without me being the ringleader. They discovered the thousands of dollars worth of toys that had been sitting around. They made up a game with a tape measure and marbles. They finally broke out some art kits and started using them. As a whole, we made it 5 hours before the first fight occurred. As a parent, I know even you would like to call this The Day of Miracles! But try to refrain yourself – I was straining not to label the day a holiday myself.

So I learned a lesson and took the first step towards recovery. Sometimes less is more. We don’t need to make every moment of our lives something special. It can be a special moment in itself by being nothing at all. Let’s see Hallmark make a card for that!

Day of Yeses or Can Oreos Make You Mom of the Year? (Answer: Only if they are double stuffed.)

Yesterday I decided to say “yes” to pretty much everything. I know, I know, women are supposed to say no now – you read about saying no all the time. Not overcommitting is the thing to do! I feel like you need the backstory to understand this one. We were spending Thursday night at a hotel with a water park and I had the kids to myself on a rare Friday off from school. On Thursday night I was wiped out – I had gotten up at 4:30 a.m. to workout, worked all day, plus we had gone swimming at the hotel – and I didn’t have the energy to make the cocoa and popcorn I had promised the kids before bed. “In the morning you can have it,” I said before I conked out for the night. And now it was morning and they wanted popcorn and cocoa for breakfast. My first reaction was an inward sigh because kids only remember the things you wish they hadn’t. They can’t remember to put their shoes on every day, (something that still amazes me – it’s SHOES!) but they remember I had said we’d eat junk food for breakfast. But then my second reaction was “Why not? What IS the big deal about popcorn and cocoa (and Oreos) for breakfast? We don’t do it every day and giving them a whole day to burn that energy is better than giving it to them before bedtime.” So I said “Yes.” The kids couldn’t believe it and I had won some points in their book.

Then I thought, why not say yes to everything today? I had to mix in errands with the fun of the day so maybe it would make the day go smoother if I did. And lo and behold, the day went pretty well. I did have to shoot down a few ideas such as, after complaining for 45 minutes that they are starving for lunch I said no to the arcade so that I could feed them before they turned on me. I might have been motivated by self-preservation on that one. Hungry boys are a very dangerous thing. I want to be a hero but I don't want to be eaten in the process.

I said yes to pop at Costco, yes to an ice cream cone before dinner, yes to the pumpkin at the grocery store (the bigger the better!), yes to volleyball in the pool, yes to more TV, yes to the bounce house at Night Eyes, and yes to bedtime stories. Again, there were a few nos sprinkled in, but the majority of the day was full of yeses.

And it felt good. Did the kids get away with murder? Nope. Are they spoiled? Nope. Was the day perfect? Nope. I’ll admit, at the end of the day, Rocco was still complaining that he doesn’t get EVERYTHING he wants and I was still exhausted. But the day felt better on the whole and I felt better. And let’s be honest, I care a lot about how I feel.

See, too often I just wear out. By 6 p.m. I’m ready to hang it up, even though there’s still a full 3 more hours of going-going-going to do. And when I’m tired, I revert to saying “no” before I’ve even listened to the request. One day of more yeses than nos didn’t make me less tired, but it didn’t make me more tired either. And it did make me feel like a pretty cool mom for once.

(Now for the sappy Hallmark wrap up.) Will I remember this parenting lesson? Hopefully. It takes a conscious effort to stop and think about the ROI on a yes versus a no. With the number of requests coming in, I tend to revert to hair trigger decisions. But setting an intention at the start of the day to say yes more than no helps. Will this make me the world’s best mom? No - I still don’t have a formal Craft Night on the weekly rotation and so someone else will hold that title. Will my kids still get mad at me? Oh that’s a definite yes for sure. Yet, the next time they are mad at me for making them brush their teeth, I’ll just remind them that popcorn, cocoa and Oreos for breakfast comes at a price. I think the scales will still tip in my favor. Winning!