Well, I'm back. I finished up my semester, better known in my house as the semester that Almost Killed Mommy. Okay, don't worry, I'm the only one who actually calls it that. The kids just think of it as the semester they Saw A Lot More of Daddy (Dear, sweet, awesome-at-talking-his-wife-off-of-the-proverbial-ledge-at-zero-hour, Daddy. If you listen hard enough you can probably hear me swoon). But no harm, no foul, no permanent damage done. At least, for them. There's a reason I think of it as the semester that Almost Killed Mommy.
Oh well, what's done is done. And I would love to tell you that I'll never, ever do that to myself again, but I know myself and myself will probably do it again somewhere down the road. You can all feel free to say "I told you so" when it happens. I might not even punch you in the face for saying it. But we'll see. People under loads of stress are capable of utter craziness like punching people at random or willingly listening to Justin Bieber. Believe me, I know (But we'll get to that...). And anyway, I have to admit that as hard as the semester was, I loved that nice part at the end where all my hard work paid off.
So, the semester has ended but unfortunately the stress from it is still lingering a bit and causing what I like to think of as post-semester stress disorder. I'm still finding Josh's cheerfulness in the morning practically intolerable as I still only want to pull the covers back over my head and sleep for a month every morning. For example. The overwhelming feeling that I'm forgetting to do something really important that is due this instant every time I sit down to watch Mad Men with Josh, for another example (That one is because I had thought a paper due at the end of the semester was due at 12 AM and it turned out to be due at 12 PM. I didn't even lose any points off of the paper, but it's still haunting me...). It's bad. But don't worry, the FDA will probably make a pill for PSSD soon.
Just in case you couldn't already tell, I'm still feeling a bit rough around the edges and failing at my every attempt to wake up in the morning and vow that today will be the day that I stop stressing out about something that is already over and start acting like a civilized member of society.
Unfortunately, yesterday was not that day.
So yesterday I was at the grocery store with the kids and as we were walking through the parking lot with our cart, this woman (I can think of another word I'd like to use here, but I won't because I honestly think that women already put other women down way too much. And also, my Grandpa reads this.) peels out of her parking space. Layla was walking next to the cart, holding onto it, like the good girl she is, and I (With frankly much more coordination than I ever thought I would be capable of) put my foot on the cart so Ben wouldn't roll away, snatched Layla back with one hand, and whacked this woman's back window so hard that I now have a little bruise on my palm (I can not tell you how much I wish I had broken the glass. I would have seemed like the craziest person ever and it would have been totally worth it). That's how close she was though. Within hitting range. I literally watched her tire go over the space where Layla's foot had been about a second before. It was terrifying, to say the least. Anyway, this woman started to get out of her car and I opened Ben's door and shoved both kids inside. I had a hunch this wasn't going to be a conversation I wanted them hearing (Or repeating. They're two and four. Kids their age practically live to repeat conversations like this) and also, I would rather not claw at someone like a crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant in front of my children.
At this point I feel it's very necessary to tell you something about me. I am the absolute worst at confrontation of any kind. I never know what to say or do and many times in my life I have gone to confront someone who did me wrong and wound up apologizing to them. I'm the soul-sucking worst at confrontation, no joke. If that woman had nearly run over my foot, you know what I would have done? That's right. Absolutely nothing and then kicked myself later, thinking of all of the things that I should have said. So it's not exactly typical behavior for me to actually start a confrontation when I'm usually the one trying to avoid them. I guess I can only say it's because no one has ever tried to mess with my kids before. Hello Maternal Instincts! There you are!
Anyway, this woman gets out of her car and asks if there's a problem. Some words are exchanged, which I won't repeat word-for-word because, like I said, my Grandpa reads this. The short version is that she basically flew out of her car and rather than apologize for her inept driving and near dismemberment of my daughter, tried to accuse me of not watching my kids. Let's just say, I told her what was what. For the first time, possibly ever in my life, I knew exactly what to say and I said it. By the end of the conversation, she was apologizing and scrambling to get away from me. It rocked. When she was gone and I was opening the door to buckle the kids in, I found that Layla (Who can buckle herself into her own car seat) had gone ahead and buckled Ben up too. I think she sensed that we might need a quick getaway. So I sat in the car and shook with adrenaline for a few minutes before I called Josh and told him what happened. Luckily, he was happy that I confronted the wannabe Indy 500 contestant and in no way thought that I had behaved like crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant (Score one for Team Prentice!). And then when I turned on the car, this song (Yes, that one down there) came on and for some reason it felt so delightfully appropriate that we played it twice.
So yes, you could say that I've been a little out of character lately. Sure, I was protecting my daughter, but I'm usually the one getting on Josh for his road rage because "someone might have a gun" or something. I'm never, ever the instigator. I don't plan on making a habit out of it, but acting and speaking on my toes really did pretty good. That in itself makes me feel like I've gone completely crazy, which I sincerely hope I haven't. If nothing else, clearly it's a fair statement to say that I have a little extra stress left to shake off.
And that's why I'm going to go play outside with my awesome, unharmed kids and my husband, whose cheerfulness, by the way, is much easier to tolerate in the afternoon.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
You Can Dance If You Want To
Pardon my tangent.
Yesterday, a historical event occurred. After decades of plotting and organizing various deadly terrorist activities, including 9/11, and nearly ten years of hiding from the United States, Osama bin Laden was found and killed. Turn your TV on to any channel and you will see the same thing. Americans gathering on the streets of New York, Washington D.C., and countless other cities and towns, celebrating this achievement for America. Naturally, you all already know this because you clearly have the necessary access to the internet required to read these very words, and as far as I know, none of you currently reside under a rock. Needless to say, when the news broke everyone was feeling especially proud to be an American, myself included.
Today, the dust has begun to settle and I feel less than celebratory. I have a raw, unsettled feeling with a side of guilty conscience.
I want to make something very clear. In my mind, Osama bin Laden is the absolute definition of bad guy. The things he did during his time on Earth are unspeakable. If there is a hell, then he is there, no doubt about it.
That being said, he is (was) a human being. And we are celebrating the death of another person. And it just feels weird. Worse, it feels unresolved. Because here's the thing. If you knock a bee hive out of a tree and kill the Queen bee, the other bees aren't going to passively lay down and die, mourning the death of their leader. They're going to attack you, sting the hell out of you, try to inflict as much pain on you as humanly possible, even if it means losing their own lives. And that's just bees.
I can't stop thinking that if this were a movie, bin Laden's death would mean bye-bye Al Qaeda.The troops would all come home to their families and the Middle East would become a place of peace and democracy. We would all be walking amongst the rubble looking like Megan Fox with perfect skin and strategically placed dirt on our extra tight t-shirts, while George Clooney diffused all of North Korea's nuclear warheads. But life isn't a movie, and our actions have consequences.
In the meantime, we continue to celebrate.
For all of the families who lost a loved on on September 11, I hope this brings them some kind of closure, even if it can't bring their family or friends back. As for the rest of us... My brain and heart feel like they're engaged in a civil war. My heart says we should celebrate the fact that the world lost a bad guy. My brain stubbornly insists that we murdered this bad guy because he murdered other people. It's an eye for an eye world, and I just don't know that I can go along with that philosophy. In the meantime, I have this nagging feeling in my gut that my first reaction to murder was happiness and I can't shake it. It doesn't feel good.
I'm proud to be an American. I don't question the decision to kill bin Laden rather than capture him and put him in prison. My knowledge of prison is limited to the plot of The Shawshank Redemption, but any idiot knows that bin Laden would survive about thirty seconds before someone in prison killed him. The fact of the matter is that he was a bad man and the world now has one less bad man.
I just don't want to dance in the street because of it.
Yesterday, a historical event occurred. After decades of plotting and organizing various deadly terrorist activities, including 9/11, and nearly ten years of hiding from the United States, Osama bin Laden was found and killed. Turn your TV on to any channel and you will see the same thing. Americans gathering on the streets of New York, Washington D.C., and countless other cities and towns, celebrating this achievement for America. Naturally, you all already know this because you clearly have the necessary access to the internet required to read these very words, and as far as I know, none of you currently reside under a rock. Needless to say, when the news broke everyone was feeling especially proud to be an American, myself included.
Today, the dust has begun to settle and I feel less than celebratory. I have a raw, unsettled feeling with a side of guilty conscience.
I want to make something very clear. In my mind, Osama bin Laden is the absolute definition of bad guy. The things he did during his time on Earth are unspeakable. If there is a hell, then he is there, no doubt about it.
That being said, he is (was) a human being. And we are celebrating the death of another person. And it just feels weird. Worse, it feels unresolved. Because here's the thing. If you knock a bee hive out of a tree and kill the Queen bee, the other bees aren't going to passively lay down and die, mourning the death of their leader. They're going to attack you, sting the hell out of you, try to inflict as much pain on you as humanly possible, even if it means losing their own lives. And that's just bees.
I can't stop thinking that if this were a movie, bin Laden's death would mean bye-bye Al Qaeda.The troops would all come home to their families and the Middle East would become a place of peace and democracy. We would all be walking amongst the rubble looking like Megan Fox with perfect skin and strategically placed dirt on our extra tight t-shirts, while George Clooney diffused all of North Korea's nuclear warheads. But life isn't a movie, and our actions have consequences.
In the meantime, we continue to celebrate.
For all of the families who lost a loved on on September 11, I hope this brings them some kind of closure, even if it can't bring their family or friends back. As for the rest of us... My brain and heart feel like they're engaged in a civil war. My heart says we should celebrate the fact that the world lost a bad guy. My brain stubbornly insists that we murdered this bad guy because he murdered other people. It's an eye for an eye world, and I just don't know that I can go along with that philosophy. In the meantime, I have this nagging feeling in my gut that my first reaction to murder was happiness and I can't shake it. It doesn't feel good.
I'm proud to be an American. I don't question the decision to kill bin Laden rather than capture him and put him in prison. My knowledge of prison is limited to the plot of The Shawshank Redemption, but any idiot knows that bin Laden would survive about thirty seconds before someone in prison killed him. The fact of the matter is that he was a bad man and the world now has one less bad man.
I just don't want to dance in the street because of it.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Life Imitating Art
For some reason, I figured that being married and having kids would protect me from the fear of getting older.
It hasn't.
Intellectually, I realize that twenty-seven is not old. But emotionally, I feel like I was seventeen when I went to bed last night and I don't know where the last ten years of my life went. In less than three years I'll be thirty. THIRTY. Family aside, I can't keep the nagging question out of my head; what am I doing with my life??
One of my favorite books (and movies) is Julie and Julia. I love it for many reasons. I feel like I can really relate to Julie Powell. Spoiler alert: I'm an aspiring writer with a blog! I love to cook. I'm prone to meltdowns and melodrama over very minor things, like accidentally buying a head of cabbage instead of lettuce, something I'm sorry to say happens to me more frequently than one might think. One of the best parts of the book (and I stress book because Julie Powell was portrayed as a much sweeter and patient person in the movie...believe it or not!) was Julie's relationship with her husband, Eric. I'll put it this way; It's nice to know that I'm not the only person who alternates between thinking her husband is the greatest thing that ever walked the Earth, and wanting to throw something sharp at his head. It's actually very comforting, if you want to know the truth.
But most of all, I feel like I relate to Julie because I see thirty looming in the not-so-distant distance and I find myself thinking (okay, obsessing) about how I had a list as long as my arm of goals, and I really haven't accomplished much. As far as my personal life goes, I feel like I've accomplished the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. I was never someone who talked about how much they wanted to get married and have kids...because I didn't. Enter Josh, who never tried to change my mind, but did anyway.
But enough mush.
Marriage and kids weren't a goal, but they are an accomplishment, insofar as I haven't messed up either too terribly just yet.
But what about those goals of mine? Here's the thing about becoming a parent. "My" kind of flies out the window and is replaced with "Us". This is all fine and good, and your family should come first, but what happens to our own things? Because here's the thing. Once upon a time, Moms were people too. We were fun and spontaneous, and didn't care if there were dishes in the sink or if the laundry got done. We didn't necessarily want to change, but unless you're Britney Spears, you can't go out every night and ignore your children for extended periods of time. Mundane things become vitally important. Routine is your new religion. In fact, if you listen really closely after the birth of your first child, you can practically hear the slow, painful death of your former self. Okay, maybe that was a bit dark for a blog, but I swear I'm not trying to be cryptic or cynical. I'm just trying to figure out how to focus on the "Us" without completely losing sight of the "Me". Unfortunately as a mom it's easy to feel selfish when you focus on yourself for more than ten seconds. It's wrong, but it's easy.
So here I am, like Julie Powell, feeling older but not necessarily wiser. Accomplished, but not accomplished at the same time. Wondering how old I'll be before I feel like I have a handle on everything, and like I'm not running myself ragged going in ten different directions at a time. The difference between Julie and myself is that she figured it out and I am most definitely still working on it.
I can, however, guarantee that I won't spend the next year creating five hundred and some complicated french dishes. I'm crazy, but not that crazy.
It hasn't.
Intellectually, I realize that twenty-seven is not old. But emotionally, I feel like I was seventeen when I went to bed last night and I don't know where the last ten years of my life went. In less than three years I'll be thirty. THIRTY. Family aside, I can't keep the nagging question out of my head; what am I doing with my life??
One of my favorite books (and movies) is Julie and Julia. I love it for many reasons. I feel like I can really relate to Julie Powell. Spoiler alert: I'm an aspiring writer with a blog! I love to cook. I'm prone to meltdowns and melodrama over very minor things, like accidentally buying a head of cabbage instead of lettuce, something I'm sorry to say happens to me more frequently than one might think. One of the best parts of the book (and I stress book because Julie Powell was portrayed as a much sweeter and patient person in the movie...believe it or not!) was Julie's relationship with her husband, Eric. I'll put it this way; It's nice to know that I'm not the only person who alternates between thinking her husband is the greatest thing that ever walked the Earth, and wanting to throw something sharp at his head. It's actually very comforting, if you want to know the truth.
But most of all, I feel like I relate to Julie because I see thirty looming in the not-so-distant distance and I find myself thinking (okay, obsessing) about how I had a list as long as my arm of goals, and I really haven't accomplished much. As far as my personal life goes, I feel like I've accomplished the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. I was never someone who talked about how much they wanted to get married and have kids...because I didn't. Enter Josh, who never tried to change my mind, but did anyway.
But enough mush.
Marriage and kids weren't a goal, but they are an accomplishment, insofar as I haven't messed up either too terribly just yet.
But what about those goals of mine? Here's the thing about becoming a parent. "My" kind of flies out the window and is replaced with "Us". This is all fine and good, and your family should come first, but what happens to our own things? Because here's the thing. Once upon a time, Moms were people too. We were fun and spontaneous, and didn't care if there were dishes in the sink or if the laundry got done. We didn't necessarily want to change, but unless you're Britney Spears, you can't go out every night and ignore your children for extended periods of time. Mundane things become vitally important. Routine is your new religion. In fact, if you listen really closely after the birth of your first child, you can practically hear the slow, painful death of your former self. Okay, maybe that was a bit dark for a blog, but I swear I'm not trying to be cryptic or cynical. I'm just trying to figure out how to focus on the "Us" without completely losing sight of the "Me". Unfortunately as a mom it's easy to feel selfish when you focus on yourself for more than ten seconds. It's wrong, but it's easy.
So here I am, like Julie Powell, feeling older but not necessarily wiser. Accomplished, but not accomplished at the same time. Wondering how old I'll be before I feel like I have a handle on everything, and like I'm not running myself ragged going in ten different directions at a time. The difference between Julie and myself is that she figured it out and I am most definitely still working on it.
I can, however, guarantee that I won't spend the next year creating five hundred and some complicated french dishes. I'm crazy, but not that crazy.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Mean Moms and BFFs, Once-Removed
I've been thinking about friends a lot lately.
Two years ago when I was pregnant with Ben, my best friend moved to Portland. I have other friends, but nothing compares to your best friend, especially when that friend is equal parts hilarious and compassionate, a fun-loving single girl who manages to be amazing with my kids. I'll put it this way: If anyone was waiting in the wings to be my BFF, they had a tough act to follow.
But instead of throwing myself down on the ground in front of her moving truck and begging her not to go, I had to be a grown-up. Ugh. So now my best friend lives 2,000 miles away, a horrid reality that I refer to as Best Friend, Once Removed. Now I'm left to navigate the mess that is female friendship.
And it's a jungle out there.
I'm writing a paper about Tina Fey right now, so maybe that's why "Mean Girls" is in my head, but I can't stop thinking about how well that movie described how women can be. The problem is, I assumed (wrongfully) that the "Mean Girls" mentality ended after high school. It doesn't. At least, not for everyone.
It's an epidemic called "Mean Moms". Basically, they were the stuck-up, insecure girls in high school that grew up to spawn (God help us all....) future stuck-up insecure girls, and no matter if you're three years out of high school or thirty, these women never escaped that adolescent mentality. And, just like back then, they want to try to make you feel like the small one. You know these women. They're not real friends. They're one-uppers. If you like to feed your kids organic food, they feed their kids vegan organic food and then proceed to monologue at you for fifteen minutes about how cheese is a silent killer, or some other such nonsense. If your kid plays soccer, their kid takes Mandarin Chinese classes because Oprah says that kids who know seven languages before kindergarten are more likely to blah blah blah blah.
Let me be clear about something. I think every parent should be their kid's biggest fan. If you are a parent who doesn't think your kid is the greatest thing that ever walked the Earth, then something is fundamentally wrong with you. But with women like this, it's not about the kid. It's about them. Sure, learning a second language is great for a kid, but it's really about the bragging rights and the end goal of you walking away feeling like an inferior parent (person, really). It's fake and annoying, and let's face it, it gives women in general a bad name.
Like I said, I have great friends, friends that certainly don't fall into this category at all. However, having kids who go to classes, school, Sunday school, and so on, I run into these women constantly. Our kids are friends, at least for the time being, as three-year-olds aren't typically elitists. Basically, as a mom, "mean moms" are just another thing I have to suck it up and deal with, as I probably shouldn't expect my kids to exclusively be friends with my friends kids for the rest of their lives.
I have to be the one who teaches my kids to ignore the "mean girls"....while I'm still trying to ignore their mothers...
Two years ago when I was pregnant with Ben, my best friend moved to Portland. I have other friends, but nothing compares to your best friend, especially when that friend is equal parts hilarious and compassionate, a fun-loving single girl who manages to be amazing with my kids. I'll put it this way: If anyone was waiting in the wings to be my BFF, they had a tough act to follow.
But instead of throwing myself down on the ground in front of her moving truck and begging her not to go, I had to be a grown-up. Ugh. So now my best friend lives 2,000 miles away, a horrid reality that I refer to as Best Friend, Once Removed. Now I'm left to navigate the mess that is female friendship.
And it's a jungle out there.
I'm writing a paper about Tina Fey right now, so maybe that's why "Mean Girls" is in my head, but I can't stop thinking about how well that movie described how women can be. The problem is, I assumed (wrongfully) that the "Mean Girls" mentality ended after high school. It doesn't. At least, not for everyone.
It's an epidemic called "Mean Moms". Basically, they were the stuck-up, insecure girls in high school that grew up to spawn (God help us all....) future stuck-up insecure girls, and no matter if you're three years out of high school or thirty, these women never escaped that adolescent mentality. And, just like back then, they want to try to make you feel like the small one. You know these women. They're not real friends. They're one-uppers. If you like to feed your kids organic food, they feed their kids vegan organic food and then proceed to monologue at you for fifteen minutes about how cheese is a silent killer, or some other such nonsense. If your kid plays soccer, their kid takes Mandarin Chinese classes because Oprah says that kids who know seven languages before kindergarten are more likely to blah blah blah blah.
Let me be clear about something. I think every parent should be their kid's biggest fan. If you are a parent who doesn't think your kid is the greatest thing that ever walked the Earth, then something is fundamentally wrong with you. But with women like this, it's not about the kid. It's about them. Sure, learning a second language is great for a kid, but it's really about the bragging rights and the end goal of you walking away feeling like an inferior parent (person, really). It's fake and annoying, and let's face it, it gives women in general a bad name.
Like I said, I have great friends, friends that certainly don't fall into this category at all. However, having kids who go to classes, school, Sunday school, and so on, I run into these women constantly. Our kids are friends, at least for the time being, as three-year-olds aren't typically elitists. Basically, as a mom, "mean moms" are just another thing I have to suck it up and deal with, as I probably shouldn't expect my kids to exclusively be friends with my friends kids for the rest of their lives.
I have to be the one who teaches my kids to ignore the "mean girls"....while I'm still trying to ignore their mothers...
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Keep Up The Pace
My already-busy life has suddenly become a whirlwind.
Last week I decided to take on an exciting opportunity. Now in addition to having two kids, being married, taking five classes, and blogging, I will also be writing a parenting column for an online magazine called The Examiner! I'm beyond excited. Really, excited doesn't even begin to cover it. I jumped up and down so much the day I got offered the job I thought I was going to break through the floor. It is amazing in the way that only unexpected things that you never think will actually happen are.
Okay, random story, but when I was in high school I really, really wanted to write for the school newspaper. I actually had a few teachers who also wanted me to, but I was always really self-conscious about my writing in that way that a seventeen-year-old is self-conscious about just about everything. Long story short, I never did it. I kind of always wished that I had. Anyway, fast-forward ten years and I have a public blog and a column for an online newspaper, that anyone anywhere can read anytime.
I've come a long way, baby.
But with the confidence to blab my life story to a computer and the thrill of being on the internet in a good way, something unexpected also arrived. Anxiety.
This really wouldn't be anything that remarkable if I was anxious about the job, school, or how to juggle my life, but I'm not. I'm just anxious, without context. And the worst part is, I've taken to pacing. I pace and I worry about things like global warming and public schools, and whether or not Leonardo DiCaprio will ever win an Oscar. Sometimes I worry that those horn things in Lady Gaga's face hurt her. In other words, a varied and really random assortment of things, none of which I could ever possibly have any control over (Okay, maybe global warming, but that's a tangent for another day). Sometimes Ben likes to pace with me and, while I like the company, it does nothing to relax my preexisting fear that I'm psychologically damaging my kids just by being their mom.
I can't explain it, but I guess I'm just going to choose to focus on the good in life. Because there really is a lot of it. And if nothing else, at least pacing is exercise.
Last week I decided to take on an exciting opportunity. Now in addition to having two kids, being married, taking five classes, and blogging, I will also be writing a parenting column for an online magazine called The Examiner! I'm beyond excited. Really, excited doesn't even begin to cover it. I jumped up and down so much the day I got offered the job I thought I was going to break through the floor. It is amazing in the way that only unexpected things that you never think will actually happen are.
Okay, random story, but when I was in high school I really, really wanted to write for the school newspaper. I actually had a few teachers who also wanted me to, but I was always really self-conscious about my writing in that way that a seventeen-year-old is self-conscious about just about everything. Long story short, I never did it. I kind of always wished that I had. Anyway, fast-forward ten years and I have a public blog and a column for an online newspaper, that anyone anywhere can read anytime.
I've come a long way, baby.
But with the confidence to blab my life story to a computer and the thrill of being on the internet in a good way, something unexpected also arrived. Anxiety.
This really wouldn't be anything that remarkable if I was anxious about the job, school, or how to juggle my life, but I'm not. I'm just anxious, without context. And the worst part is, I've taken to pacing. I pace and I worry about things like global warming and public schools, and whether or not Leonardo DiCaprio will ever win an Oscar. Sometimes I worry that those horn things in Lady Gaga's face hurt her. In other words, a varied and really random assortment of things, none of which I could ever possibly have any control over (Okay, maybe global warming, but that's a tangent for another day). Sometimes Ben likes to pace with me and, while I like the company, it does nothing to relax my preexisting fear that I'm psychologically damaging my kids just by being their mom.
I can't explain it, but I guess I'm just going to choose to focus on the good in life. Because there really is a lot of it. And if nothing else, at least pacing is exercise.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
If this was your job, you'd quit!
Being a stay-at-home mom is the world's hardest job.
And believe me, I would know. I've held about a million jobs. Have you ever read "War and Peace"? That 2,000 some odd page book looks like a children's book compared to my resume. But I digress.
I am the following: A cook, a maid, an entertainer, a scheduler, a nurse, an artist, a teacher, a driver, a coach, a referee, a nutritionist, a stylist, a handyman, and a cheerleader. Oh, and did I mention that I do all of these jobs for free? And that I work 365 days a week, 24 hours a day? With no sick leave? And no vacation?
So much goes into being a stay-at-home mom. There's the obvious taking care of the children part, which in itself is a hell of a job. I'd love to be able to pop my kids in front of a TV all day, but I just can't do it with a clean conscience. I want to teach them and take them outside. I want them to be aware of the world around them and aware of themselves as the people who live in that world. My kids are fantastic (in my humble, completely biased opinion) and frankly, I want them to stay that way. I see a lot of really terrible kids from week to week, which makes me sad. It's not the kid's fault that they're awful (usually), it's the parents. I'm a firm believer that kids shouldn't have to ask for your time, love, and consideration, it should just be a given.
For example, the other day, the kids and I were at the park and there was a woman with her son who was probably three or so. She was sitting on a bench talking on her phone, while her kid sat about two feet in front of her, eating sand and staring right at her. She carried on with her conversation (during which, by the way, she dropped so many F-bombs I felt like I had to get my kids away from her ASAP before that became a word that came out of their mouths). My point? Three year olds are old enough to know that you don't eat sand. That poor kid just wanted a little attention.
I'm not about to sit here and claim to be the world's greatest mom. I have many things about my personality that go against ever earning this title. I am the world's most impatient person (now that's a title I've earned!). My kids literally use up all of my very limited patience during the day, which translates into me having zero left for everyone else in the world sometimes. But guess what? My kids don't eat sand. I blog when they nap. I do homework when they're in bed at night. In other word, whatever my shortcomings, I try. Really, really hard.
Staying at home can be tedious. Sometimes it feels like the movie "Groundhog Day". I feel like I do the same things over and over. But I'm smart enough to realize a couple of things. Number one, I'm lucky to have the opportunity to stay home with my kids while they are young. Number two, they won't always be young. Someday they'll grow up and turn into teenagers who want absolutely nothing to do with me and all I'll have left will be memories of "the good old days" when they were toddlers and I felt like my presence made a difference in their lives (as hard as it is now to imagine referring to my constant work and sleepless nights as the good old days!). Lastly, I know that parents can be the greatest influence in their children's lives and right now, I'm putting lessons into their heads that will (hopefully) be there forever.
So yes, even when I'm left with two cranky kids, staring at the front door after Josh leaves for work with envy, I really wouldn't trade my life, no matter how challenging it is.
So fellow stay-at-home moms out there, you are amazing. We are amazing. If anyone else had our job, they'd quit!
And believe me, I would know. I've held about a million jobs. Have you ever read "War and Peace"? That 2,000 some odd page book looks like a children's book compared to my resume. But I digress.
I am the following: A cook, a maid, an entertainer, a scheduler, a nurse, an artist, a teacher, a driver, a coach, a referee, a nutritionist, a stylist, a handyman, and a cheerleader. Oh, and did I mention that I do all of these jobs for free? And that I work 365 days a week, 24 hours a day? With no sick leave? And no vacation?
So much goes into being a stay-at-home mom. There's the obvious taking care of the children part, which in itself is a hell of a job. I'd love to be able to pop my kids in front of a TV all day, but I just can't do it with a clean conscience. I want to teach them and take them outside. I want them to be aware of the world around them and aware of themselves as the people who live in that world. My kids are fantastic (in my humble, completely biased opinion) and frankly, I want them to stay that way. I see a lot of really terrible kids from week to week, which makes me sad. It's not the kid's fault that they're awful (usually), it's the parents. I'm a firm believer that kids shouldn't have to ask for your time, love, and consideration, it should just be a given.
For example, the other day, the kids and I were at the park and there was a woman with her son who was probably three or so. She was sitting on a bench talking on her phone, while her kid sat about two feet in front of her, eating sand and staring right at her. She carried on with her conversation (during which, by the way, she dropped so many F-bombs I felt like I had to get my kids away from her ASAP before that became a word that came out of their mouths). My point? Three year olds are old enough to know that you don't eat sand. That poor kid just wanted a little attention.
I'm not about to sit here and claim to be the world's greatest mom. I have many things about my personality that go against ever earning this title. I am the world's most impatient person (now that's a title I've earned!). My kids literally use up all of my very limited patience during the day, which translates into me having zero left for everyone else in the world sometimes. But guess what? My kids don't eat sand. I blog when they nap. I do homework when they're in bed at night. In other word, whatever my shortcomings, I try. Really, really hard.
Staying at home can be tedious. Sometimes it feels like the movie "Groundhog Day". I feel like I do the same things over and over. But I'm smart enough to realize a couple of things. Number one, I'm lucky to have the opportunity to stay home with my kids while they are young. Number two, they won't always be young. Someday they'll grow up and turn into teenagers who want absolutely nothing to do with me and all I'll have left will be memories of "the good old days" when they were toddlers and I felt like my presence made a difference in their lives (as hard as it is now to imagine referring to my constant work and sleepless nights as the good old days!). Lastly, I know that parents can be the greatest influence in their children's lives and right now, I'm putting lessons into their heads that will (hopefully) be there forever.
So yes, even when I'm left with two cranky kids, staring at the front door after Josh leaves for work with envy, I really wouldn't trade my life, no matter how challenging it is.
So fellow stay-at-home moms out there, you are amazing. We are amazing. If anyone else had our job, they'd quit!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
When did I have that third child?
Husbands are funny.
Husbands are your man. Your protector. Your amazing, adorable, such-and-such, and all that good stuff. And then you have children and suddenly Husband locks into the role of "fun one".
Do you guys watch Modern Family? Josh and I are really into it right now. On the show (for those of you who don't know) there is a couple named Claire and Phil who are the parents of three children. Claire is a slightly uptight, super-organized neat freak, who prefers a "let's sweep it under the rug" mentality. Phil, on the other hand, is a laid-back, go-with-the-flow self-proclaimed "cool dad" who definitely has a "hug it out" mentality.
If any of you are thinking "Hey, that sounds like Abbey and Josh!", Good Job! ;)
Anyway, in this one episode Claire is driving in the car with her son and the son starts talking about how cool and fun Phil is. Long story short, Claire tells her son that she used to be cool, but she gave it up for the kids because you can't have two cool parents or you'll end up like the kid that comes to school in pajamas and pays for everything with hundred dollar bills.
It's so true.
Dads are always the cool ones. Always the fun ones. Sure, they put their work in with disciplining, loving, and potty-training and everything else that comes along with it. But somehow Dads are still seen as the parent that most resembles a kid and so Moms are left to feel like they've gained, you guessed it, an extra kid. It's not necessarily always a bad thing (like when the kids want to go play with Josh and I can blog!) but I see it all the time, with all of my friends who have kids, and I just want to know why this phenomenon happens. Moms are hip. Moms are rockin'. Okay, maybe not me, but I'm sure that some Mom somewhere is cool.
Maybe we'll never know. All I know is that right now Josh is taking Layla to see "Tangled" and this Mama and her Mama's boy are taking a nap. Yay!
Husbands are your man. Your protector. Your amazing, adorable, such-and-such, and all that good stuff. And then you have children and suddenly Husband locks into the role of "fun one".
Do you guys watch Modern Family? Josh and I are really into it right now. On the show (for those of you who don't know) there is a couple named Claire and Phil who are the parents of three children. Claire is a slightly uptight, super-organized neat freak, who prefers a "let's sweep it under the rug" mentality. Phil, on the other hand, is a laid-back, go-with-the-flow self-proclaimed "cool dad" who definitely has a "hug it out" mentality.
If any of you are thinking "Hey, that sounds like Abbey and Josh!", Good Job! ;)
Anyway, in this one episode Claire is driving in the car with her son and the son starts talking about how cool and fun Phil is. Long story short, Claire tells her son that she used to be cool, but she gave it up for the kids because you can't have two cool parents or you'll end up like the kid that comes to school in pajamas and pays for everything with hundred dollar bills.
It's so true.
Dads are always the cool ones. Always the fun ones. Sure, they put their work in with disciplining, loving, and potty-training and everything else that comes along with it. But somehow Dads are still seen as the parent that most resembles a kid and so Moms are left to feel like they've gained, you guessed it, an extra kid. It's not necessarily always a bad thing (like when the kids want to go play with Josh and I can blog!) but I see it all the time, with all of my friends who have kids, and I just want to know why this phenomenon happens. Moms are hip. Moms are rockin'. Okay, maybe not me, but I'm sure that some Mom somewhere is cool.
Maybe we'll never know. All I know is that right now Josh is taking Layla to see "Tangled" and this Mama and her Mama's boy are taking a nap. Yay!
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