M-m-m-My Corona!

They say if you pray to God for patience, He'll give you opportunities to learn patience. So I don't pray for that anymore. Lord knows I get enough of those opportunities already! But I must not have been thinking clearly the other day. You see...I was having a bit of an emotion breakdown. I'm talking full-on, ugly crying over the fact that I'm a terrible Mom. I have these every so often, usually right after I have a good Mom day and start getting too cocky. It's the universe's way of bringing me down a peg or two. Anyway...I'm crying into a container of cookie dough that my sister-in-law dropped off   (pretty sure she thought I'd make cookies...ha!) and I started praying that God make me a better mom--a mom that spends lots of good-quality, intentional time with her kids. BOY...did He deliver! Hello, Coronavirus! So, I would like to apologize for single-handedly inflicting this on everyone.

It's only been about a week. One week. Which reminds me of another prayer I had in a moment of sadness, thinking that my kids were growing up too fast--I prayed that time would slow down. Well, I promise you...time cannot possibly go slower than when you have 7 people shut in a house for 7 days. And I'm not talking about regular, quiet people. I'm talking about a 10-year old with the attitude of Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka. I'm talking about 2 boys who run around screaming, farting, and talking about how much they love their penises. I'm talking about the non-stop chatter of a 3-year old with the craziest head of hair you've ever seen and a 1-year old that's louder than any human should ever be. (If you don't believe me, just ask the people who sit by us at church!) It. Is. Loud.

So there I was, sitting down with Charlotte, desperately trying to drown everyone else out while I attempt to help her with math. I just stared at it, while my eyes slowly glossed over. Unfortunately, like dogs, kids can sense weakness. Charlotte could smell it. "Umm...Maybe I'll just go ask Dad." My initial reaction was YES, please! But my inner feminist came out and I started monologuing about women being just as smart as men, and we could figure this out, yada yada yada. Well, I'm pretty sure she checked out somewhere around minute 3 because I noticed she was messing with her putty.  (Damn the putty! Am I right, Moms?) And on the same thread...Damn common core!  Anyway, I seized my opportunity. I very discreetly texted a picture of the problem to Jim so he could figure it out and help me save face. With a 4th grader. Anyway...Problem solved. Work smarter, not harder. 

Overall, I'm feeling pretty confident our new situation will expedite my next emotional breakdown, but I'll be just fine. I've got my bible and a bottle of wine! And I realized I just need to take it one day at a time. Maybe just try to accomplish one thing each day. Goal tomorrow: put on a bra. 

Hold The Mayo

It was 8 o’clock and I had just put the kids to bed. I shut the door and practically danced down the stairs because there is something magical about a few hours of grownup time each night. Per usual, I could hear someone get out of bed. They were inevitably dying of thirst, suddenly bursting at the seams and needing to use the bathroom, or possibly trying to convince me they heard something in their room. I braced myself—trying to channel my inner calm. (Does that exist?) But no, not that night. Charlotte was feeling creative.

“Mom! I think I have lice.”

WHAT?! How does she even know what lice are?

Apparently some precious angel in her class came to school with lice, and the teacher said to be on the lookout for itching. Now that it’s time to go to bed, her head—of course—is itching. So I turned on the lights and scoured her scalp, finding nothing. She started crying. I looked again in better lighting. All hell broke loose in the minutes and hours following my second inspection. Lice. Everywhere!

Poor Charlotte. I did NOT handle those moments with grace. I basically bleached my hands, put my own hair up into the tightest bun you can imagine, and wouldn’t touch her again until I had a pair of rubber gloves on. She just sat there, probably confused and terrified at my erratic behavior. But hey…I was just putting on my own oxygen mask first!  (If I get lice, ain’t nobody gonna be happy!)

Fast forward a couple days when we’re still battling. I read that putting mayonnaise in your hair suffocates the bugs naturally, yada yada. I’m up for anything at this point! So I slathered her head in easily the grossest substance known to man and covered it with a shower cap. She slept on it, so imagine that smell in the morning. Now I have the task of washing it out. Did I mention I was in my first trimester of pregnancy and the smell of mayo made me nauseous? So I try—not once, but 2 times—to wash her hair in the shower, but after 2 rounds of vomiting, I gave up. So what did I do? (wait for it…this is where I win my Mom-of-the-Year award!) I took her out back, laid her on the patio table with her head sticking off the end, and SPRAYED HER WITH THE HOSE! From 4 feet away! Gosh, I’m a terrible mother! I’m surprised my neighbors didn’t call CPS.

Why am I breaking my silence and sharing that story? That’s a great question. Because it’s funny…now. Did I lead with grace and gentility in those harrowing moments? Absolutely not! Did it get rid of the lice? Absolutely. And it made me think…Parenting is a lot like getting rid of lice. There are several different approaches to it. Some seem better than others. You have your own views on how it should be handled, and occasionally you have to change tactics. It’s messy! Until you’ve dealt with it, until you’ve walked in those shoes, you cannot judge!  It should NEVER include mayonnaise. And in the end, there is nothing but pure joy and happiness. And there you have it—an entire blog post about lice. You’re welcome.

Because I said so!

So… I was cruising around town in my minivan, bopping along to VeggieTunes and
desperately trying to drown out the whining coming from the back seat when something
wonderful happened.

I became my mother.

It all happened so fast. I really wasn’t prepared, but there it was. My 5- and 3-year olds were trying with all their might to convince me they didn’t need to take a nap. They. Weren’t. Tired! In between sobs, I hear, “It’s not fair!” And then it came spilling out of me before I could stop it—“Life’s not fair.” Three simple words that brought about immediate eye-rolling as a teenager have suddenly brought me so much joy that I couldn’t help but grin and feel a deep sense of pride. What other horrible parent phrases could I dig up from my past and use on my kids?

 
  -If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?
  -If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say
       anything at all.
  -Treat others the way you want to be treated.
  -Because I said so.

Okay, so they’re not ALL horrible. I think my mom was just trying to make sure we turned into decent, respectable human beings. As a parent, isn’t that our main goal in life? We want our kids to (eventually) be kind, intelligent, successful people. Most days I’m not sure they’ll even make it to adulthood. My 3-year old cried for 10 minutes the other day because his ketchup was red. Ten minutes! At that moment I really started wondering what I was doing wrong. Some days—most days—I don’t feel adequate as a mom. I’m impatient. I burn dinner. I play hide-and- seek just so I can escape from them for short periods of time. And what makes it worse is that it seems like every other mom out there has it figured out. They are making intricate (and might I add—perfectly done) crafts, throwing elaborate Pinterest birthday parties, and the crazy thing is…they look happy ALL THE TIME. How do they do it? And I know, I know…nothing on Facebook is really as it seems, but nevertheless it still tends to eat at you when you feel like the only mom who has to walk into her kids’ school in PJs and slippers to sign them in late…yet again.

What keeps me going is the hope that when they’re older they won’t remember that time I forgot to buy wrapping paper and had to wrap their presents in old newspapers or that sometimes I eat their candy and then try to convince them they already ate it. I hope they remember that I taught them to be kind, to always do the right thing, that a smile can go a long way, that everyone has a story, that everyone deserves respect. They’re smart kids. I don’t worry whether or not they’ll be successful with careers or money. I worry about whether or not they will be rich in the things that truly matter. And it starts at home. They may not always see me sneaking their candy, but they are always watching. Listening. Learning. I learned that the hard way when I heard Charlotte (who was 3 at the time) yell “Oh shit!” from her car seat. Although, I actually blame my mother for that one, my point
still stands—they’re always listening.

So I’m going to keep up these wonderful mom-phrases. Maybe one day they’ll stick! And if I have time, I’m going to take a deep breath, eat some more of the kids’ chocolate, and just keep swimming in the hopes that some day they’ll do the right things because they want to and not just because I said so!

Finding Beauty in the Chaos

“I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it,” was Edgar Allen Poe describing my sentiments exactly.

So this is how my morning started a few days ago: I sent Michael off to the bathroom, and he came barreling back at full speed with a texas-sized grin on his face. Using the potty is a really big deal You’ve got to be kidding me!* I know he never washes his hands without me reminding him a dozen times, so it couldn’t be clean, soapy water all over my lips. This is the conversation that followed:

when you’re three. I tried to give him a kiss, but he was already running off and all I could grab was his hand. I planted one right on his arm only to find out it was dripping wet. *

Me: Gross! Michael, why is your arm wet?

Michael: Because my toothbrush was wet!

Me: (Huge sigh of relief) Oh! Thank goodness. Your toothbrush.

Michael: Yeah, I dropped my toothbrush in the toilet.

Me: (NOOOOOOO!!!!)

Just another manic Monday. Did I imagine this is where I would be at 27 years old? Scrubbing toilet water off my face? Absolutely not. My life is complete chaos. And I love it. Okay, I don’t always love when they decide to simultaneously melt down in the middle of aisle 3 as I’m pushing a cart full of groceries. But I DO try to find the beauty in that chaos. Like, if I just keep my chin up and soldier on, I know I can make it to aisle 4…and that’s where the wine is!

A lot of people think I’m crazy when they hear I’ve got (almost) four kids, and my response to them: Yes, I am. Anyone who decides to have kids—whether it be 1 or 10—has to be a little bit nuts, don’t you think? Giving up the life you’re used to so you can cater to someone else’s needs 24/7 doesn’t seem like a totally rational decision. I used to be completely sane (I think!). Now I find myself in heated debates with my 2-year old over which Paw Patrol pup is the coolest. He always wins, by the way. Have you ever tried arguing with a toddler? It’s kind of of like trying to reason with a brick wall…if that brick wall could grunt, throw things, and repeatedly use the word “poopy” while spitting milk bubbles out of his nose. But, gosh it’s fun!

Yes, I know every word to every word to Frozen; yes, I stay in most Friday and Saturday nights playing Pretty Pretty Princess or Poopy Heads (that’s a real game!); yes, I spend more money on diapers than designer clothes; So yes, I may be completely crazy to have all these kids, but the joy this constant state of chaos brings me is indescribable and unparalleled.  

I often think that the days drag on and on and I find myself eagerly anticipating 8 o’clock so I can throw them in their beds and enjoy some much-needed time with my long-lost husband. Then a year flies by and I’m left wondering where the time went. A great friend of mine recently reminded me how important it is to stop and enjoy the mundane moments, to appreciate the beauty in the chaos. Tonight after dinner, I sat holding the boys on my lap with Charli breathing down my neck as we crowded around my computer watching the “Alphabutt” song. Yes, that’s a real thing and is exactly what is sounds like. (Click the link if you’re looking to channel your inner 3-year old!) Even though we replayed that dumb song 57 times, hearing their belly laughs never gets old. And when I have to go back into their rooms time and time again because they want more bedtime kisses…that never gets old either. Before I know it, I’ll be the one begging for those kisses, so I want to soak it all up now—preferably without the toilet water.

My Kids Are Trying to Kill Me

My kids are trying to kill me. They appear to be sweet and innocent, but in reality they are just tiny geniuses that spend their days plotting my demise. And I’m starting to crack. Let’s start with the toys. To the untrained eye, my house simply looks like a tornado came careening through it. But take a closer look and you might see that they have meticulously placed their Legos, Barbie shoes, and matchbox cars right at the bottom of the steps or outside my bedroom door. This trick usually results in the obvious I-hate-the-bottom-of-my-feet-right-now feeling. But if they’re lucky, my knees buckle at the pain shooting through my feet and I fall on said toys, piercing my knees and palms as well. Accident? I think not! If they’re feeling particularly malicious, they line these death traps up next to their beds and scream for me in the wee hours of the morning, just so they can catch me when I’m most vulnerable.

Does the torment stop there? Of course not. As of late, these masterminds have enjoyed taking the loudest, most obnoxious toy they own and placing it next to my pillow, so when I roll over the stupid thing goes off, giving me the heart attack they hoped for. They get extra points for using the seemingly-possessed doll that flashes its eyes open and closed while crying for Mama. I would LOVE to have a chat with whichever toymaker came up with that idea. They clearly did not have children of their own.

The only time I’m truly safe from their scheming is when they are asleep. Have you ever watched a child sleep? It is truly one of the most angelic things in the world. There are several times when I stand next to their beds and just stare at them. What I never thought of, however, was that my kids would do the same thing to me. But they don’t just watch me sleep and then silently leave my room. No. They get two inches from my face and scream-whisper, “Mommy! Wake up!”

I would like to blame each of my kids equally, but I have a feeling these are primarily the workings of my 5-year old inciter with help from her minions. What they’re really doing is playing an unfair hand. I cannot (in good conscience) reciprocate with death-plots of my own. I guess my payback will have to wait until they’re older, and it will come in the form of curfews, rules, chores, and volunteering to chaperone every high school dance.

Don't Say B*** on an Airplane (Hint: That Word is Baby)

Have you ever been on an airplane and the person next to you insists on making pleasant conversation for the entire flight? Now imagine…instead of a friendly stranger, it’s a wild, screaming two-year old who missed his nap, refused to eat lunch, and (shockingly) doesn’t want to be confined to a tiny seat for 2 hours.

This was my life about a month ago when we decided to take three kids on a plane. You could practically see the dread as we made our way down the narrow aisle on the plane, people's eyes pleading, "Don't sit near me. Don't sit near me!" I had seen some mom in the news that made individual bags of goodies for the people sitting near her baby and thought how brilliant that was! It acts as a buffer so they don’t immediately hate you for sitting within earshot of their seat. Then I remembered I have three children and don’t have time to be considerate towards the feelings of others anymore. Besides, if I had to suffer through it, so should they! At least after the two-hour flight their headache stops. (I’m just kidding! I really do love my children.) And in all honesty, the kids were behaving really well, thanks in large part to my husband who is seriously the best dad in the world. He always manages to keep them entertained with his endless supply of goofy tricks, so I sat back to relax. They were perfectly content. And that’s how I knew we were doomed.

There’s only so long your kids can act like little angels before something will undoubtedly go wrong. And we had hit our limit. We still had an hour to go in our flight and this time it was baby Ollie’s turn to grey my hair a little bit. He got quiet. Too quiet. I looked over at his scrunched up little face right before he let out that first grunt. Oh crap…literally.

What in the world was I supposed to do?! Have you ever been in an airplane bathroom? Yup…no room for a changing table in there. So I have a few options: A) I pretend it wasn’t my kid and blame the old lady in front of me. B) Squeeze the two of us into that pea-sized bathroom and wash his butt in the sink, or C) change him on my lap in (I kid you not) the very middle of the plane so everyone gets to enjoy it. So which option did I choose? You guessed it—option C. I was the asshole mom who chose to ruin everyone else’s happiness. By this point in my life, however, I pride myself in my ability to change diapers at lightning-fast speed, and I was on top of my game that day. I had him changed in less than 20 seconds. My husband—who was sitting in the same row—didn’t even notice. I call that one a win for mom.  I stowed the funky diaper in the bottom of my diaper bag, put everything I owned on top of it to hide the smell, and prayed for a peaceful end to that flight. So next time you’re sitting next to that sometimes-too-friendly stranger on an airplane, you can think back to this story and count your blessings.