So, I'm a mom. And yet I wonder, how the hell did this actually happen?!?! (And yes, I do realize it's been a while since I've posted. So it goes.)
I've got friends who are moms. I've got friends who are dads. I'm a mom. My husband, bless his heart, is a dad. My mother and mother-in-law are moms. My father, step-father and father-in-law are dads. And although I do know the logistics of the birds and the bees, I continue to wonder...how the hell did this happen?!?!
Yes, I know...I did the deed. My husband was there...he, indeed, took part in the deed-doing...and enjoyed it immensely, I might add. And yet, here we are, parents. And, I must confess, I'm sort of dumbfounded by the whole deal.
As of now, and for the past 4+ years, I've been in charge of another person's life. And as of today, I'm in charge of no less that 3 peoples' lives, in addition to at least a portion of my husband's life and, on a good day, at least 1/1oth of my own.
And do I know what I'm doing? I like to think so, but I'm not so sure that's actually a factual statement.
Take today, for example. Today, I went to conferences for my 4-year old. Yep, you read that correctly...I went to conferences for my 4-YEAR OLD. My oldest child does not yet participate in a full school day and she still has conferences. I would've preferred to drop her off at preschool for her 2.5 hour day, but instead I went to a 5 minute conference.
But I digress...
So, at her conference, I learned that the 4-year old can count to 30 (that's right, folks, the kid is, indeed, a genius), she has friends, knows her colors, knows her shapes, and likes to play in the kitchen.
I also learned that she has trouble with conflict resolution (read: she thinks the other kid is being "mean" when she goes to play something else) and has trouble deciding which hand to use when she cuts with scissors.
Now, as this child's mother, I can see why she would have trouble with conflict resolution, because before children, I was likely to hide my head in the sand rather than solve the problem in question. If I was upset with you about something, I could have a wicked fight with you, IN MY HEAD, and that would pretty much be the end of it.
As far as the scissors go, I'm blaming that on her father.
And as far as conferences go, I will tell you, in all sincerity, that I came home from conferences a little flustered. I know I've got a smart kid and I know I've got a good kid. And I fully expected the preschool teacher to tell me exactly that. And she didn't tell me that I don't have a smart or that I have a dumb kid (although that's probably not legal) and she didn't tell me that I've got a good or bad kid (again, a legality issue), but at the same time, she didn't tell me exactly what I planned on hearing.
And that wasn't her job.
Her job was to tell me what she sees in school, when my kid interacts with her and with other kids.
And my job, as a mother, is to realize, and accept, that the preschool teacher isn't my kid's mother, that she doesn't know every inch of my kid, that she doesn't know what my kid smelled like when she was born, that she doesn't know what my kid's favorite anything is, and that my kid, simply, is not her kid.
My job, as a mother, is to know that Abigail is ridiculously smart, cries at the thought of missing her father for a minute, loves the color purple (or pink or blue or green, depending on the day), prefers her broccoli with NO cheese, had a penchant for Barbie (in spite of her mother's best intentions) and tells knock-knock jokes that don't make any sense.
And while there are days when I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I have all the confidence in the world that my kid, my Abigail, is going to be the best kid she can possibly be. And that some day, she will know which hand to use for scissors.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dirty Little Secret
Good Morning. My name is Maegan and I am a klepto. And it's all my kids' fault.
It started off innocently enough. Doesn't it always? When my oldest was 1, she had a prescription that needed to be filled monthly, so at least once a month, I'd put her in the stroller, the baby in the baby carrier, and we'd make the short trek up to Walgreens. Once there, I'd do a little shopping, but since my hands were full, I'd put stuff into the bottom of the stroller. I'd only pick up small things, like a bottle of water, some energy drinks, maybe a snack for the older kid. By the time I got up to the prescription counter, at least one of the kids was fussing, so I'd pay for the medicine and whatever happened to be in my hand. It never occurred to me to recall the items in the stroller...until I started walking home. Invariably, I'd get hot and thirsty on the way home, so I'd grab something cold from the bottom of the stroller and realize, "Crap. I didn't actually pay for this, did I?" But by that point, I'd be more than halfway home and I'll be damned if I'm going to walk all the way back to pay for something that I didn't actually mean to steal.
Since baby #3, it's only gotten worse. Now, whenever I go to the grocery store, I've got the baby in the front of the cart, usually at least one other kid in the cart and the other one hanging off the sides. Fragile things like eggs and bananas must be kept away from kicking legs of destruction, cases of Diet Coke tend to squish small bodies, and so they are squirreled away at the bottom of the cart. Once it's time to pay, it's every man for himself as I attempt to keep 2 kids from pushing the buttons on the conveyor belt, because the teenager who rings me up likes to put the bread in front of the canned goods. I need to contain 2 energy-laden bodies within a 2-foot radius so they don't get run over by an 80-year old woman's scooter cart, hand over coupons, stick a nuk back in a baby's mouth, bag groceries, pay for groceries, answer at least 80 different questions, get the groceries in the cart, get my change, check the receipt, corral 2 kids through the parking lot, put 3 kids in car seats, unload groceries, and return a cart to the corral...all in preferably under 7 minutes...or one kid is sure to blow. So, do I remember the various sundries on the bottom of my cart? Sure, I do. Once I start unloading the damn thing. And by that point, I've got 3 kids loaded into a car, as well as perishable groceries, and I'll be damned if I'm going to go back into the store and pay for the stuff the on the bottom of my cart.
Really, I don't steal on purpose. And I'm sure most kleptos say the same thing. But the way I figure it, I've left plenty of paid items in stores since I've had kids. I have no idea what they are, but I'm sure I've done it. And technically, it's the cashier's job to check for items on the bottom of carts. If my 3 and 4-year olds know there are mirrors on the side of the cashier's booth, then the cashier should know they're there too. I never steal stuff from Sam's Club, because they automatically check the bottoms of carts. In fact, they encourage you to leave things there! Imagine that!
So, am I sorry I steal stuff? A little. Will I encourage my children to steal stuff? Absolutely not. But if there comes a day when they have kids of their own, and they're tired and under-caffeinated and happen to shoplift a few things, unintentionally of course, I will laugh with them and direct them to this post.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a chilled Diet Coke calling my name...
It started off innocently enough. Doesn't it always? When my oldest was 1, she had a prescription that needed to be filled monthly, so at least once a month, I'd put her in the stroller, the baby in the baby carrier, and we'd make the short trek up to Walgreens. Once there, I'd do a little shopping, but since my hands were full, I'd put stuff into the bottom of the stroller. I'd only pick up small things, like a bottle of water, some energy drinks, maybe a snack for the older kid. By the time I got up to the prescription counter, at least one of the kids was fussing, so I'd pay for the medicine and whatever happened to be in my hand. It never occurred to me to recall the items in the stroller...until I started walking home. Invariably, I'd get hot and thirsty on the way home, so I'd grab something cold from the bottom of the stroller and realize, "Crap. I didn't actually pay for this, did I?" But by that point, I'd be more than halfway home and I'll be damned if I'm going to walk all the way back to pay for something that I didn't actually mean to steal.
Since baby #3, it's only gotten worse. Now, whenever I go to the grocery store, I've got the baby in the front of the cart, usually at least one other kid in the cart and the other one hanging off the sides. Fragile things like eggs and bananas must be kept away from kicking legs of destruction, cases of Diet Coke tend to squish small bodies, and so they are squirreled away at the bottom of the cart. Once it's time to pay, it's every man for himself as I attempt to keep 2 kids from pushing the buttons on the conveyor belt, because the teenager who rings me up likes to put the bread in front of the canned goods. I need to contain 2 energy-laden bodies within a 2-foot radius so they don't get run over by an 80-year old woman's scooter cart, hand over coupons, stick a nuk back in a baby's mouth, bag groceries, pay for groceries, answer at least 80 different questions, get the groceries in the cart, get my change, check the receipt, corral 2 kids through the parking lot, put 3 kids in car seats, unload groceries, and return a cart to the corral...all in preferably under 7 minutes...or one kid is sure to blow. So, do I remember the various sundries on the bottom of my cart? Sure, I do. Once I start unloading the damn thing. And by that point, I've got 3 kids loaded into a car, as well as perishable groceries, and I'll be damned if I'm going to go back into the store and pay for the stuff the on the bottom of my cart.
Really, I don't steal on purpose. And I'm sure most kleptos say the same thing. But the way I figure it, I've left plenty of paid items in stores since I've had kids. I have no idea what they are, but I'm sure I've done it. And technically, it's the cashier's job to check for items on the bottom of carts. If my 3 and 4-year olds know there are mirrors on the side of the cashier's booth, then the cashier should know they're there too. I never steal stuff from Sam's Club, because they automatically check the bottoms of carts. In fact, they encourage you to leave things there! Imagine that!
So, am I sorry I steal stuff? A little. Will I encourage my children to steal stuff? Absolutely not. But if there comes a day when they have kids of their own, and they're tired and under-caffeinated and happen to shoplift a few things, unintentionally of course, I will laugh with them and direct them to this post.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a chilled Diet Coke calling my name...
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
And the Award Goes to...
Yesterday, I won an award. It's a self-nominated award, but it's an award nonetheless. Care to know what it is?
World's Worst Mother.
That's right folks. For August 23, 2010, I, Maegan Schmidt, was the world's worst mother. No, I didn't beat the children or leave them on the side of the road or feed them to alligators, but the title still remains.
Here's why:
I started the day with excellent expectations. I have the girls scheduled for gymnastics camp all week and they were really excited to go. I bought myself an egg timer over the weekend with grandiose thoughts of trying out a new cleaning regimen (15 minutes per room) and achieving a sparkling house. It was supposed to be wicked hot yesterday, which it was, but then it's supposed to turn into a beautiful week. The State Fair starts this week. We got a big check in the mail from one of my husband's recent jobs. All should've been right with the world.
Here's what really happened:
We started off the day with a 6am voicemail from an unhappy customer wanting some sort of recompense on her floor, because the color didn't match the sample. She never actually saw a sample, so technically it would be IMPOSSIBLE to match, but apparently, that's neither here nor there. So, job stress to start off the hubby's day. Sweet. But I was not to be deterred.
The little girl woke up with a dry pull up! Score 1 for the day. She went potty on the potty, I cheered, we were right back on track for the excellent Monday. A little while later, she pooped in her pull up. I was deflated, but very good about simply reminding her she needs to poop in the potty and not her pull up. We get her changed and we're right back on track.
After about 4 tries, which is 2 more than usual, I finally get the baby down for his nap. Rather than start my magical new cleaning routine, I sit down in front of the computer. For WAY too long. And the day starts taking it's turn...
Baby wakes up and refuses to eat like the usual machine he is. He's moving around, won't sit in my lap, keeps stretching out his legs, wants to stand and is getting cranky because he's hungry, but won't eat. Sigh. In the meantime, the girls have asked approximately 80,000 times if it's time for gymnastics yet.
I feed the girls lunch, we do potty breaks, put on our leotards, get the hair done, finally get the baby fed enough to get him through the 35 minute car ride to the gymnastics center. I go to change the baby and Little Girl poops in her pull up...AGAIN. Enter awards time...I completely lose my mind and YELL, yes, actually YELL at a 3-year old for pooping in her pull up. She looks at me, completely nonplussed, with a dead stare. I want to throttle her. I ask her why she pooped in her pull up, which I know to be a stupid question, and she shrugs and says, "Because I wanted to." I leave the room, attempt to compose myself, do a miserable job of it, get her changed, apologize for having yelled at her, explaining Mommy shouldn't have done that and she's VERY sorry, and load the kids into the car.
On the ride to gymnastics, my car is a cacophony of noises that I simply cannot tolerate. The oldest has taken to making noise simply for the sake of making noise and it makes me nuts. On any given day, it makes me nuts; yesterday, it made me quasi-murderous. I asked repeatedly for her to be quiet, or to just talk to the baby with words and she simply would not do it. My husband called on the way over and I confessed my horrible yelling moment. He asked if I made the Little Girl cry; I confessed that I did. He just sort of sighed, made murmurings about understanding my frustration and told me she forgave me. I reiterated the fact that I'm the World's Worst Potty Trainer, in addition to several other areas in which I completely suck and hung up the phone.
Got the girls dropped off at gymnastics. They were excited. I was excited. Took the baby over to Barnes and Noble, bought myself a high calorie coffee, thinking that would be a quick fix to my craptastic day, ordered a sandwich from a snotty barista and prepared to settle in to write out Little Girl's birthday party thank you notes. Baby had other ideas. First he wanted to eat. Then he didn't want to eat. Then he wanted to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I finally relented a bit with the sandwich, just to stop him from yelling at me. I tried to get him to sleep. No dice. I scarfed down my sandwich and we went off to Petsmart to pick up 40 pounds of dog and cat food. Baby finally fell asleep on the ride back to gymnastics, over 2 hours past his regular nap time. I thought I'd get at least an hour to read my book, so I went into the gymnastics studio, careful not to wake the baby. He slept like an angel until I set down the car seat. Then all hell broke loose.
He wanted to get out. NOW. He wanted to crawl. He wanted to climb on me. He wanted to pinch and pull my hair and yank on my necklace and scratch and chew on my face. And all I wanted was one hour of peace, quiet and no one touching me. So, now I'm crabby at a 6-month old who won't do what I want. I mean really, how dare a 6-month old not do what his mother wants! I feed this little bugger on an instant basis!
Everyone falls asleep on the way home. Husband calls and says he's going to be home...late. Perfect. Get home. Think a picnic is a good idea for dinner. Open the fridge and a shelf comes crashing down, spilling bottles of various condiments across the kitchen floor. Get the girls' picnic ready, get baby's bottle ready, come back to find the girls stabbing each other with toothpicks. Baby fights me through 8 oz. Girls are making so much noise, none of which appear to be words, my head is buzzing. Baby refuses to sit still. Room starts spinning. Girls finish dinner and I send them upstairs to watch a movie. Baby is cranky so I attempt to put him to bed. He starts screaming. I leave him in his crib, hoping and praying he'll just fall asleep. He does not. I go downstairs, try to open a bottle of wine and THE CORK IS STUCK. I burst into tears. "Mother's Little Helper" my ass! Baby is still screaming. I go upstairs, pick up the baby, shove a nuk in his mouth and go sit on the couch. Baby sits still for a moment and then starts climbing all over me again. I'm just staring into space, thinking "Did I make these creatures on purpose? What the hell was I thinking?" Husband shows up a few minutes later, says hello to the girls, opens my bottle of wine and takes the baby. I think the day might be done.
Oh no.
You see, I still have 3 children to put to bed. And in the process, they will break me. The oldest takes over 10 minutes to get her jammies on. While I'm literally standing there watching her. The Little Girl refuses to go potty, so I have to pick her up, physically strip her clothes off and put her on the toilet. The baby starts screaming again. I finally get the girls into bed and the oldest has the audacity to ask me for a kiss good night. I do it, but I so did not want to. Baby is still screaming. Husband and I go downstairs, where I'm forced to watch Antiques Roadshow. Baby is still screaming. Husband tries to get baby to sleep. Unsuccessful. He comes downstairs about 3o minutes later. Baby is still screaming. I go up with a few ounces of formula. He takes about 4 sips. I lay down with him. He falls asleep in about 25 seconds. I'm still dressed, but I'll be damned if I'm going to move. I get him in his crib about 45 minutes later and I'm cooked. Burnt to a crisp.
So, folks, that's how I earned the World's Worst Mother award, at least for yesterday. Like I said, I didn't beat the children, but I did yell and say some truly awful things in my head. It was a day over which I had absolutely no control and it showed in every single movement I took. It was terrible, it was horrible, it was awful, it was no good...it was a VERY BAD day.
And why do I tell you this? Because maybe you need to feel like you're better than other mothers out there. Or maybe you need to feel like you're not alone. Or maybe you need a good laugh. Whatever the reason, embrace it, embrace your kids, embrace any peace and quiet you can get, and hopefully we'll all make it through one more day.
World's Worst Mother.
That's right folks. For August 23, 2010, I, Maegan Schmidt, was the world's worst mother. No, I didn't beat the children or leave them on the side of the road or feed them to alligators, but the title still remains.
Here's why:
I started the day with excellent expectations. I have the girls scheduled for gymnastics camp all week and they were really excited to go. I bought myself an egg timer over the weekend with grandiose thoughts of trying out a new cleaning regimen (15 minutes per room) and achieving a sparkling house. It was supposed to be wicked hot yesterday, which it was, but then it's supposed to turn into a beautiful week. The State Fair starts this week. We got a big check in the mail from one of my husband's recent jobs. All should've been right with the world.
Here's what really happened:
We started off the day with a 6am voicemail from an unhappy customer wanting some sort of recompense on her floor, because the color didn't match the sample. She never actually saw a sample, so technically it would be IMPOSSIBLE to match, but apparently, that's neither here nor there. So, job stress to start off the hubby's day. Sweet. But I was not to be deterred.
The little girl woke up with a dry pull up! Score 1 for the day. She went potty on the potty, I cheered, we were right back on track for the excellent Monday. A little while later, she pooped in her pull up. I was deflated, but very good about simply reminding her she needs to poop in the potty and not her pull up. We get her changed and we're right back on track.
After about 4 tries, which is 2 more than usual, I finally get the baby down for his nap. Rather than start my magical new cleaning routine, I sit down in front of the computer. For WAY too long. And the day starts taking it's turn...
Baby wakes up and refuses to eat like the usual machine he is. He's moving around, won't sit in my lap, keeps stretching out his legs, wants to stand and is getting cranky because he's hungry, but won't eat. Sigh. In the meantime, the girls have asked approximately 80,000 times if it's time for gymnastics yet.
I feed the girls lunch, we do potty breaks, put on our leotards, get the hair done, finally get the baby fed enough to get him through the 35 minute car ride to the gymnastics center. I go to change the baby and Little Girl poops in her pull up...AGAIN. Enter awards time...I completely lose my mind and YELL, yes, actually YELL at a 3-year old for pooping in her pull up. She looks at me, completely nonplussed, with a dead stare. I want to throttle her. I ask her why she pooped in her pull up, which I know to be a stupid question, and she shrugs and says, "Because I wanted to." I leave the room, attempt to compose myself, do a miserable job of it, get her changed, apologize for having yelled at her, explaining Mommy shouldn't have done that and she's VERY sorry, and load the kids into the car.
On the ride to gymnastics, my car is a cacophony of noises that I simply cannot tolerate. The oldest has taken to making noise simply for the sake of making noise and it makes me nuts. On any given day, it makes me nuts; yesterday, it made me quasi-murderous. I asked repeatedly for her to be quiet, or to just talk to the baby with words and she simply would not do it. My husband called on the way over and I confessed my horrible yelling moment. He asked if I made the Little Girl cry; I confessed that I did. He just sort of sighed, made murmurings about understanding my frustration and told me she forgave me. I reiterated the fact that I'm the World's Worst Potty Trainer, in addition to several other areas in which I completely suck and hung up the phone.
Got the girls dropped off at gymnastics. They were excited. I was excited. Took the baby over to Barnes and Noble, bought myself a high calorie coffee, thinking that would be a quick fix to my craptastic day, ordered a sandwich from a snotty barista and prepared to settle in to write out Little Girl's birthday party thank you notes. Baby had other ideas. First he wanted to eat. Then he didn't want to eat. Then he wanted to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I finally relented a bit with the sandwich, just to stop him from yelling at me. I tried to get him to sleep. No dice. I scarfed down my sandwich and we went off to Petsmart to pick up 40 pounds of dog and cat food. Baby finally fell asleep on the ride back to gymnastics, over 2 hours past his regular nap time. I thought I'd get at least an hour to read my book, so I went into the gymnastics studio, careful not to wake the baby. He slept like an angel until I set down the car seat. Then all hell broke loose.
He wanted to get out. NOW. He wanted to crawl. He wanted to climb on me. He wanted to pinch and pull my hair and yank on my necklace and scratch and chew on my face. And all I wanted was one hour of peace, quiet and no one touching me. So, now I'm crabby at a 6-month old who won't do what I want. I mean really, how dare a 6-month old not do what his mother wants! I feed this little bugger on an instant basis!
Everyone falls asleep on the way home. Husband calls and says he's going to be home...late. Perfect. Get home. Think a picnic is a good idea for dinner. Open the fridge and a shelf comes crashing down, spilling bottles of various condiments across the kitchen floor. Get the girls' picnic ready, get baby's bottle ready, come back to find the girls stabbing each other with toothpicks. Baby fights me through 8 oz. Girls are making so much noise, none of which appear to be words, my head is buzzing. Baby refuses to sit still. Room starts spinning. Girls finish dinner and I send them upstairs to watch a movie. Baby is cranky so I attempt to put him to bed. He starts screaming. I leave him in his crib, hoping and praying he'll just fall asleep. He does not. I go downstairs, try to open a bottle of wine and THE CORK IS STUCK. I burst into tears. "Mother's Little Helper" my ass! Baby is still screaming. I go upstairs, pick up the baby, shove a nuk in his mouth and go sit on the couch. Baby sits still for a moment and then starts climbing all over me again. I'm just staring into space, thinking "Did I make these creatures on purpose? What the hell was I thinking?" Husband shows up a few minutes later, says hello to the girls, opens my bottle of wine and takes the baby. I think the day might be done.
Oh no.
You see, I still have 3 children to put to bed. And in the process, they will break me. The oldest takes over 10 minutes to get her jammies on. While I'm literally standing there watching her. The Little Girl refuses to go potty, so I have to pick her up, physically strip her clothes off and put her on the toilet. The baby starts screaming again. I finally get the girls into bed and the oldest has the audacity to ask me for a kiss good night. I do it, but I so did not want to. Baby is still screaming. Husband and I go downstairs, where I'm forced to watch Antiques Roadshow. Baby is still screaming. Husband tries to get baby to sleep. Unsuccessful. He comes downstairs about 3o minutes later. Baby is still screaming. I go up with a few ounces of formula. He takes about 4 sips. I lay down with him. He falls asleep in about 25 seconds. I'm still dressed, but I'll be damned if I'm going to move. I get him in his crib about 45 minutes later and I'm cooked. Burnt to a crisp.
So, folks, that's how I earned the World's Worst Mother award, at least for yesterday. Like I said, I didn't beat the children, but I did yell and say some truly awful things in my head. It was a day over which I had absolutely no control and it showed in every single movement I took. It was terrible, it was horrible, it was awful, it was no good...it was a VERY BAD day.
And why do I tell you this? Because maybe you need to feel like you're better than other mothers out there. Or maybe you need to feel like you're not alone. Or maybe you need a good laugh. Whatever the reason, embrace it, embrace your kids, embrace any peace and quiet you can get, and hopefully we'll all make it through one more day.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Suck It, Barbie
So, I've been running. Well, I call it running, but it's more of a mishmash of running (1%), jogging (85%), walking (10%) and limping (4%), combined with a LOT of sweating, a plethora of cursing and so much head shaking (as to why exactly am I doing this god awful activity) that I get dizzy.
Not only am I running, but I get up early to do it. Yet another conundrum in my world. I am the furthest thing from a morning person. Hell, I'm barely an afternoon person and only a semi evening person. I'm a sleeping person. And yet, 4 days a week, I get up early, like in the 5am region, to go for a run. My husband is both amazed and impressed that I'm doing this. That makes me feel a little better.
When I am out on my runs, I happen upon various specimens of humanity. Take this past Saturday. As I trudged through 12 miles of humidity and wind, I encountered:
1. Creepy Guy. Chances are good he was perfectly harmless, but he was out for a walk at an early hour, wearing long pants and a grungy t-shirt. I noted all distinguishing features, noted my escape route and picked up my pace a little. I'm sure I had my bad ass expression on too, so even if he was Creepy Attack Guy, he knew he couldn't take me.
2. College Girl. She was adorable in her ponytail, fresh face and ipod. She didn't know what a wrinkle was, most likely had no kids at home waiting for her return, only had to wash her own laundry, didn't know the benefits of 2-day old coffee and had yet to experience her first gray hair. She said hello pleasantly and went on her merry way. She made me a bit wistful.
3. Middle-Aged Lady. I don't really know what middle-aged means, because for some strange reason that particular age gets further away the older I get. I don't think I'll ever reach it. In my world, middle-aged is like my mom's age. This lady was a little heavier set, rockin' the arm weights, doing her morning exercise. It looked like it was a new routine for her, like she was doing her best to get healthier but wasn't about to not eat that baked potato at dinner that night. Rock on Middle-Aged Lady. Good for you for working out and doing your thing.
4. Victoria Secret Model and Abercrombie Man. You know these two...the chick in the size 0 super short shorts and running bra and the bronzed dude sporting an 8-pack and sunglasses. They bopped along, perfectly timed, glistening in the sunshine. If they were dead white, I swear they would've been vampires. I just shook my head and kept sweating.
5. The Mom. We ran past each other twice. We both wore determined faces and you could tell we were both trying to enjoy some alone time, but instead, were making various lists in our heads. We sort of smiled at each other, shook our heads in the "can you believe we got up early to do this" way that only 2 non-runners can easily interpret and moved past each other, each thinking, "I wonder how much shit she has to do when she gets home."
6. The Barbie. This was the 45-year old woman with the blond ponytail, swinging in timed perfection. She had on a pink tank and black bike shorts. Her stomach was perfectly flat and I instantly hated her. Yeah, I know, she probably hasn't had a kid in the past 5 months, but still. It's the principle of the thing. A woman 10+ years my senior should not have pants smaller than mine. It's simply wrong and it makes me bitter. It made me even more bitter when she wished me "Good Morning" in a voice so chipper and sweet it made my teeth ache. I wished her a good morning as well and continued on my run. As we went on our merry ways, I comforted myself with the following thought:
Well, maybe she's actually only 23 and never had a child and just looks REALLY old.
It could happen, right?
Not only am I running, but I get up early to do it. Yet another conundrum in my world. I am the furthest thing from a morning person. Hell, I'm barely an afternoon person and only a semi evening person. I'm a sleeping person. And yet, 4 days a week, I get up early, like in the 5am region, to go for a run. My husband is both amazed and impressed that I'm doing this. That makes me feel a little better.
When I am out on my runs, I happen upon various specimens of humanity. Take this past Saturday. As I trudged through 12 miles of humidity and wind, I encountered:
1. Creepy Guy. Chances are good he was perfectly harmless, but he was out for a walk at an early hour, wearing long pants and a grungy t-shirt. I noted all distinguishing features, noted my escape route and picked up my pace a little. I'm sure I had my bad ass expression on too, so even if he was Creepy Attack Guy, he knew he couldn't take me.
2. College Girl. She was adorable in her ponytail, fresh face and ipod. She didn't know what a wrinkle was, most likely had no kids at home waiting for her return, only had to wash her own laundry, didn't know the benefits of 2-day old coffee and had yet to experience her first gray hair. She said hello pleasantly and went on her merry way. She made me a bit wistful.
3. Middle-Aged Lady. I don't really know what middle-aged means, because for some strange reason that particular age gets further away the older I get. I don't think I'll ever reach it. In my world, middle-aged is like my mom's age. This lady was a little heavier set, rockin' the arm weights, doing her morning exercise. It looked like it was a new routine for her, like she was doing her best to get healthier but wasn't about to not eat that baked potato at dinner that night. Rock on Middle-Aged Lady. Good for you for working out and doing your thing.
4. Victoria Secret Model and Abercrombie Man. You know these two...the chick in the size 0 super short shorts and running bra and the bronzed dude sporting an 8-pack and sunglasses. They bopped along, perfectly timed, glistening in the sunshine. If they were dead white, I swear they would've been vampires. I just shook my head and kept sweating.
5. The Mom. We ran past each other twice. We both wore determined faces and you could tell we were both trying to enjoy some alone time, but instead, were making various lists in our heads. We sort of smiled at each other, shook our heads in the "can you believe we got up early to do this" way that only 2 non-runners can easily interpret and moved past each other, each thinking, "I wonder how much shit she has to do when she gets home."
6. The Barbie. This was the 45-year old woman with the blond ponytail, swinging in timed perfection. She had on a pink tank and black bike shorts. Her stomach was perfectly flat and I instantly hated her. Yeah, I know, she probably hasn't had a kid in the past 5 months, but still. It's the principle of the thing. A woman 10+ years my senior should not have pants smaller than mine. It's simply wrong and it makes me bitter. It made me even more bitter when she wished me "Good Morning" in a voice so chipper and sweet it made my teeth ache. I wished her a good morning as well and continued on my run. As we went on our merry ways, I comforted myself with the following thought:
Well, maybe she's actually only 23 and never had a child and just looks REALLY old.
It could happen, right?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Guilt Free Parenting
Yesterday was a day at my house. Yes, I realize it was, for all intents and purposes, a day at everyone's house, but it was one of those days at my house. The girls were coming down from a sleepover/birthday party high, which means a little extra brattiness, a little extra sass and a whole lot more arguing over who gets to play with the new toys. I was exhausted from hosting the birthday party, the house needed to be re-cleaned, the children still needed to eat at regular intervals, I lost the 3-hour potty training poop battle I had raging with my 2 year old...you get the picture. By 3pm, I was cranky and didn't want to do anything other than sit down with my book and a glass of wine. I gave serious consideration to calling the high school girl who sits for us on occasion, just so I could get away from the noise for a couple hours. But, it was a little late to call her, so I hopped on Facebook for a few minutes and ended up IM'ing for a few minutes with a friend down in AZ. Getting a little adult interaction helped quell the crabbies. My friend doesn't have kids, but she did live with me for a few years, so she understands my natural introversion and the necessity of naps in my world. As I rarely get a nap these days, I think she's just impressed my head isn't doing an exorcist move most days.
After a quick chat, I slathered up the girls in sunscreen, turned on their new Hello Kitty sprinkler, put the baby down for a nap, grabbed my book and poured a glass of wine. I felt a little guilty about it. My husband worked like a crazy man all last week and this week he's doing it again. His job is very physical and he comes home tired and sore pretty much every day. He rarely works less than a 10 hour day and here I was, with my book in hand, sipping some Chardonnay. Sure, I felt a little guilty. But then I thought: So what? A little guilt isn't going to make this day any worse at this point. I need a little break and I'll be damned if I'm not going to take it. I'm going to sit here, relax for a bit, let the kids play and then get dinner started. I'm not totally checking out for the evening. Just for an hour or so. That's reasonable, right?
So, I took my "break", got interrupted about 7,000 times and the day continued as it always does. The world did not come to a screeching halt because I read my book for a few minutes and wasn't 100% immersed in the land of 2 and 3 year olds.
And maybe a little guilt isn't really that big of a deal. Hell, I was raised Catholic...I've got it down by now.
By the by, my friend also sent me this link last night. Perfectly topic appropriate, right?
http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/personal/03/11/p.reasons.no.mom.guilt/index.html
After a quick chat, I slathered up the girls in sunscreen, turned on their new Hello Kitty sprinkler, put the baby down for a nap, grabbed my book and poured a glass of wine. I felt a little guilty about it. My husband worked like a crazy man all last week and this week he's doing it again. His job is very physical and he comes home tired and sore pretty much every day. He rarely works less than a 10 hour day and here I was, with my book in hand, sipping some Chardonnay. Sure, I felt a little guilty. But then I thought: So what? A little guilt isn't going to make this day any worse at this point. I need a little break and I'll be damned if I'm not going to take it. I'm going to sit here, relax for a bit, let the kids play and then get dinner started. I'm not totally checking out for the evening. Just for an hour or so. That's reasonable, right?
So, I took my "break", got interrupted about 7,000 times and the day continued as it always does. The world did not come to a screeching halt because I read my book for a few minutes and wasn't 100% immersed in the land of 2 and 3 year olds.
And maybe a little guilt isn't really that big of a deal. Hell, I was raised Catholic...I've got it down by now.
By the by, my friend also sent me this link last night. Perfectly topic appropriate, right?
http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/personal/03/11/p.reasons.no.mom.guilt/index.html
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Back to Me
I don't know about you, but if you have kids, and I've got 3 of the little buggers, your life can easily take on a whole new direction. Particularly where small children are concerned, they have immediate needs, on a minute-to-minute basis, that must be met as soon as humanly possible. Butts need to be hosed down, tummies need to be filled, noses need to be wiped, entertainment needs to be supplied...you get the idea. As they get older, they can wait a little longer for certain things, but by and large, the majority of a parent's day is spent bowing down to the whims of those 42 inches and shorter. It's sort of like a reverse ride at Disney...you get taken for a ride over and over, but you're kind of getting the short end of the stick.
Now, my kids are pretty young. We're coming up on birthday season in our house. My oldest will be 4, the middle will be 3 and the youngest is 4 months today. With younger kids, you need to be "on" for a majority of the day. You can choose to be off, but you're pretty much guaranteed a huge mess somewhere that's extraordinarily difficult to clean, so it really does behoove you to be "on". Now, I made a conscious decision to have children. I knew it would be a lot of work; well, truthfully, I had an idea it would be a lot of work, but it's one of those things you don't really know until it happens. And most days, I take the work willingly. I figure if I made a conscious decision to have children, the least I can do is pay attention to them and try and help them become people other people will want to be around on a regular basis. That being said, I also find my own life lacking a bit. Like part of me is hiding somewhere. And that part really wants to come out and play.
Before kids, I thought I was a pretty good person. I liked being around me. Other people didn't seem to mind being around me. But once the kids showed up, I spent a lot more time at home and sort of became encamped there. When I was pregnant, that took over my life. When the baby was born, that took over my life. As the baby got older, I was still nursing, so that was still a major part of daily life. But now we're at the point where we're done having kids (much to my husband's relief) and I feel like it's a really great time for me to be looking toward the future and to get some "me" back. Yes, I'll still be the mom, but I'll also be the Maegan. Sure, I'll be answering to "Mom" (and all it's various forms) far more often than I'll be answering to my given name, but at least Maegan will be back in the game.
To that end, I've set myself a couple goals. And if other people know about those goals, then I'll be a little more likely to stick to them, so here they are:
1. I'm going to run the marathon. I attempted to do this 2 years ago and made it halfway. I thought that was pretty good, because I am SO not a runner. But this time I want to finish the damn thing. I don't need to do it in record time. I don't need to look pretty doing it. I just need to finish. I started training this week. And it's not pretty. But I'm doing it...and at an obscenely, horrendously early hour in the morning...before the kids wake up. I figure that way I start the day with just myself to worry about...and I get gratifying looks of astonishment when people ask me what time I woke up that morning.
2. I'm going to take a sewing class. It's something I've wanted to do for years. I have no idea why, really, but I want to, so I'm going to. And (gasp) I'm hiring a babysitter so I can actually do it. Watch out!
3. I'm going to put a lot more effort into my new-ish business venture. I started selling a jewelry line a couple months before #3 arrived and it's been relatively successful. Now I just need to get into the habit of keeping the ball rolling. It's a lot easier to keep it rolling than it is to start it up again every few weeks.
So, there you have it. A few goals for yours truly. Perhaps you have some goals for yourself you've been putting off...feel free to leave a comment about your goals. Maybe it'll help you keep yourself accountable. Or maybe just thinking about them a little more often will be the fire you need to get you going. However you choose to get around to your goals, I wish you success. Please let me know how they turn out...I'll be rooting for you.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a few ibuprofen because my legs are killing me...and I need to call the sewing shop and register for my class.
Cheers!
Now, my kids are pretty young. We're coming up on birthday season in our house. My oldest will be 4, the middle will be 3 and the youngest is 4 months today. With younger kids, you need to be "on" for a majority of the day. You can choose to be off, but you're pretty much guaranteed a huge mess somewhere that's extraordinarily difficult to clean, so it really does behoove you to be "on". Now, I made a conscious decision to have children. I knew it would be a lot of work; well, truthfully, I had an idea it would be a lot of work, but it's one of those things you don't really know until it happens. And most days, I take the work willingly. I figure if I made a conscious decision to have children, the least I can do is pay attention to them and try and help them become people other people will want to be around on a regular basis. That being said, I also find my own life lacking a bit. Like part of me is hiding somewhere. And that part really wants to come out and play.
Before kids, I thought I was a pretty good person. I liked being around me. Other people didn't seem to mind being around me. But once the kids showed up, I spent a lot more time at home and sort of became encamped there. When I was pregnant, that took over my life. When the baby was born, that took over my life. As the baby got older, I was still nursing, so that was still a major part of daily life. But now we're at the point where we're done having kids (much to my husband's relief) and I feel like it's a really great time for me to be looking toward the future and to get some "me" back. Yes, I'll still be the mom, but I'll also be the Maegan. Sure, I'll be answering to "Mom" (and all it's various forms) far more often than I'll be answering to my given name, but at least Maegan will be back in the game.
To that end, I've set myself a couple goals. And if other people know about those goals, then I'll be a little more likely to stick to them, so here they are:
1. I'm going to run the marathon. I attempted to do this 2 years ago and made it halfway. I thought that was pretty good, because I am SO not a runner. But this time I want to finish the damn thing. I don't need to do it in record time. I don't need to look pretty doing it. I just need to finish. I started training this week. And it's not pretty. But I'm doing it...and at an obscenely, horrendously early hour in the morning...before the kids wake up. I figure that way I start the day with just myself to worry about...and I get gratifying looks of astonishment when people ask me what time I woke up that morning.
2. I'm going to take a sewing class. It's something I've wanted to do for years. I have no idea why, really, but I want to, so I'm going to. And (gasp) I'm hiring a babysitter so I can actually do it. Watch out!
3. I'm going to put a lot more effort into my new-ish business venture. I started selling a jewelry line a couple months before #3 arrived and it's been relatively successful. Now I just need to get into the habit of keeping the ball rolling. It's a lot easier to keep it rolling than it is to start it up again every few weeks.
So, there you have it. A few goals for yours truly. Perhaps you have some goals for yourself you've been putting off...feel free to leave a comment about your goals. Maybe it'll help you keep yourself accountable. Or maybe just thinking about them a little more often will be the fire you need to get you going. However you choose to get around to your goals, I wish you success. Please let me know how they turn out...I'll be rooting for you.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a few ibuprofen because my legs are killing me...and I need to call the sewing shop and register for my class.
Cheers!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Public Service Announcement
This afternoon, my husband and I and our 3 kids met another couple and their 2 kids at a local restaurant for an impromptu lunch. Now, I tend to think my kids are incredibly well-behaved and know how to act in a restaurant, but I also know that every child has his/her limits. My kids are still quite young, so their limits are that much more, for lack of a better word, limited.
Prior to motherhood, I worked a variety of jobs. Most of them were restaurant-based. I've washed dishes, cooked, waited tables, run food, tended bar, managed. Pretty much anything you can do in a restaurant, I've done. With that being said, I have very specific expectations of my children when they are in restaurants, because I've been on the other side of the equation. You know...the side that has to clean up the smashed Saltines, the plates filled with various liquid substances, the tables covered in unknown goo.
And so, dear readers, I offer you this public service announcement. Please feel free to pass along these helpful hints to your family and friends and any stranger on the street. Your local service industry worker will love you all the more for it.
1. While you may think your children are God's gift to this earth, your server could pretty much care less. Your server is there because it is his/her job, not because s/he is extra excited to see your kid, who is more likely than not, going to make a mess in said server's section.
2. Maintain your child. Request a booth, if at all possible, and put your children ON THE INSIDE. As you well know, children have a tendency to escape small areas and sitting on the outside of a bench is simply too much for their little bodies to bear. They must escape, in which case, they run the risk of being run into by someone carrying a tray full of heavy plates containing (hopefully) hot food or a bevy of beverages in hefty glassware. If you don't want your kid to get clonked in the head with a steaming plate of hot turkey sandwich, put them on the inside of the table. Now, I'm not saying you, the parent, won't get clonked in the head with a steaming plate of hot turkey sandwich covered in gravy, but if you're nice to your server, you stand a pretty good chance of a safe delivery.
3. The restaurant does not stock Saltines in order to appease your child's pre-meal appetite. Bring your own snacks. And if your kid spills said snack all over the floor, apologize for the mess and tip a little extra.
4. Use plates. I'm assuming your child eats off a plate at your house. Same rules apply in a restaurant. And if your kid refuses to comply and makes a huge mess all over the table, again, apologize and tip a little extra. Are you seeing a pattern here?
5. If your kid turns into a screaming banshee over the course of the meal and people are starting to stare, take the kid out of the restaurant. People will love you for it and most of them will give you sympathetic smiles as you walk past, as opposed to murderous stares if you stay. Kids have fits. People know that. People understand that. People do not need to be subjected to it longer than necessary though.
6. Yes, your child should eventually learn to order for him/herself. But if it's an hour before a hockey game, the restaurant is jam-packed, and your server is running around frantically trying to keep all his/her customers happy, now is NOT the time to encourage little Jimmy to practice his ordering skills. Just place the order and be done with it.
7. The steps in any restaurant are not your child's personal playground. Especially if your child is a toddler. Do you have any idea how many shoes have stepped in God knows what before you let your child crawl up those stairs? You cannot be certain those wet spots are water, people, and little Suzie isn't legally allowed to drink until she's 21. Shudder.
8. Don't blame your server when your child's chicken fingers are delivered and they're hot. Hello! They're cooked in a vat of hot oil! They're gonna be hot.
9. If you're eating at a place that serves liquor, chances are good it doesn't serve chocolate milk or apple juice. If your kid's gonna have a fit, bring your own. No, your server won't make it for you "special." And believe me, you don't want to be messing with "special" orders, particularly on a busy night. You've seeing "Waiting".
10. Even if your kid is really good and does well in a restaurant, they can only stay for so long. Keep that in mind when you order. If you have to eat in shifts, do it. If you're extra smart, you'll order the kid's food when you place your drink order. That way you won't have to deal with hungry kid. Sure, when your food comes, you'll have to deal with fidgety kid, but that's a whole lot easier that dealing with cranky, hungry kid. And no, you won't get to eat your food when it's hot, because you'll be dealing with fidgety kid, but you're the one who wanted to go to a restaurant. What did you expect?
And always remember people:
When in doubt, tip a little more.
Prior to motherhood, I worked a variety of jobs. Most of them were restaurant-based. I've washed dishes, cooked, waited tables, run food, tended bar, managed. Pretty much anything you can do in a restaurant, I've done. With that being said, I have very specific expectations of my children when they are in restaurants, because I've been on the other side of the equation. You know...the side that has to clean up the smashed Saltines, the plates filled with various liquid substances, the tables covered in unknown goo.
And so, dear readers, I offer you this public service announcement. Please feel free to pass along these helpful hints to your family and friends and any stranger on the street. Your local service industry worker will love you all the more for it.
1. While you may think your children are God's gift to this earth, your server could pretty much care less. Your server is there because it is his/her job, not because s/he is extra excited to see your kid, who is more likely than not, going to make a mess in said server's section.
2. Maintain your child. Request a booth, if at all possible, and put your children ON THE INSIDE. As you well know, children have a tendency to escape small areas and sitting on the outside of a bench is simply too much for their little bodies to bear. They must escape, in which case, they run the risk of being run into by someone carrying a tray full of heavy plates containing (hopefully) hot food or a bevy of beverages in hefty glassware. If you don't want your kid to get clonked in the head with a steaming plate of hot turkey sandwich, put them on the inside of the table. Now, I'm not saying you, the parent, won't get clonked in the head with a steaming plate of hot turkey sandwich covered in gravy, but if you're nice to your server, you stand a pretty good chance of a safe delivery.
3. The restaurant does not stock Saltines in order to appease your child's pre-meal appetite. Bring your own snacks. And if your kid spills said snack all over the floor, apologize for the mess and tip a little extra.
4. Use plates. I'm assuming your child eats off a plate at your house. Same rules apply in a restaurant. And if your kid refuses to comply and makes a huge mess all over the table, again, apologize and tip a little extra. Are you seeing a pattern here?
5. If your kid turns into a screaming banshee over the course of the meal and people are starting to stare, take the kid out of the restaurant. People will love you for it and most of them will give you sympathetic smiles as you walk past, as opposed to murderous stares if you stay. Kids have fits. People know that. People understand that. People do not need to be subjected to it longer than necessary though.
6. Yes, your child should eventually learn to order for him/herself. But if it's an hour before a hockey game, the restaurant is jam-packed, and your server is running around frantically trying to keep all his/her customers happy, now is NOT the time to encourage little Jimmy to practice his ordering skills. Just place the order and be done with it.
7. The steps in any restaurant are not your child's personal playground. Especially if your child is a toddler. Do you have any idea how many shoes have stepped in God knows what before you let your child crawl up those stairs? You cannot be certain those wet spots are water, people, and little Suzie isn't legally allowed to drink until she's 21. Shudder.
8. Don't blame your server when your child's chicken fingers are delivered and they're hot. Hello! They're cooked in a vat of hot oil! They're gonna be hot.
9. If you're eating at a place that serves liquor, chances are good it doesn't serve chocolate milk or apple juice. If your kid's gonna have a fit, bring your own. No, your server won't make it for you "special." And believe me, you don't want to be messing with "special" orders, particularly on a busy night. You've seeing "Waiting".
10. Even if your kid is really good and does well in a restaurant, they can only stay for so long. Keep that in mind when you order. If you have to eat in shifts, do it. If you're extra smart, you'll order the kid's food when you place your drink order. That way you won't have to deal with hungry kid. Sure, when your food comes, you'll have to deal with fidgety kid, but that's a whole lot easier that dealing with cranky, hungry kid. And no, you won't get to eat your food when it's hot, because you'll be dealing with fidgety kid, but you're the one who wanted to go to a restaurant. What did you expect?
And always remember people:
When in doubt, tip a little more.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
Some of you may think Mother's Day is a Hallmark holiday. Apparently, we have a woman named Anna Jarvis to thank for the holiday and not Hallmark. See her story here:
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/36969170/ns/today-mothers_day_guide?Gt1=43001
Regardless about how the holiday came about, I've just got to say:
Hell, yes, I deserve a day dedicated to me!
And who am I, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you:
I'm the woman who carried you for 9 months. I didn't have morning sickness...but I could have.
I'm the woman who suffered through sleep deprived nights before you even arrived. I let you kick me in the liver, dance on my bladder and bruise my ribs.
I let you suck the blond out of my hair (I still miss it sometimes), make me look like an idiot for 9 months because I was too freaked out to color my hair while you were inside me and dealt with the fact that I shed like a woolly mammoth for months after you were born.
I let you exit my body the "natural" way. And let me tell you, there's nothing natural about 10 cm, salad tongs, vacuums, episiotomies, stitches in the lady parts, the post-partum poop episode(S) or post-partum hemorrhoids.
I let you eat from my body. That is wacky in a way nothing else can be considered wacky...and let me just mention - bloody nipples.
I let you wake me up whenever you want. For as long as you wanted.
I clean up god knows what just came out of your body. From either end. All over me.
These are just a few of the things I do and/or have done for you. And, yes, I do them willingly and with love. But that doesn't mean I don't like a little thank you now and then.
If you are a mom, Happy Mother's Day to you. If you have a mom, Happy Mother's Day to her. Believe me, you and she deserve it.
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/36969170/ns/today-mothers_day_guide?Gt1=43001
Regardless about how the holiday came about, I've just got to say:
Hell, yes, I deserve a day dedicated to me!
And who am I, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you:
I'm the woman who carried you for 9 months. I didn't have morning sickness...but I could have.
I'm the woman who suffered through sleep deprived nights before you even arrived. I let you kick me in the liver, dance on my bladder and bruise my ribs.
I let you suck the blond out of my hair (I still miss it sometimes), make me look like an idiot for 9 months because I was too freaked out to color my hair while you were inside me and dealt with the fact that I shed like a woolly mammoth for months after you were born.
I let you exit my body the "natural" way. And let me tell you, there's nothing natural about 10 cm, salad tongs, vacuums, episiotomies, stitches in the lady parts, the post-partum poop episode(S) or post-partum hemorrhoids.
I let you eat from my body. That is wacky in a way nothing else can be considered wacky...and let me just mention - bloody nipples.
I let you wake me up whenever you want. For as long as you wanted.
I clean up god knows what just came out of your body. From either end. All over me.
These are just a few of the things I do and/or have done for you. And, yes, I do them willingly and with love. But that doesn't mean I don't like a little thank you now and then.
If you are a mom, Happy Mother's Day to you. If you have a mom, Happy Mother's Day to her. Believe me, you and she deserve it.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
My Biggest Fear
My (current) biggest fear is that I will have to drive a minivan...and soon. But this makes it all a little better:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4
Monday, May 3, 2010
Off Her Game
A friend of mine came over on Friday evening. She brought her 3 kids with and all the kids "ate" dinner together. The babies hung out together on the floor, the 3 girls ran around the house in various states of undress and the 2-year old boy chased my cat for about an hour. The mom and I shared a glass of wine, which consisted of about 3 sips apiece by the time she and the kids got back in the car. It was a chaotic evening, but exactly what one would expect from a house filled with 6 kids, ages 4 and under, at the dinnertime hour.
Later that night, I got an email from my friend in which she apologized for the chaos and for being "off her game."
I promptly returned her email and informed her there was no need for an apology and I had no idea she was even close to off her game.
Here's the thing moms: No one knows when you're off your game. You might feel like you've lost all control, you might be more sensitive to the noise at a certain point, you might feel like you're chewing glass, but no one else can tell. Sure, if you're screaming and the neighbors down the street can hear you, then you've entered into the danger zone. Child services may be on their way. But if you're doing the job, the kids are fed, butts are clean and at least 1 of your 3 children are smiling, on a rotating basis, then you're good. You might not feel good, but they do.
And there's no need to apologize for that.
Later that night, I got an email from my friend in which she apologized for the chaos and for being "off her game."
I promptly returned her email and informed her there was no need for an apology and I had no idea she was even close to off her game.
Here's the thing moms: No one knows when you're off your game. You might feel like you've lost all control, you might be more sensitive to the noise at a certain point, you might feel like you're chewing glass, but no one else can tell. Sure, if you're screaming and the neighbors down the street can hear you, then you've entered into the danger zone. Child services may be on their way. But if you're doing the job, the kids are fed, butts are clean and at least 1 of your 3 children are smiling, on a rotating basis, then you're good. You might not feel good, but they do.
And there's no need to apologize for that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)