Project Optimism: Mommy Juice

March 4, 2013 by 26 Comments

Do I have a drinking problem? The simple answer is no. But the more complex the-toddlers-are-always-watching answer could be perhaps??

Before we go any further, please note: I am in no way making fun of alcoholism. It’s a disease, one that has punched people I love in the face, so don’t think I’m making light of it. I’m not.

I, am, however, making fun of myself. So let’s continue, shall we?

This weekend, the fam and I attended a party for my BFF’s three-year-old daughter. Unfortunately for my friend, her birthday girl thought 4:30 am was the perfect time to start the party, and by the time her guests arrived, she was in no mood for a celebration. Things were tense. She was angry, frustrated, and on the verge of a meltdown for the majority of her party. And the toddler was in a mood, too.

At one point my pal and I stole away to the kitchen to pour some wine  into nondescript red plastic cups, and, of course, were promptly interrupted by one of the kids. I forget which. They all blend after a while. We whispered some inappropriate things under our breath before returning to the other guests.

The second I put my cup down, my daughter came shooting over demanding she have a sip. I explained that it was Mommy’s and that she could have her juice box. As was expected, she threw herself on the floor, crossed her arms over her chest, and screamed. Whatevs. I had my wine.

Jumping to a different scenario:

When I asked my son which cup he wanted to take to the babysitter’s, the convo went down like this:

Him: Oh, I fink (think) I’ll take a wine glass.

He headed toward the dining room cabinet where we keep our fancy glasses (ones that aren’t chipped, don’t have pictures of 1970s football players, or have come from a McDonalds promotion circa 1984), until I stopped him:

Me: HA!! Not an option. How about your Cars cup?

Him: It’s okay, just take the lid off and I’ll drink from the bottle.

Yes, he meant the wine bottle. WTF?

Mommy Juice

Turns out this is yet another thing to add to the Parenting is Hard list: Little eyes actually pay attention to what’s in our cups! Who woulda thunk it?! Try as we might to mask it in a plastic party cup or pour it into a juice glass at dinner, the kids know wine. Would I be a better parent if I called it Mommy Juice? Would I be the best parent if I didn’t indulge in a glass of red at Sunday family dinners? Is it really that bad that when the Weather Channel mentioned a blue moon my kid informed everyone that Mommy likes her Blue Moon with a piece of orange?

Eh.

How is this related to Project Optimism? I’ve been wondering that, too. Hmmm…because I refuse to lie to my kids or shelter them to the point where they’ll be tempted to take a swig from the Communion cup at church just to get their buzz on? If Jesus drinks wine, so can I.




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THIS is Why Parenting is So Hard

March 3, 2013 by 16 Comments

I was ready to wrap my daughter in shiny paper, slap a bow on her head, and ship her off to another family by way of FedEx today. Her antics in church resulted in my having to yank her from the pew and quarantine us in a separate room. She kept yelling “ELLA POTTY” and I didn’t want people to think I was a terrible mother who didn’t let her kids pee, so I couldn’t ignore her. Out we went.

Here’s the thing, though: she doesn’t even use the friggin’ potty!! The child is in diapers, yet screams ELLA POTTY any time she doesn’t want to do something she’s supposed to, i.e. sit at church, sit at dinner, sit anywhere…

She’s no dummy, folks.

The second we left church, she wanted to snuggle and be in my arms. I was still fuming. She must’ve sensed my irritation because she lay her head on my shoulder and gently tapped my nose with her finger, “Nose! Boop!”

And, of course, any residual anger melted away and I pressed my cheek up to her cheek and loved her so much that I could have burst at any second.

Until we got home of course and it started all over again.

This parenting thing is no joke. It is HARD. And all of those celebrities (lookin’ at you, Kim Kardashian) who think a child is a fashion accessory is in for a rude awakening. There are so many reasons why being a good parent is the most difficult thing most of us will ever do, and I’ve only listed a few. Feel free to share yours in the comments!

parenting

1. Our kids are inevitably going to act like assholes. But we still have to love them. That’s quite the conflict.

2. It isn’t just the newborns who keep their parents up at night. Bigger kids just bring different worries. Instead of “is the baby is still breathing” or “is the toddler asleep in his bed or in a dresser drawer,” parents of older kids get to obsess over why their 12-year-old didn’t make the little league team and if their 16-year-old is safe while on behind the wheel. It is never ending!

3. Being a parent is more about being a good role model than I realized. I don’t make it a habit to take the Lord’s name in vain; however, I must be doing it more than I think because just the other day, my son exclaimed “JESUS CHRIST THAT SCARED ME!” after something startled him. I didn’t like the way it sounded rolling off his tongue (my husband wasn’t too thrilled either…), and I felt like I had failed rather than just made a mistake.

4. The whole failure thing. It’s heavy, man. Society looks at parents to do right by their kids, and regardless of moms and dads trying their hardest, if the kids still eff up, guess who’s getting a collective finger pointed right in their faces? Yep. Look at the Sandy Hook ordeal. The gunman (whose name does not deserve mention in print, anywhere) was barely identified and already media was ripping apart his mother.

5. Kids, especially young ones, limit us. As much as we don’t want to admit it, it’s the truth. Can’t just get up and go any more. When the baby wakes, you wake. Period. Some of us take it in stride as it’s what we expected, even wanted. But there are others who’ve no idea what they’re in for and then blame the kids when their lives change. Not cool.

6. Choosing a name. I’m serious! My daughter’s name is Ella; our dog’s name is Bella. My rationale? I love both names and, bless her furry little face, my Bells won’t be around much longer. This does, however, pose a problem when I’m all fired up and can’t remember who to yell at: Ella + Brady = Bella. So much confusion in our house. You don’t even know.

7. Free time. I’m sorry, what’s that?

8. The second we’ve got a routine down or we can anticipate a certain behavior, the kids switch it up on us. They loved green beans yesterday, but today? They’re painting with them. It’s cool, kids, I was hoping for an earthy green in the dining room anyway.

9. We can’t punch the people who hurt them. I mean, we can, but we’ll more than likely have to pay a fine or go to jail. The feeling of helplessness we experience as parents is unparalleled. I’ve felt powerless in a few situations, one with my baby brother (he was 21, but whatever) and another with my husband, and as awful as those times were, they are nothing compared to what I’m in for when my babies get their first broken heart, don’t make the team, or are–God help the effers who try–bullied at school.

10. Rules. How many rules are there to parenting?! Say please and thank you. Address your elders. Don’t lie. Share. Look both ways. Always try your hardest. AHHHH! I don’t always share. I sometimes forget to say thank you. And there have been days where I probably should’ve been hit by a bus because I was texting whilst walking. Yet I’m supposed to instill ALL of this crap into my kids?! I’m tired.

Well, friends, my 15-minutes o’ March writing is up. I don’t have a chance to proofread, so don’t judge the mechanics; just dig the contents.

P.S. I’m sitting in Starbucks typing my heart out (unfortunately at a table near the bathroom) and someone just made the potty smell so foul that I want to die. If I’m not back with a new post tomorrow, someone please tell my husband he was great last night and my kids to cut their bullshit, but I still love them.

P.P.S. Are we Facebook friends? We should be. Find me here!

P.P.P.S. Someone used the search term “vajayjay” and found me today. That makes me happy.




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Numbers

July 15, 2012 by 19 Comments

I don’t do well with numbers. For many years, I swore I was dyslexic mostly just to mask how ridiculously awful I am at math. The other day I bought a coffee and the smart ass clerk rung me up at “103 pennies.” I started to sweat. Yes, that’s how bad it is. (I blushed for a second, but did whip out the $1.03 the a-hole asked for.) If in a hurry or under pressure, it’s not uncommon for me to forget my own phone number. When we were first married, my husband insisted on balancing my checkbook because I would make hundreds of dollars worth of mathematical errors. Whoops. And word problems still look like this to me:

Props to Pinterest for this

 

However pathetic my math skills, I am able to solve this equation:

1 son + 1 daughter + any more kids = outnumbered parents

A few weeks after Ella was born, Zach took our dog to the vet. In response to his announcement that we wanted even more children, the lovely woman who expresses our pups’ anal glands warned Zach that 3 or more kids requires a change from man-to-man to zone defense. This would put us at a clear “mathematical disadvantage.” May I remind you that my husband is a math teacher and although wicked intelligent, lacks a bit of common sense sometimes. The fact that 3 kids is more than 2 parents was “DUH.” to me, but had never really dawned on him. Until the Day the Veterinarian Interfered. He may try to deny it, but I know that woman planted seeds of doubt in him that grow each time Brady refuses to go to bed or Ella cries because her favorite blanket is in the wash.

There is hope, though: even after the big mouth vet’s words, Zach has admitted, “I like round numbers; let’s have four kids.” To be fair, I should point out that the night he said this, we were at a wedding where the gin and juice was flowing and I was obsessing about having three kids. There is a slight possibility that he was being derisive and just wanted to shut me up…

I know many families who have 3 or more kiddos and their homes and lives are filled with more chaos, more busy days, and more demanding schedules. But they are also filled with more hugs, more laughs, and more love. There are certainly days when the zone defense comment echoes in my mind (namely right now since Ella is boycotting her nap–SLEEP, CHILD!), but a friend’s advice always seems to drown out the cacophony of doubt: I’ll never regret having more kids, but I could regret NOT having more. I know Zach worries more about the monetary side of things, but because that requires me to think about numbers, I usually gravitate toward thoughts of sleepless nights and lopsided boobs. But let’s be realistic here: the fun bags have already met their demise and by the time our kids are ready for college, Penn State will only be, like, $20 a year, so what the hell? Let’s procreate!

Other factors are certainly contributing to my thoughts, but when I watch my son and daughter play together or witness Ella’s face light up when Brady greets her in the morning, my heart feels so full that I can’t resist the urge to listen to country music or snuggle something fluffy.  Of course, there are also days like this:

I just tend to focus on the fluffy stuff.

I’m curious to talk to other parents in my same position or those who have braved the waters of 3+ kids. I don’t usually ask anything of my readers, but if any of you would be willing to share your words of wisdom or experiences, I would sure appreciate it. We could make a game of it: he/she with the best advice will be the namesake for my next child. Okay, probably not, but it was exciting while it lasted.




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Let’s Get Nuts

July 2, 2012 by Leave a Comment

I find it very amusing (so much so that I giggle to myself on the regular) how drastically life has changed since I popped out 2 kids. I anticipated feeling “changed” after I got married, but nope, nothing. Except for my last name and the feeling of obligation to give the hubby a heads up if I want to spend $100+, things pretty much remained the same.

And then THEY came:

This picture makes my heart so happy!

 

Before them, living on the edge used to mean taking chances–bungee jumping, skydiving, and other crazy things I’ve honestly never done but would have at least considered (probably not) before having kids. Or at the very least, having 1 too many glasses of wine and drunk dialing old boyfriends.

Living on the edge meant owning 46 pairs of heels just because I could. Living on the edge meant risking a new do-it-yourself-hair color because reddish-purple was an appropriate hue for a young gal with no children. I’ve always been somewhat of a party animal. Try to keep up.

This morning, I saw an opportunity to recapture some of my crazy youth and I seized it:

Things are gettin’ crazy around here.

Yeah, that’s right: an open basement door that, for the past 3 years, has served as a familial Mason-Dixon Line for the sole purpose of tiny people’s safety. But not today. I resisted my initial instinct to sprint to it and throw my body across the threshold while warning, “THE DOOR IS AJAR!!!!!!!!!” Nope. I saw that the bad boy was open and I said to myself, “Self, live large today. Go nuts. Shake what your mama gave ya. Carpe effin’ diem. Leave it OPEN.”

And because the kids are with grandma today I’m a bad ass who gets her kicks from taking risks, that door will remain open until the kids come home indefinitely.

Go big or go home I always say.




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