Mom-dern Vignettes

Let the Mourning Begin: Wheels Scores his First Digits

There is little in the world of parenting that strikes more fear into your core than “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

No. That is not awesome.

I admit, Wheels is going to have no problem catching a girl’s attention and heart. He is tall, 4 foot 5 at seven, blonde hair and stormy blue eyes, but it is his effervescent, extroverted personality that will seal the deal. He is sporty, wild even, a man in his own world and game for anyone to join his ranks. Yet, the kid oozes chivalry, poise, and total intrigue and interest for the opposite sex.

When he was two, he would lean his body against the grocery cart, chin tilted down, cheek on full display, and with his eyes slightly closed and sideways, his sweet little voice would soulfully peep to the cashier, “Give me a kiss!?” Shocked laughter, but the cashiers knew, he had that twinkle.

Ever since preschool, little girls constantly chased and punched him on the playground. Upon entering Kindergarten, when the girl/drama ratio exploded, we had to have a long discussion about the complexities of girl behavior; them vying for his attention through violence and screaming in packs, that it was ok to say “no get off me!”, and if they don’t, you can hold their arms off of you while you call for the teacher, but never hit a girl.

He understood, but they were confusing.

I had solace in that notion. Girls are great, but crazy. Girls give me attention and that’s great, but still crazy.

That same year, our family traveled to visit friends abroad, and we met up with my husband’s friends in a pub. One of them had a vivacious, outgoing red headed flame of a two year old girl, who grabbed Wheels’ attention and he never looked back. The rest of the afternoon he held her hand while she stepped down the single step, or “caught” her while she pretend fell into his arms; him always looking shocked that she fell and she, staring into his blue eyes, would thank him and laugh as he helped her back up for another round. It was the cutest display of a kid soap opera.

This single interlude, was the shift. The light bulb, which shone bright and illuminated the idea that not all girls are crazy, they can be fun and I like that. Thanks Luna.

Small interactions then became weird. His adorable teenage babysitter would hug him goodbye, and due to his height, his hands would land directly on her bum. His granny would hug him to say good job, and due to his height, his head would land right in the middle of her large bosom. I would watch his eyes during these incidents, half closed and cheekily sideways.

After a few discussions on appropriate behavior and hand positioning, the sudden surge of interest has since been at peace.

Rushing to complete dinner before Stewie passed the threshold of too tired to eat, I heard Wheels’ proud declaration, “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

Slow turn. Eye to eye, a fast high-pitched “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, she said I need to call her over the summer so I can go to her lemonade stand. I have to call her. I promised mom, she is super awesome,” fishing through his pocket he pulls out a folded wad, “See, here it is. Don’t loose it. You’ll want lemonade too, right?”

Spinning off to play, I opened the paper with a wince. There were ten digits scrawled on the paper, in no particular order. Whew… inexperience is beautiful thing.

May 5, 2017 1

An Honest Answer to the “Who’s Your Favorite” Question

My husband and I attended a very swanky affair last night. Lovely people sipping on fancy drinks and eating nibble foods, all present for the same purpose… a pooch party. Our wonderful next door neighbors hosted the party, complete with pooch goody swag bags, and Bert had a field day. As the youngest dog, nine months, and the largest, a labradoodle, she brought the party to the older dogs.

She pranced down the stone steps and instantly coerced the older dogs into chasing her. She meticulously swirled the yard as the herd gave pursuit. Ceaselessly, she forced the sprint around and around; they flew in between legs and back into the lush grass, her blonde hair windswept allowing everyone to see her eyes for a change. One by one, the older dogs threw in the towel and as they did, she would approach them, nuzzle their muzzle, and off she ran.

Watching the dancing foray, she whittled her followers down to one continuous, energy matching foe, Finnegan. A interesting male Chihuahua-Dachshund mix. They bounded together as the others barked, returned to the chase, and left to rest again. Of all the dogs present, Finnegan would have been the last I would have chosen as her new favorite pal.

With a silent, musing giggle into my drink, I was approached by my hostess friend, and she broached an inevitable but esoteric question, I know all parents have one. So spill it! Who is your favorite kid?

Perhaps it was the energy of the dogs, perhaps the strength of my drink, but I answered.

Honestly.

Me: Well. Wheels. Wheels is my favorite. He is turning eight in July and you can talk to him. Reeeally talk to him, and the questions he asks are incredibly profound. He challenges me to be honest with myself and give honest answers. Watching his mind grow and change is amazing. Yeah, Wheels is my favorite… today.

Tomorrow, Malcolm may be. You know he is five and just starting to read. He is just discovering this world around him and is excited. He is turning into a kid, with his own ideas and talent apart from Wheels. He has a wicked sense of humor and his desire to learn is contagious.

Her: Hmm… and what about Stewie?

Me: Oh, well, Stewie is an asshole! We are all in trouble! But you know what, yesterday. Yesterday, Stewie was my favorite. He has resisted and resisted talking and engaging with David and I. And yesterday, for the first time, he tried and succeeded in saying boat, cookie, jeep, and night night. He actually watched my mouth, thought about it, and repeated. But his pride in himself after, just clapping and clapping… Yeah, yesterday he was my favorite.

The conversation ended as quickly as the question posed, with dogs slamming into our legs. My gaze followed Bert arching back through the lawn, with Finnegan, McKenna trailing behind and Ginny barking from the steps.

With a dog swirled mind, I felt satisfied. Yes, I love all my sons as equally as I can. No, none of us are without flaws. Yes, there will be days where I like one more than the other, but being present and seeing the beauty in each, is my true mission as mom.

And yes, that leaves me satisfied.

April 28, 2017 1

How to Brave “That” Kid on the Playground

The flowers are popping and the days are growing warmer, longer. Everyone emits an essence of giddy hope. Freedom. Windows fly open and the dust flies up. Awww, Spring is here. Baby bunnies. Baby lambs. Baby anything that has four legs! And the most essential winter relief for all adults who have, or watch, or get roped into kids… hours at the playground!

With three rambunctious boys, my right eye begins to twitch from cabin fever mid January when daylight hours are so short, you are trying to send you kids to bed at 5:30 just because it’s dark! Doesn’t always work.

Last week, Spring Break, was our first week in which we hit a playground a day. I loved it. Not just because the kids are active and their imaginations firing, but I revel in feeling like a kid. I run, squeal, pretend to be a pirate, and climb the jungle gym equipment trying to be a Ninja Warrior. It is just plain fun to be reminded that you are not too old for kid tendencies.

This particular day, Wheels and Malcolm, my son in the middle, were chasing each other defending themselves with various Pokemons, while I was making sure Stewie didn’t fall to his death on the designated 5 – 12 year old equipment. We successfully surpassed the stairs and fireman pole from hell, and made our way to the slide.

The one true happiness in Stewie’s world, the slide.

Clapping wildly, he sat down two feet from the slide’s edge and began to scoot his bottom towards the crest, when it happened.

BAM BAM BAM… up the slide came that kid. That kid we all know. That one, who sneers and brings you back to being alone on the playground and bullied. That one who, even though you are an accomplished adult, instantly makes you revert to your childhood and pisses you off that you never did anything to stand up for yourself. That one who was just older than you and exerted their dominance by holding cool stuff hostage.

That one, who brings out the worst, in adult you.

As that kid reached the top of the slide grabbing the poles either side, they stared into Stewie’s eyes and grimaced, “You are never coming down this slide,” glancing up at me, “Nope.”

Blindsided and quite taken aback, I carefully raised my right foot, placed it in the middle of that kid’s furrowed forehead, and gently nudged them back down the speedy silver chute impersonating evil Santa, “You’ll shoot your eye out kid! Ho HO HO!” as they slid helplessly, shocked, whimpering.

Sinister chuckling ensued. It felt gooood.

I grabbed Stewie’s hand to bring him closer to the slide, looked up, and that kid was still there, sneering and defiant as ever. The trouble with a vivid imagination and not so wicked heart is you don’t act upon your musings.

Leaning down making firm, committed eye contact with that kid, I whispered as forcefully and controlled as possible, “Oh I think he is. Right now.” Immediately, the child slid away, relinquishing the fun from its cold grasp and I kindly expressed thanks.

Awww, the joys of spring! Fresh air. Exercise. Baby animals. AND, the incredible return to kid-dom and playground etiquette.

April 21, 2017 1

The Ultimate “Mom Friend” Test

One desperate summer afternoon, days away from giving birth to Stewie, I tossed Wheels and Malcolm, into a a free play gymnastics class so I could nap with my eyes open. In walked another woman, all smiles and chatty with two kids. Instantly, in my pregnant stupor, I marked her as “way too nice,” verging on the irritatingly nice. But as the weeks passed, Kitty O’Shea continued spreading joy, but with the same wicked sense of humor and desire to make it through the day as myself, and not to the top of the school mom pyramid. Two years later, we have become very good friends with much more in common than I ever anticipated.

Rewind five weeks ago, when I received an email from Fabletics, the Kate Hudson athletic clothing line, stating Congratulations! You won our essay contest and a trip for your an a friend to Tulum, Mexico for a fitness retreat. I called Kitty instantly, and last week we flew to Mexico for our luxury vacation and the longest time away from our kids since they were born!

As mom friends go, you see these people at school pick up. The grocery. Out to dinner. You’ve never lived with them like those women you roomed with in college. Behind closed doors is a mystery. Their quirks are mysteries. Your quirks could be interpreted as nuts. Outside influences can quickly transform a presumed strong friendship into a raging inferno with nothing but cinders left as proof it did exist.

Fingers Crossed!

If our flight was a predictor, we were in trouble. I have traveled across the country and half way around the world, and I have never been on a flight with so many strange, high strung people. Kids yelling across the plane to other siblings, parents trying to calm their first flight children with a nerve wracking countdown to take off, people whispering about crashing, multiple drinks order before 10 am, an odd close encounter with another airplane literally riding our wing, and of course, to my horror turbulence. My evil twin who turns me into a hand holding baby. Kitty laughed it off and yes, held my hand through landing. Beautiful.

We struggled through customs, took me three times to fill the bloody papers out correctly, bought a bottle of Vodka, and we were at the luxury hotel in Tulum two hours later, prepared to relax.

We were shown our room, and Kitty’s voice went helium high asking, “Oh wow, this is nice. What do you think?”

The room was smaller than my dining room, with two twin beds and a very rustic toilet shower combination. A clicking noise rang from the thatched roof, introducing us to the lullabies of a gecko nest. Beautiful white walls, orange comforters and very clean.

My voice followed her squeaky uncertainty, “Oh! Well… we are about to get real close!” Laughter ensued and that was that.

Laughter and his friend Mojito, pulled us through the trip. When my fear of heights nearly cost me making the crawl to the top of a ruin in Coba, Kitty’s giggles encouraged me through the last few steps. And as our eyes met at the top, they revealed her fear as well.

When we couldn’t take one more gluten free, dairy free, sugar free, vegetarian meal, Mojito dragged us on a pub crawl in search of queso blanco.

When the intense workouts at the amazing Tulum Jungle Gym caused Kitty to stare at the ocean as though she was considering drowning in it, forcing her to quietly utter, “I am never fucking coming back here!” I put my arm around her laughing, “And you don’t have to!”

When we both teared up missing the kids, we hugged it out and floated down a natural lazy river with a Mexican Marlboro man as our guide, to fill the void.

And when the schedule became too much and my body was screaming from overuse, Kitty not only deemed me the Grandma of the bunch, but slide from her claimed red hammock, grabbed my hand, forcing me to push through the guilt of missing activities (since I had won the trip), and off we went shopping in downtown Tulum for some very interesting and inappropriate souvenirs! The number or fertility statues was staggering.

The whole trip made me reconsider how women interact with one another. When vulnerable and/or uncomfortable, women tend to either lash out at the circumstance or roll with it. The close proximity, minimalist design, and full schedule of the retreat claimed some friendships on the trip. Some pairs let it fall apart, while others found another hotel with more space as a preservation tactic. We were lucky. We both fall into the roll with it category. The simplicity allowed us to learn about and support one another’s strengths and weaknesses. And we had a blast!

April 14, 2017 0

The Proof is in the Mom Jeans

This past weekend, I attended a baby shower; a shower I genuinely wanted to attend and not out of obligation. The hostess had a spread of finger foods and the company of ladies was jovial and filled with pure happiness for the new mother.

As I walked home from the event, I mused over the stories women told about mothering through the decades, and felt tired, fulfilled. Once home, I was greeted with squeals of delight, tears of he took my legos and bust my house, and the rare wonderful occurrence of my husband making his specialty for dinner, curry.

I yearned to disrobe from my skinny jeans, tucked in flowy tank, orange blazer and heels. I slopped into the bathroom, and there they were lying scrunched on the floor. Pealed from my body from waist to ankles and left in the same smashed heap, ensuring ease of becoming one again with my skin. The washed blue called Come, be comfortable.

Awww, my mom jeans.

In an unusual display, I picked them up in my hands and smiled. But as I inspected their color, condition, I realized to my horror, these things were covered in gross!

Down the sides on my right leg, just under the pocket, were faded swipes of red, brown, and white which could only be from the hurried cleaning of my right hand as I made shepherds pie, lasagna, and Alfredo. On the inside by my knee was a translucent film, most likely from bubble wars, with pink purple and blue bits of lint plastered in from half a dozen loads of laundry. Both knees were thin and stretched from bending, bending, bending to wipe a nose, pick something up, catch a kid or chastise Bert. The left leg’s cuff was soiled with ketchup, a mishap from letting Stewie squirt some on his plate, and a dried bogey from who knows where.

But the true measure of disgusting came when I flipped my beloved over. My bum. Two round circles of dusty, much darker beige. Quickly, the week recalled itself in ticking flashbacks of building a stick forest with Wheels, scooting on a dump truck with Stewie, and a failed playground pullover dare from Malcolm, in which I collapsed to the ground because I am old.

I wear these jeans. Daily. Everywhere. When was the last time I washed them? A week, two, three? I talk to my kids often about the importance of presenting yourself and first impressions and here I am, wandering town as a shining example of a woman who can keep everyone else in her family put together, except herself!

Glaring at them through ridiculed fingers, I quietly reminisced of what wasn’t written in their filth. There was no stain to prove I held Wheels while he cried about how frustrated writing made him. No stain to acknowledge my being asked to interview for two jobs. No stark imprint of Malcolm sitting on my lap, showing real progress in reading and his eyes lighting up with pride. And no stain to remark how Stewie, for the first time, asked me to kiss him.

With pierced lips and a nod, I slipped them back on and wore them three more days! These jeans do their job. They keep me comfortable. They remain soft even when I feel hard. They wrap me in protection when I don’t know the answer to a question and decide to wrestle instead of look it up. They hold their seams and keep it together. As moms, that is all we can ask for. Because from the moment we discover we are now mothers, that is all we can try to do.

March 24, 2017 1

How to Teach Your Toddler to Curse

stewie

My mother has a saying she peppers me with anytime I express despair over a child or animal: No one can embarrass you more than kids and dogs.

This was never more true than this moment, as I was holding my innocent year and half old boy in my arms at a posh salon check-in counter and he sent the room a titter with two words.

Stewie. Silent but deadly. Stewie is the only child I have been at home with from birth and I watch him absorb every aspect of our lives from routine, to inflections in our voices. He is a very observant sponge. However, at 18 months, he can speak, but refuses as it is his one controlling power over me. He lords his stubborn resistance with a physical presence and demeanor not of a general, but of a person plotting the usefulness of each being in the house to achieve his ultimate goal of total rule. He uses his piercing aqua marine eyes to either lure and bend you to his will, or quickly infer your insignificance.

Many times we have met in the hallway as I come down the stairs, turn the corner and there he is. Puffed chest, intense eyes, and silence. All too reminiscent of the twins from The Great Outdoors or even The Shining. He stands arms to his sides, chin to chest, his fine static electric blonde hair illuminated by the sun pouring in from outside, glaring. He is up to something. As he takes of running, head first to gain momentum, I give chase and usually he has gotten his minion to do some sort of bidding.

Bert. Too cute to kill. At 8 months, she is the cutest most willing to please animal I have owned. An apricot labradoodle maxing out at 24 pounds and a heart of gold. She entered our lives like a hurricane and has exuded so much love and companionship for the boys, exceeding our expectations. Although, for some reason, she has chosen Stewie as her person.

For me, I love her, and detest her. The house has a sweetness with her soft paws in it. I find myself searching for her throughout the day, wanting a snuggle or a delicate wet kiss to remind me that someone is here with me just to be, not for food or a diaper change. And then, to my horror, I discover her eating my underwear, or destroying the LAST of my sandals, or running out into the garden with one of my books. The dog only eats my stuff! She rips it to shreds and my cool head erupts in obscenities of “Oh shit, that was my last pair” or “Damn it Bert! I just got those.” Tearing to her side, I tower over her with “Noooo. Bad girl,” a quick spray of the water bottle, get her outside and move on.

But those big brown eyes, staring at me through the muddy paw streaked glass, only say “I love you so much. I just had to. I am sorry.” So, I break the dog training rule and bring her in for a cuddle on the couch. Bad Sam.

After a particularly fantastic morning with Stewie and Bert at a park, I decided to book a mommy tidy up at a new salon near our home. Upon entering, the salon is a very clean bright white with rustic polished wood throughout. Calming music played as we approached the robust friendly counter. The receptionist recommended a stylist and asked I wait a moment while she checked the schedule. I felt at ease, as another mother sat playing with her daughter and a Barbie car. The little girl, dropped the car onto the ground, the wheels popping off.

Stewey raised his finger and with a clarity and volume never heard before, said “Oh shit!”

Shutting my eyes and taking a deep inhale, I thought Damn it BERT!

March 17, 2017 0

Give ‘Em the “Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?” Eyes and Follow Through!

Malcolm, my son in the middle, has consistently been the most thoughtful and caring of my three sons. He is aware of how you are feeling and how others make you feel; which does not mean he will act upon what he sees, for he has a stubborn introverted personality. However, his random acts of kindness and understanding when you least expect it, have always been a bright spot of pride for me.

On Monday, while taxiing the kids to their various schools, I mentioned off hand “to look in your closets tonight for something red to wear on Wednesday in support of women.”

“Mom, why red and why are we supporting women,” Wheels asked, always first with a question.

“Well hon, currently women are having to fight to keep some of their rights they have earned and also across our country women generally get paid less than men simply for being a woman. Not to mention some men think they can do anything they want to women because they ‘own’ them or are better than them,” I explained as simply as I could to a 7 and 5 year old.

“So, equality?” asked Wheels.

“Simply, yes.”

Feeling satisfied in my explanation of the cause and proud my boys got it, I let the peacefulness resonate throughout the car. I did gooood. I am passing on the power of both women and fighting for what you believe you in to my young boys. Molding them into men, respectful of women. Chivalry with a modern twist. A deep exhale emanated from my chest when a little voice rose…

“Eh, I know women aren’t equal to me. Never will be,” Malcolm matter of factually mused while calmly gazing out the window.

BOOOOOOM!

My mind was blown. What did he say? NO… not him. I looked back through the rear view mirror and Wheels was peaking from behind the middle row looking into my eyes and gesturing his head toward Malcolm who was still staring out the window. Ok. Ok. Stay cool. Don’t blow. Ask what he meant and I am sure there is a simple explanation. One way better than my sweet little thoughtful guy is a hidden male chauvinist!

We pulled into his preschool parking lot, I turned to face him and calmly asked him to explain.

His voice spouted in an eye rolling duh tone, “Mom, none of the girls run faster than me at my school. I don’t think they are smarter than me either. I don’t even know what women do. I just think I, and all boys, are better!”

Then it happened. A tense silence filled the car. Stewey stopped sucking his pacifier, Wheels ducked down hiding completely from view, and I could feel my eyes grow wild, wide, twitching with the new knowledge of my son’s honesty and ignorance. His impending doom was mine… mine alone… my precious. And I will deal with him as I see fit!

I closed my eyes and said, “On Wednesday, you will learn what women do. Allll day. Your job will be mine. You,” my finger coming up in a severe point, “will do everything, and you, will acknowledge every woman in your life on that day and thank them. I haven’t thought it all up yet, but I will. By the time you get home from school!” I leaned toward him still pointing, “Come Wednesday, be prepared.”

Wheels interrupted, “Hey! Hey! That is just him, right ? Not me. I love women! They are so beautiful and magical! I love them!”

“Wheels, that comment is barely a step above what Malcolm said! Yes, this goes for you too. Magical!? Now go to school!”

On International Women’s Day, I never worked so hard at not working. Those boys wore red, extracted Stewey from his crib, changed his diapers, dressed him, made his breakfast first, then made theirs, made their own lunch and checked their bags, made my coffee, fed Bert, instructed me on driving directions to their schools, took a red flower to each of their teachers and gymnastics teachers with a ribbon attached that said “Thank you in honor of a day without Women,” made dinner and dessert, read Stewey books for bed, and cleaned their bathroom. I was exhausted!

While tucking them into bed separately, I told them how proud I was of their being a “woman”. I explained, Even though you may not fully understand what today was about, understand this, your entire day was filled with only women contributing to your academic, athletic, and societal success. Eighty-fiveish percent of your future education, will be provided to you by gracious women. You don’t have to understand it all, but just recognize how women shape you and your dreams.

March 11, 2017 0

How Kids Pull You Through Loss

I lost my dog this week. To some this may seem trivial, to others a true division of oneself from another being. For me, I’m with the later. My dog, Sadie, was a Jack Russell from hell and heaven; I was her heaven, and my husband her hell. She was a kindred spirit who came into my life just when I truly needed someone to reflect all of my positives and negatives back at me. I purchased her on the side of the road and hid her in my dorm room for months until summer break.

For 14 years, she licked my tears, reminded me not to be so serious, and loved me when I felt undeserving and incapable. She taught me that sometimes, it is just plain necessary to be a bitch, and that’s okay. She had a raging feud with my husband and would urinate on his slippers if ever she felt shafted, then turn around and snuggle him in bed if he were ill.

So when the time came to ease her into the next world, it was the easiest decision to end her pain, and the hardest to hold her as she passed. Not only did my favorite friend to roll my eyes with leave, but with her went the last daily reminder of who I was, and how far I have come.

I sat in my mom van outside the Vet ER, delaying going home. I needed that time to loudly grieve before I saw my three boys. She wasn’t “their” dog, but she had been with them since birth. I wasn’t sure what their reaction would be and how to handle it. After 20 minutes, I ventured home.

I pulled into the drive listening to 90s on 9 XM with Downtown Julie Brown and the top song in 1996, Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men, One Sweet Day… geez o’ peats… that did not help.

Entering my home, silence hit me and the house was clean. A huge piece of lasagna sat on the table with one fork and 5 large slices of birthday cake were thawing on the counter. My boys, were expecting, a mess. My husband sat next to me and Malcolm, my son in the middle, sat with Wheelz on the other side. All declared how sorry they were as I drowned myself in food, and they quickly began small talk to make me feel better:

Wheelz: “I am sorry mom. She was a good dog, old but good.”

Malcolm: “How did you know she was in pain?”

Me: “She was squinting dear, and sometimes she would flinch as though something was hurting.”

Malcolm: “Oh yeah, I saw her flinch too. That’s why I tried not to hit her with my bike.”

Wheelz: “Look mom, I wrote you a letter to cheer you up. More than I have ever wrote (turning to Malcolm) I don’t even do that in school! For Real!”

Wheelz: “Mom don’t cry. I know your sad and worried, but don’t worry. She is not going to feel it when she burns.”

Malcolm (hanging his chin to chest and turning to his brother): “I don’t think that was nice.”

Wheelz: “Yes it was. I know she is worried about it. I was.”

Malcolm: “Hey mom, I drew a picture of our house. Here’s our house and a heart for love. And Sadie, cause we miss her. And this is you, crying!”

By the time I entered my pasta and sugar coma, I could not stop laughing. Sure I was still in the depths of my new grief, but the boys’ innocence and desire to pull me from gloom warmed my heart. However strange their words, the hidden context was clear: we know you are hurting and we love you.

The following day, my 18 month old, Stewey, picked up my phone and lit the screen. Staring back at him was my first attempt at parenting. Wrapped in a white blanket warm from the dryer, her black eyes still pierce through me with a what’s next? retort.

In his breathy toddler tones he whispered, “Awww, she toe tyoot!”

“Yes, baby. She was.”

March 3, 2017 3

The “How to Introduce Myself” Conundrum

I face a problem this day; sitting at this computer, writhing uncomfortably, sneaking peaks at an episode of Downton Abbey that I have seen a dozen times, writing and erasing, writing erasing, yet the unease is all too familiar. Familiar at every school function, neighborhood get together, dinner party or playground interlude, I struggle to find the confidence to introduce myself due to the inevitable prying question, “So what is it that you do?”

This simple inane question sends my mind spiraling. Do I go with former teacher or stay at home mom? An uneasy pause follows and the other person furrows their brow asI stammer debating teacher, mom, teacher, mom. I have received mixed reviews from either answer. Say teacher, and you get the “Oh, well, we will always need good teachers” response. Very patronizing. Say mom, and you get the “Oh, that’s nice” answer accompanied with the look of “Oh so nothing”. Thanks.

Now, personally I am very proud to be both. My time as a high school English teacher in both the general education and alternative settings taught me discipline, the art of breaking down an explanation, and truly humbled my existence. I loved teaching. The only reason I left was the fact that my sons were babies and sweet. I spent my days helping teenagers interpret the world and find their voice to communicate effectively, and came home with no patience for my kids. I saw teenagers hating on their parents, rebelling and I thought “Oh my God, there is only so many years before my boys turn into this!” I wanted to spend their sweet early years with them and was fortunate enough to be able to leave.

I miss it everyday.

Once the decision was made, I threw myself into being a mom to my then 1 and 3 year old boys and at first, despised it. We filled our days with kids gyms, playgrounds, book stores and anything to fill time. I had never felt so under prepared for the onslaught of being a stay at home mom. Lonely from no adult interactions and drowning in diapers and rashes and whining and whining and whining, I called my mom 600 miles away in Kentucky and cried. She calmly listened letting me carry on and get it out and then quietly said, ” I know honey… being a mom is terrible, hard. But why are you making it harder on yourself? Why are you giving everything up? You didn’t when you taught.” I realized I was trying to be too much. Too perfect. I was killing myself to be their and my husbands everything and had completely chipped away all I held dear for myself. Over compensating to give myself the justification for being home. Being home went against everything I was coached to be in college, but what I ultimately wanted. Balance was needed.

My success as a teacher came from being real; being their teacher first friend second, admitting my mistakes, apologizing and moving on, and building on their natural curiosity. To be successful at home, I had to do the same and find time for myself. I sat my family down and explained it, and of course, as men are, they were oblivious to my strife but wanted to help. My oldest boy, then 4, held my hand and said “I love you mommy, do whatever you need, just be home.”

Home I stayed. But now I workout daily to provide sanity and have found a couple more imperfect friends to exchange mom fail tales. Four more years on, I love being at home and watching them grow, but still struggle finding time for myself, my interests, my goals, my dreams. Probably as it should be for the time being, but I am slowly finding outlets.

And with that said, I now have a new response to my most nerve wracking bar-b-que question, “I write about life”. Hopefully, once a week!

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails