Losing Yourself?

It is 9:29 p.m.  I have just finished four hours of cooking, feeding, homeworking, correcting, whining, crying, playing, laughing, reading, cleaning, bathing, brushing, tucking, screaming, re-tucking, sobbing, biting, crying, kicking, negotiating, exhausting, pleading, hugging, kissing, tucking, loving, and now, perhaps, finally, heading towards sleeping.


That all followed eight hours of working.

Preceded by two hours of waking, showering, brushing, clothing, feeding, cleaning, cajoling, urging, begging and racing.

Rinse and repeat.

Oh, and writing.  As in, sitting here now.


There is this trend, or movement, or criticism, or, whatever... call it what you will.

This thing.

Where people like to criticize or belittle bloggers.  In particular, those bloggers who happen to have children.  Bloggers who are female.  (Nope, not going to use the term.)  To attack them for writing in their space.  About their lives.


There are lots of assertions.  Some warranted (on some levels, perhaps) and some not.  Attacked for giving themselves away.  For frivolity.  For minutia.  For ... you name it.  Again, some of the critiques I understand.  And some I agree with 110%.

But the one that really gets under my skin is the one where people say those women...  Those women who include me...  When they say that we, I, in sitting here writing about being a parent, being a mom, having kids, figuring it all out ... diapers and breastfeeding and potty training and homework and relationships... all of those moments that go with parenting.  With mothering...

To say that we have lost ourselves.

No.

They cannot belittle the fact that we are sorting out this massive, major, overwhelming thing called being a mom.   Figuring it out publicly.

Because you know, this IS what I live.  I have not lost myself.  I am right here in the midst of it.  Smart and funny and complicated as ever.

I get up.  I frantically parent.  I try to get to work on time in matching shoes.  I do my best to do well at my job.  To be coherent.  Smart even.  To make a difference doing the job I do.  And then I race out.  More attempts at coherently parenting.  We try to find time to be a couple.  We try to find the money to occasionally get a babysitter.  We try.  I try.

And then each day, at the end, I tip over.  And get up the next day and do it all again.

I haven't lost myself.  Hello.  Right here.  I am still a fascinating person if you take me out to dinner (we can even split the bill if you like).  Okay, fascinating may be pushing it.

But this is my reality.

I am not lost.  I am just here right now.  Maybe it just feels lost to others.  Maybe others want to call it lost to make it all out to be less than it is.

And no one has the right to say otherwise.  So, no.  We women-with-children-who-happen-to-write-about-that-online have not lost ourselves.  Hell, write about it or not.  Don't belittle this chaotic thing called motherhood.  Called parenthood.

I write about it to process it.  To remember.  To see, a few moments, or a few weeks, or a few months, or a few years down the road, what I may not have seen through the chaos at the time.

And this, my friends, this, I will assert, is not small.  This is real.

I am right here.  Never lost.  No need to tell me to find myself.

I know just where I am.

Determination sans teeth

Sometimes you have to take risks.

Even if you don't have all the tools you will need to succeed.

Like teeth.

Sometimes you have to readjust your approach.

And perhaps success may not look like what you expected.

But it still tastes good when it happens.

Of course, that is not to say that to achieve success one has to take off their shirt.

I think I killed it.

Leave it to me to go on and on effusing about how much I love doing laundry.  I should have known better.

I mean, I am used to finding Lego men and pennies and Fruit Roll Up wrappers in my washer and dryer.  Frankly, I consider the money a tip for the work I do.  (And by the way, my average hourly rate is about 3 cents.)

But for the record, while I am great at laundry, I don't do pockets.  If something is important to you, you need to get it out of your own pockets before you toss your clothes in the hamper.  Who am I kidding.  If you are the kids, you need to clean your pockets out before you toss your clothes on the floor 8 inches away from the hamper.  And, yes, that means that our Lego men get regular baths. 

But imagine my horror last night...

I have a feeling in my late-night, laundry-doing stupor, I may have accidentally placed a full size sheep in the dryer without realizing it.

I have no idea how it happened.  I just hope that PETA doesn't hold me accountable.  And that the poor thing went quickly.  It must have, I didn't hear a thing.

However, I can now definitively say, yes, wool does shrink in the dryer.

Don't Ask. Don't Tell.

This weekend was Caleb's birthday.


We went out to dinner to a place of his choosing and, at the end of the meal, let him decide what he wanted to do for his birthday dinner dessert.


His choice?


"Mom, I want to go home and have you make your homemade cookies, because you make the best homemade cookies in the entire universe."


No joke.  That is exactly what he said.


Which made me feel all...awwww.

Until I reminded myself that I don't really make cookies.  Like ever.  As in, I am not sure if Caleb has ever really, in nine years on this planet, had truly homemade cookies made by me before.

Brian quietly laughed at the whole situation as we drove home as I went through the mental list of what we might have in the cupboards.

We got home, I sent the boys down to play Wii and I did what I had to.

I grabbed the keys.  And I headed to Lunds.

Soon I found myself standing here.  Feeling alternately guilty and exhilarated.  And thankful for the brilliant souls whoever created break and bake cookies.

Even better?  A 2 for $5 deal.  Done.

Oven pre-heating at home, I marched up to the express check out lane where, of course, I had to ask the checkout guy to take a photo of me.

"Oh that is very nice!" he said as he handed my camera back to me.  As if to say, "No worries lady, I get nutty bloggers in here all the time taking photos of themselves buying cookies at 8:10 on a Saturday night.  But the photo I took of you is one of the better ones."

I quietly snuck back in the back door to my pre-heated oven and slapped my not-quite-homemade break and bake cookies in the oven and set about pouring some milk to top off the deal.

Forty-five minutes later, because, you know, my oven is dying a slow, hideous death and can't hold it's heat, I had a tray of Mom's Hot and Delicious (not quite) Homemade Cookies.

And I had a happy 9-year-old.

He didn't ask.  I didn't tell.

But it was all good.

He's right.  I do make some darn good cookies.



P.S. And speaking of really delicious stuff that you don't have to make yourself, you might want to pop over here for my most recent giveaway.

9

Earlier this week when I headed up to bed, I peeked into Caleb and Noah's room.  Noah was sound asleep on the top bunk and on the bottom bunk were Caleb and Elijah, all cuddled up.

Recently Eli has decided that he doesn't really want to sleep in his own bed anymore.  With Caleb is where he wants to be.  And to Caleb's great credit, he is more than welcome to share his twin bed with his two-year-old brother.

I smiled, patted them all on the heads and as I walked out of the room, I glanced back and saw two sets of feet poking out of the covers.

Little and big.

Happy birthday, Mr. C.  You are one cool big brother.

I managed to pull his attention away from Sponge Bob this morning long enough to ask him a few "So now you are 9" questions.

What do you think will happen when you are 9 years old?
I'll learn how to really play baseball. 


What do you want to be when you grow up?
 A cartoonist.

Who do you think is cool?
Baseball cards and football cards.  Sports.


What bugs you?
Um, sometimes, Noah.


Favorite food?
Spaghetti.

Least favorite?
Tuna casserole.  And cheese.

What are you most proud of?
 
This question baffled him.  I'm going to put that in the "I am a nine-year-old boy category" and not worry too much about it.

So I will answer it.  Caleb, I am proud of you for your determination.  Your intense curiosity.  Your constant desire to try new things.  Your willingness to hang with your brothers (most of the time).  Your sentisitvity and willingness to say you are sorry when you make a mistake.  For being a kid that other kids like and think is funny while, at the same time, being a kid your teacher's call a leader.



And for the first time last night, Caleb, I am proud of you for eating two pieces of pizza without an ounce of whining or a drop of tears. 


You really are growing up.


Happy birthday little big man.

How you know when you are officially old.

I am old.


I have crossed the great divide.


I may try to pretend otherwise, but there is no going back.

I can't shop in the juniors section anymore.  I can't rock blue eye shadow (but then again, I never really could). I am no longer a novelty at work ("Really, you are only 26?!")  Short shorts are downright offensive on me.  And when I try to use words that were once well, at the risk of using an up-hip word, hip, now I worry might be sounding antiquated or quaint.


But the real, deep, true, great realization started a week or so ago when Caleb asked me why we don't listen to KDWB.*

I tried to launch into a rational, "I am a cool mom," explanation.  Until I realized it was nothing resembling an explanation.  And definitely not cool.  More just a monologue about things that made no sense, and inappropriate lyrics, and DJs who don't censor themselves enough for me to listen with my 2-year-old in the car, and too many ads with way too much innuendo, and it being too loud, and then, right there, let's just face it, that is where we got to the fact that I am old.

And then I sighed and ended the conversation by turning on a Kanye West song, trying to feel better about myself.  Or younger.  Or something.  I mean I am a girl driving a minivan with three kids inside it listening to Kanye West.  I can't be old, can I?

That said, I did turn it off halfway through (because, after all, I had to before he started swearing). 

That night I actually washed my face for once before going to bed and, then, added just a little bit of extra moisturizer around the eyes.  Because I could have sworn new crow's feet had shown up.

Then a week later, I settled in to catch the season premier of "GLEE."  "Settled in" should be the first clue.  Did I just type those words?  And yes, that means I pulled up a blanket and turned on the TV.  Does it help if I wasn't drinking coffee?  And even if I was, it wouldn't have been decaf?  Probably not.

As the show got going, Will Schuester told the kids they are going to sing the "song of the year" to get the school excited about Glee Club.

From there, they go on to sing this song that I. Have. Never. Heard. Before. In. My. Life.

Song of the year?  Where have I been?

Oh yeah, watching "Yo Gabba Gabba."

As the show went on, there were a total of five songs.  And of them, I knew two.

And one was from a musical from that debuted the year after I was born.  The year after I was born, people.

How did this happen?

How did I convince myself that being able to sing most Lady Gaga songs made me contemporary?  How did I make myself believe that everyone else was wondering, "Who the hell is that?" on the MTV Video Awards, too?  How is it that wishing to be a millionaire isn't even enough anymore?  Now it's a billionaire?!

That is it.  I need to go shopping at Forever 21 and buy some cheap shoes and update my iPod.  Or is an iPod passe, too?

I am a mess.

Because I am old.

And now I am off to buy some new eye cream, because clearly this one is not doing the trick.  It really is only skin deep.




*For those of you not from Minnesota, KDWD is a Top 40 radio station here in town.  I listened to it a lot growing up.  Like at the beach.  When it was cool to be tan.  Back in the days I could wear a 2-piece suit.  And by 2-piece suit, I don't mean a business one like the one I am sporting now.

Increasing on the job productvity

I was going to head out for lunch yesterday.  But as I glanced over at the security camera monitor to the view outside the door of the office, I saw this.

And it was moving.  Now it could have been a optical illusion.  I am guessing the spider wasn't really as big as the bike rack.  But it made me stop and reconsider all the same.

This might just be a new way to keep us all eating at our desks and working.

What do your Halloween costumes say about you?

I don't tend to be too neurotic or regimented about very many things when it comes to my kids.


Well, if you are talking helmets and seatbelts and "don't even think about jumping off there!" then sure.  Totally neurotic.  Like bubble-wrap-your-kids neurotic.  What can I say, I work at a children's hospital.

But for the most part I try to let them chose their way.  They pick their sports.  They generally pick out their clothes.  They are figuring out who they are.


But then there is Halloween.  I have to admit I am kind of neurotic about Halloween.

Meaning my kids end up dressed in themed costumes.

It all started when Caleb was a baby.  We were given the classic Pea in the Pod baby costume.  So Brian accessorized a bit to look like pea farmer (what does a pea farmer wear, really?  Evidently in our limitless creativity, a plaid shirt and a neckerchief around your neck.  I,  however, looked like a gondolier.  And no, that wasn't intentional.)

And wow, could we look any more like we were 17-years-old?

It was easy with one child.  Pick a costume and go with it.



We then had the Toy Story year featuring Buzz Lightyear and Mr. Potato Head with Brian dressed as Woody.

We had the Batman and Robin year (and I do believe that year I dresses as Mrs. Incredible, keeping with the superhero theme)



We had the Star Wars year featuring Anakin, Commander Cody and Yoda.



And then we had last year.  It didn't work for me.  Just kind of lost some of the cuteness.

And that had nothing to do with the fact that Eli threw a fit because Elmo was attacking his head and Caleb had the flu.

My issue was that I had a problem with the fact that I was sending out Elmo, Harry Potter and Brett Favre.

I think my hangup comes back to the fact that, let's face it, I am totally that girl who buys costumes off the rack.  I don't know how to sew.  And even if I did, I wouldn't have the time to.

And so I shop.


After the stress of having mismatched trick-or-treaters last year, I did seek the kids' permission to once again find a theme.


After searching and searching, looking for that theme that a two-year-old will embrace and his 7- and 9-year-old brothers will think is cool, I found it.

So we are set.  They boys will venture out as Mario and Luigi with their little brother Yoshi tagging along.

And now I can feel great about myself and my parenting skills.  My kids are in theme costumes.

And let's just not talk about the fact that I have a two-year-old dressed up as a video game character.

Big question is, do you think I could get Brian to wear this?

What are your costume plans for Halloween?



*This post contains affiliate links.  Those and really cute old pictures of my kids.

Sliding Doors

I used to be that girl that dissolved into tears over just about anything.  How many times did I watch "When Harry Met Sally" and still found myself sobbing at the end?


But then I got older, I got married, had kids and somehow my insta-tears seemed to fade a bit.  They probably had to.  This parenting this isn't for the faint-hearted, after all.


No longer could any sweet thing make me cry.  Now it was the real things.  The things that I somehow see my life in. Those sliding door moments when you saw something and thought, that could be me.  That could be us.


When I was pregnant with Eli, at about 32 weeks, my blood pressure suddenly spiked and despite trying a variety of things to bring it down, nothing worked and I found myself on strict bedrest.


I spent the next few weeks diligently laying on my left side, taking my blood pressure hourly and quietly stressing out (and telling myself that stressing out was the wrong thing to do) when the numbers remained far, far too high.


And then at 35 weeks, my doctor said enough was enough.  There was evidence that Eli had stopped developing several weeks earlier and my blood pressure was dangerously high.  I was induced.  And a few hours later we were looking at our four pound baby in the NICU.


It wasn't long after that, that I, like many in Minnesota first learned the story of Matt, Liz and Maddy Logelin.  Matt's wife was also on bedrest and due shortly before I was.  He turned to a blog while she was on bedrest.  I didn't yet have a laptop, so I spent my days typing on my phone staying in touch, keeping people updated.  We both gave birth to preemies.  And from there on, our stories went in completely different directions.


I came home.  Liz did not.  Just 27 hours after giving birth to their daughter, Maddy, she died.


I have followed Matt's blog ever since then.  I finally met him in person for the first time at last weekend's Minnesota Blog Conference.  And on Friday, Brian and I joined some friends at the Celebration of Hope gala to raise funds for The Liz Logelin Foundation.


That night would have been Liz's 33rd birthday.

Yet here we were, in the same restaurant where they had their rehearsal dinner a few years before, on her birthday, raising funds for other parents who find themselves unexpectedly widowed.


And I cried.  As I have so many times in following their lives.


Because for no reason at all, I am here and she is not.

And that is horribly unfair.

Towards the end of the night, Matt took the stage to make a few comments and Maddy, who is now two and a half joined him.  She inhaled the microphone.  She repeated "Daddy" over and over and over.  She had the crowd in hysterics.

But also in tears.


Because once again, watching that little blonde-haired, blue-eyed two and a half year old I saw what could have been.  Or couldn't have been.


And I cried. 





Photo from Darcie Gust.

Tip: It's a bad idea to pick a new hair color when you are crabby

I spent Thursday in a funk.  Shocking, I know, after yesterday's post.  I was tired.  I never did have dinner on Wednesday (unless American cheese counts), yet somehow I had gained a pound, my pants didn't fit, blah blah blah blah.


I raced out in the morning complaining over my shoulder that the house was a disaster.  Because it was.  Beyond a disaster really. 


I got to the office, sat down and my phone rang.  It was Theresa who cleans our house.  She was in our house.  And the alarm was going off.


Because I had totally spaced out that she was coming.  The dishes were sitting out.  Every race car my kids own was on the living room floor.  Yesterday's clothes were still on the floor next to my bed.  I couldn't even be sure that my kids had flushed their toiled.  Mortified.  And worried that the cops were on their way as the alarm was tripped. (And Theresa, thank you, you are a saint.)

Funky funk funk funkity in a funk.

I should know better than to make big decisions when I am in a funk.  I get impetuous and impulsive and stupid.

So I decided then and there that it was fall and I needed to change something.

Can't drop 20 pounds by tonight.  Can't get the house cleaned up while I am work. Can't figure out why my DVR didn't tape "Survivor."  Can't undo the fact the fact that the police were nearly called to my messy house today.

But I can stop at Walgreens and $6 later, walk out with a box of Cherry Chocolate hair color and a bottle of neon purple nail polish.  I am a rebel, I didn't even have any coupons.

And now I have very dark hair.  For the first time, well, ever.

My kids told me I looked like Elvis.  The first thing Eli said when he saw me this morning was, "Color!?"  Brian doesn't seem to recognize me.  Heck, I walk by a mirror and I don't recognize myself.

Thank goodness I am in a better mood today.  Or who knows what I might do.

What family time looks like when you are a working mom

I am living the dream, you all.  Really I am.  Remind me of that, ok?

At the end of each day, I race out of work to get the kids.  The boys groan when I enter the room because they are having fun.  And then Eli throws a tantrum on the floor because he wants to hear a book from his teacher again.

I bend down to get him and Caleb tells Eli he should "stand up because Mom is in a skirt and if she has to bend over to get you we might see nasty stuff we don't want to see.'"

We laugh.  And I note to myself I have officially achieved the level of "nasty stuff."  That or I need better underwear. (But I have addressed that already.)

It is a well-practiced routine.  We extricate ourselves and get in the car and talk about the days.  Or try to.  The might prefer to sing Lady Gaga.  As we roll down the street I turn down the music and remind them of the routine.

So we're going to come in the house, right?  And get a healthy snack, right?  And then?

Silence. 

Awesome.

I continue.  And then, we are going to open up our backpacks and get going on reading and homework and pack our snack for tomorrow and I will start dinner.

I know full well this isn't really going to happen.  Their days have been as long as mine.  Longer, really.  But I didn't get recess. 

Eli dumps out a bucket of cars. Noah announces he has no homework.  And Caleb groans that he has the most homework ever.

I offer to make a homemade dinner (a rarity these days) knowing Brian won't be home until 9:30.

They veto me.  Leftovers it is.  Another random, cobbled together Molly meal.

And now on to identifying nouns and entertaining a 2-year-old who just wants to play and a 7-year-old who is fiercely independent but really, at his core, wants some attention.

Oh yeah, and a boy with a mountain of homework.

Where did the time go?  Okay, and so we break for dinner. 

But not for long. Oh, and you all need baths?

But the homework is not done?  And now there are buckets of doctor play kits and army guys and cars dumped all over the living room?

I realize I haven't sat down yet.

And Caleb is getting frustrated.

And Eli has a dirty diaper.

And what is the definition of a proper noun, really?  

And now we are all melting down. Noah is crying. Eli is revolting. Caleb is worried.  He hasn't finished and still has 20 minutes of assigned reading to do.

And I am still in my work clothes.  I haven't eaten.  And I haven't sat down.

And then suddenly it's over.  Everyone is done.  No one has had a bath.  And it's the end of the night.  

And no one will get a bath.

We will, frankly, be lucky to brush teeth.

Time to call it done because we have to get up and do it all again in 10 hours.

I love them.  And they love me.

But sometimes it's hard to remind ourselves what this definition is of "having it all."

Because nights like this?  You find it's 11:04 and you still haven't had dinner.  Franky, you feel like you haven't done anything.

Wordless Wednesday - Five Dollar Foot Long?

Noah was sure he didn't want a regular hot dog.  He wanted a foot-long hot dog.

And then he saw what a foot long hot dog really looked like.


Yes, the boy ate a hot dog that was longer than his body was wide.

Have a Wordess Wednesday?  Link up!

Curse you Keith Morrison

Last night at dinner we were having the boys recap their school days.  Caleb was recounting his time in science class and that he and his friend had been complimented by the teacher for being good at sitting together, yet keeping quiet.


He went on to talk about how there are two girls in his class (who both have ridiculously cute names, ahh, to have girls) who are too chatty and are having to be separated by the teacher.


Seemed like the prime moment to do some good-natured mom teasing.

"So which one of them is the cutest?"

"Mooo-oooommmmm, none."

"What?  You like a nun?  Caleb I don't know if that is right.  Nuns can't really date."

"No Mom.  None.  Like nothing.  Air."

"Well if you can find a girl who is a nun but also an heir, then go for it."

Meanwhile, Noah, had been in the kitchen the entire time making this third insanely large sloppy jo.

"What is an heir?" Caleb asked.

Brian jumped in, joking:

"It means she has a lot of money, so you can look past the nun thing.  If you can date an heir, then go for it.  Deal with the nun part later."

Caleb asked:

"Then what?"

From across the kitchen, Noah piped up in his cute, little boy voice for the first time.

"Then you jack her money while she is sleeping and run!"

What the hell?  Are they running promos for "Dateline" on Cartoon Network?  Keith Morrison, did you get ahold of my child?  Where in the world did he come up with that? 

We all fell apart in hysterics.  Even Eli who I am pretty sure had heard the phrase "jack her money and run" for the first time in his life.

So just in case you ever find yourself in a situation where you are dating a nun and find out that she is an heiress.  You know what to do.

And you can thank Noah.

That which we can control

I have a confession to make.


I love to do laundry.


Now before anyone gets all upset at me for setting women back decades, cause let's face it, I don't have that kind of pull anyway, let me explain.


I love to do laundry because I think it, perhaps in my own mind, helps make up for some of my other areas of ineptitude.


As I have mentioned before, my dad often jokes in that bad-pun-despite-being-a-really-really-good-writer-way, that my mother has a love affair with Ken Moore.

Didn't know where to find mom?  Look in the laundry room.  She and Ken Moore (Kenmore) might just be hanging out.

In fact, inspired by my mother, we have, what we call around here "Susie Laundry."  That means you might have worn a shirt all day and, just maybe (but really quite likely) by the time you got up the next morning, it might just be clean on the top of your drawer.  Cause you know, someone might have taken it right off the top of the hamper pile and washed and dried and folded it while you slept.


And I learned from the best.  My mother is a master of many things.  But today I am focusing on the fact that she is and was a master of laundry.


And it rubbed off.


Laundry is always there.  It never ends.  But I can control it.  I can do it.  In a life filled with too much stuff, too much to do, too many things to navigate, laundry is a constant.


I know it will be there.  I know I can tackle it.  And I know I can win.  At least tonight.

Because with so many other things in my life, I can't really control them.  I can't control how many people walk into Brian's clinic on a given day.  I can't control whether or not I can successfully place a story at work.  I can't control my kids or their behavior or really anything about them.  I can't control if and when they get sick.  I can't control toilet training.  Or other people.  Or whether people like my dinner.  Or anything, really.

And for a girl who would really love a fair amount of control in life, that's a hard pill to swallow.


But I can control the laundry.  It comes in.  I do it.  I fold it.  I put it away.  And, somehow, in doing so, I feel like I am doing my job.  I am keeping us moving in the right direction.

Laundry, each night, is a winnable battle.

And it makes me smile.  And not just because the washer and dryer make these sounds when I use them.

I mean seriously.  It's like a little hug from your machine telling you that you are doing a good job.

I can smile at a clean pile of towels.  Because if everything else in the day was a debacle, I still prevailed over something.

I can feel like there is harmony when my reds are all air drying in a line.  All is right.


I can smirk when I pull out the lint filter and find googly eyes staring back at me.



I may not get kids signed up for sports in time.  Or even in the "right" league.  But they are wearing clean underwear, I tell you.


And then this summer my old washer died.  Smack dab in the middle of the summer when those nasty bugs (known as lice) were infesting my children's heads.  We went three weeks before we got a new Kenmore.

The first night we had it, Brian and I stood in the basement, turned off the lights and watched the laundry spin and the lights glow.  (Yes, we are cheap dates.)

Once again, all was okay in our little world.

So no, there isn't a lot I can control.  But laundry.  Laundry I can.

 Well, except mustard stains.  I am still a complete failure there.



P.S. Yes, I bought my washer and dryer with my own money, or our own money, if Brian is reading this.  And while I was fortunate enough to be a guest of Sears and Kenmore this summer to learn about their products, I had already bought my new love affair, sanity saver set and actually started this post long before that visit.  And no, no one asked me to write this. I really am that neurotic. But this post does contain affiliate links.