Eat your heart out Mr. Rogers...

I cherish days at home with my kids. I count my blessing everyday that I am able to stay home, that I WANT to stay home and that my husband supports that decision as well. But we all know that some days as a mom (regardless of your SAHM,WAHM, WFHM status) are challenging in their own way.

Last week we wrote about embracing your inner child. I hope some of you heeded that call with reckless abandon (you might be in traction today or under psychiatric evaluation as a result) but you did it. I went sledding with my kids. Under the urging of my 5th grader, I tried snowboarding. We had a snowball fight. I rolled around on the floor. I was a "bull" and they were the cowboys. We went rollerblading. We played board games. We did puzzles. This kind of activity is not new at our house. I do play with my kids....a lot. But I realized early on in my mothering that I am more of a "let's go out in the yard and throw the ball around" kind of mom. Even growing up I was never a girly-girl. I had Barbies, but I usually...ummmm..."restyled" their hair with scissors and Crayola markers. I also tried to see how long Barbie would stay in tact when tied behind my brother's big wheel for a trip down "Dead Man's Hill" (aka - the alley behind our house). So, plainly stated, playing "girly" things is downright painful for me. This past weekend, it was whatever the kids wanted to do, and we did it. But I will admit, that the boys took the lead...and the preschool girl gladly followed along. We all had a great time....and then I put the preschool princess to bed that night and she said "Can we play what I want tomorrow?" and I lovingly (and with a bit of guilt) said "Of course honey, whatever you want." If only someone could have told me what I was in for.....

Monday morning comes, and all is normal. The preschooler and I drop the boys off at school, stop at the store, run to the post office and come home to unload the morning's errands. I had forgotten about her bedtime request. Not that I don't play with her, I most definitely do. We go to the park, we have tea parties, play "school", we color, do puzzles, play-doh, etc. But it was about to become abundantly clear that today was on her terms. "Mom, you are the teacher and I am the kid." Easy enough....and pretty standard....for a little while. Again, she was in charge. I was the puppet and she was the master. Right down to her winter coat and backpack, she was all set to enter "school" for the day. "HELLO CLASS!!" I greeted her cheerfully. "No mommy, you are working and we come in quietly and sit on the rug". Ok, so I abide. I ignore her, as requested. Then I walk over to the rug and sit. "Teachers don't sit on the rug. They sit in a chair." Ok, so I get a kitchen chair and chirp "Good morning Kindergartners!" The blonde in the front pipes up "We are in first grade." Tough crowd. "OH...thank you Lanie, I almost forgot!" "My name is Averie." Well crap. "Well thank you Averie, please go an get out your coloring pages and we will begin."
"You are supposed to give us partners" she says
"Ok, Bridget, you can be Lanie's (evil look from blonde) I mean Averie's partner."
"There is no one named Bridget in here."
WTF?? There are 15 pretend kids here and I am pretty sure I will get all of their names wrong today. This is the drill...all morning long. But I am a trooper, and I play along. But I did try to kindly interject and say that mommy is having a hard time knowing the rules when you make them up as we go. "But that's how it goes." she innocently states. And so it goes through pretend lunch and recess (where we did actually go outside and I was reminded that teachers don't check the mailbox or bring in the paper at school). I tried to get her to buy into naptime, but that was coldly rejected. Because without skipping a beat, we were now playing "house". I played several roles; sister, mailman, grandma (not a favorite given my self-consciousness about growing older), aunt, and even dad. I did draw the line at "dog". I do have some self-respect left. My favorite was when I was "friend" and she was coming over to drop off her kids and chat. She was donning my favorite heels, my purse, my gloves and coat. She "rang" the doorbell, to which I responded "Come on in" and I was met with a head poking around the corner of the dining room "You can't say that, because the dog is barking and I cannot hear you...you have to answer the door." By the way, let me state that we do not have a dog, but apparently my fictitious dog was not pleased that someone rang the fake doorbell. Anyway, I answered the door this time "HI! How are you? I am so glad you stopped by!"
"Mom, you have to ask me if I got new shoes."
Ok...this is going well already. "Well, HI. I am so glad that you stopped by. You look fabulous! Did you get new shoes??"
"No, these are old. Can you watch my kids for me? I need to go shopping."
Is she serious? So it is like a repeat of school. She is the director of this two-man production and I am the understudy that seems to be failing miserably. But that is ok, because before I can blink, she is packing all of the tupperware into a grocery bag because we are going "camping". I look at the clock. It is only 2pm. Again, I LOVE playing with my kids, but this is way overly high-maintenance for me. But camping means fort-building and fort-building means NAP POTENTIAL. But after we construct the fort and get cozied-up, we can't "sleep" in there because there are bats and bears outside. "Well, then we should stay inside" I smartly reply. "No, we need to get in the car right away and drive to a hotel." Hmm...I can do that. Except by car she meant couch, and by hotel she meant my room. I was cool with being in my room, but hotels are the only place my kids get to jump on the bed, so....yes, instead of pretending to get 12 seconds of sleep at the "hotel" she wanted to jump on the bed. I was exhausted from my pretend life already. Afterall, I had been to school, camping, entertained at home, watched her pretend kids, and had been approximately 8 different personalities all before lunchtime. "Should we go to Target and pick out that present for your party this week?"
"Nope, I am having fun playing with you." OH OUCH - I was stabbed in the gut with the guilt that I wanted to divert her attention if even for 30 minutes. "You're right," I said "So what do you want to do now? A puzzle, go for a walk, color?" "How about we play 'bartender'? Mommy will teach you how to use the blender" The usual suspects were not enticing her. Food! She is my kid. She can always be bribed with food. "Do you want some ice cream for a snack!?" She bought it, hook, line and sinker. "YES! And we can pretend that you are driving the ice cream truck and I am buying it from you!!" Ok, so the child development experts state that a vibrant, vivid fantasy world is a sign of intelligence. Then my kid is going to be friggin' brilliant. So we play "ice cream truck", which I of course got several of my lines wrong. But that is ok, because them we moved on to "work" and then "dentist" and the "hairdresser" where I was the subordinate in all of those...probably because I was failing miserably at the other roles I had been previously assigned. I was saved by the bus when the boys came home from school, and all pretend activity ceased in favor of playing with the boys. I made it through an entire day of make-believe. Mr. Roger's ain't got nothing on me! I was tired, but fulfilled. But don't breathe a sigh of relaxation just yet....because there it was. As I was standing there in the kitchen making dinner, the unmistakable sound of too-big high heels, jiggling car keys...and then the knock on the "door". I snap to attention. Do I dare answer the call?? The knocking is relentless. She found me. "Come in?!?!" I sheepishly almost whisper. And then the blonde head pops around the corner...lipstick brighter than the setting sun....
"HIeeeeee! How are you?" in her best Valley girl impersonation. And we are playing house....again. I hope I get it right this time. But if I don't, that's how it goes. Or so I have been told.

P.S. - This was a very tongue-in-cheek representation of my day. I will state it again, that I love playing with my kids. And I am already getting teary-eyed about the fact that someday I will look back on our time together and wish it were all back...the coloring, the "camping", etc. Because right now I am her best friend. The day I am replaced is unfortunately just around the corner...and I dread that even more than pretending I am her dog

Does YOUR ass hang low?

I will admit, I occasionally check things out in the mirror before I get into the shower (if I'm lucky to GET a shower but that's a separate issue...) Upon inspection one day, I noticed my facial expression as I pinched, pushed, pulled, and tugged...I look confused, defeated, depressed, and pissed all at the same time. What the hell happened to me? Is that seriously MY ass? No...when did we get Boticelli art in the bathroom??? Now, I don't look TERRIBLE by any stretch of the imagination, that much I do know. But I certainly won't be asked to be in any calendar spreads or wet tshirt contests anytime soon (not that I ever was in the past mom!!!! Just making a point...) And if my college cheerleading coach could see me now, he'd weep. He'd rage, cry, curse the heavens, and likely run away screaming. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED??????

Motherhood. That's what happened to me. My lovely little parasites have done this. I was their host, and they have destroyed me (ok, destroyed might be a bit too strong but it sounded more poetic, don't you agree?) They've given me scars in places people don't talk about at parties (at least no parties I attend). They've caused my ass to start slowly running down the backs of my legs. Their wriggling little bodies stretched my skin so grotesquely, one may wonder if it is in fact a map of the Chicago interstate system on my hips and thighs. And don't even ask about my breasts....I can't even call them that anymore. They don't deserve to be called breasts. I lovingly refer to them as either: my "rocks in socks" or my "naval ornaments" or I often joke that I can tuck them into the waistband of my low-rise jeans...super sexy alongside my muffin top. Let's just say that if I needed to itch my nipple, I now need to lift the hemline of my skirt for easier access. Seriously, what the hell happened????? Ok, I am not blaming this whole thing on my angels (it sure does make me feel better though) Afterall, THEIR existence was MY choice. But getting older was NOT. I am going to fight that bitch Mother Nature every step of the way. Whore. How come men get more handsome with age, and we women get....old? I can't tell you how many times in my 20's I heard that EVERYTHING changes once you hit 30. I laughed when I hit 30 and I could still feel my ass where it was intended to be. I didn't have to roll up my boobs so that they could fit in my bra. I didn't shy away from sleeveless shirts because my arms looked toned. But then it slowly happened. The great "Ass Pangea" went into affect...it started separating from where it began and sliding south. The boobs?...you know. And now my arms keep waving even though I have stopped. I think about Girl Scout Cookies and gain 8 pounds. I used to be able to eat anything I wanted anytime I wanted. Food, gravity and time are my enemies now...and having housed 3 beings for a grand total of 861 days of my life.

Of course after my thorough inspection of every little stretch mark and dimple, I began to wonder if there is any mother out there who is truly happy with her body? It goes without saying that I love my kids but I DON'T love what those little leeches have done to me (yes, I'm that shallow). I don't buy into the "these are my mothering battle scars" or "I am woman, hear me roar" bullshit. Good for you, She-Ra; I don't know about you but I want my boobs back in their firm and upright position and my ass to climb it's flabby way back UP my thighs thank you very much. If you ARE one of those moms who is happy with how you look, PLEASE share your secrets. BUT if you're one of those evil, awful bitches who just happens to walk out of the hospital in your size 4's a mere 72 hours after giving birth, bite me. Kiss my flabby ass and bite me. (but do continue reading our blog, we're oh-so-appreciative of your patronage).

But seriously, will there come a day when I'm 100% happy with what becoming a mom as done to me? Will I ever accept the fact that once you've breastfed 3 children, nipples just "go that way"???? No one told me that they would become the size of dinner plates. I'm wishing for the day when I can stop picking my "naval ornaments" up off of the floor before putting my bra on. Someday I will stop pretending I think the moms who use "lotions" for stretch marks are wasting their time and money, because I secretly want that magic elixir too. Yes, I realize I'm whining. I KNOW it could always be worse. But doesn't every mom, or every WOMAN for that matter, have at least one little thing she'd like to change or fix or have back to it's original shape, elasticity, color, and form????? Maybe I am feeling this way because those marketing bastards at Target littered their ad this week with swimsuits. I bet that was the stellar idea of a "20-something" who has never had children with 6 pack abs and boobs that don't hit her knees when she takes her bra off. I'm tempted to boycott Target as a result...In the meantime I will continue to attempt to fight the effects of time and motherhood. If that doesn't work, does anyone know where I can get a head-to-toe body slimming garment?

Be a kid again...

I just returned from my 1st grader's spring concert. I LIVE for those events. The kids are just so sweet and candid. You can always pick out a few who would rather not be there....the ones that are not doing the hand-movements, not even mouthing the words, and usually have a finger in some orifice. Then there are the ones stricken with stage fright and appear as if to be frozen right where they stand and their only comfort is scanning the crowd for a familiar face...if they are even able to muster up the brain-power to do that. My favorites though are the ones that sing (or yell) the words with wild abandon. Their arm motions are exaggerated out of sheer excitement. They could not tone down their performance if they tried. Their body and voice are operating independently from their brain when on stage. They have completely written off the music teacher that is standing at her piano mouthing the words as she coaches the young performers. These kids don't need coaching. They think they are awesome "as is". I want to freeze them all in this stage...and it got me to thinking; when did WE lose sight of our own wild abandon? So this weekend, I am going to try being a kid for a day:

Honesty - no more "Yes, that looks good on you." Not today. A kid would say "Those jeans make your butt look big. I don't like your hair in a pony tail...oh, and you have stinky breath too."

Volume - I will have two volumes - OFF and SHOUTING. I will choose only to use the SHOUTING one when in public places that require the OFF volume...especially when using my new-found honesty.

Speed - I will run everywhere. I might even decide to skip if the spirit moves me...unless of course I am supposed to be in a hurry, then I will drag myself along the ground and may even flop and lie face down on the floor like wet noodle.

Hygiene - My shirt will be a perfect surface to wipe my hands and face or anything that I might come into contact with. I do not discriminate against mucus. The sleeve is a perfect spot for this. If my shirt is full, pants or any furniture will do. (I must interject here that I draw the line at re-ingesting any mucus bi-products)

Verbiage - I will either whine or sing all thoughts, feelings, requests and emotions for the day. All of the aforementioned will be done using the SHOUTING volume.

Preferences - I am allowed to change my mind upon my own free-will at any given time without any warning. If I say I want my PB&J cut into triangles with the crust cut off, don't be alarmed when I look disgusted and ask "Where is my macaroni?". It is what I do. I will also request the pink plate and snowman glass at every meal. I don't care if they are dirty, at grandma's, etc. And I know that food tastes the same off of other plates, but I want the pink one. Make it happen.

Chores - what? Are you kidding me? Only if there is a pint of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream at the end of that tunnel. (this is where the dragging myself along the floor as if completely incapacitated will come in handy)

Playtime - This is my new job for the day. I will color, watch movies, do dozens of craft projects (with feathers,glue and glitter). I may even sample a bit of Play-doh. I will also read 32 books. I can dig it

Bedtime - Ok, yes. 8pm works just fine for me. How 'bout naps? Feel free to throw one of those in too. Oh, and I want "in" on that whole TIME OUT thing too.

Ahhh...to be a kid again. We spend a good part of our childhood wishing we were big. Then spend most of our adulthood wanting back the innocence and simplicity of childhood. So I challenge you this weekend - be a kid, and have fun doing it. They don't care what people think. They do everything for themselves. When did we become so aware of ourselves that we started to care what other people think? I am going to truly try to live by one of my favorite quotes by Mark Twain "Sing like no one is listening, Dance like no one is watching, Love like you'll never be hurt. Live like it's Heaven on Earth" - if even for a day.

Toddler torture: Gitmo's got NOTHIN' on Target...

Her round little face was turning purple, beads of sweat were appearing on her forehead, her cute little hair clippie was askew and fine little strands of hair were going every which way, her tiny little limbs were twisting and turning frantically, and veins were bulging with the effort she was exerting...not to mention the shrieking. Oh, the shrieking. It was painful, ear-piercing, glass shattering, and damn was it embarassing.

Odds are by now you've got a pretty decent picture in your head of my lovely little darling's tantrum. But this is not just any tantrum. This one is acted out with great regularity. Not because I've taken something away from her, or have told her no. It is not because she is overly tired. It is because she is confined. Strapped in, held down, unable to escape, and plain ol' stuck. Nope, she's not in her crib. Not being forcibly bent in half by a knee to the gut to be put into her carseat. I'm not using every arm muscle known to man to prevent her from wiggling out of my grasp in the middle of a parking lot. She's not on a leash (although, believe me, I've considered it) No, she is being held prisoner in what SHE considers the worst form of torture known to toddlers everywhere: the shopping cart. As far as she is concerned, they should have shopping carts at Gitmo, because nothing is worse than being strapped into one. Not when she thinks she should be given the freedom to wander the aisles of Target at will.

It has gotten to the point where she will start whimpering as soon as we pull into the parking lot, the full blown whining kicks in as I park the car. We start walking towards the carts and she will do everything in her power to climb out of my arms and escape. Occasionally I will get lucky and she will let me initially put her in; we manage to make it past the front doors but then all hell breaks loose. It's like she all of a sudden she snaps out of it, realizes where she is, and she freaks. Completely flips her shit. Then you've got the limb twisting, vein popping, and screaming. And you better believe I've tried everything to keep her in there, let's just say that it IS possible to cut off circulation to your child's lower extremities with the buckles on a shopping cart (and a strong forearm to the upper thighs). Bribery can occasionally buy me a few minutes. Yep, I'm that mom that opens boxes of fruit snacks or granola bars in the store. A bag of Goldfish doesn't stand a chance if it will get me down the aisles. M&M's at 9:30 in the morning? Hell yeah! Not a whole lot is off limits...I've learned that my toddler does in fact enjoy Diet Coke...dammit. I'm that mom that you see chucking marshmallows at her kid every 12 seconds in the hopes that I can at least make it long enough to get 5 out of the 25 items on my list. Letting her look at toys is a no-go because she gets pissed that I won't take Kiss my Ass Elmo out of the box and I'll be damned if I'm going to spend $20 to bribe her to sit still long enough for me to get a gallon of milk and a pack of diapers. So we do our best to avoid that section of any store otherwise you will see me strolling the aisles with a fidgety toddler being suffocated by the 15 baby dolls, 7 books, and 32 Elmo toys I've thrown at her in my attempts to distract her long enough to keep her in the cart. The longest I've lasted is about 30 minutes before she manages to Houdini herself out of the straps. By that point I've already been ignoring dirty looks from other shoppers for about 29 minutes (due in part to the shrieking) so it doesn't phase me when I'm getting the stink eye from people who are clearly more concerned than I am about my daughter standing in the seat of a shopping cart with one hand on the nearest shelf and a foot on the handle of the cart in her last-ditch effort to get the hell out of dodge. I have been known to give in and dump her in the basket portion of a cart. She should have figured out by now that one should SIT; going over a bump or any kind of jerking motion can result in a tumble and a can of shaving cream up the keester. But she really hasn't learned yet and therefore I have had to swap out squished loaves of bread that she has sat on. BUT she is still in the cart, so mom wins....kind of...because chances are she's standing there screaming and crying, purple face, snot everywhere, tears dripping all over...whatever. It's a phase, one that my other two went through (that I apparently blocked out; understandable since it's a less-than-pleasant experience). She'll get over it eventually, but I will NOT give in and let her wander around freely. I will not carry my 20-some pound toddler through a store while trying to push a cart (and I usually end up with the carts with the jacked up wheels making pushing even more difficult). Even if I have to weigh her down in the cart and start using bungee cords, she WILL stay in there.

Like all of the other unpleasantries of parenthood, "this too shall pass". In the meantime I will continue my forays into any store that requires usage of a cart, my toddler will have her meltdowns, disrupt other shoppers with the purple-faced-hair-sticking-up-vein-popping-limb-twisting tantrums, but we'll all get over it. And some of my trips may end in me wanting to push the cart headlong into a rack of jeans and leaving her there or swapping carts with some poor, unsuspecting shopper leaving them with my spawn, and some end semi-successfully with me checking out (looking about as miserable as my toddler) handing the cashier opened, half-empty boxes of fruit snacks and bashfully asking her to put back the laxatives and jock-itch cream that "somehow" ended up in my cart. Either way, I was victorious as my spawn never made it out of the cart, but it wasn't without a lot of hard work and bribery. So the next time you see a harried, flustered, frustrated mom plying her upset toddler with M&M's and tootsie pops, chances are she's not spoiling her child but desperately trying to make it long enough to get the toilet paper that she needs.

I am winning the battle...but perhaps losing the war‏

Do you recall our post from early last week? We "quit" our jobs as mothers. We subsequently wrote letters to our husbands detailing our love for their "quirky yet cute" child-like ways that they have complete and utter disregard for socials norms. As a result of our posts, my sister and I decided to borrow and page out of my parents' play book and call a "Family Meeting". Oh GOD I remember the gut-wrenching nerves that took over when we were called to these as children and teenagers while growing up. Whether I was guilty of something or not, I always internalized the angst. I knew that the message was indirectly intended for me, and therefore I would turn my questionable behavior on its rear and kick my cooperation into high gear. I was hoping our current version of the Family Meeting would have the same effect on my family and I could sit back and coast along through my wonderfully clean, organized and happy home. I was on crack. Well, sort of.

I have noticed less whining and eye rolling when I ask the kids to put away their laundry.

My dear, sweet husband does not walk PAST the closet to hang his coat on the back of a chair (I think he has actually stopped wearing a coat out of defiance...but I still chalk that up as a "win" for me). And hey, at least the kids FOUND the closet.

The kids put dirty dishes INTO the appliance meant for washing them instead of on the counter above this appliance.

They have even unloaded it.

Soiled clothes make it TO the laundry room and even within inches of the hamper.

They put hats and mittens into their appointed bins.

Coats no longer litter the floor in our mudroom.

Empty toilet paper rolls have actually been replaced with full ones (I am still not sure who is responsible for this, as no one will admit to it...I have my money on either the 5 year old or the 39 year old).

Beds get made. (no, there is not a child in there...at least I don't think there is...)

You can see the floors of their bedrooms...but who REALLY wants to see baseboards, right?


Anyway, I have noticed a bit more helpfulness, but I wish I could stress "bit" in a font that is worthy of dripping sarcasm. I have realized that I need to be VERY DELIBERATE AND PAINFULLY DETAILED in my requests and corresponding instructions. I must remember afterall that they are still children, even the 39 year old. They are still in training. I wouldn't buy a horse, tell him he is a champion and expect a Triple Crown year right out of the gates, right?? So I guess you could say we're celebratinghelp me celebrate our small...victories??? Dare I even say.....chalk one up for the moms??

At what point do you say, "good 'nuff" and walk away? Life is all about choosing your battles and winning the war. I am still not sure if I am ready to wave my white flag.

Sick days? We don't get no stinkin' sick days...

It was Sunday night when I started to feel it: the tightness in my throat, pounding in my head, crushing pressure on my chest, the sensation of a 50 pound weight crushing my sinuses, it hurt to breathe, I couldn't sleep...yep, I was getting a cold. But the majority of the symptoms were not as a result of a pesky virus. Oh no, this was something much, much worse. What I was suffering from was anxiety. I was making myself even more sick by worrying and stressing about this cold...

We all know that being a mom is tough work. It is even tougher when you're trying to tackle your daily mom/wife/housekeeper duties while battling an illness at the same time. You bend over to pick up 50 bajillion legos and you have to hold your eyes in their sockets as you stand back up ever so slowly so as to avoid them busting out of your skull. You would like to eat that homemade meal lovingly prepared for your family but your throat feels as if you've been gargling with a Brillo pad; you're pretty sure you didn't put chunks of broken glass into your casserole but it sure as hell feels like it. And it would be so nice to go outside and play tag with the kids, but you're afraid that your head will simply disconnect itself from your body and go rolling down the street. BUT as moms, we muddle through. We stop to throw up and then carry on about our day. We pause to wipe our own noses and then check the kids for good measure. We may have 40 tissues in our pockets and would love nothing more than a nap with a toddler, but there is homework to be done, laundry to be folded, and floors to clean (which actually isn't that bad when you figure out how to do it while LAYING on the floor...very efficient) We all know that moms don't get a day off. Check Facebook, I guarantee one of your mom friends has commented that although she feels like shit and would love nothing more than to go back to bed, she has to carry on. Moms are tough cookies, we have no other choice. So yes, I feel like crap and would love to spend the day laying on the couch, I'll be busy with my Lysol. Because like I said before, I'm stressed. I'm in a near state of panic over this cold. Why? Because I'm scared shitless that my husband is going to come down with it too.

I would rather spend the rest of my living days with a cold than have to deal with my husband having one for a few days. Sure I can't breathe and it hurts to move, but he's still healthy. I'd like to claw my own eyes out and would welcome clear sinuses for even a minute, but he hasn't shown any signs of illness yet. I will be thankful for that. I will deal with my symptoms and carry on about my day, thankful that he is still virus-free. Because although I don't feel well, there is honestly nothing worse than dealing with a sick husband. He acts as if the world is coming to a screeching halt because he's got a stuffy nose. He feels like shit and comes home and is instantly in bed, because he needs 15 hours of sleep when his throat is scratchy. Nothing else can be done because he is miserable. Kinda funny because if I were to completely blow everything else off because I had a cold, he would have something to say about it. But God forbid I criticize, because after all, he's dying. He may as well skip work and just drive himself to the crematorium, he may not make it one more day. I have tried to be more sympathetic when he's sick but the closest I've ever come to that is NOT smothering him with his pillow, NOT aiming the bottle of NyQuil at his head when I threw it at him...Oops. Did I say that? I meant TO him...when I threw it TO him. Then I fight the burning urge to NOT add Drano to the water he asked me to get for him, and NOT slamming the bedroom door on my way downstairs to help with homework, make dinner, unload the dishwasher,and play with the kids (trying desperately to keep them as quiet as possible because "daddy doesn't feel well") Bullshit. This is when I want to get out the drum set they got for Christmas and park them right outside the bedroom door. Because when I feel like there is a herd of elephants pounding on my skull, I still have to drive to hockey practice, listen to the 5th grader practice the evil recorder, play Barbies, pick up from hockey practice, stop at the store, read books, monitor bedtime and then fold just one more load of laundry...afterall, since I was not feeling well, I am one load behind schedule. Just ONCE it'd be nice for him to come home when I feel like ass and take over so I can go lay in bed. But then of course I'd be unable to relax thinking of all that needed to be done and feeling guilty because I'm not the one doing it. But THEN I wonder, does HE ever feel guilty for any of that? Does HE ever feel bad that I'm still having to change shitty diapers, wipe asses, make lunches, and pick up the house when I feel like shit? Not likely. So I'm going to carry on, because that's what moms do. I will carry on, do what needs to be done, and pray like hell that my husband doesn't get sick...gotta go find my Lysol...

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be bitches...

Disclaimer: We apologize in advance for not starting out your Monday with a gut-busting, tear-inducing post. Sometimes life calls for a little "in your face" dose of realism and your two bloggers here experienced just that but on two different intellectual and developmental levels. Let me state that my sister and I discuss topics daily, and today's topic had been on our minds and psyches for YEARS before we even developed a blog page. The events of the past week justified the topic to come full circle and into fruition.

Mama, Don't let your Babies Grow Up to be Bitches.....

Yes, that sounds harsh. But I remember it clearly. My sister (fellow blogger), husband and I were at my ultrasound with #3 (at this point you have realized that my family is tight-knit and there is not much that we don't do together). The doctor was moving the cold jelly and probe over my uncomfortably full bladder. My bladder was about to burst, as was I, but with excitement as we were about to find out if I was going to have a boy or a girl. My sister was pregnant with a boy, and three months further along than I was. She was hoping that I would have a girl and we could simply swap layettes. She already had a girl, and I had two boys. It was a win-win. I, of course, was most eager to count fingers, toes, heads,etc and hope that the seething blob of protoplasm on the screen promised to develop into something somewhat normal. And there they were...labia. AND I WAS.....CRYING. Not because I could finally dress a little person in pink and stick bows to where I hoped there would someday be hair, but because I thought "Shit....girls are TOUGH." I mean, I was not emotionally or physically high-maintenance (and my mom and husband will agree to the former statement). But because I remember...CLEARLY remember the hell, turmoil and utter emotional catastrophe that was adolescence. I was lying there draped in a paper sheet with the fresh news that I was going to give birth to my first darling baby girl and I could not let myself enjoy it because I already feared for her tween years. Is that right? No, but I still have dreams and flashbacks about the "mean girls" from my adolescence, and I did not want my baby girl to go through the same thing. And I was reminded that it starts earlier than middle school when I went to lunch with my kindergarten boy one day. I was at the table with him, some of his buddies and a mish-mash of girls. And I overheard one little girl say to two others "Let's not talk to Cassie today because she is not wearing pink" And I had to hold myself back from diving across the pint-sized tables and not holding this pig-tailed little princess in a head-lock. How dare she exclude Cassie? I didn't even know Cassie, but my "mother bear" instinct kicked in and no one was going to exclude Cassie...not on my watch. And they were 5!!! I didn't experience this level of evil until at least 6th grade (unless I cognitively blocked it out which is very possible...and if I sought therapy for all of this, probably very normal) Anyway, I simply said "Girls, that is not a nice way to treat a friend. You would feel bad if you were not included. And Cassie, I love your shirt. It makes your eyes really blue, like Cinderella's." And you could literally see Cassie swell with pride...as I was fuming on the inside secretly wanting to hide out in the bushes on recess and throw random playground balls "sniper-like" at those other girls in Cassie's defense. This was just a small snippet of what middle-school was like for me. My self-appointed therapy group with current girlfriends and sisters turns up very similar stories. Unfortunately, I have realized that it starts early, and with some females, it never quite goes away. I still feel that people are "talking about me" if I have walked into a room. Or when a stranger looks at me for a more than normal period of time, they are obviously hating and judging. Thank you adolescent peers! I am in my thirties and STILL self-conscious. I had hoped it would go away, but my sisters continue to prove that even into adulthood, it is a battle ground out there for women. And our biggest threat is other women. So here is my point....LEAD BY EXAMPLE!

I know that some of it is innate....survival instinct. Desire to be on top. And how do we do that?...bring others down. That does not sound like a very fair war tactic, but it sure is a functional one. Sally does not feel good about herself, so she tells Emma that she cannot come to her birthday party, play with her at recess or that Emma's hair is too brown. Yes, it all sounds crazy, but these little statements, true or not, make Emma feel bad and therefore give Sally power, which make her feel good. Yikes. But there is some Nature vs. Nurture as well. Our kids are so in tune to what we say and do, even though most of the time they look like they are in a Sponge Bob-induced coma. I grew up like poor Emma. So I swore that I would always be nice, accepting and non-judgmental of other people. And I feel that I am...most of the time. But I have even caught myself being "that evil girl" when I say simple, "innocent" snide remarks when reading People Magazine....like "Oooh, look at that dress. That looks really bad on her." Or when driving... "Some people just can't drive. They are so stupid!" Or just simply going to WalMart....there are so many opportunities for judgment and fashion-bashing. But my point is that none of the above comments "hurt" the person, but they don't fall on deaf ears either. As a result, I have really learned to watch what I say around my kids. The comments may seem innocent enough, but it only took once for my 5 year old to say "mommy, look at that lady's hair. I can't believe she left the house like that!" To which my husband and I chuckled, and then reality kicked in. My pre-schooler is a judger. Did I do that to her? Holy hell I hope not.

Then there is the female's unbelievable knack of talking behind one's back and forming cliques. I was always on the outer edge of any clique or group. And I swore in my adulthood that I would be an "includer"....which is why at my 11 year old's recent birthday party I had half of his grade sleep over. I did not want anyone to be left out. You cannot repair hurt feelings very easily. But I have learned that it still happens as adults. My fellow blogger ran across it this weekend at...twice within a 24 period. Without going into detail, she found out that girls can still be jealous, back-stabbing, catty, and self-righteous...she even commented that she felt like she was back in high school. Last time I checked, we were in our 30's; apparently age is but a number when you're dealing with the female race. It doesn't matter if you're 13 or 33, if you have an opportunity to take someone down, you go for it. Oh sure, all meant in "good fun". Welcome to the wolf-pack. We eat the weak...but first we have to find your weakness, exploit it, and then we take you down. Aren't girls fun?

Again, sorry for the reality dose post, but it made me sit up and take notice this past weekend when OUR family was having dinner with another family. They have an 11 year old son and 8 year old twin girls. While in the bathroom with my 5 year old girl, she asked me "Mommy, how do I make them laugh?" I asked her what she meant. She sweetly said "I want to make them laugh so that they like me." I wanted to cry. And here we are. At the threshold of where my little angel wants to go above and beyond to please someone else so that she can fit in. I just told her "Honey, just be yourself and they will love you."..."How do I be myself mommy?" Oh, GOD. Why couldn't I have had all boys?? They just beat the crap out of each other and move on. "Sweetie, you don't do anything different. That is how you be yourself. And people will see that and like that about you." And then she hugged me and I silently prayed that God would spare her the pain, agony and torture of being a girl.