Let’s Make it Less Messy, More Beautiful. On Average, Brutiful- My Messy Beautiful

 I have a headache. I think because of this. This essay. This chance and opportunity is stressing me out. So naturally, headache. Of course it could also be because I haven’t slept through the night in almost eleven years. Or because every time the baby nurses he sounds like an angry badger, and I’m afraid he’s going to bite off my nipple. Or it could be because I worry my son will end up in prison, even though he’s just eight. And I’m worried about Jake Ballard and Olivia, but mostly Jake Ballard because, hot. So very hot.

But mostly I think it is this. This wonderful opportunity to showcase my shiz on a greater scale. And I’ve got a headache. Because I’m unhappy with what I have written. It feels…messy. It feels, while completely true and honest, forced. Simultaneously not what I typically write, but so often what I usually think.

 

So I have done my best. Languished for weeks and missed self-imposed submittal deadlines. But since now there is a headache involved, I need to Elsa the shit outta this essay and just Let. It. GO. So here it is. In honor of my sweet, beautiful, tween of a first born, I give you this…

 

Let’s Make it Less Messy, More Beautiful

On Average, Brutiful- My Messy Beautiful

 

Although it seems like a lifetime ago, I can vividly remember being a mother to one child. And holy mother of four children did I think it was the most difficult thing in the world; to parent a single kid. Sweet, sweet Mary was I wrong. I mean, yes, there were challenges with my first born. There was her tongue tie and my bleeding nipples (clearly my nipples are a hot-button issue for me). There was her complete and total inability to sleep unless being held, and my sheer exhaustion. There was her creaky bedroom floor, which woke her all the time. Every. Single. Time. There was my paranoia that I was doing it all wrong and her impatience with me to get it right. Those early years of being a mom to one, being a mom to her, were hard.

 

Thankfully, with each child I have birthed, I have learned that cartoons before school and fifty cents to stop talking and iPods and baby wipe baths and ravioli from a can, are not terrible child rearing strategies. They are necessary parenting tactics. Used for sheer survival. So as a mother, certainly I have changed. But I’m not sure if was for the better.

 

Regardless, in thinking about my Messy, Beautiful life; writing about being a mom and how it is so inexplicably brutiful, I am embarrassed to admit that it did not immediately occur to me to write the story of her. The story of us.

 

My gut instinct was to write about her younger brother…because holy hell that kid has issues. Then I thought I’d write about myself…because holy hell, I have issues. Kiddo, you were my third or fourth topic; lately and increasingly you are so often overlooked.  I realize that far too frequently I do not truly see you, even though that’s not how it always was. Certainly it is not how I ever imagined it would be.

 

Truthfully, in the beginning she was my everything. Four twenty six months she was my world. And now ten and a half years later, I feel as though I don’t really know her at all, that I have lost sight of her and our relationship. And I know she can feel this disconnect. I can see the hurt in her eyes, can feel her distance. We jokingly refer to her Dad as the dream killer, but really, what is worse is that I see her before me, and still I brush her aside; for there is always a younger child who needs me more immediately than her.

 

If she is excited to share a story, I quickly become distracted by the chaos that is almost always circling around us. If she begs to relay what is happening in her latest Greek Mythology book, my eyes glaze over almost instantly, because I’m lost in a flash or just simply tired. I swear she is smarter than me, and that makes both of us uneasy. I try to help her with her homework, but goddamn, fifth grade math is hard; we both always end up in tears. There are far too many days when I kiss her goodnight and wrack my brain, imploring myself to remember whether or not we interacted at all.

 

I drive her to and from activities all week long, and we have so many opportunities to talk. So many chances for us to learn more about each other, and yet she buries her head in her iPod or latest favorite book, or she gazes out the window lost in the music and her own magical thoughts. Instead of pressing her…beseeching her to talk to me and share her day, tell me what worries and scares her, and what brings her the most joy…I enjoy the silence. It feels as though our relationship is based on missed opportunities, and I blame myself.

 

I have stopped telling her that she is beautiful and smart and funny. Not because she is no longer those things, but because I have become so wrapped up in telling her to get her socks, or brush her teeth or be kind to her brother, or close-the-mother-flipping-door-because-we-do-not-live-in-a-barn! I have stopped cheering her on from the sidelines, not because I am no longer proud of her accomplishments, but because my throat hurts from yelling at and seizing teachable moments with and redirecting her younger siblings. All. The. Time. I have stopped hugging her and pulling her into my lap, not because I do not want to feel her close, but because my lap is so often full with her younger and much whinier sister, or her constantly-at-the-boob baby brother and because I am so often simply touched out.

 

So much of my time is spent trying to keep the baby from licking someone’s feet, or taking scissors from her sister, or talking her brother off a ledge, I worry that I will let her disappear; fade away, before I even got to know all of her. I worry that it has already happened. Undoubtedly I have let the little girl who chased butterflies in the back yard and picked dandelions during her softball games slip through my fingers.

 

She is the kid whose needs are brushed aside because the needs of her siblings are louder, more immediate, more physical. Life is louder than her. It is hard to ignore a screaming baby, or a diaper leaking poop, or a boy who is destroying his room out of frustration. But the quiet, shy girl standing before me, the beautiful one with hope in her blue eyes; the one who just wants her mom to notice her? She can be brushed aside.

 

I wish she could feel the thoughts I have for her inside my head. Because then she would always know how very much I love her. All of the time. I am desperate for her to know, to truly understand, because I don't demonstrate my love for her enough.

 

And I can't believe that in less time then she’s been alive she’ll be off to college (via work-study, and scholarships, and financial aid, because holy lack of a college fund). She'll be on her own, and she won't be mine anymore, but was she ever to begin with? Some days I truly and selfishly wish those days would hurry up and arrive. Because tween. But most days, and every night when I kiss her sleeping head goodnight one last time, I want to stop time. Or maybe even roll back the clock to an easier time, to the time when I thought it was so hard. To a time when she was my everything and she knew it, she felt it, she blossomed because of it.

 

I just want to keep her here with me so I can do better, be better at being her mother. I want her to still want to hold my hand, and give me a kiss at the bus stop, and hear what I think, and ask me which earrings I like better. I want her to wear mismatched shoes, and an arm full of bracelets. To ask me if she should wear a ponytail or braid. To still want me to scratch her back every night before bed. I want her to tell me she loves me, and that she will see me in the morning; no matter how appallingly I fail at being her mom.

 

  This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project - To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(My) Parenting Truth: It Burns. A Lot

Let’s just say it’s Saturday night. You’re down one kid to a weekend sleepover, and it is a couple days into Spring. You thought it was supposed to snow today, but really…it was rather lovely instead. You lolled around all day, putting off groceries and strangely enough, when five o’clock rolled around you had beer, but not anything to make for dinner.

The request for tacos for dinner finds you at Chipolte, which no one eight and under enjoyed (surprisingly, even their tortilla chips are “spicy”). A quick run to Dairy Queen, and several brain freezes later you’re back home, riding the kind of high moms ride when an outing goes unexpectedly well.  

You decide to up the ante a little bit, perhaps ease the sting of a no-movie-night, and hang a glow stick from the shower head while your boy showers. Showering in the dark with a pink glow stick dangling above his head is right up his ally. Unfortunately earlier in the day you prematurely activated the glow stick, so it loses its glowiness by showers end.

Yet there’s your daughter. She wants in on the glowing tub action. Of course. And she’s not happy with only a half glowing glow stick. Still, you’ve got your “outing-went-well-mom-high” going on, and you fill the tub with water remembering that there are leftover glow bracelets in the cabinet. Leftover, from like three camping seasons ago.

Squeals of excitement and crack-shake-crack-shake. Crack. Holy EFFING shit. Crack and the mother-effing-poisony, juicy, goopy glow shit squirts out and penetrates your helpless eyes. You saw the light. And it was frigging purple. And it was frigging shooting straight towards your face.

So there’s screaming. There is lots of screaming: “Marc! Marc!! Maaaarrrrrc!!!” And “Gills get out of the tub baby. Get out of the poison water in the tub.” Because in all of your confused pain you, like a good and protective Mama, you throw the broken glow stick into the bathtub. With. Your. Daughter. She’s not emotionally scarred for life at all. Nope.  So the screaming. It’s coupled with rubbing. And spitting. Because spitting always helps.

Instinctively you throw your head under the faucet and start flushing your eyes. Pleading with your stunned and maybe-not-so-good-in-a-crisis husband to find the empty container and read what it says to do in case this mother-flucking-shit gets in your eyes.

You know what it says? It says one may experience “temporary discomfort.” You know what. That’s bullshit. Discomfort doesn’t cover it. Temporary…as in my eyes still sting almost three hours later.

And the truth? Parenting highs are fricking stupid. And dangerous. At least for me. Tonight reminded me that when I am on a parenting high, I do stupid things. Like remember some fancy idea from Pinterest (I assume) on how to make bathwater glow in the dark. If only one of the kids had thrown a tantrum while we were out. Bath time would have been so much less painful.

(Pure, burning, evil)

 

(Mother frickers are STILL glowing in the trash)



Sick Day

Sick Day-Week Six/Fifty-Two
"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014" 


This little guy developed his first true cold, one complete with a fever, this week. With four kids, we've had our share of craptastic and bizarre illnesses and hospitalizations, but even something as simple as a mid-winter cold can break a Mama's heart. The past couple of nights have been extra trying, so I'm so thankful he can still nap during the day.

Perhaps not coincidentally, he has also started chasing me down and trying to climb my legs in an effort to get me to pick him up and cuddle. And while it is endearing and heart melting that he chooses me, and only me, to soothe him when he's not feeling great, it also makes navigating the kitchen during breakfast, lunch, or dinner a bit more challenging.

And of course, one of the most challenging parts of having a sick infant, is managing the guilt that accompanies devoting all of your time to one child, even though there are others that need attention too.

While the oldest two are happily tucked away at school for a good portion of the day, my preschooler is still home most of the time. She is the child, who even after almost nine months, feels the most displaced by her baby brother. And it breaks my heart knowing she is watching television, or eating lunch alone, or talking to herself, while I am upstairs nursing, rocking, or soothing a miserable baby.

Days like today, weeks like this one in fact, make me think that next year, as a Kindergartner, she will be better off at school; far more entertained and engaged, then she would be at home with me.
This is a realization that is again, heartbreaking.

But perhaps I'm over thinking, and holding myself to unrealistic parenting standards. I am hopeful that my increased absence while I help the baby will be met with understanding and gratitude. Deep down I hope she sees my nurturing him as indicative of how much I love her too.

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com



Here We Go

I don’t make resolutions, even ones that I’d desperately love to keep, because I know ultimately they will fall by the wayside. Resolutions feel too much like a long term commitment I’m afraid to make. I’m also not always good at seeing projects I start through to completion. And while I have the best of intentions and leave my camera on the kitchen counter all year long, I hardly ever take pictures of the kids anymore.

Given those faulty personality traits, I have been toying with participating in the 52 Project since learning about it in early January, 2014. Ordinarily I don’t like to join something unless I get in on the ground floor…in this case the ground floor being Week One (and it will drive me insane that I am joining on Week Three!). Additionally I oftentimes vacillate between fretting and not worrying about tossing my children’s faces out into the great unknown of the Internet. I can’t protect them once they’re out there, and this makes me jittery.

However, after careful consideration I’ve decided to go for it this year. I figure that participating will drive me to take pictures of the kids. Participating will drive me to completing more frequent blog posts. And the best part is that at the end of the year, I will have an incredible record of the kids’ growth over the course of fifty two weeks.

I tend to do a really great job of photographing the big moments. First smiles. First steps. First days of school. Every Daddy Daughter Dance. But it’s the tiny moments in between those bigger ones that I crave remembering. This year is a potentially big one for our family. We are looking forward to a new home and a new job. There will be new schools and family vacations.

Hopefully through the guidance of this project I will capture not only the important big moments, but the equally as important little moments for our family and for my kids. Hopefully this project will allow me to consistently see the beauty through the chaos of everyday life. My ultimate goal through the 52 Project is to end up with beautiful everyday photos accompanying everyday moments that we will all enjoy reflecting on at this time next year.  

Always Fancy--Week Three/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014"

My middle girl. Four years old and full of…everything. She is both needy and independent. She adores her baby brother, but is still having a hard time, in very subtle ways, adjusting to not being my baby anymore. She loves to dress up. She loves to wear nail polish and lip gloss and drink her milk out of fine china. She thinks tiaras are everyday attire. She loves princesses and sparkles and beautiful dresses. She could run a mile in a pair of heels, and idolizes her big brother and sister, keeping up with them in so many, in fact almost all, ways. But don’t be fooled by those big, dark chocolate eyes, and her outward daintiness. She is tough. She’s a fighter and a leader. She speaks her mind and does not ever fade into the background. She’s funny and smart and loving and bold. She is my everything; I just hope that is something she always remembers.

I am joining in with Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com

One Little Word For You. And You. And You. And You.

The other day I wrote a little bit about the idea of One Little Word for 2014. While I have decided that I will forego choosing OLW for myself, I have elected to go ahead and chose one for my kids. Who better to determine their focus for this New Year than their mother, right?

 

Some will see the following words as harsh. Please. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children with a fierceness only a mother knows. And if we weren’t in the midst of a hellish school cancellation scenario, I would have inserted more warm and fuzzy accolades with a side of mush throughout this post. But I’m not feeling it today. And honestly…if a kid can’t take a little constructive criticism and focus…well then, they’re screwed for life. So really, by giving these OLWs to my kids, I’m doing them a favor.

 

My first born. Her word is FORGET. I want her to FORGET she ever heard that frigging "Cups" song by the lovely Anna Kendrick. I swear to all that is good and holy if I see or hear my daughter try to drum it out on her chest, head, thighs or stomach One. More. Time. I am going to lose my fractured marbles and will saw her hands off myself. Granted, removing an appendage may sound a bit harsh, but honestly. This "Cups" thing? IT. HAS. TO. STOP.

My middle: His word is FLEXIBILITY. Good land boy. It is okay if you don’t sit in the green chair every single time your scrawny ass needs a place to settle. It is okay if you do not hold your baby brother first every single morning, or chose the first cartoon before school. You will survive if I show you a different way to complete your math homework. You will survive if you are not third to brush your teeth at night. You will survive if we deviate off schedule by just a little bit. I promise. Please do not clutch your head, jump up and down in sheer frustration, and scream a slew of nastiness when something, anything, does not go as you think it should.  You are exhausting yourself and you are exhausting the rest of us. Seriously. Flexibility. Look into it.

 

My other middle: I’m actually breaking the rules and giving her one little acronym: CTFD. Calm the F*ck Down child. Just calm down. I know you have been displaced by your baby brother. I know that you were the baby, my baby, for almost four years. But honey, it’s time to let it go. Get over it. You are not the baby anymore, your brother is nearly eight months old and you have had enough time to adjust. The drama. The crying. The (mostly negative) attention getting. The trying to crawl up into my shirt. The not getting the frig out of my business for just a few minutes. It’s old. I’m done. I know you know I still love you as much as ever…but get this…I may even love you a teensy bit more if you just, you know, CTFD.

My baby: His word is PACIFIER. Baby. Dear, sweet, adorable, squishy little baby. A pacifier is a tiny little silicone gift from the heavens. They come in beautiful colors, and some even come with witticisms! In general they can up the cuteness factor for the average baby. And get this, you can bite it and it won’t bleed! You can clamp your teeth around it and shake your head all over hell and it won’t scream. You can suck it in and spit it out of your mouth a million times over (even in the MIDDLE of the night) and it won’t ever become chaffed or exhausted. You can pinch it, scratch it, and stick it in your eye or your ear. It could be your new breast best friend. I’ll even let you keep it as long as you want! I’ll lie to the dentist about you having one. I’ll scoff at the dirty looks we get when you’re happily sucking away on one at the age of 12. (People are so judgmental). And, I know you love the real thing. I get that. But for the love of Christmas give me a break. You don’t know what you’re missing. Let 2014 be the Year of the Pacifier. Please.

Daddy-Daughter Dance

This weekend was the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance in our town. A lovely event that my oldest daughter and husband look forward to each year. It is the one special night that she has; the one big event that is just hers. The one that really doesn't involve me at all.

My participation surrounds her dress, her shoes, the jewelry and corsage. I help with hairstyles, and putting on just the right amount of lipstick; enough so that she feels glamorous, and looks eight at the same time! But once she is showered, blown dry, straight-ironed, polished, lip-sticked, blinged, zippered, tied and has done a practice twirl, I hand her over to her Dad. He bends down on one knee and puts on her shoes, Cinderella style. He gently puts on her corsage and gives her a kiss...they are so happy together. Quietly I watch as my involvement in the night ends. 

The night becomes one for a little girl and her Dad. Despite my many texts, I hear very little throughout the course of the night. My husband, quite suspiciously, doesn't receive cell service inside the school gym where the dance is held. He gets fantastic cell service in Japan, but for some reason, on this night, in this gym, with his little girl all to himself...he doesn't get my texts...at least not all of them.

They dance; she still wants to dance with her Dad. He watches her twirl, and hold dear her friends. He experiences her pure happiness on that special night, a night they share. At home I anticipate their return, their stories and giggles, their secret looks. If I am lucky they show me a new move they discovered together under twinkling lights. As I listen to them recount their night together I am reminded;

she is just as much her Dads as she is mine.

And we both love her so very much.