New Year's Unresolution

Maybe it has always been a thing and I was just never hip enough to recognize it. But it seems that having “one little word” for this New Year is defining early January. Seeing the #olw all over Facebook, blog posts and Instagram prompted me to do what I oftentimes do best…jump on the bandwagon.

 

Consequently I spent the past few days thinking about one word for myself that I would like to define both my 2014, and 2014 for my family. I even lost my shiz at dinner last night and screeched that our one family word for 2014 was going to be SILENCE. (I may have said fricking silence, but that wouldn’t work, cause duh…its two words.)

Finally I came up with my word: BRAVE. Then I read a blog post where someone said their word was GIVE. And I wanted my word to be GIVE. Because that’s a pretty bitchin’ word too.  And then I saw an IG post where someone said their word was GRACE. And I wanted my word to be GRACE. Because, yup, that’s a pretty bitchin’ word too.

This morning folding laundry I started thinking: Who am I to kid? I don’t make resolutions at any time during the year, because I really suck at keeping them. And I hate disappointing myself on that grand a scale. In thinking about the likelihood that I would not keep up with my braveness(?) this year, my mind lazily shifted to the area that rationalizes my surrendering to something before I’d even begun.

Realizing I wouldn’t stick with my word, any word, I started questioning why I needed a word anyway. Why do I need to change; to be more brave…to be more anything? I’m a pretty good person overall. I am a pretty good mom, with pretty good kids. I’m a pretty good wife and a pretty good friend. What compels me to feel as though I need to be better at any of those things? I certainly have no interest in being the best, because to me that sounds utterly exhausting.

Sure, there are things that being brave may help me accomplish. I may push to sell our house, it’s something we’ve talked about for years. I may discuss adoption more, it’s something I’ve dreamed of doing for years. I may offer my opinion even when I know it’s not a popular one. I may, I may, I may. But if I choose to pursue anything in my life, I can do it without a word. And if none of those things happen? If everything stays the same; if I don’t grow or stretch spiritually or emotionally; I think I’ll be okay. My kids, and my marriage and the world will be okay.

That being said, there will undoubtedly be times this year when I compare myself to others. I will look at women who live their word; people who accomplish and stick with their resolutions. Who are the best at what they do. And I will look at myself and feel badly. I will wish I was the best at something. I will wish I had a word.

I will be thirty-nine in a few days. Perhaps the gift that I will give myself this year is being okay with who I am; being happy without a word.  Where I am is certainly not perfect. And there may come a time when I would like a guiding one worded principle. So this year I will also remind myself to question whether or not I need better, wonder if I need more, or continue to believe it is okay to stay the same.

For right now, I’m anti-word. But in the spirit of the New Year I will perhaps focus on little shifts instead. Conceivably what I can do is focus on a few things I’d like to look back on this year and say I’ve accomplished. That’s at least a little brave right?

      1.       More control, less peeing in my pants when I sneeze.

2.       More eye gazing, less phone scrolling, while I nurse the baby.

3.       More family game nights, less get-the-kids-to-bed-as-fast-as-possible nights.

4.       More time away from the kids, less time worrying about being away from the kids.

5.       More truth, less sarcasm.

6.       More reaching out, less folding in.

7.       More making fun of myself, less making fun of my husband.

8.       More interacting with the kids, less napping while they play their iPods.

9.       More happy where I am, less look at where she is.

10.   More saving, less Dunkin' Donuts. Never mind, that just won’t happen.

Whether you’re an OLW kinda gal or not, I wish you nothing but the best in 2014. Here’s to keep on keeping on. And here’s to enjoying each other for what we are right now.

A Shoddy Birth Story

In June of 2003 I wrote my first birth story. At the time I didn’t realize birth stories were a thing. I also didn’t realize that having written one for my first child, I’d be compelled to write one for my second, third and fourth children as well. What a pain in the ass.

My first child’s birth story was all but written by the time I left the hospital. I had it drafted in my head, focusing on every detail and committing them to memory. Her birth story is also ten pages long. I was nervous that I’d forget something about that day, and was also paranoid that I was going to drop dead from some mysterious post-partum ailment (besides sleep deprivation). My fear was that there would be no one to explain to her how magical that day had been. Yes, her Dad could try…but when I made him write his version of her birth story (cause I’m cruel like that), I realized he got it almost all wrong. Especially when it came to documenting how much it frigging h-u-r-t.

In August of 2005 I gave birth to my second child, and while I jumped on his birth story pretty quickly, it took me some time to get it together.  I was more sleep deprived than ever. His birth story is lengthy simply because I repeat myself over and over again. I think I wrote his story with my eyes half closed. To this day I do not remember most of his first few months home.

When my third arrived on a beautiful stormy day in July 2009, I was over birth story writing. Sadly I saw it as something I had to do; more of a chore than an opportunity to record (what I thought would be) my last baby’s grueling entrance into this maddening and glorious world. 

Plus, she was my favorite and I savored every single moment with her. I held her while she napped. I held her at night. I picked her up just to smell her. I picked her up just to run my cheek over her amazing head of hair. I held her all the time; my third baby…the peace keeper, my mood stabilizer, the bringer of pure joy. I had long since become the queen of multi-tasking, but I hadn’t quite mastered typing one handed, and her birth story took months to compile and complete.

Now it is seven-plus months since the birth of my fourth child. And I can come up with very little for his birth story, one tiny little stack of post-it notes on a shelf in my closet. But never fear, my dear baby. You are now my favorite, because there is no way a four year old, an eight year old, or a ten year old could ever endear themselves to me as much as you do, with all of your baby giggles, squish, folds, rolls and snuggles.

I loved you from the moment I knew you were. But you terrified the hell out of me. I was silly to be scared of you. Because…well…I have a four, eight and ten year old, and they are far more menacing. Right now they are yelling at each other. Arguing over you. So please know that even though your birth story in no way compares to theirs, it is not for lack of love. It is from lack of energy, time, and brain cells. I am done, sweetie. I love you, but my birth story writing days are over. I will do your birth the honor of this though, the best I can do right now:

I walked around for many weeks feeling like you were clawing your way out. Then you were due and you didn’t want to come out. I really, REALLY wanted you to come out. My doctor was a turd and refused to take you out. I waited three extra days, and finally it was time to encourage you to come out with Pitocin.

I was 3cm on Monday night, without a contraction in sight, and so relieved when I was admitted to the hospital. There was a playoff hockey game on. The doctor sat on my bed and watched the game with your Dad. I sat on the edge of the birth tub, looking out the window, too lazy to suggest we fill the tub with water and use it. So I walked. The Bruins won. I walked. Finally I asked for drugs. Finally they whipped out the water-breaking-crochet-hooky-type thing. 29 minutes later you were born and I barked “get the camera and take a damn picture” to your Dad. True love right there. No drugs; things moved so incredibly quickly that the anesthesiologist could do nothing but fidget in a corner.

You were out. Your Dad and I ate lots of take-out from downtown restaurants we haven’t frequented in years. We drank lots of coffee and sent lots of texts. And we savored every last second in that tiny hospital room. We took the long way home. We were wise to the chaos that awaited us at home.

We love you baby boy. You are amazing, and we couldn’t imagine life without you. Sorry about the sloppy story…I’ll make it up to you by loving you forever. And always. And forever more.

 

Breakfast Magic

I try to make life magical for my kids. I do an average job. There are parents out there who are far more creative and far more dedicated to bringing magic to their kids’ lives than I. I give myself credit for trying because I have a nasty habit of starting a project and not finishing it. And because I am a procrastinator. And because I tend to be lazy. And because I’m also a pro at finding excuses.

So a few weeks ago, right around Thanksgiving, and after I had made the kids a winter themed breakfast, my husband challenged me to make one winter/holiday breakfast through Christmas. Two thoughts immediately ran through my head. Firstly…bring it hubs. Don’t challenge me, in front of the kids, and expect me to go down without a fight. Secondly…crap! I’m never going to follow through with this.

Then I started calculating excuses: basketball games, a Baptism, a sleepover for one of the kids, volleyball, I am not good at Pinterest. The list goes on. Yet, I still managed to produce a few cool eats for the kids. Because they loved the breakfasts. They looked forward to them. And I got to practice (and ultimately realize I still suck at) Pinterest.  

Yes, I missed a few weekends. But I did okay too. Your welcome kids.

 

Week One:

(Thank you Pinterest)

(Its Rudolph. Not a monkey or a moose or a baby like my kids thought)

 

Week Two:

(Thanks again Pinterest)

(Frisky Donut Snowmen & Reindeer)

 

Week Three:

(Thanks, middle of the night wakefulness)

(Waffle Iron Snowflakes)

 



Week Four:

(Thanks again, middle of the night wakefulness)

 (This is supposed to be a Cinnamon Bun Christmas Tree Tower)

(Not everything is perfect!)

Week Five:

(The upside to having an infant who is up at all hours of the night...I come up with these!)

(Santa's Toy Sack, Crepes filled with homemade whipped cream, sliced strawberries and bananas)





On the Road Again

I’m a road trip girl. Always have been. My mother is terrified of flying, so every vacation consisted of piling into a car that was inevitably too small and driving hundreds of miles to mediocre destinations. But I loved it. Even the 24 hour we’re-not-stoppin’-unless-you’re-dyin’ drive home lent its own kind of life altering excitement.

Now, as a parent myself, I still love road trips. Well, really, I love the idea of road trips.  Road tripping in the midst of this borderline hellish endeavor called parenting that I’ve gotten myself into, is a lot different than sitting in the back seat of my parents car, wind in my hair, sun on my face, ginormous headphones plugged into my Walkman. SO. FREAKING. DIFFERENT.

But I’m a sucker. One trying road trip after another and I keep suggesting them. Insisting even.  And my husband. He obliges, and then waits for it all to fall apart. He never says “I told you so.” But I swear I feel him thinking it. A lot.

For my daughter’s tenth birthday we bought her tickets to a concert in Boston. Because the concert fell on Columbus Day weekend, I naturally wanted to make a weekend out of it. A road trip if you will. I was determined to make our 24-ish hours away from home a memory. One that I was willing to photograph and revisit.

Yet I should have known. My husband knew. I think the baby knew too. A drive that should have taken a little over two hours took nearly four. We stopped four times. FOUR TIMES.  A rest stop. A liquor store. And the breakdown lane of a major highway, twice. Nothing says adventure like running circles around your van rearranging car seats and changing poopy diapers while cars zip by at 75 miles per hour. Really gets the blood pumping.

Once we got into the city I was positive that things would run more smoothly. I’m pretty sure that it was as I unclenched my fists and started breathing regularly that we hit bumper to bumper traffic. In. The. Tunnel. And then our oldest boy announced that he had to pee. Like really bad. I let my mind wander back 13 or so years to my bachelorette party; stuck in traffic and intoxicated. And my sister had to pee. So she jumped out of the limo and peed behind a dumpster in a parking lot. Cause we’re classy like that. But then she had to run alongside the limo because traffic had started moving. I wasn’t about to tell my kid to hop out of the van, pee against the tunnel wall (hello backsplash) and then hope he could catch us as we motored away.

So we did the next best thing. He peed in my empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. Like a professional. Part of me feels like my parenting leans heavily towards the “enabling my kids to act like high school idiots” style. Still, part of me was quite proud of myself. I was able to contort my post pregnancy body into the back seat of the van. I was able to hold the cup and not gag. To replace the cap without spilling a drop. To growl at his sisters to stop frigging laughing, and peeking, and screaming “he’s peeing in Mom’s coffee!” I hope we’re not faced with the urgency of that situation again, but if we are, next time I swear I’ll remember to throw the cup away. Not leave it sloshing around in the van for two days. Potholes take on a whole new level of hell when there’s 16ozs of pee in the car.

Dunkin Donuts styrofoam. Not just for coffee anymore.

The rest of the afternoon went relatively well. Aside from the fact that we walked two blocks in the wrong direction looking for my daughter’s favorite restaurant. Then asked directions, and continued to walk another two blocks…still in the wrong direction. Cause we’re geographically gifted like that. Nothing says “this is awesome” quite like your GPS barking at you that you’ve reached your destination, but when you look around all you see are alleyways and a parking garage. Eff you GPS. You failed us. Again.

Upon checking in to our hotel I was reminded just how out of place my family can be sometimes. The hotel was pretty swanky. We had to smuggle a couple of kids in, because technically we exceeded the maximum room occupancy. Also, six people in a room with two double beds leads to renting a rollaway bed. So there was kinda the time I was sitting on the toilet talking to my mother on the phone, when I heard a knock on the door. I assumed it was my husband coming back for his forgotten wallet, or better yet a forgotten child. Nope. A porter.  With the rollaway bed. We were both stunned.

 

Outside the Garden

And then my heart broke for my little girl. As the big kids left with dad she once again left out. And she was sad. But she kept saying “thank you Mom. Thank you for letting me come to this hotel.” To make it up to her she had McDonald’s for dinner and a pre-bed dip in the oddly small rooftop pool. Except she nearly drown. She wanted to see if she could touch bottom without her Puddle Jumper on. The pool was 3 ½ feet deep. I told her to walk down the steps and quickly touch the bottom. She did just that. And she could touch, and with her head thrown back and her little nose in the air so she could breathe. And I told her to come back. But she decided to bob and tiptoe away from the edge of the pool. And then she panicked. And started flailing. And kinda drowning I think. And as I was kneeling at the edge of the pool, arm outstretched as far as it could go, pleading with her to kick her little feet I realized one thing. I’d forgotten to snap my nursing tank back together again. And then I realized I was wearing a painfully stretched-out-to-East-Gish scoop neck t-shirt on top of my nursing tank. And saving Gillian quickly became more about saving my ladies from completely falling out of my shirt. In front of the freakishly hairy Dad, who waded to our side of the pool to see what all the commotion was. It was a spectacle. I saved Gillian. But not my pride.

Wanting to play it cool I let Gillian swim around with her floaties on for a while after. The other family left. And their kid took our room key with them. So there was also the time my sopping wet four year old, shivering in just a bathing suit and wet towel, my four month old, overtired and cranky, and I, fresh off yet another boob baring experience, had to make our way down nine floors, across the very full lobby and up to the front desk. I hadn’t gotten the entire story out before the woman kindly held up her hand, asked for our room number and issued a new key.

Ultimately the big kids had a great time at the concert with their Dad. And ultimately I held down the fort in a mostly respectable fashion. It wasn’t even that annoying that our hotel was nestled up next to a major medical center in the middle of Boston. We hardly noticed the constant sirens at all.

In the morning we faced the thought of our return trip with great dignity. Unlike the way we faced the free breakfast. Four times. And maybe once more for the road. Heading down to eat our weight in free food my family looked like a pack of drunks. No, worse. We looked like a pack of worn out drunks. Not drunks that have had a good time. Just the opposite.  Drunks with mostly mismatched jammies and inappropriate footwear. The hotel manager gave a visible shiver when he realized we were there for breakfast. Again. He was a tiny little man.

But the kids ate. A bagel caught on fire in the toaster (so not our fault)! Then they swam. Someone smacked someone else in the face “accidentally” and there was a bloody nose. So then we left. Could not get out of there fast enough. And we hadn't made it one block and they were asking when we'd be home. But the baby slept. And the big kids reminisced. And it only took two hours.