Facebook...Time Suck or Lifeline?

Okay, so, I've read and heard a lot of people say that Facebook is full of drama, that it's stupid, that they're barely on it (or, in some cases, they claim to be "barly" on it) that they're going to deactivate their account because it's such a time-suck, that people should keep their negativity to themselves, that they should get off Facebook and spend more time with their kids, etc etc etc....and I just want to say what Facebook means to me, as a Stay-at-Home Mom to three boys under the age of seven. But first, I want to give you a look inside my typical day.

I get up, I get kids up, I made breakfast and pack lunches. I get the kids dressed and change a diaper. I get one kid on the bus and break up a marathon long squabble between the other two. I put away dishes and start a load of laundry. I maybe remember to brush my teeth and I make a cup of coffee. If I forgot to brush my teeth, the first sip of coffee reminds me to. I take out whatever ingredients I need for dinner to thaw in the sink, and then I log into Facebook. It's true! From almost the very moment I wake up, I am on Facebook! The shame! The horror! My poor, neglected children!

I check in with my friends and family on Facebook, post some news or tidbits I find interesting, comment or "like" friends pics or posts, then I get up and go to the bathroom. While I'm there I realize I need to clean the toilet, so I do that, and while I'm doing that I figure I might as well clean the sink and counter too. One or both of the boys now declares they need more juice or a snack, so I pour or make them their requests. In between, I remind them to use their manners and break up another fight. Maybe a Time-Out happens. I finish my coffee...it's cold.

As I walk back in the kitchen to make another cup of coffee (coffee and life goes hand in hand for the Stay-at-Home Mom) I see all the crap under the boys bed and holler at one of them to come clean it up. I make my coffee and realize it's probably just easier for me to do it. After that I straighten up their beds and fold blankets. I said, I FOLD MOTHER FUCKING BLANKETS, PEOPLE!! See? I DO shit.

Then I take my coffee back to my computer and see that a dear friend just lost her Mom to Cancer. My heart stops and I quickly send her a personal message telling her how much her Mom meant to me, how I had so many good memories of her, and if she could, would she let me know when the service will be, because I definitely want to be there. I finish my coffee...it's cold.

I sit there slumped in my chair for a few minutes, tears stinging my eyes, stunned. I'm so sad for my friend and her family, and I start thinking back to when my own Mom died. One of the boys suddenly hurts himself and I pick him up and bring him to the bathroom where I administer the appropriate band-aid and kisses. And I'm off on another task, because man, this medicine cabinet is a disaster, and shouldn't I have already locked away all dangerous meds by now? Bad Mom!!

I switch the laundry over when I'm done with that and get the two boys to eat some lunch, anything but Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which seems to have taken over their palates as of late. I start a bread dough, and set it by the pellet stove to rise. I hop back on Facebook and express my sadness over my friend on my page. I share some memories of her, and others share theirs. It's sweet and sad, but it's genuine feelings being felt, and it's cathartic. I clean up lunch and get #2 son ready for his van to Pre-School. I realize he had an accident yesterday at school and I throw the wet clothes in the washer to wait for the next load and pack him a new dry change of clothes. He starts acting up and whining that he doesn't want to go to school, he says last minute he wants to bring a toy, his driver is already beeping in the driveway. We scramble about for a small enough toy, and I drag him out the door and buckle him in to the van. Bye, Fireball!

By now it's noon, and time for #3's nap. I get him some water in a sippy cup, grab his blankly, put him up on the top bunk, take down the ladder, turn on the sound machine, and blow him kisses as I shut the door. He either cries or he doesn't. It doesn't matter, he needs a nap.

I walk back through the laundry room and realize the dryer is done. I heave out the mammoth pile of clothes, consider just leaving them, realize how hangry I am (you know what hangry is, right? It's being suddenly irritable because you're hungry, so it makes you angry, hence, "hangry") so I go finish off the remnants of the boys sandwiches or mac n cheese from lunch. I'm preventing waste, cleaning, AND self-caring all at the same time. Talk about multitasking!

 I go back to the laundry, knowing if I leave it for later I'll just be pissed that I did, so I fold it and put it away. I go back to Facebook, read a few more articles, read a book review that makes me add another book to my Kindle, post a couple more pics or whatever, message a friend about a possible play-date later, and log out. It's my naptime too.

An hour goes by too quick and I hear Stealth Ninja calling from his room. I go get him, change his wet diaper and clothes...and blankets and sheets. I throw the added laundry in the washer and start the load. I set Ninja up with some books in the family room and do a quick toy pick-up and vacuum. Holy crap, it's only been a day, how the fuck did all this crap get on the floor? I see a sticky spill and grab some wipes and clean it up. While I have the wipes in my hands I decide I might as well dust the whole family room and give the TV a good wipe while I'm at it. I wonder how on Earth my kids got all those finger and hand prints all over it...were they playing Patty-Cake with it or something? Jeez. I finish up and sit down with Ninja. He hands me "Little Blue Truck" and I read it for the 538th time.

I look at my calender and see that I've written something down on the 26th, put a star around it, and I have NO IDEA what it says. My hurried handwriting is indecipherable. I take a pic and post it on Facebook, asking for help in reading it. Yes. It's come to that. I can't read my own handwriting because I was probably holding the baby or blocking a Nerf football or something while I wrote it. I'm slightly panicked because I know that if I put a star around it, I know it's something important, and with my Mom-Brain lately, I've been forgetting really important appointments and I feel like a fool when I do.

I go start dinner and Fireball and Lucky both get home from school at 3:30. I make them afternoon snacks and it's their allotted TV time. .............................. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Yeah RIGHT! LMAO that TV has been on CPTV all damned day long. I'm sorry. I know it's not good for them. I'm a bad Mom, remember? I'm on Facebook all day and my kids are parked in front of the TV, and if they bother me in the middle of Words With Friends I'm gonna decapitate them.

The washer beeps and I put the wet stuff in the dryer. I field a phone call from Lucky's teacher, who's calling to say Lucky won a school-wide writing award! All that TV must have really worked! I'm so proud I have a lump in my throat, but I have to keep it a secret because he'll be getting the award at the next days' assembly. I go in my bedroom, close the door, and call Klondike to let him know we're raising the next Ernest Hemingway. He's equally proud, but regrets to tell me he's working late, past the boys bedtime. I nix my previous dinner plans and decide to ask Lucky what his favorite dinner would be, just because. He asks for Chicken nuggets. I decide to make a special dessert too, so I mix up a chocolate Lava Cake in my Pampered Chef deep baker. In between all this, yes, I admit, I'm back on Facebook to brag about Lucky and gloat over my suddenly super lazy and easy dinner plans.

I check back on my calender pic and my friend realized what I wrote down was "Scarlett Lewis, 7pm". Scarlett Lewis is a Sandy Hook Mom, and she's speaking at a nearby Church on the 26th. I had written it down because even though I know it's going to be a terribly hard thing to hear, my soul tells me I have to be there. I just can't even...the thought of what happened, happening again. I have to hear from her how she continues going on. I have to know because if it ever happened to me, I don't know if I could. I knew about this event because of FACEBOOK events! Thank you Facebook!

Dinner's ready when "Wild Kratz" is over, 6pm. Yep, I schedule meals around CPTV's line up. Dinner is for once heartily enjoyed by the boys and dessert is a hit. But the chocolate is everywhere so I realize I guess it's gonna be a bath night. I go start the tubby and see the bath toys are still in the tub from a couple days ago. Because the Good Lord knows, putting them away is pointless when I know there's a much greater likelihood of the boys getting bathed than me getting showered. Sorry, is that TMI? When it comes to showering, I'm on a "only if I really really have to" basis. Because, at this point in my motherhood journey, it's more of a chore than a necessity. It is what it is. Anyway, leaving the toys in the tub is less work for me, so it's win-win!

As the tub is filling I clean up the dinner dishes and start the dishwasher. Wipe down my sink and give the boys a bath. I get them out, in their pajamas, teeth brushed. I sing the songs, I kiss the mouths and foreheads. I put on a Harry Potter book-on-tape (because it's Daddy's job to read books, and if he's not home for bedtime, sorry, this Mama's beat) and close the door. Grab the wine, get back on Facebook. Read up on some more memories of my dear friend who passed. Decide I'm going to enter a chili in her honor at this weekend's Chili Cook Off at Bethany Lutheran Church. I putter around the family room, putting more toys away, straighten the couch cushions, sit back down, share some more mindless stuff on Facebook, check my events, rsvp to a couple of friends' upcoming Stella and Dot and Lia Sophia parties, and log off.


So, that's just a typical day here. Yes, I am "on" Facebook all day. Are my kids ignored? Only so much as an army of pee-soaked, grape-jelly covered, hungry, emotional, needy, loud, interactive, wild, funny, and loved clown gorillas could be ignored. So what. I love Facebook. It keeps me connected to my life beyond this house. I get ideas for recipes, activities for my boys, invitations to things I wouldn't otherwise know about. I share and am shared with. I laugh and cry through Facebook. I find out what's going on with family and Friends. I can't for the life of me understand why some people have to begrudge me that.

"Get off Facebook and spend time with your kids". That's the comment that started this blog today. Can't they see that that's exactly what I do, all day, every day? I am home with my kids. I am playing with them, I am reading to and with them, I am feeding, cleaning, and caring for them all day, every day. And when I want to? I'm on Facebook. Because Facebook is a part of my life that I truly do cherish. Excuse me for that. Or don't. If you are "barly" on Facebook, why does it bother you if someone else is?

Irish Twins,,,Happy Birthday to my Seeester

    Two months after my Mom gave birth to my older sister Elle, she found out she was pregnant with me. We're what you call, "Irish Twins". But the truth is, that term often comes with the connotation of  a similarity of twinship which is, frankly, hard to live up to. Which, in truth, is sort of how I felt growing up in the shadow of my sister.

     As young girls, we had a fierce competition and rivalry that was common in siblings so close in age. When Elle learned to read, it was possibly the worst 2 years of my life until I caught up to her. I remember feeling as if she were sailing away on a sailboat to exotic destinations while I was stuck with my feet in the water at the end of the dock. When she and her girlfriends talked about hair and make up and fashion, I felt like the contumacious chub who would never fit in. Where Elle was fit and tan and long-limbed, I felt like the shortened stub of a pencil with chew marks all around. We fought, physically and emotionally, over everything and anything. Mealtimes were a race to see who could finish first. And, as our parents quickly learned, if we didn't have the exact same amount and type of whatever food the other had, things just escalated to epic proportions of calamity which, looking back, as I now see the same things in my own sons, I think I owe my parents a huge debt of gratitude for not selling us off to a band of gypsies for having dealt with such ridiculousness.

Speaking of Gypsies, that was one of our favorite games. That and Prairie Women. There weren't any rules, we would just be outside, and make concoctions out of pine needles, dirt, and water, and pretend we were nursing our chloranemic neighbors or children. Those are some of the fondest memories of my life. Those, and the times where we roomed together and would whisper across the space between beds until late in the night, of fairies and dragons, heroines and disasters, orphans who needed our rescue, all the animals we would grow up and save.

Our Mom was a complicated lady, and there were times where Elle and I would band together in defense against her chaos. Those times were instrumental in weaving our personalities and alliances together in ways invisible to the naked eye, but as surely as any covert training for double agency, they were bonds that would last a lifetime. I don't have to even live on the same continent to know when Elle is hurting or needs me. And she has that same psychic response to my tragedies as well. Sisters. Man, what an emotionally loaded word that is!

Elle as a younger girl was greedily smart. What I mean by that is she never shied away from being the smartest in her class because of any societal pressure for girls to be less than or quieter than their male peers. That was another gift I believe our Mom instilled in us. But where I was more socially preoccupied or sensitive, she tolerated being geeky because she knew she was smarter than average. It wasn't until 8th grade when she finally broke and decided she wanted more...she wanted to be the smartest AND the most desired. And over the course of a year, her and my relationship morphed into something else entirely, as the undercurrents of what was going on in our home with Mom was rocked with more tectonic shifts in what we thought were the limits of security and safety. Things were getting bad with my Moms drinking and mental health, and the introduction of husband number three was a harbinger of a period of time which I almost don't remember, so strong was my desire to be elsewhere.

So, in 9th grade, my sister was suddenly someone new to me. She was Marilyn where Norma Jean had just been. When I say she blossomed, it's such an understatement. She didn't just blossom, she exploded like a shower of fireworks. And as I watched from my envious and clumsy 7th grade eyes, a rift started growing where jealousy, hormones, hurt feelings, and all things tween/teen age girls are concerned only served to solidify. She was suddenly, awkwardly and lustily, admired by the boys in our school, who for the past 10 years had barely noticed her but as an academic competitor. And I can't blame her, she relished in her new position. And in a way I was super proud, but I was also super jealous and left out. That was the first year I realized she and I were very different. Where I viewed academics and popularity as a given before, not really working hard at either, I swiftly recognized both would take hard work, and I was sinking in my own beginnings of depression at home and I felt she was moving further away from me, her kid sister.

Our teen years were the years I remember mostly feeling filled with doubt and sadness. I wasn't in a good place mentally, and neither was she, frankly. But she hid it well, and remained an "it" girl throughout high school. She probably doesn't remember it that way, but from the vantage point of little sister, it was plain as day. Of course we were still "friends", but there was more a feeling of her having to let me "tag along" than there had ever been before. I think she realized I was faltering (well, it was pretty obvious, what with hospitalizations and all) but I keenly felt like I was a duty that she felt forced to administer to. Those years were like a bombardment of emotions, jealousy, secrets, lies, turncoat deceptions, false alliances and such. Which, probably any teenage girls can attest was the way it was if they had a sister so close in age.

But through it all, when I really needed her, she put aside the tenuous role of beauty queen and came back to me. The letters and things she did for me while I was away on whatever hospital stay will remain in my heart as the strongest shows of love anyone has ever given me. One time she and her boyfriend and a couple other high-school friends painted my room purple so when I came home it would really feel like "mine" and be a fresh start. She started all her letters "Amanda-Belle" because Belle meant beautiful. She wanted me to get better, and even after being released, and on my own, for many years she propped me up despite my many attempts at self-sabotage.

She took on the role of mothering me when I needed it most. Again, our relationship had shifted seismically, and taken on a new level of need and trust. I can't count all the times I ran to her in the middle of whatever catastrophe I was immersed in and she simply gave me a bed and some warm tea. By this time, she was solidly her own person, and had, with typical Elle determination and drive, begun to order her life and future into a controllable and structured goal with actions that had desirable outcomes. She was again the brainy student. She started off at Community college, working her way with scholarship and fellowships from Community College to State College to one of the finest colleges in our area, Trinity. Again, she had become someone new. She went back and embraced her old nerdy self, knowing what she wanted and needed and simply doing whatever it took to get there.  She was my stalwart champion, my rock, and even though I fought tooth and nail against what was good for me, knowing that she would always be there for me was one of the few things that I remember with joy during those dark years. It wasn't what she said or did that saved me from myself. It was simply knowing that she was there, she was safe, she was the same sister I'd gotten scrapes and bruises riding bikes with, and she was there, waiting, for whenever I needed her.

And now here we are, a lifetime later. Both mothers. Both making our own homes for our own children and probably thinking way too much about how to avoid becoming our mother. My sister has the singular capacity to shelter me even from across the Atlantic ocean. When I try to describe my sister to someone, it's so hard, because she is chameleon-like in her gift of being so many different women in one. She's safety. She's strength. She's goofy, geeky, and corny. She's so deliciously intelligent and witty it makes my heart ache that we can't just spend every night sipping wine and talking at each others kitchen table. That movie, "In her Shoes", where the Cameron Diaz character reads aloud ee cumming's "I carry your Heart" poem at her sisters wedding? Yeah, I bawl every time because that's just so much how I feel about Elle. If you don't know it, here's the poem:

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

By E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Oh God, now I'm ugly crying. Okay, so, anyway, today is my sisters Birthday. For the past 16 days we were the same age. Today she moves on again, older than me once again. But as sisters are, we are always the same age, because we have lived every experience and lifetime together. She knows everything about me, and I,  about her. I can tell you right now how she would feel if I were hugging her, what she smells like, what shade of warm brown her eyes are, how big and toothy her beautiful smile is. Elle, I carry your heart with me, always, I carry it in my heart.

Relaxed Expectations

So, this Winter has been the longest one I can remember in my whole life. I've never really been a fan of the season, and was diagnosed with Seasonal Affect Disorder as a teen, and adding to that, my disdain for all winter sports, well, Winter just really sucks for me. But being a Mom now, I try to suck it up and keep my complaints to myself because I would love for my boys to maybe NOT feel as underwhelmed about Winter as their Mom.

So for the past few weeks, I have been really letting things go. My usual amped-up, but still somewhat mild case of OCD has sadly withered away to only mild irritation at things not being where they belong or the floors not being vacuumed daily or, well, even weekly. Yesterday was the first time in years I think that I just did not give a rat's ass about the huge mess my boys' made throughout the day. Seriously, as I walked through one room to the next, I did not pick one thing up and the only thing going through my head was "I'll tidy up once they're in bed.". Which, of course, by the time they were in bed, I had lost my already dwindling motivation and decided some wine and late night TV was a more appropriate use of my time. 

I used to have a strict "No Food Outside the Kitchen Rule." How quaint. That's a rule for people who are in the game.  I am not in the game right now. My couch probably harbors more food stuffs than some 3rd World countries. And I have stopped caring. Now, I'm not saying that I could be featured on the next season of Hoarders or anything...but, let's just say, things are not the way they usually are here.

Now, for those of you who know me personally, you know this is way out of character. It's crazy. And it's a sure sign that I have really just come to the end of my rope. This Winter has beat me down. It wins. I am done. I never thought I would ever say this, but I would actually rather pay someone at this point to clean my house than go through the motions of changing the vacuum bag, putting all the chairs on the kitchen table to mop, lift yet another toilet seat and wipe up more pee with a Clorox wipe. The smoldering rage that used to make me get up and conquer the days tasks is gone. Finito. Going through the motions just does not appeal to me at the moment.

I need Spring to get here so I can throw the boys outside, open the windows, attack this stale and cooped up house the way it deserves. There's just only so much a Mom can take. As I drift from one Pinterest home idea to the next, I just look at my dwelling and think "Meh. Later."  I want my old driven self back. Most days it's a battle to even get dressed, and I'm the Mom! What kind of example is that to set? Today, rather than insist that Fireball actually put on real clothes, I half-heartedly suggested he just wear his Ninja costume. That's better than pajamas, right?  And, seeing as I didn't really see anyone yesterday, it's perfectly acceptable to wear the same clothes again, right? I mean, I did change my underwear.

So if you happen to stop by in the next few days (or weeks, months...however much longer it takes for Spring to get here) please, excuse the mess. I am normally much more together. My house is typically my pride and joy, I normally relish in keeping things in order, company ready. The only company this house is ready for is Merry Maids.

Getting Older....It Sure Beats The Alternative

So as I sit here on the eve of my 38th Birthday, it strikes me that I have spent far too many days lately feeling unhappy with my current appearance, when, to be honest, this is the happiest I've ever been. The saying "Youth is wasted on the young" couldn't be more true...we are all too insecure or reckless during our youth to really appreciate it for what it is. And what it is is this: A fleeting period of time where your brain is still growing, you haven't yet figured out who you really are, what you want to do, or be, where you want to go. Yet your body requires minimal to no "upkeep" to run at peak performance, it just is what it is. So, you do it all. You are many people day to day, you go many places, and are many things. You don't think about it.

And when your body crosses the line from, oh, say, your late 20's to 30's, you slowly begin liking the you on the INSIDE more than you ever have before. You are kinder to yourself and others. You've got the backing of experience to remind you what that 4th glass of wine feels like in the am, how rotten an unkind word to a stranger makes you feel for days, how a reckless purchase means missing something else, really more important. All this is part of the dreaded "growing up".

So anyway, here I sit, my boys running around me, taking advantage of "Family Night Friday Night", knowing they've got at least a few more minutes of "Transformers Prime" before I call it a night. I woke up this morning and washed my face, brushed my teeth. Yesterday I actually bought Sensodyne toothpaste...you know, the kind for sensitive teeth? You know, for OLD PEOPLE? And as I dried my face and reached for my daily lotion (um...still using whatever samples I get for free) I really looked hard into the mirror. I don't really do that too often, I've always found my face amiable enough and just sort of left it at that. Much like my diet and exercise routine, my skincare is minimalist. I wash and occasionally moisturize. I drink lots of water. And as I looked at myself in the mirror, I wasn't shocked or horrified, but I did suddenly see a late 30 year-old where I swear, a 25 year old had just been.

This "aging" thing, man. It sneaks up on you. One minute you can party like it's 1999, and the next you're catching the Early-Bird Specials AT the 99.

It's hilarious! It's scary! But want to know my honest opinion? It's awesome. It's like coming home. It's like your outward appearance has finally caught up with your inward self. This body of mine, (well, okay, I could stand to lose a few pounds, but whatever) has finally become the outward reflection of what I feel like on the inside. Strong. Warm. Soft. Big enough to encompass all the layers of love, passion, determination, fierceness that I want to show my boys. Hard enough to weather the blows of a World that is sometimes merely unkind, and sometimes downright sick and cruel. No wilting flower here. More like a solid Oak.

There were times, too many to count, where I used to say I'd never live to see 30. What kind of a stupid thing is that to think? Well, I was living life full tilt, and didn't have any responsibilities other than myself (or so I thought). Looking back though, I wish I had been a little more aware of things other than myself. Don't get me wrong, being self-aware is a great thing, but I wish I had spent a little more time realizing what difference I could make in the World.

Now I see it, though. Now I know my strength, and now I feel a sense of desperation because I have little humans of my own who I am one part sheltering, one part training, in this World. But the truth is, all of the Worlds' kids are mine, and yours. We are spinning madly on, as things deteriorate quickly. For whatever socio-cultural-economic reasons, many kids today are left without viable role models.

So it's feeling more and more like it's up to me to change that not just for my kids (duh) but kids everywhere. I think the biggest thing I've suddenly realized as I'm approaching adulthood (shut up, that's still how I feel!) is that it's not so much "You Only Live Once"; No, you live every.damned.day. It's "You Only Die Once" so better get to it and make it count, every day you get a chance on this planet to be something, anything, to someone or some THING, who needs it.

So I say now, screw the wrinkles, screw the extra pounds. Screw the stretch marks, the jiggles, the age spots. They were hard won. It's on the inside, this brain, my mind, which feels like it's finally aged. Gained wisdom and experience to take my sons shoulders, turn them one way or another, and hope for the best. The years I had while young and trim and able to climb a cliff in a mini-skirt and heels are gone. And I'm cool with that.


 I've got bigger things to climb.

Little Drummer Boy

So as most of you know I have three sons. And my middle, Fireball, is a classic "Marches to the beat of his own drummer" type kid. But, like, even more so. Fireball marches, skips, hops, cartwheels...to the beat of his own drum. He is a riot, but trying to describe him to anyone who hasn't met him is really difficult, because I am sure when I try people think I'm either exaggerating or straight up making it up.

So I decided yesterday to, for just the afternoon (we were out as a family and spent quite a bit of time in the car) seeing as Fireball was super chatty because we were a captive audience (we were with him) that I would write down the things that were streaming out of his mouth. I imagine what's going on inside his head and I think it must just be all these little pings, pongs, boings, bubbles. This kid, man. This kid.

SO, here, I present to you, my reader:

A list of things my son said in a two hour block on Saturday Afternoon. 

"I can make my brain goat cheese!"

 

"My grampa died. My grampa from before, he was from mars."

 

"I can use water to melt snow."

 "I want to get a job too. 

I want to train to be a Ninja."

 

"Mommy did you know that a square makes a circle?"

"Mommy I just ran through the speedy tunnel! There's a bad guy! HUH!!!"

"I'm sad and cave."

"Even, you know, sometimes I'm a robot."

"My bones eat chocolate water."

"Chocolate milk kills water."

"I drank that like a lion."

"I have a cut, that's why I can't eat this salad."

"I miss my family. My family that's in China."

"I'm scared of pickles" (as he's eating a pickle)

"Lobsters don't die."

"My chocolate milk is on fire!"

"I ate food. I ate a dog that was dead!"

Later on that evening, we got home and I put Fireball in the tub. Then these gems came out:

"My beautiful water is all gone!" (I drained the bath tub) (I put some more warm water in) 

 "My beautiful water is back! Oh my beautiful water! Yeah my bubble! My bubble! I win! Mommy, wanna see my fireworks?" (and then he splashes all the water out of the tub). 

So there it is, folks. Should I sign him up for creative writing, or therapy? My kid is such a complex combination of energy, fire, silliness, emotion. He is such a joy...and such a frustration sometimes too. But he has such a large chunk of my love it's ridiculous. And I wouldn't change him for the World. Fireball, stay fiery my friend, and never stop marching on!!!!

Share

So do you ever feel sometimes like you have so much to say that it's too hard to articulate just what you want to say? Yeah, I've been sort of paralyzed lately by inertia because I have so much to say and it's all wrapped up in being a "housewife" and "Mom" while also becoming more and more alarmed at the state of our Country and planet. If I am not careful, I get so jaded that I stop caring. And then I look at my 3 boys and am terrified of what "not caring" could lead to for their future. Little daily lessons for them parallel what big things, as adults, they must learn to master.

Take greed. As kids, I'm trying to teach them to share. It's not a natural inclination to give up something you want. I think all of the World's woes can be sourced back to mankind's reluctance to share what they have. The basis of all religions is to encourage generosity, is it not? The reason for all war is over "things", be they boundaries, oil, or whether "their" religion has to share space with someone else's. And it all comes back to greed. When I think of mankind's biggest downfall, it's that we are not born wanting to share; altruism is taught. That's one of the sucky things about human beings. We're not born with the desire to give.

When I see my kid writhing in palpable pain because I forced him to give his brother a turn with a toy, I first chuckle, but then I think how this is really one of the best gifts I can give him. The opportunity to suffer, realize he's still alive, and get over it. And then the next time, he gives up his toy a little more readily. Because he's learned that sharing doesn't kill. Which some grownups seem to have a hard time grasping.

We are living in a time where sharing is becoming more and more looked down upon. Sharing for the sake of sharing is simply not done in America. You have to earn it, according to the masses. I could go on and on about class consciousness, but for the sake of brevity, I'll just say that it makes me downright sad that I'm raising my boys in the kind of World where "success" is determined by wealth and not much else. Because I want so much more for them. But we need money to survive. And some would say, thrive. I'm trying to figure out a way around that. I'm trying to figure out how to show my sons by example that sharing what little you have has rewards which can't be measured.

Which brings me back to the little daily minutiae of lessons in sharing. The epic, explosive rage expressed by my own child sure is humorous to a degree, but it also magnifies my view of my job as their parent. If I fail this teaching moment, I've become part of the problem our World is facing. Until we can all agree that this is our home and its natural splendors and resources are for everyone to share, we are just absolutely fucked. There's no pretty way around it. Since the dawn of civilization, we've had a hard time sharing.

So the inertia I feel sometimes is perhaps more like feeling overwhelmed that all these seemingly mindless tasks before me as a parent actually have really, REALLY, big consequences. And while most days I feel pretty good about the job I'm doing, it can just be daunting day in and day out. The desire to be blase about it, to just roll my eyes and bear with day after day of giving in to temper tantrums is something I have to consciously fight off some days months. Because if I give in to their demands, and let them get whatever they want, I've failed them, me, and all of you.

Mothers Of The Year

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret, so here goes: Without my Mom friends, my really close Mom friends, I would be utterly and completely LOST doing this job. I would probably be found each evening in the fetal position rocking slowly with a glazed over look in my eyes. I mean it. You women make my World go round.

Being a woman is really the first and foremost thing about me that I just am in every fiber of my being. But of course, I know I'm a human first, but really, being born with a vagina instead of a penis just completely shaped everything in my soul that makes me who I am. There are millions of ways in which being born a sex which has a global and historical disadvantage (Eve was framed) has made me, in my opinion, a stronger person. Motherhood has only highlighted and reaffirmed that.

Becoming a Mom was just...indescribable. The amazing sense of power and responsibility that came with it was both daunting and thrilling. But nothing could prepare me for the cherished bonds I formed with the other Moms I encountered. Some Moms were sanctimonious, while others were saviors. I learned throughout the last 6 years which ones to hold on to tightly and which to send on their way.

The women who stayed have been probably the best thing I gained having children. The solidarity, the understanding, the help. The shoulders to cry on, bitch to, vent. I don't care who you are, if you're a Mom, you have bad days. Like, really bad days. Days where you feel like this was the worst possible path you could have chosen, that you are doing severe damage to your kids and your World just by being their Mom. And then your friend tells you all the good things you're doing right that you couldn't see because you were so panicked about your mistakes. Or, they rally to your side when you do make an awful mistake and hold your hand as you try to fix it. In the best way, being a Mom provides you with the gift of empathy and the desire to help your fellow Moms. When I call us "Mothers of the Year", it's because we are so hilariously NOT "Mothers of the Year"....but that's what makes us all so okay with ourselves and each other. We know we're doing the best we can. And we're laughing and crying together as we try to figure this all out.

So this post is just basically a "Thank You" post. Thank You you Moms who lift me up and make me a better person. You get me. I don't have to pretend to be something I'm not around you. Fake it til you make it is a great slogan for some things, but being a genuine, flawed, still learning and trying to be better Mom, being who you really are is the only way to go. And without my fellow "Mothers of the Year", I don't think I would be able to do it. You don't care that I can be lazy, or loud, or sarcastic as hell and make light of things that are really serious and that I put all my flaws out there because, that's who I am. I swear. A lot. And you don't care because you know that's who I am.

So, there ya go. My big ole secret. I would really suck as a Mom if it weren't for you guys. The ones who take this parenting thing seriously but not so seriously that you can't see the humor in the fact that somehow we ended up being little people's Moral Compass. This gig is crazy, right? How the heck are we gonna keep up with it, them, the World? How are we possibly NOT going to screw this up? I'll tell you how. Laughing, holding hands, and crying into our bottle of wine. Love you my Sisters from other Misters.