It wasn’t until my final laps that I became aware of my failing mommy marathoning and consciously decided to remove myself from the medalist’s mound. Ever since my liberating self-defeat I have found myself cheering on the stumbling, novice racers I once eyed with envy, with the lens of a sympathetic spectator, as they fiercely fight and fumble for a fictional finish-line, that exists only in the virtual world of Etsy and Pinterest. So when I routinely became audience to yet another race to nowhere at a recent baby battleground (a.k.a. Mommy and Me Gymnastics), I settled into the sweet and subtle shakedown of mommy mixed martial arts I have come to expect (i.e. handmade hair-bow throw down, My Baby Can Read…and kick your baby’s butt, and other first time mama favorites), while trying to simply corral my three wild beasts, far removed from the racetracks. What I didn’t expect was my late entry submission into the showdown and my 1-2-3 (kids) underdog sucker punch. Here are the transcripts from the event: Continue reading →

Any other mini-van mamas out there bogged down with baggage (both physical and emotional, I suppose) and feeling about as proud as a pack mule? Here is your story:

Each morning, as I rush towards my morning finish-line (impressively, a predictably consistent ten minutes later than the very last second I can possibly leave with any hope of success at punctuality), I am amazed at the sheer volume of baggage I am able to physically lift, while running to my mark with one kid on my hip, another on my leg, while searching for the mysteriously absent third, and the methodically balanced distribution of lunch boxes, sippie cups, and diaper bags that teeter on each shoulder and wrist (and on the worst of days, even a desperate ankle), threatening to reach disequilibrium at any moment, with the potential of becoming a lethal pendulum, with the hip hugger being its first victim. Or worse… costing me yet another precious second in the endless fight against time, I call motherhood.  Continue reading →

This evening, my Zoe picked up our wedding vows, squeezed in between us, and began to read them aloud. So when David looked up at me and said, “I never would have imagined when I wrote these my little girl would be cuddled up next to us, reading our words,” I totally started to tear up. Fortunately, the waterworks were abruptly stopped as I added, “And I never imagined our other little girl would be sitting on my head and licking my face.”  But wait, there’s more!

So I had just finished reading an awesome post on Leslie Welton‘s page (http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2013/03/lets-bring-holidays-down-notch.html), when my Zoe decided she just had to catch a leprechaun. Now if you read my blog you know that I am a far, FAR reach from being “that” mom. Think Pinterest dreams, add too much puffy paint, a glitter explosion, and you have me…queen of good intentions. But when Zoe independently arranged a trap, complete with rainbow, grass (apparently an Irish delicacy), gold, and a perfectly placed camera, “just in case”, I felt “that” mom emerge within me and re-prioritize my rebellion against the Mommy Wars. But wait, there’s more!

Here is a summary of this (and every) morning, depicted using actual words from a one minute snapshot of why I never, ever have time to do my makeup (my husband thinks I am a supermodel if I get chapstick on), put on matching clothes (whatever passes the smell check), or even take a shower (once again…smell check). “Zoe…go tell your sister to get her shoes on.” Mia screams in rebellion. I hear Zoe dramatically fall to the ground and whimper in despair. I have to think fast. Do I reprimand Mia for the rebellion, or focus on Zoe’s constant cries for attention, by overplaying the role of victim? But wait, there’s more!

Today I am grateful for recycled wishes. Whether it comes in the form of an audible anticipation as I pry open the plastic bin filled with “brand new” hand-me-downs, or fashioned from the half-eaten popsicle they decided was just the right size for three, my kiddos constantly remind me that the “joys of new” can be powered by perspective. Today I am thankful for the squeals of delight I was shared as they slipped into last year’s Easter dresses, just to smother them with wrinkles to fill with the effects of a filthy fountain, as they     “borrowed” pennies for just one more wish. Because they remind of what is really worth wishing for.

So I’m thinking the bossy one might have a future as a lyricist.  While her inspiration is cliche, as she has apparently fallen victim to the widespread obsession with Frozen parodies, I guess I can look past her lack of novelty, given she is 6. I suppose I can hold off my demands of absolute independent invention until at least the double digits. Regardless, her viciously humorous version, aimed at harassing the wild one, as well as addressing her own psychological distress as a result of being the only rational thinker in a family of lunatics, had me in hysterics. Mind you, this just rolled out of her, unplanned, and voiced with passion:

“Don’t let her in! She’s going to scream!  Don’t want to be the big sister, I always have to be. Conceal her squeals.  Don’t let Mims innnnnnnn. But now she’s innnnnnn!  Close the door! Close the door! She’s gonna scream in my face. Lock the door. Lock the door.  I really need some space. I don’t care what Mom’s going to say. The Reflection Room never bothered me anyway.”

Of course, I tried to document this rendition on film, but her wise response was, “No way! You’ll just put it up on your Facebook.” Ha! Boy, was she wrong. My blog is a way classier means of sharing our dirty laundry.

So today life provided me with a particularly enlightening experience, as David and I were given the opportunity to observe our wildest beast in her (un)natural habitat (preschool). The emotional preparation leading up to this fieldwork study was filled with equal parts excitement and anticipation to view our tiny little social experiment among her pint-sized peers (Would we burst with pride at the cognitive genius of our little Chimp? Giggle at the antics of our squirrelly Spider Monkey? Would she prove to be the Silver-Back of circle time?), and absolute fear of the potential for a public viewing of our little native’s less culturally appropriate practices (Please Mia. Just don’t be the Bonobo). But wait, there’s more!

Today I was having difficulty carving out the the single minute I need to fulfill my indulgent beauty regiment defined as the illustrious twenty second tooth brushing and simultaneous seductive scrunchified hair poof combination. This may have been due to the little love leeches (a.k.a. my children) I found attached to various parts of my being, which I was finding myself to be unsuccessful at shaking off. Now this is in no way atypical. By now means do I want you to believe that any morning runs so smoothly as to afford me an entire sixty seconds to myself. No. But wait, there’s more!

Mia is famous for her secret selfies. I swear I never leave my camera out and never see her snapping a shot, but every time I scan through I find a new little one of these treasures. It has become an infamous “Where’s Waldo” phenomenon around the Vokoun home. Whenever we upload our newest innocent images from a birthday bash or recent vaca…BAM…a little spice of Mia Joy!

But wait, there’s more!

Today I am NOT grateful for Michael’s Art Store. I am NOT grateful for whoever the mean ol’ “Michael” behind the scenes is that created a store meant to drive mommy’s mad, as I am convinced “he” has a vendetta against well-intentioned mothers of small children. It’s true. As a mommy masochist who has frequented more than my fair share of shops with too many in tow (strictly out of obligation, not a need for unnecessary adventure), I can confidently conclude that Michael’s is among my top ten torture techniques, guaranteed to test my mommy magic. But wait, there’s more!

So it was 10:30 and I was in the midst of doing the laundry, while checking my email, while having a phone conference, while my kiddos were playing in the backyard (completely unattended), and realized I was still in my pajamas, hadn’t showered, or even brushed my teeth, and had to leave for an in-person meeting in a matter of minutes. And then I hear my not-so-patient little Mia proclaim, “I’m Thirsty…RIGHT NOW!” So I literally screamed (phone conference on mute). But wait, there’s more!

We were rushing out the door to make it on time (okay…we were just hoping for 10 minutes late) and I look down and see this tattered, little asymmetrical sensation (INSERT PICTURE HERE). So I audibly groan and inform my Mims that her shoes do not, in fact, match. To which she knowingly responded, “I know. I like them like that. They’re rainbow feet.” But wait, there’s more!

While most sane folks might see this image as a parenting failure, this is my image of gratefulness. I am thankful that my one year old has the vocabulary, authority, and sheer know-how to command a familial, morning “booty shake”, that comes from both a place of joyful spontaneity and a somewhat unintentional routine. But wait, there’s more!

In a mad rush to get out of the door on time I grabbed my boots and threw them in the car to put on once I got all the way to Zoe’s school thirty minutes a way. I just didn’t have the time. Well, we just pulled up. Take a second look at the picture. Notice anything? But wait, there’s more!

My little angels have a gift of finding a way to battle over everything and nothing at all. Their newest pastime is staking claim on the coveted characters from whatever movie is playing or book is being read or even whatever soundtrack bumping. Even Wesley has picked up the craft of debate with the catch phrase, “NO! That’s ME!” with the added subtlety of shouting it directly in his sister’s faces. But wait, there’s more!

I think my husband needs to start his own blog. He’s always providing our family with precious little gems of wisdom. Today we were reminiscing through the dusty, old baby books and I was commenting on my accelerated loss of my once youthful glow. To which the love of my life responded, ” I think children make you age in dog years.” So true. So sad. Another recent quotable moment when helping his baby boy with bath time, ” Are you ready for the bath, Buddy?” Insert Wesley nodding his head NO. ” Wrong answer, Bee~otch! You’re going in.” Sorry ladies…he is taken!

After enough rough days that I am now finally able to admit that this is actually my norm, and not an exception, I am so grateful to have friends who are equally conscience and honest about life in the trenches of parenting. I’ve always suffered as a wishful, yet failing, type A, the destructive collision between OCD and ADD, with a hefty dose of natural insecurity. But wait, there’s more!

Tonight I am grateful for bed-wetting. Yes…middle of the night, soak the sheets, accidents. You see, it has become our accidental, half-asleep tradition to deal with these occasional, slumbering hiccups by throwing a mound of pillows by our bed, stripping off her soggy jams and draping her in whatever one of my shirts I can find (as we do not dare go back for spare jams and risk waking another, forcing us into officially opening the doors to Club Toddler Takeover). But wait, there’s more!

Because now and then, when I wave my white flag over the battle of boredom for toddlers at the table, they collaboratively pull together their chairs, devour an entire pot of broccoflower, and independently bow their heads to give thanks, the wild one using her innate (and often worrisome) leadership skills to convince the others that this is all still a winning rebellion. But wait, there’s more!