I am routinely over-planned, over-booked, over-whelmed. So I consistently smile wider, with the hope of over-shadowing all of my overs, by over-doing it once again. Then I come home to consistently crumble over too much to do, too little time, inaudibly blubbering my infamous “I can’t,” “I won’t”, recognizable only to my faithful few who have lived through enough of my self-imposed storms to translate my ridiculous routine, when even I am blind to my schedule cell.  And yet, he has yet to call me out on my consistent inconsistencies, the repetition of my too much and too little. He is the master of listening intently (or at least masquerading as so) to a story he has been told again and again, and to which he knows the inevitable ending, but never ruins the tragic twist for me. He never tortures me by revealing the realization that my storms are really just my self-published series of chaotic choose-your-own-adventures. He weathers my storms. He hands me the umbrella for the predictable waterworks and begins to blow up the raft to help me paddle out of the ocean I pulled us all into…again. I am routinely over-planned, over-booked, over-whelmed, and he never, ever drowns me by over-analyzing, over-judging, or over-emphasizing the obvious, that every “over” in my life, is all my own. No. Instead, he jumps in with me every time. And saves me from over-doing it (again), in my predictable story of pretending to save the world. Admit it…behind every Room Mom, every Team Mom, every Troop Leader, every “volunteer” there are the silent superheroes that save us from ourselves, so that we can go out and pretend to save the world again tomorrow. He’s mine. Who’s yours?

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or COMMENT, or FOLLOW my blog…or just read some more of my disasters.

Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.

You know you are a working mama when…

…you think back fondly to the days of maternity leave with a colicky newborn, as “those days when you got some sleep.”

…your toddler’s breakfast theater involves the holding of their banana to their ear, while shooshing to their siblings “Mama’s Working. Go play!” or “Go put on ANOTHER Dora” (Hey…it’s educational), while “typing” on their waffle and “cooking” their sausage in their imaginary microwave (although even radiation-infused, hot food is truthfully only a reality on those theoretical “good” days).

…you convince yourself that neglecting your children is somehow an asset to them. “It fosters imagination!” “It facilitates independence!” Sure.

…you actually take a whole breathe in and let out an audible sigh of relief at magically getting that chronic must-do done, when you suddenly realize you have no idea where your children are, and it is strangely quiet (think “eye of the storm”). So you violently crash into your Yard House mug of Starbucks,  as you sprint towards the inevitable disaster you anticipate behind that closed door.

…you’ve officially given up on folding the laundry, and simply pray for a day to sort the mountain into moveable hills you can temporarily transport away, so you can remember a time when your closet was your closet, and not a secret sanctuary to closet the visual representation of your state in life.

…in those theoretical, mythical moments when the impossibility of completion unfolds, and ALL of your in-boxes are empty AND you all SIT DOWN to a dinner together that YOU made, IN THE OVEN, you wonder why you aren’t being awarded a physical Metal of Honor for your accomplishments. Where’s my parade, people?

…you reach for a business card from your briefcase and pull out superhero underwear…at a meeting…with a client…and you are too tired to even bother explaining, and contemplate just handing over the Underoos instead, as a symbol of who your real boss is.

Come to think of it, maybe I should have titled this “You Know You WERE a Working Mama When…” I’m not sure these events constitute peak professionalism, or performance, or potential continued employment, or even the honor of being called a mama.

Even so, here is to doing the impossible, working mamas!  Now get out there and attempt those absurd impossibilities once again. Conquer that laundry mountain, while voice commanding an email, while wiping a tiny, little behind. (Well, maybe allow for a hand washing break between the laundry and the behind) Ignore your imaginative little “independents”, knowing you are inspiring innovation with your “intentional” neglect. Pat yourself on the back for managing to magic up a balanced breakfast, even when that translates to shelling out the guilt money for those pricey gluten-free toaster waffles this time, and yelling at your tiny people to get off their banana phones and start chewing, all the way from from the shower which you had the audacity to sneak in for once.  Please accept this virtual gold medal for surviving another seemingly bipolar day of managing to maintain multiple personalities, multiple personas, multiples of everything. YOU ARE AMAZING!

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or COMMENT, or FOLLOW my blog…or just read some more of my disasters.

Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.

There is nothing quite like that first one. The sweet, quiet jumble of consonants and vowels, your imagination translates into a connection. That first, tiny, hopeful, audible love.

“Mmma-Ma”.

It’s magnetic. It’s magic. And while its first existence was likely an accidental concoction of fumbling oral motor development, and an absolute lack of physical mobility necessary to even direct their babbling away from the only engaging moveable form in their single square footage of presence, the addiction has already begun. Like some sort of DNA grade, estrogen-driven narcotic, you develop a sort of physical thirst for more of that delicious little four-letter word. And so, you instantly become a bottomless cavern of echos, wishfully waiting for a parroted fix. Mama Magic. Mama Magnetism.

Fast forward a few years and that once sweet, intoxicating love song has abruptly lost its charm. Perhaps it is simply a loss of novelty, or the seemingly masterful tuning of their tone to an almost toxic pitch, tailored specifically for your maternal drum, like some sort of DNA driven dog whistle, or simply the endless addition of mini MAMA performing artists, creating a symphony of repelling pitches and demands, or perhaps it is the sheer number of repetitions over the years (keeping in mind that mothering-young-children years, are equivalent to dog years…plus some), that have reached a credit roll that now defines infinity. Don’t get me wrong…I love my little Mama Monsters, but somewhere amidst the sibling squabbles and diaper disasters and mundane moments that felt like their own epic emergencies that led to each and every “MAMA” moment, the polls changed on the magnetism of that magical little word. When did I become the magnet, and why does such an attractive magnetism feel so repelling sometimes?

Here are the lyrics to  a representative performance piece, as spoken by my own troop of little drama royalty:

Enter First Strings: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaama. Oh, um Mama. Mama. Ummmmm. Mama.”

Enter Subtle Wishful Winds Section: “Yes, Honey.”

First Strings Interrupt: “Ummmmmmmmmmm. Mama. Ummm?”

Enter Second Strings: “Mama. MaMa. MAMA!!!”

First Strings Interrupts: “Hey! I was talking to Mama. Mama. Mama. Um…Mama.”

Second String Interrupts: “No, IIIIII was talking to Mama. MAMA!”

Suddenly the string section unites: “MAAAAAAAAMA!!!”

Enter Third Strings: “MAMA!”

Eventually, the conductor realizes she is not at all conducting, but, in fact, is amidst a jaded jam session that has no evident end in site.

So I run. And as I try to escape my own symphony of adoring fans, the pull of my Mama Magnetism only draws the crescendo closer, their tiny fingers begging through the sliver under the bathroom door, my own little Mama version of Beliebers.  When did solo pottying become both a coveted privilege and a distant memory? When did checking Mama checking an email become so much for magnetic than the stockpile of toys that now qualify us for an episode of Hoarders? When did “cleaning” the garage become cooler than a backyard so riddled with spoils that it now resembles Neverland Ranch  (note the quotes, as cleaning with my kiddos, actually means destroying any hope of order at a speed of at least 3X as fast as I can “clean”)? Why do my little Mama Monsters feel compelled to break through barricades, leap over gates titled and tailored specifically to detour them, and collide with closed doors, just to utter THAT word, when their ridiculous race began in the quite capable Daddy’s lap to begin with? When did I become the magnet? Where did the magic of that magnetism go? And why-oh-why did I ever teach my children to parrot that deceptively innocent little four letter word?

I know. I know. One day soon I will miss the magic of these magnetic moments, but…

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMA”

Crap. Gotta go. I’m feeling the pull again.

I am so grateful for opportunities for the right kind of life lessons. What do I do when my Mims “accidentally” drops my favorite picture in the impossible spot behind the car window. A) “Teach Her A Lesson!” or B) Teach her a lesson…in auto mechanics and problem solving and forgiveness. So happy for B. No…we didn’t get the picture back. But she did remember it was on “Face Page”, helped me print out the old favorite and post this new one. So grateful for my million and one constantly coming mistakes that remind me to help them through theirs.

When my kiddos asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day I provided the obligatory “Nothing at all.  Just you.” Next year, I think I will  be more specific. This is the result of my open-endedness:

As the hubby is the sole bassist for the worship team, Sundays are not tailored to the cherished Mother’s Day tradition of sleeping in. So by 7 AM, my 3 little alarm clocks alarmed into my room complete with bed bounces and dog piles to ensure my participation in their manic morning festivities, and presented me with hand crafted love wrapped in tissue. My husband sat in the shadows with an apologetic coffee and quickly shuffled off to his last minute shower. Too consumed by their contagious joy and audible excitement, and too confused by the jungle of tissue paper now clouding my vision to grumble at my own exhaustion, I was still processing my present when the screams began. “GET IT! GET IT!” As my tiny little terrors collided in desperate flee from fear, trying to escape, well I wasn’t quite sure what, I tried to calm the chaos, while simultaneously rubbing the sleep from my eyes. And then I heard it, “PINCHER BUGS!” And then I SAW them…PINCHER BUGS! Realizing I was pegged down for an insect invasion by my panicked little people, I did what any mother would do…I tossed the children into the air, began smashing their little love gifts, and joined in the screaming. My husband laughed from the shower. In all I captured six slithery stowaways crawling across my bed, apparently hidden among the bushes of flowers my children had stuffed into a makeshift gift bag for my enjoyment.

Later, as my sweet spouse left me with the 3 screaming little beasts still chanting spells of insanity upon me, he left me with one final gift, “How do you suppose so many of those bugs got in there anyways? They must have laid eggs in your presents or something.” And with that, my Mother’s Day morning was complete with the psychological gift of incessant hallucinations of insects on my every inch and an inability to ever sleep again. The gift that keeps on giving.

Mia Joy. It means “My Joy.” At the time we bequeathed her name, we were still novice, starry eyed parents with the false notion that we could somehow guide her destiny in this world. Mirrored after the traditions in scripture of triumphant characters being driven by their title, like Jacob, the “heal snatcher”, as if the Lord himself named them retroactively, I was certain “My Joy” would fulfill the duties of her name. Well, she has. Unfortunately, I didn’t factor in her interpretation. You see, my intentions were selfish, “MY” Joy. Hers were equally so, interpreting “MY” as her own, “Mia’s Joy.” And anyone who meets her can see she is the embodiment of bliss (and relentless devotion to fun and amphetamine levels of energy and the definition of exhausting). But recently, I have wondered if an even more appropriate name might have been “My Humility”, (although it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it). You see, she is by far the biggest champion of grounding my ego, through her constant reminders that I am not in control, and allows me to be grateful to step down from that expectation. This truth was illustrated yet again in the following encounter with my tiny master of modesty. Earlier this week, I was immersed in mommy recess with some fellow inmates in the institution of insanity known as homeschooling, while our little learners escaped to their real classroom, the playground. In a rare incident of pride, a distinct contrast to my expertise in self-loathing, I was boasting about our big plans for our newest learning adventure. “This morning we studied the lives and work of Matisse and Picasso and created divided self-portraits of the dueling masters and…” I was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, as I set aside my pride to notice a look of shock spreading across my audience. Of course, I assumed it must be a sign of their appreciation of our depth of learning, impressed with our cultural focus, disbelief at my budding geniuses potential. But as their looks of surprise evolved into concern, and then eventually disgust, my silence was interrupted by a familiar, “Look Mama!” And as I turned around to see my mini master of humility with her shoes removed, sprawled across the filth of the floor, proudly sucking on her muddy toes, I remembered who was actually being schooled. And THAT is why my name should be “Queen of Good Intentions”, mother to the “Master of Humility”…my joy!

The first, held my hand, gifting the confidence I needed for the adventure. The second, was the adventure that taught me how to embrace the ride. The third, was the laughter that became the soundtrack that reminds me of why I stepped onto the roller coaster to begin with, and makes me laugh at the comedy of my novice belief that confidence had anything at all to do with the adventure of parenting. Because the more I let go, throw my hands up, and yes, sometimes even scream, the more my eyes are opened to see that what a parent really needs can never be found in the false confidence of perceived control, but in the courage that comes from trusting your tiny passengers.  So at one of those turbulent parenting peaks or valleys, I came to the realization that we are all on the ride and never really the ones at the control panel and stopped being scared.  I found my courage, threw my hands up, and joined in the laugh track of my tiny co-riders I stood in line so long for, and finally started enjoying the greatest adventure of my life. Because, after all, the whole point of the ride is…well, the ride!

Being that our tinies are tortured with the truth of having two teachers attempting to raise them, we are admittedly known to try to disguise irrelevant lessons as table talk or even “fun”, making their sad, sad world look like an unintentional game of Junior Jeopardy because…well, because we are equal parts evil and nerdy I suppose. (I know. I need to find my off switch and quit my fact-pushing habit, or risk complete social isolation of both myself and my poor little scholastic victims.) So the other day the hubs (teaching torturer extraordinaire) was talking to our itty-bitty academics about the prefix “tri” and extended the discussion to examples. The kiddos were feeling accomplished as they presented us with the obligatory, “tri-angle”, “tri-cycle”, and so on, when the winning player chimed in with “try-ing”. With a chuckle of all-knowing wisdom I explained her inaccuracy, as “tri” is defined as “three” and this would become meaningless when paired with “ing”. Not surprisingly, deserving of the nickname “the-one-who-refuses-to-be-wrong”, justified her choice by stating, “Well, Mama is always TRYING to do too much by pretending she has THREE arms. So TRYING means use-ING THREE.” BAM! I quickly realized I’d lost this scholarly battle to the illogically logical streaming thoughts of my 6 year old and quickly changed the topic to princesses and superheroes. I learned my lesson.

My Outlook calendar is like a thousand piece puzzle carefully kept complete at all costs. I have, however, created my own challenge level for my puzzle of responsibilities by convincing myself of the mirage of an occasional opening (that doesn’t really exist) just to fill it once again with that 1,001st piece that really has nowhere to go. I really wish this was an effort at hyperbole. It is not. This is a literal piece. I can remember my starter puzzle, the one with little knobs to help you handle the pieces in this new game of mommyhood. No doubt, that life with my first little one was a balancing act, that required some adjustment. But when my second piece arrived, and I was faced with a puzzle not so easily solved, my life became far more of a juggling act. However, none of these starter sets quite prepared me for Level 3. Continue reading →

So I’ve noticed my mouth isn’t the only thing growing big with age. And while I could easily qualify as a personal trainer in how to justify this growing trend, my tiny Type-A (the eldest in my variety pack) finally decided to put my excuses on the bench and start running me in the right direction again, when she sweetly (note my virtual sarcasm) announced, “I’ll be your personal trainer Mama.” So I ignorantly agreed to the playful proposal of my compact coach, with visions of leisurely walks with Hallmark breaks for desperado dandelions. Thus, I was grossly unprepared for my bite-sized boot camp.

5:30 AM: Mere minutes past bedtime. The morning still dressed in the black of night.

Wait! Let’s replay the start of the training session that led up to this starting gate.

12:30 AM: “Bedtime” (note the quotes) Continue reading →

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!

My day job (and frankly, my life) is kicking my patootie. Out of time, I had to bring the kids along to make copies at the college for my class starting in an hour. Low and behold the only other person in the copy center is a full timer from my department. But wait, there’s more!

So we took all 3 kiddos out to an early dinner at Hof’s (coupon inspired, or we would have never braved public viewings so close to bedtime) and we brought enough stickers and crayons to keep the natives happy enough to blend in (as much as 3 little ones out to dinner can blend in that is). So when some lady comes up to our table and says, But wait, there’s more!

There is nothing like bringing in a Starbucks cup full of vomit to help cure your caffeine addiction. But wait, there’s more!

David: “Well the kids are playing quietly together.”

Me: “Oh no!” But wait, there’s more!

As the joys of Christmas near, I am filled with daydreams of wrapping paper in flight, those sound bite squeals of joy, and the magic of those little moments that become those time capsule memories. And then, I am reminded of the nightmare….the inevitable terror of the toy take-over. But wait, there’s more!

(Here’s what they should really write on that obnoxious warning label) But wait, there’s more!

When my little beasts are in full on battle mode, I am prone to make some parenting choices which I struggle to categorize as either good or bad. So I am asking you to tell me…Shame or Pride? :

1. My children were arguing over a coveted, single balloon brought home from a beloved friend’s birthday party. So I calmly walked over…and popped it. Crying ensued. Shame or Pride? But wait, there’s more!

Before I had my wild little beasts, I truly believed in the ridiculous notion that the measure of a parent could be quantified in the number of nasty “No’s” that were audible to an unintended audience. I honestly thought that if you read enough books (as hilariously contradicting as they all are) and you had enough “discipline” (whatever the newest, trendy definition might be), you could somehow will your children into submission, cookie cut your own little mini-me-muffins, and avoid the scarlet letter of having “that” kid. Ha! But wait, there’s more!

So..what does this mom want for the holidays? The present of a lack of presence (of my children). But wait, there’s more!

First, watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sp5uH6QfpT4&feature=share But wait, there’s more!

I neglect my poor husband. I admit it. I am not proclaiming this as some delicious declaration or a form of feminist propaganda, but more of a statement that is said with a shame that warrants anonymity. But wait, there’s more!

So when did torture become our preferred past time? The Christmas season has created the ideal, amplified version of this mommy-masochism, in order to allow me to finally see clearly how my Outlook Calendar can really be read as a script for a horror film. But wait, there’s more!

I really wish Facebook had audio at this exact moment. If you could just hear the peaks and pitch of my little people right now…that would be enough of a confession for the rest of the year. But wait, there’s more!

So I went out last night. Cue the sounds of angels singing and visions of the heavens parting, because this is truly a miracle. But wait, there’s more!

As fellow mama warriors in the fight against time, I am sure you are familiar with both the term, and the permanent condition within parenting, known as “The Laundry List”. It is that seemingly endless, ever-evolving list of responsibilities, that if you ever actually had the time to write down in its entirety, would likely result in a reenactment of that classic scene of opening up a scroll, only to have it tumble to the ground as it unfolds, cascading across the length of the room. But wait, there’s more!

The Coif•fure Barometer (It means hair, people. Look it up. These posts are as much about bringing some culture to the mommy world, as they are about bringing myself shame).

So I have found that there is a direct correlation between the amount of pressure mounting in my household and the evident success or defeat of my wild one’s manes. I swear it is scientific. If you want to know how monumentally stressed out I am, look at the locks. Let me explain. But wait, there’s more!

So this whole posting addiction has gotten me thinking (a rarity, as I had forgotten I had an actual identity, or even existence, outside of my tiny tornadoes). So I asked my husband what he thought of my little confessions. Here was his fumbling response. “Well…I have a theory. The funniest people are never really attractive or cool at all. I don’t really think you CAN have it all together and be funny. For example the perfect mom could never make people laugh about parenting. So…(awkward pause, as he realizes what he actually just said out loud).” How does one dig themselves out of that one? “Well…you are really good at being self-deprecating. I guess that’s always worked for you.” Oh yeah ladies! That’s right! He is ALL mine. But wait, there’s more!

So we keep saying that we are going to shell out the extra money to get “real”family photos, the ones with a sunset background and delicious touch ups to make everything and everyone look aglow, rather than the $3.99 special, provided by a teen with camera at our local Target. However, I keep saying that we will take the plunge once I get back into my skinny(er) pants, so the poster sized abomination will at least act as a time capsule of a thinner time. Unfortunately, we’re still waiting. But wait, there’s more!