I’m an optimist, or maybe an idiot. I sometimes wonder if those two words are synonyms. I always think the morning will run smoother today. I think, somehow, that I have some sort of control over how things will move. Alright…I am going with idiot.

Lunches prepared. Check. Morning routines listed, laminated, and laid out. Check. Brushes of every kind primed and ready for my army of smelly, dirty, raggedy love bugs. Check. What could possibly go wrong, right?

But then they wake up….and that is why I look like this.

But today would go smoother. I decided. So, like magic, we hit our target time for morning take-off. Everyone was dressed and brushed and passed my low-standard smell test. (Mind you, I had not brushed or washed a single piece of my own morning mess, but I pretended the costume of motherhood would excuse my visual odor, and perhaps the pouring rain would wash away the rest.) On-the-go breakfasts were in hand. Even the baby had managed to sleep in, lending itself to an easy, tearless, transfer to the carseat. Hallelujah! I mean, actual miracle, HALLELUJAH!

But then we walked outside the sanctuary of our home…and that is why I look like this.

I was thrust back into reality as I remembered that there had not been a single space when parking the night prior and had had to leave our family limo (aka an ’06, Cheerio encrusted mega-van) at the end of the block. Now, with the thunderous down pouring, and my shivering four-pack threatening to pounce into the puddles that were sirening their names, my mighty mini-van now seemed miles away. So, I did what any good mother would do…I threatened them (lovingly) with the demand to not leave the imagined safety of the porch, and ran my hot-mess through the rain, drove it directly to my darlings, and sheltered each little time-leacher to their chariot one-at-a-time. No, I didn’t have an umbrella. That would have made too much sense.

So multiply my soggy, soaking existence by 4…and that is why I look like this.

After a millennium of musical chairs, they all managed to buckle in, when the wild one casually reflected that perhaps she might have put on her sister’s pants, only to unbuckle, stand up and reveal her princess panties, as the super-sized pants fall to the floor of the car. Explain to me how this fact might just come to you at THIS point in the morning. Really? Right now?

So I unbuckle, and brave the rainy battle one last time to grab a pair of fitting bottoms for my little, bare-bummed bundle…and that is why I look like this.

We finally get to Mama Bus Stop #1 and, of course, the school parking lot is flooded. As we circle the school, swirling in the flood of cars all equally frazzled by the morning, we find the only curb to cuddle is blocks from the drop off door. Luckily, just as I pulled in, my mommy brain provided me with the mental image of toteing four, for blocks, through the storm…and don’t forget about the siren song of the puddles.  So I made a mommy call, bumped the boy to final drop-off, and booked it, resulting in the inevitable Meltdown #1. This of course, worked magically as an alarm clock for the slumbering smallest, who immediately erupted into blood curdling screeching, which continued for the entire remainder of the 45-minute joy ride. Luckily, the neighboring wild one broke out into song…a show tunes version of a Christmas Carol soundtrack, complete with jazz hands. While her attempts to “calm” the baby never completed the task, it did lend itself to a beautiful layering of melodies including the meltdown, muffled by screeching, mixed with Rudolph the Broadway Reindeer.

And of course, not to be excluded from the trio, the 8-going-on-18-year-old belted out that she had a headache (ironic, as one would assume a headache would be worsened by belting out, but…), followed by a rhythmic series of “Uuuuuuughs” and groans of irritation…and that is why I look like this.

Don’t worry, the meltdowner calmed down…just long enough to announce the completion of his anti-e-sanitary-tablishment masterpiece he had created with his greek yogurt, all over the front of his pants. I absorbed the guilt of having attempted a healthier breakfast on-the-go, and assumed it had been a spill. However, he demanded the credit, stating it was an intentional effort and “his new style.”

And without a spare set of clothes in the car, well, fantastic…..and that is why I look like this.

And then, mid 405/mid storm, I hear these sweet words…”Mommy, I think I’m getting carsick!” So I did what any good mother would…rolled down my window, mid-freeway/mid storm, allowing buckets of rainwater to flood my car and pelt my children, in order to dump out my coffee (my only remaining lifeline), and toss the dirty cup back to the threatening puker, as a sad attempt at nurturing his needs…and that is why I look like this.

We survived. Tossed 1/2 of the mess to their teachers and saved the baby from the torture of carseat life for a brief break in the parking lot. I opted to boldly nurse the baby in the “comfort” of the car, smiling sweetly at the passers by, who seemed surprised by the free show, along with the bouncing brother, attempting gymnastics in the front seat as he “patiently” waited for our return trip through traffic. Finally, getting back on track, I buckle the boys, start the engine, and hear these sweet words…”Mommy, potty emergency!” So I load up the troops and brave the rain once again, because crap happens…and that is why I look like this.

I’m an optimist, or maybe an idiot. I sometimes wonder if those two words are synonyms. I always think the morning will run smoother today. I think, somehow, that I have some sort of control over how things will move. Alright…I am going with idiot.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE FLASHBACK: Year 3 Day 15

Bringing back an old post for your punchlines.

My home will never, ever be featured in Homes and Gardens…unless, of course they were in need of a dramatic before shot or some sort of warning label. Our home is cluttered with hand-me-downs and thrift store finds and, I can assure you, that any aesthetic accomplishments are purely accidental. In all honesty, we have chosen a path in life that would never allow for the kind of beauty you’d find on a cover. We just can’t afford it. But, with equally genuine transparency, that is just how I like it. You see, while our old, questionably hygienic furniture, that should have been replaced a decade ago is surely not worthy of capturing on film, it is the perfect breeding ground for capturing moments, memories, and all of those other beauties of life that get pushed out when “beauty” is pushed in. I am grateful because when my kiddos bounce on our bed or do back flips on the couch, I don’t have to worry about “ruining the (fill in the blank…everything we own is old and deprecate)”, and in doing so ruining their moments that will become the memories that will be worth remembering one day. I am grateful for their tradition of making mountains of pillows in preparation for braving leaps from our bed. Grateful for the teamwork involved in their mischief and the rare moments without rivalry that come from letting them entertain themselves with potentially disastrous consequences. Grateful for our already disastrous life that is the perfect foundation for allowing in the chaos that brings the laughter and makes our home, a home. So truly, genuinely, absolutely, I am grateful for our hot mess family, and our hot mess children, and our hot mess home, because the beauty of our life is so much clearer when posed against it all. But please…just give me a 15 minute warning before you come-a-knockin’ so I can hide the chaos in the closet, wipe off the visible dirt, throw a blanket over the stains, and pretend that none of this madness is true. And if you surprise me in your hunt for a cover shot and I tell you that you just “caught me at a bad time,” know that I am lying. We will never, ever be your cover shot. We will always be the warning label. It is up to you to decide what that warning is. WARNING: “If you don’t pick up the pillow pile, you might end up looking like this” or WARNING: “If you keep picking up the pillow pile, you might miss the moments that feel just like this.” I think our choice is aesthetically evident.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 10

The littlest beasts coerced me into beaching my watermelon onto the concrete for an absolutely crucial chalk art creation. Admittedly, the lying down part wasn’t half bad. Unfortunately, there was the getting up part that posed a bit of a problem. Especially as the little beasts abandoned me for another crucial piece of work…in the house…leaving me alone…beached…belly up…on the cement…with night quickly approaching…and concerned onlookers whispering frantically about the lonely pregnant lady sleeping on the sidewalk.

I apologize to all of my (once) friendly neighbors and (once) innocent commuters on Willow and Lakewood, at dusk yesterday. After attempting the seesaw rock and roll and the world’s saddest attempt at a sit-up, I determined that the only way out of the scene was the sideways scoot, which may have resulted in an unfortunate flashing of things that are not in the spirit of the holidays, to a crowded main street of victims and perhaps a huddled mass of terrified small children (although none of them my own, as they had long since abandoned me).

The good news is this incredible chalk masterpiece was worth all of the pain of my performance art piece. Just check out my accessorized Frankenstein head and massive leg growths! Owww!

I bet you missed that performance piece now!

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 14

Wait for the second verse…

So, what’s the confession?

I’m often told she is my mini-me…

…and I am dang proud of it!

I wish I could be half of this kid when I finally decide to grow up.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 13

My obstetrician told me not to hold anything over 20 pounds.

Oops!

He must have forgotten that for the past 7 years, I’ve never held LESS than 20 pounds.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 11

Concerned commenters see me sitting on the concrete with a pile of little people balancing and bouncing on my belly and often share their sympathy on how hard it must be to handle, sympathetically stating, “Are you sure you should be getting down on the ground like that?”

So, I simply share that getting down has never been the struggle. It is the getting up part that poses a problem, with the wavering balance of the watermelon belly, while batting away the little leeches. So I have learned to be strategic. Let me explain…

The other day my husband saw me kicking the clutter of kid’s crap across the floor into a growing heap of randomness, and then proceeding onto another abandoned puzzle piece or pair of pajamas that had been littered by my littles, to claim as my fantasy futbol to kick towards the growing landfill goal. So he flashed me that look that says, “I want to ask what the heck you are doing, but I am afraid if I do, I might have to help, so…” So I put him out of his misery and explained my ingenious innovation. You see , every time I’m burdened to bend down I have the pleasant experience of having to hold my breath and grunt like a man, as I shove a baby into my lungs. So, as not to concede to laziness and leave the litter to consume us all, I have manufactured a method of maneuvering the mess into a single soccer-kicked pile,  so I only need to perform the watermelon roller coaster once. Laziness averted. Lungs spared.

So he pauses (where he should have stopped) and states with a smile, “Isn’t it funny how you say you are avoiding being lazy, by describing yourself in the laziest scenario imaginable.”

So I pause. Then stare. Then growl. And finally his sanity returns as he confesses, “I guess, maybe, I shouldn’t have said that to a pregnant woman.” You think?

Sorry ladies. He’s taken.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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

Confessions of a Facebook Failure FLASHBACK: Year 2 Day 12

I am drowning in grading a flood of finals! But the Type A (alright…A-) in me has a need to adhere to my once-a-day-post commitment. So I am cheating with some favorite flashbacks from years past. Here is one…

I just survived a Level 5, Red Alarm, Off-the-Chart, monumental meltdown in the middle of Target. I’m not saying I deserve a Purple Heart people, but I sure wouldn’t mind a smile.

Here is the scenario, we HAVE to go shopping. Believe it or not, a trip to a sweets and treats crack house with my 3 rabid addicts, pre-nap, in a busy breeding ground for judgmental eyes, is NOT my idea of meditation, or even entertainment. But we soldier mamas battle on, in our humble quest for yogurt and apple sauce, and some indulgences (sad, but accurate word choice here) for Daddy’s lavish birthday.

So when the first battle over choice of briefs for a paternal present ensued, I was armed and ready with wise words and redirection. We even survived the chocolate aisle in a pursuit for some dark bites to be bowed, by strategically sharing the berry basket for a forbidden pre-purchase distraction. But with only moments to spare before the bomb was ignited, my battle plans were foiled when we were surprise attacked by every mama warrior’s biggest enemy, the casual acquaintance mama, WITHOUT her kids. I immediately went on high alert, hiding the open box of blueberries, and attempting to hide the drooling, snarling beasts I had pouring out of every crack of my cart, to no avail. What could have been a battle just death-defying, but successful(?) enough to be brag worthy, was immediately turned into a fragmented mess beyond repair. That momentary loss of mama-focus, that temporary lapse in superhuman intention…They smelled the fear. My fear. My insecurity. My need to please the stranger, with a portrait of motherhood that is simply…not.

And that was it. Crying. No, not crying….wailing. Kicking. No, not kicking, lashing. Screaming. No, not screaming. Howling.

Here we were. 2 items from the checkout line, basket full, and this.

Thank goodness for the experts roaming the aisles of Target, the apparent researchers and celebrated theorists in the field of parenting that have humbled themselves to the frozen food section of a discount store for their mid-afternoon sessions.

The first appeared with some amazing insight that was clearly filled with the wisdom of behavioral science. She spoke directly to the convulsing mass attached to my still walking leg, as she sang, “Ooooooh (note the intentional extra o’s)! Poor baby.” Apparently, it was obvious that I had fastened him to my fumbling feet as some sort of torture technique for my own amusement. I was surely to blame for his misery. “Do you want some candy,” pulling some lint covered M and Ms from her therapist’s coat. I politely smiled at the well-intentioned, visiting early childhoood expert, and declined the offer. The whole, rewarding meltdown behavior, while declining a reinforcer for the self-controlled siblings/infusing sugar into a tired toddler/candy from strangers/questionable sanitation, was sweet and temporarily tempting, but I decided to battle on sugar-free, against expert advice.

Of course, the frenzy continued. 12:30, pre-lunch, pre-nap, distracted mama, denied candy from a stranger, toddlers in Target. Surprising? For some reason it seemed to surprise the next developmental psychologist I encountered. A male (Not necessarily noted for sexist intentions. Just noted). Leaning in with a sweet smile, he shared, “I’d slap him so hard across that screaming mouth, he would never try that again,” followed by a subtle wink to assert his gentle spirit. Why thank you kind sir. Thank you. Your wisdom is well-rooted in the research of Maslow, among others, and should be featured prominently in the pages of Psychology Today. I can imagine it now, Publicly Face-Slapping Children: A Lost Science by Random Childless Single. I politely smiled and thanked him for the free session, and moved ahead, adhering to even the wildest of Social Services standards, all the way to check out.

There I met my final, friendly foe of the fit, the most subtle and common variety of floating experts among the super market circuit. Leaning in, the loving, yet long little-one-less mama, reminiscing on a tumultuous-less time in her memory, that may likely be more Hallmark than history, sweetly whispered, “You poor thing. The one and only time my son through a tantrum in a store, I turned right around and just left. He never had another one again.” Looking at my basket full of bread and butter basics and a few pathetic little presents to be bought with their own pennies, I considered her well-meant wisdom. So all I have to do is starve my hungry, over-stimulated, over-tired, toddler and deny his unknowing father of his Target brand birthday presents, and he will NEVER have another tantrum again? And the other two, calm children (who have somehow survived me all of these years, without transforming into complete savages) will be completely accepting of this no food, no purchasing their hand-picked presents for their daddy with their piggy bank pennies clause, bathing in the gratitude of leaving their good intentions behind, only to watch me battle their flailing brother into a seemingly shrinking car seat, who has now somehow developed superhuman strength and a flexibility known only by Gumby, allowing him to wiggle through my choke hold with repeated success? I weigh my options, smile politely, and opt to gingerly move the now primitive sounding monkey surgically attached to my leg to the finish line.

It is just then that I realize I had chosen the perfect lane for my perils. A natural observation lab for these all-knowing onlookers. Really? Today, of all days, you need to card me, a 35-going-on-70-year-old looking-mother of 3, buying Goldfish crackers and gray-covering hair dye. Really? You need to call over the manager to make sure you are charging me correctly for the bananas? Really? Charge me for the organic. Heck, charge me for the Gluten-Free, Dairy-Free, Ten-x-the-Price-Free, whatever. Please, just let me escape this looking glass. So when she began to oh-so-sweetly, meticulously fold the underwear, assuring symmetrical creases, deaf to the serenade of screeches surrounding her, I smiled politely and bagged my own briefs, subtly sharing the surprising news that I was actually in a bit of a hurry. Please note that the innocent check-out lady likely had no suspicion of the fire she had ignited with her OCD-inspired good intentions. I was completely civilized in my state of panicked humiliation.

And as we left the bright lights of price checks and the chaos of crashing carts, and I allowed myself the first few seconds to breathe since the battle began, much to my surprise, the beast released HIMSELF. He didn’t need a chocolate (although I might admit to have had moments of soothing my savages with sugar) or a public beating (although I might admit to the evil death stare with eyes of equivalent intentions) or a subtle starvation (although I might admit to missed meals, disguised by the dusty bag of Cheerios I found in the back of the cupboard). He didn’t even need to be picked up to please the voiceless stranger who I am quite sure just wanted him to stop by any means necessary. (I am so sincerely sorry silent stranger. If my shame could be measured in apologies, we would surely be even.) He needed quiet. He needed calm. He needed the natural consequence packaged up in patience. He needed me. I’m his expert. We’re their experts mamas.

And as my two year old terror (at times) still shaking from the severity of the scene independently murmured, “I sorry Mama. I love you Mama. I want you Mama. I wait next time Mama. I sorry,” without a prompt coated in sugar or a slap of submission, a real researcher willing to ask questions, camouflaged with a coat of offspring herself, approached me with this, “Oh my goodness! He is so sweet. How did you get him to do that?” To which I replied, “I didn’t. He did. I just survived the battle here,” and changed the mood of our whole little world with some much-needed laughter. And then she knighted me with this, “I totally understand. Good job mama!” I smiled. Not politely this time, but in relief and sincere gratitude for her compassionate session.

She saw through the horrific scene, to see a two year old having a typical tantrum at Target, and a family who weathered the storm and somehow survived as a solid unit, and reminded me of that success. Sometimes I forget how little they are and yet how big their feelings are. They seem so monstrously big and their feelings seem so insignificantly small, when you are in it. Thank you fellow mama warrior for not sharing your stories of success at that exact moment, but sharing with me the compassion of transparency. Thank you from the deepest parts of mommyhood, for understanding.

Obviously, I am not an expert. Obviously! But I am a researcher. And I have researched the experts, and teach about the experts (to unsuspecting students who think I know what I am doing), and, more importantly, I’m out here in my own minefields, enough to know that regardless of what you do, toddlers are hard-wired for tantrums. This will not be our last tragic scene. I foresee a clear future of callouses earned from many, many sequels. And I am equally certain that we can navigate our way through these momentary insanities in different ways, with different views, and we will all survive unscathed, as long as it is all peppered in love. I am not the expert, but I’m the closest thing they’ve got. My children are simply the experiment of a mad scientist mama trying my best to “research” my way out of an epic explosion. You’ll have to check back in a few decades and see if we all made it out alive. I only hope that in future sessions, the well-intentioned experts, might swap their sessions for support. Smile at THAT mama at the check out stand. Help her get those groceries and go, or empower her with the magic of, “I understand.” And while I am aware that such wisdom wishers share their stories peppered in that same love that we all have for our tiny beasts (except for maybe that guy with the backhand), please-oh-please, unless you really are an expert in the field, please save your wisdom for your paid sessions.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

Confessions of a Facebook Failure FLASHBACK: Year 2 Day 9

I am drowning in grading a flood of finals! But the Type A (alright…A-) in me has a need to adhere to my once-a-day-post commitment. So I am cheating with some favorite flashbacks from years past. Here is one…

spent the afternoon at the library (and I patted myself on the back for my parenting plus).

The newest reader was so overwhelmed with the allure of the words that she couldn’t wait until we got home to dive into the pages (and I praised myself for the obvious inheritance of a love of literacy).

I spied, as she opened an anthology of imaginary worlds and touched the pages as if they were gold (and I imagined for a moment that I was in a world with nothing to blog about).

And then…

“Mommy, I am going to read every single episode of this show.”

And suddenly, I was reminded of reality, and my evident need for this ever growing avalanche of humility I call my life, as apparently without them…well, I would have nothing to write about…

and maybe I would be left to read more to my children…

and then I’d have nothing to write about.

Pride is a cyclical sin in the world of a writer.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 8

Sometimes I lie about being pregnant. I highly recommend the practice. It goes something like this:

Step 1: Wait! Wait it out as long as you can, but at least until your last trimester. You’ll only get the nerve up to do it once, and you want to make it count. My favorite performance to date was 3 days post butterfly release date.

Step 2: Play up the waddle, poke out the watermelon, and wait for an unsuspecting stranger to go in for the highly questionable, uninvited belly rub.

Step 3: When you get a bite (i.e. “Sooooo…how far along are you?”), remain silent, as if in shock and stare blankly for an entire minute. Wait until the discomfort is somehow audible. Bonus points if you can manage a jaw drop.

Step 4: Avoid outward dishonesty (that would be unethical, of course), but emphatically state, “Excuse me!?!” Nothing else.

Step 5: Waddle away. The art of gestational deception has been achieved.

Now before you pass judgement, know that this is not what you think. It is not about finding joy in evil in a moment in your life when the only remaining bliss comes from the sweet, sweet combination of sweat pants, soap operas, and sitting. No, instead I see the practice as sort of a public service announcement for all of the other times folks thought it was a good idea to ask the chunky mother of multiples with a Bjorn strapped to both sides, “Sooooo….how far along are you” …when you weren’t! Unless something is thrashing out of my gut, like a scene out of “Alien”, try slowing down on the small talk, Stranger. That permanent pooch might just be the battle scars of babies birthed long, long ago.

See, I am teaching a valuable lesson to the public that perhaps assumptions and strangers and the checkout line of Walmart are not the wisest of combinations…

…and perhaps finding just a bit of humor in the humorless time of sleepless nights, bowling ball bellies, and an ever-shrinking bladder. Come on…let me have that much.

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 7

Team Blue? Team Pink? The results are in! It’s a…

BOY!!!

I think the bitty butterfly is a bit happy about the balancing news.

But as the eldest rationalized, “Mommy is still older than Daddy and the girls are still older than the boys. So the girls STILL WIN!”

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 6

Butterfly: “What does the yellow one mean?”

Herder: “Yellow, what?

Butterfly: “Red stop. Green go.”

(Apparently growing up in a world with Text-ish as the primary language has even influenced the 3-year old, with his omission of what once seemed necessary verbs in the art of communication. Luckily, having spent years immersed in the pre-verbal world of two year olds, I am already well versed in this un-evolved vernacular, and have found it to be a smooth transition into the comprehension of the tiniest butterflies and teenagers, alike. 

Herder: Having also lost the ability to speak intelligently, I obnoxiously sing my response with the obligatory traffic light song, “Red means stop. Green means go. Yellow means WAIT, even when you’re late.”

Butterfly: “WAIT? But when you and Daddy see a yellow light you go faster? Is that because you’re always late and you don’t know how to follow the rules?”

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 4

Please finish this sentence for me:

The clothes I sent my children to school in today are evidence that…

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

I have already confessed that the butterflies dress themselves.

As I have often been accused of the offenses of exaggeration or questionable elaboration, I decided to provide a visual defense. Here is my evidence. I try my efforts at persuasion. Obviously, I failed. I often do. Alright…I always do.

Note: Please disregard the color coordinated eldest, in a weather appropriate combination. She was born the organized, presentable black sheep of the family, who the hubs and I refer to as “the only responsible parent.” Poor kid. It must be hard raising up all 5 of us.

So my question for you is, what else are these exhibits evidence of?

Defeat?

A fashion gene (or lack there of)?

Cojones?

This is your chance to herd my butterflies. Add your answer in the comments section. Seriously! Do it! Like, right now.

Help me muzzle my own mommy meltdown, by sharing some solid one-liners on my behalf in the comments section.

Please finish this sentence for me:

The clothes I sent my children to school in today are evidence that…

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 3

Sometimes I am perplexed by my butterflies inexplicable social awkwardness and oddities. And then I am reminded of their genetics…and their role model…and I am overwhelmed by a tidal wave of guilt. Sorry, kids. My  mom-to-mom schoolyard socializations model, well…

Casual Acquaintance: “So, did you have a shower?”

Me: “Oh no! No. Is it that obvious? Do I smell or something? It was a really crazy morning and a really long night and I’m surprised I even managed to get clothes on, but I tried to camouflage the greasy hair with a fancier side bun than usual, see (pointing to greasy, twisted ponytail), but I guess it didn’t work, but I wore a necklace, see (pointing to Target brand, tarnished “gold” dangles), and nobody would take the time to wear a necklace if they hadn’t showered, and since I didn’t shower, I thought if I wore a necklace, everyone would just assume I’d showered, and…”

Casual Acquaintance: (empathetically euthanizing the rabid conversation) “No. I meant did you have a BABY shower…since you’re pregnant and everything. But…um…”

Casual Acquaintance awkwardly flashes a half-smile/half-saucer eyed signal, representing far more fear than forgiveness…and slowly backs aways from the conversation (and the apparent smell), as if she had just discovered she was in the midst of a wild, dangerous beast. 

Me: Oh. Cool. Yeah. I’ll let you know if I have that shower. Um…I mean that baby shower…

FORMER Casual Acquaintance, now safely positioned with a Pinterest Parent Peer a playground away, has already briskly escaped. ________________________________________________________________________________

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE FLASHBACK: Year 2 Day 2

Day 2: I lied to the little, old lady at church. Rather, the smile that I used to mask the mania may have allowed for assumptions, implying a lie. So I lied to the little, old lady at church. Time for my confessional…

A year ago yesterday, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

My darlings dress themselves most days. Not as an intentional means of nurturing independence. Not as a thoughtful decision to spark self-esteem. No, while I embrace the academia that supports my fashion negligence, the sad, mad parade of stripes and dots and costume box finds are actually just the result of my white flag, times-up, defeat. I admit it.

So when the little, old lady at church came upon us, baring compliments for my kiddo’s creative ensembles and praising my parenting in allowing my littles to look the part of independence, I smiled. Her assumptions of this audacity in oddity having sprung from my little beasts was correct…

…or would have been on any other day.

But this morning, THIS morning, the dress-up disaster was intentional, and all my own. In an effort to try on the concept of being on time, I had dared to lay out their looks the night before, while they were unconscious and unable to argue with my genius. In an attempt to connect with the cool kids (rather, the cool kids’ “-rents”), I had thoughtfully fashioned my trendy toddlers with the edgiest in Osh Kosh…

…or so I thought. This was my sad, mad attempt to “make it work.”

I guess it wasn’t working.
I guess I broke it.

So instead of admitting to my fashion failure like a sane person, I smiled at the little, old church lady, silently blaming my beasts for the bad fashion I’d bullied them into.

No more. Effort and I just don’t seem to match. I am dressing myself up in my white flag for good, and letting the little ones clothe themselves in independence and self-esteem instead.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 126: Waving the white flag.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3 Day 2

“Mommy, sometimes I feel sad when you act like the Hulk, just cuz I wake you up cuz I love you.”

“Thank you for sharing your feelings, Pumpkin. I am so sorry I made you feel sad.”

Unspoken rebuttal: Kid…sometimes I second guess the sanity behind my promotion of social/emotional language in my sadistic little truth-sayers…especially at 6am.

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

12 AM: Crawl into bed.

1 AM: Watermelon dances on the bladder and I am awoken for a reluctant waddle to the pot.

2 AM: Midnight Monster #2 abruptly enters the inside of my ear cavity, interrupting the magical mystery of R.E. (never quite get to the M.) sleep with “Mama! MAMA! I had a nightmare and…” I mimic her interruption with, “Pillow Pile, Honey. Go snuggle in the Pillow Pile.” This formally named household staple being a now constant stack of couch pillows that line the edge of the king we refuse to fully surrender, both to soothe their 4 am fears, while simultaneously soothing our parenting egos over admitting total domination by the tiny room rebellers. But on this night the monster’s dreams centered around floor dwelling spiders, and for equal parts empathy and exhaustion, I welcomed the rebel into the king.

3 AM: Watermelon dances on the bladder and I am awoken for a reluctant waddle to the pot.

4 AM: I awake to something on my head. Oh. It is a 3 year old…on my head. When did Midnight Monster #3 get invited in to the forbidden king? Oh. And what is that in my ribs? Just the horizontally spread octopus I surrendered to at 2 AM. Ugh! Do I wake the rebels, remove them from the king, and risk a 4 AM rise and shine? Heck no! So I crawl onto the Pillow Pile, THEIR Pillow Pile, and toss and turn the dancing watermelon to a potentially painless position on the floor, in hopes of slumber.

5 AM: Watermelon dances on the bladder and I am awoken for a reluctant waddle to the pot. I now realize that, at 7 months pregnant, the potentially painless position on the floor, has actually produced much pain, and not much slumber, but I crawl back under the covers and cry myself back to the mythical world of R.E……( no M., again).

6 AM: Midnight Monster #2 is attempting to “whisper” at a volume that could damage the drums, with a proximity that is now ensuring it. “Mommy. MOMMY! Is it time to wake up now. Mommy. MOMMY!” I surrender again and send her out into the light, as I pull the cover over my throbbing head.

6:02 AM Midnight Monster #2 returns to awake Midnight Monster #3 with a handful of melted chocolate from HIS advent calendar, because she “wanted to be sweet” and get it out for him.

6:03 AM Screams of terror emerge from Midnight Monster #3 as he realizes the sacred moment of opening that daily flap on his cardboard box of Trader Joe’s holiday treats has been forever stolen by his sister. In a tornado of terror, the chocolate is smeared across the king, as the Pillow Pile is destroyed in a tiny, but terrible tumble of sibling rage, and both monsters end up on my head…again.

6:04 AM “The Hulk” emerges from her Pillow Pile! And yes, I believe this mama qualified for this monstrous metaphor in this moment, as I managed to reach an octave not intended for human ears.

6:05 AM “Mommy, sometimes I feel sad when you act like the Hulk, just cuz I wake you up cuz I love you.”

“Thank you for sharing your feelings, Pumpkin. I am so sorry I made you feel sad.”

Unspoken rebuttal: Kid…sometimes I second guess the sanity behind my promotion of social/emotional language in my sadistic little truth-sayers…especially at 6am.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 3

Day 1: Perhaps, the only thing warring for the title of worse than sending your kid off into the world with crap in their panties, is sending them off without their panties, and the world discovering your crap.

2 years ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

So our mornings are a synonym for madness, with too much, too many, ending in an inevitable, predictable, repetitive chorus of “too late” to my un-herdable, unhearing little butterflies. So, in the spirit of independence and the truth of desperation of my morning mayhem, we have long ago established a checklist of (theoretically) mandatory “Morning Jobs”, a visual schedule of responsibilities for my wild ones, established for my own, selfish seven am survival, that I like to costume up as an autonomy-buidling gift to my little people. In other words, take care of your crap kids so Mama can toss together some go-gurts and granola bars to-go (a.k.a healthful, heartfelt breakfast), pocket some lipgloss and liner for the stoplights (a.k.a. self-care), and herd the whole mass of butterflies into the minivan without injury or incident (a.k.a. magic). I pretend the resulting mini-wardrobe wows (think camouflage cargo paired with plaid) are establishing style and self-esteem, and that their badges of go-gurt stains and granola crumbs are simply evidence of successful sustenance. The truth is, this brand of “the basics” is simply our best. That’s it. Not a minute more to give. Typically, this is a brand I have worn that has worked…until last week.

When I picked up the littlest from his school, there was a sudden discovery of the downfalls of do-it-yourself dependency and the potential pitfalls in promoting absolute autonomy in pint-sized planners without the luxury of well-developed prefrontal cortexes. After the obligatory sharing of the sweetest of stories from the school day, his teacher concluded with a “friendly reminder to make sure we bring him with underwear tomorrow”. Puzzled and petrified, my mind went to the inner-dialogue of “What? Did he have an accident? Oh no! It has been ages since he had an accident. What happened? What does this mean? Is he already acting out in rebellion to the scene-stealing sibling in utero? Is he…” Unfortunately, as it often does, my entire inner-dialogue escaped my loud mouth, and was politely interrupted just prior to complete humiliation, when his caregiver clarified, “No. If you could please just bring him IN his underwear.” (Insert awkward pause as I try to infer the implications of this comment.) “He came to school commando today.”

Crap! Thank goodness the only crap that had to be dealt with that day was figurative, because I could not deal with anything messier than that moment.

I smiled and made a mental note to add underwear to the list of mythical, morning must dos.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE (FLASHBACK)

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 1: My kid ate a candy cane for dinner. A year old candy cane. Alright, I think it was older than he is. And I didn’t even try to stop him.

———————————————————————————————————–

A year ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

So we dove into the Christmas boxes today to try to soothe the savage beasts with a temporary whine suppressant of novelty. The beauty of limitations in long term memory when you have lived less than a lollipop, is there is no need for “new” in novelty. So, I thought the manufactured memories would buy me some time, and dared to dive into the fantasy of dinner fixin’ without the music of “Mama, Mama” mixed into the mania. But then I noticed the wrapper (okay, wrappers), which I first assumed were our poor man’s menagerie of recycling bin, packing pretends (too cheap to invest in the indulgence of bubble wrap for our breakables).

I was wrong.

And when I could no longer avoid witnessing the consumption of the calcified cane, I must admit that my first reaction was not disgust…

…but delight in the epiphany that I had finally found a silencer, wrapped in cellophane, that would allow me an entire minute to myself.

So I decided not to break the silence.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 125: Silence. Sticky, sickening, unsanitary silence. I’ll take it.

——————————————————————————————————
CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE (FLASHBACK)

Day 1-My 17 month old knows how to say the words lollipop and french fry…and not because he is a baby genius, but from sheer mass practice.

I am totally starting a FB revolution and I invite yall to join me. So in a similar fashion to November messages of Thanksgiving, during the month of December, in the spirit of giving, my gift to you will be one reason, each day why you can feel better about your own adventures in parenting, as you delight in my epic failures. Let me explain. While I am admittedly a FB addict, I can also testify that it is not always a healthy addiction, especially as a mama in the trenches of parenting. I’ve read the studies on FB-driven mommy depression and I’ve experienced my own FB envy while reading about your eco-friendly home gardens, planted and nurtured by your gentle wee ones, as they all desperately, although politely, fight over your fresh-picked kale and sprouts. Well, I didn’t grow my own veggies (no time), or even buy organic (no money), or heck…even feed my children anything without the word “snack” in the title today. I admit it. Still, I’ve also been the one who put up the picture of my sweet little angels all snuggling with smiles, secretly having deleted the 37 other pictures of them with their fingers up their noses, showing off their underwear, while tackling each other. The truth is FB families are a bit of a lie. Come on…admit it. And while their is nothing wrong with sharing our celebrations and putting our best foot forward, I thought it might be fun to practice a comical version of humility this month, so we can all celebrate the real parenting success…surviving another day with our little monsters and laughing about it. My theory has always been that if you aren’t exhausted and humbled at the end of each day, you are probably not parenting that well anyways. So, let’s liberate each other and share those deleted family shots and one-liners your kids said, that both humiliated and humored you. Or just read mine and find joy in the comedy I call my life. Enjoy!

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

It seems that each milestone in modern life is marked by a predictable query, hiding an underlying assumption about your projected next step.  It’s true.

The moment you marry, the first question is posed.

“When are you two lovebirds going to have a baby”,  neglecting to highlight that perhaps that baby might push those lovebirds right out of their cozy little nest.

 And as soon as that baby bomb comes along, a new spin on the question is posed, although still slyly shaded with the same hopeful enthusiasm.

“When are you going to make that little one a brother or sister”, neglecting to acknowledge the exhausted eyes of midnight meals and the multitude of other battle scars of baby #1.

 But then the second comes along, and the tone suddenly shifts.

“Are you done”, as if two tiny people constitutes some sort of litter, facilitating a need for neutering.

And then the third arrives, and a subtle switcheroo in sentence structure, changes the question altogether.

“You’re done, right”, in a tone more clearly categorized as a threat or warning, than an inquiry at all.

And then…then, in those rare occasions that you dare to step past the crescendo of chaos that is three, and enter into the mysterious beyond, clinging to the hope that once you hit three, you’ve already hit bottom and the only way to move is up, folks no longer bother with the effort of a formal question at all.

Instead, they just shout, “REALLY? REALLY”, as if you’ve committed some sort of unforgivable crime.

Well,  the answer is yes, really. We really are having a fourth, and we really are excited about it. The fourth, and often even the third, often emerge as “unexpected blessings”,  like a sudden, unexpected hurricane, that clouds your vision and terrifies you as it hits. But once the storm breaks, you realize the wild rain is just what you really needed…maybe. So the answer to your question is yes, really.  We really are happy about our newest little hurricane.

 And to answer the other question you are now too afraid to even ask the owners of the sideshow, for fear of inspiring another act…yes, we are really done. The soccer team, although more benchwarmers then olympians, is complete. Our battered minivan is filled. Our hopes of college funding have officially collapsed. We are really, really done.

And to explain the audacity of our smiles amidst this insanity, I am reminded of a memory of a time when our manageable mayhem consisted of a measly Baby Bjorn plus one,  when hopes of containing the chaos still seemed falsely achievable.  At a social event, back when we had few enough offspring to still be invited to social events that didn’t involve bounce houses, I was chatting with a mob of other masochists, I mean mothers, all several inches deep in makeup to mask the sleepless circles of midnight mealtimes and the sophisticated sweeping side bun, characteristic of the half-minute hairstyling conducted in their cars.  Please note that I am no longer a participant in the mommy masquerade, as I have long sense given up on…well, everything. But on this day, confessions were clear, as we talked about the tortures of four a.m. feedings and refereeing pint-sized fist fights,  and the pressures of pretending to fit the Pinterest mold of manufactured motherhood that now lines the shelves of every self-help section and social media forum. And  then there was that one friend with the audacity to avoid the pressure of the preliminary question on presumed procreation. Smiling at the satisfaction of her offspring sobriety, she shared, “Well,you are sure not selling me on this motherhood thing. I think I will stick with a boat instead.” And while  everyone chuckled in amusement, I hoped the shock of my silence was heard, as the idea that this miracle could be seen as anything less than, well, a miracle was something deserving of a defense. So I explained it to her like this.

Anything that is this horrific, this exhausting, this down right tortuous, that can still be described as the miracle of your life, so much so that you would welcome that diapered destruction again and again, must be miraculous. How magical these little snot-nosed, soul-sucking miracles must be to balance out all of that snot. Unfortunately, having not experienced the hallucinations of maternal love, she remained unimpressed. So, I said this. “Kids are like crack. Even though you know they are bad for you, you can’t help going back again and again.” Because although I have no personal experience to confirm this correlation, I do know that the pull of nature’s alluring oxytocin has got to be right up there with the most dangerous of addictions, because I have never loved anything as much as those little leeches.

So in conclusion, the answer to your question, “Really?” Yes, really. And I thank the Lord for every one of my little soul suckers and the battle scars of mommyhood that they bring. At least I say this now while the littlest parasite is still in-utero. Remind me of the allure of that oxytocin when I am waving my white flag at 2 a.m. in a couple of months. But preferably not gloating from your boat.

Please take just 3 minutes to watch this and repost to your friends. I can’t think of a little boy more deserving of going viral.

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10155336684640500&pnref=story

Or just watch http://www.teamjonah.com/Video and fall in love with the same little boy and family we adore so much.

Please consider donating just $10 to celebrate Jonah reaching 10 this year…and to help find a cure so he can have many, many more birthdays.

www.teamjonah.com

So my eldest has entered the frighteningly competitive world of cookie sales. And while the middle is not old enough to officially push the merchandise, she diligently accompanies her sister on her rounds, pulling the wagon along. Sweet little sisterly salesladies.

So as we rounded a corner, and the eldest matriarch of the business barked orders to accelerate at the trailing cookie pusher, I suggested a role change.

“Why don’t you pull the wagon for a little while and let Sissy knock on the door?”

Her reply (in disgust and disbelief)…

“I don’t pull wagons! I am a businesswoman!”

Eek! I think we might need to take a look at that Code of Ethics again.

On another day in the wacky world of mini-marketing, I caught the middle doing this…

Confused, I inquired.

Her reply…

“I am starting my own business. I am going to pray for people’s prayers while I swing. That way I can help people AND earn money AND not have to stop having fun.”

Oh no! We REALLY need to review that Code of Ethics…and maybe some scripture.

Eek!

We spent the afternoon at the library (and I patted myself on the back for my parenting plus).

The newest reader was so overwhelmed with the allure of the words that she couldn’t wait until we got home to dive into the pages (and I praised myself for the obvious inheritance of a love of literacy).

I spied, as she opened an anthology of imaginary worlds and touched the pages as if they were gold (and I imagined for a moment that I was in a world with nothing to blog about).

And then…

 “Mommy, I am going to read every single episode of this show.”

And suddenly, I was reminded of reality, and my evident need for this ever growing avalanche of humility I call my life, as apparently without them…well, I would have nothing to write about…

and maybe I would be left to read more to my children…

and then I’d have nothing to write about.

Pride is a cyclical sin in the world of a writer.

Setting: Our week has revolved around a mountainous, all-consuming, impossible deadly deadline (make that five), which has resulted in a continual assembly line of putting out fires (which simply set more fires from the friction in our family). So perhaps I shouldn’t have found it surprising that the crescendo of our week of wildfires should consist of nothing less than the wildest of fires to date. And while effort and exhaustion were both on my scoreboard, with a 3:30 bedtime and a 6 AM rise and fight, I still found myself facing the flames, as my final fleeting sparks of hope to complete the final project, shower off the shmuzz of sleepless nights, get my little people presentable, and drop off, prior to the final deadly deadline, stopping the insanity, was now closing in on the truly impossible point when…

Me: “Stapler! STAPLER! Where is my stapler?”

Enter Small Sweet Confessor: “In timeout.”

Me: “What?”

SSC: “I put your stapler in timeout.”

Me: “WHAT!?!?”

SSC: “He wanted to pinch you, so I put him in time out.”

Enter Flashback to a recently suppressed mortifying moment in Mommyland (of which I have an entire storage unit in my unconscious), when I was trying to take on the impossible (a.k.a. every day), when The Tiniest attempted to take my “desk toys” as a means of dulling  the boredom of neglect. Now at any other moment of clarity I would never have allowed a toddler access to office tools that can easily be transformed into weaponry, when mixed with terrible twos. But at that particular moment, I “didn’t hear him” (wink, wink). And when the afternoon emerged without injury, I convinced myself that my passive parenting was perhaps passable.

Now I found myself suddenly at war with my prior passivity.

Me: “Where did you put the little stapler in timeout, Sweetie?” (suddenly switching to pandering, with the hope that my prayers for project submission might still be granted.)

SSC: “I dunno. I forgot.”

Me: “Hmmm…can you think? Where did you put Mr. Stapler? I buttered, as I frantically tore apart my home office (a.k.a. my entire home).

SSC: “I dunno.”

And the fire consumed me, as I became the bipolar antagonist who cycles through begging, bribing, pandering, and pleading, and ultimately falling to the ground, curled up in a ball, and surrendering.

Enter thief (or office supply disciplinarian…depending on your opinion of the role of my mini antagonist.)

SSC: “Hey Mama. I found him. He said he promises not to pinch now,” setting the coveted stapler aside his flailing caregiver.

Interjection: Sometimes I wonder if the Lord views my life as some sort of sitcom, highlighting the hilarious juxtaposition of moral lessons in submission and self control paired against, well…my life.

So I uncurl, brush off the cheerios once left for the littles in an attempt at breakfast, thank the thief for his confession, and compose myself enough to pack in the troops for Mission Completion: Project Submission.

To clarify any inquiries from my inevitable content editors, I didn’t forget to include a final chapter on the success of showers or necessary preparation of the little people prior to meeting with my professional mentors. You see, today’s sitcom was entitled “Priorities”. With that said, if any of you saw a mob of wild beasts being herded through the city the other afternoon, with the panicked leader clutching a briefcase in attempt to masquerade as “professional”, well….

I suppose next time, if you have a problem with our presentation, I might suggest that you just put me in time out. Maybe I’d finally learn those lessons in submission and self-control. Regardless, I wouldn’t mind getting lost for a little while anyways.

So I was discussing business and ethics with the 6 year old and I posed her the classic scenario of the penniless father stealing milk for his baby from the greedy store owner, and asked her who was being more ethical. This was the outcome…

Z: “Well, why doesn’t he just get a job, and be responsible?”
M: (winging it) “He tried. The store owner is cruel and won’t let him get a job.”
Z: “Then he should go apply next door?”
M: (still winging it) “Okay, the business owner owns EVERYTHING and he hates this man and won’t let him work anywhere. There are NO jobs!”
Z: “Well, he could just move, or maybe…why does he hate him?”
M: (losing it) “Ugh! Should he steal it or not?”
Z: “Well, couldn’t he just tell his wife to get a job?”
M: (lost it) “His wife died. She’s gone. He has no family…expect the starving baby! What does he do?”
Z: “Problem solved!”
M: (she lost me) “What?”
Z: “Life insurance!”

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 23: I overheard my little monsters in make believe mode this morning. At first, I thought my eavesdrop was capturing the magic of the Nativity Scene.

I was wrong (ish).

Here is my sweet little angels interpretation of the reason for the season…

While the Eldest Monster tried desperately to growl and roar for the director’s role and pummel her cast into a literal interpretation, well…

Eldest Monster: “You are the shepherd and here is your staff and…”

Eldest Monster (grabbing the stick): “No, I am SUPER SHEPHERD and this is my sword. I’m going to fight you Angel!”

Middlest Monster: “And I am the wiseguy because I want the gifts.”

Eldest Monster: “No the WiseMEN GIVE gifts to JESUS!”

Middlest Monster: “Fine. Then I am Jesus.”

Eldest Monster: “Jesus is a BOY! Brother can be Jesus.”

Middlest Monster: No! He’s Joseph and he has a baby in his tummy!”

Littlest Monster: “No! I’m God!”

Eldest Monster: “Would you please stop fighting over who is God?”

Littlest Monster: “Oh yeah! I forgot. I am SUPER GOD. Give me my sword! I’m gonna go fight you Angel.”

This was our Not-ivity Scene. And boy, was it a scene.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 22: Let’s play would you rather…

Would you rather serve your sweetie candy…
off the concrete,

or sweets…
from a stranger.

Well, this overachiever opted for the double dare.

Here’s the whole confession:
The other day we adventured over to Knott’s Berry Farm for some good old fashioned family fun (with no original intention of potentially poisoning our little people).

Plans change.

As fate would have it, we happened upon friends and our mini-mob turned massive mob of lil’ monsters moshed their way over to the madness of a parent-free kid coaster, which they proceeded to conquer again and again…
and again,
while we had the privilege of pretending to be real life people who converse about real life things absent from a single reference to poop or potties or boogers or barf, and then….

KBF Coaster Captain and Rebel Wrangler: “Ma’am?”( …too immersed in the oasis of using brainpower on something other than redirecting the rebels or refereeing sibling warfare, to allow myself to hear the first time…) “Ma’am?”

Me: “Yes?” (…finally submitting to surrender…)

KBF Coaster Captain and Rebel Wrangler: “I’m sorry, but I think your kid just ate some cotton candy off the floor.”

Me: Silence, as I stare at the wildest of my monster’s moustached in sugar and a sinful smile.

Enter Stranger (very, very strange stranger): “It’s okay, ma’am. I gave it to her.”

Me: Silence, as I contemplate how this icky, icky individual might have come to the conclusion that I might be comforted by this confession, and whether I should first focus on stomach pumping (for the kid) or stomach punching (for the creepy Candy Man).

Stranger: “Don’t worry. She just dropped the piece I shared with her on the ground and then ate it again.”

Me: Silence, as I am reminded of the audience I once called my oasis standing alongside me for the show. So, I opt to stomach the scene and set aside my plans for pumps and punches, thanked the Rebel Wrangler for her observations, and pray that a dose of Capri Sun will be enough to cure the crisis.

She survived.
Not sure about my ego.

While cleaning out the car…

Mr. Butterfly Herder: “Should I leave your hairbrush in the car?”

Me: “Why?”

Mr. Butterfly Herder: “Isn’t the passenger mirror the closest thing you have to “time for beauty and hygiene”?

Dramatic pause to show my hurt and disapproval and then…

Me: “Throw it in the glove compartment…

…and remind me to put some dental floss in there. “

Later, at a real-life, grown-up restaurant, which we had no business bringing the circus to, but were coerced by coupon…

Me to Mr. Butterfly Herder: “I feel bad. I think our friend bought us this gift card with the intention of you and I having a romantic date night, but we never used it so…”

Largest of the Lil’ Monsters: “Face it, Mama. This is the closest to romance that you and Daddy are going to get.”

Dramatic pause to flash the fire of my Mama fury and disapproval and then…

Me: “True. Let’s get wild and order dessert.”

Grateful 365: Passenger mirrors and gift cards. The only thing keeping romance alive in the Vokoun household.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 20: “Honkies and Quackers…

…that’s right.  I love you. Night-Night!”

And this is how I ended my little angel’s evening: vintage slurs, sealed with a kiss.

Why the racist nightcap, you ask?

Our nights are always closed with a story. Not a book. A story. A “whatever meanders into my entirely exhausted mind/make up the magical mess on the spot” story.  Sometimes these imaginative adventures are publishably perfect. More often…well…

Tonight’s strange story involved a honking duck and a quacking goose, and a forbidden inter-species love affair that ended with offspring. I was fine leaving it there. Awkward duck meets vagabond goose. Love ensues in the outskirts of the pond. Bam! Babies.

Done. Goodnight.

Monsters: “But they need names.”

Me: “Danny? Danny Duck? How about Danny Duck?”

Monsters: “NO!”

Me: “Gracie? Gracie Goose? Gracie it is. Goodnight.”

Monsters: “BORING!”

Me: “How about Tired? Or Mr. Mamas-Losing-It? Or Mrs. Wants-to-go-to- Bed? I don’t know. You think of it.  I’m going to sleep.”

Monsters: “How about Honky and Quacker?”

Seriously? A story about stereotypes and social struggles starring Honky and Quacker?

Me: “Perfect. “

And that was how our night ended with the sweetest of racist slurs.

*Please note that my children were fully unaware of their derogatory dialect. At least I don’t think they were aware. Unless fowl foul were the featured animal on Octonauts this week.*

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 19:

I’m overwhelmed.

I’m overwhelmed and overtired, overtired and overburdened, overburdened and overweight, overweight and overlooked, overlooked and overshadowed.

I’m overwhelmed.

I’m overwhelmed and I over do it. I over do it and over commit. I over commit and oversleep. I oversleep and overreact.

I’m overwhelmed…

…and I’m over it!

But then I am reminded of He who watches over for me. He who watches over me and turns it all over. Turns it all over and makes it all over. Makes it all over and takes it all over. Takes it all over and then gives me the grace to do it all over and over

…and over.

And I’m overwhelmed.

Grateful 365: Overwhelming grace.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 18: Merry Friggin’ Christmas Folks!

In the wild rush between this and that and here and there, I heard an uncharacteristic whisper from my little people, signifying plans and preparation for the buttering up before yet another radical request.

I braced myself.

Butterer #1: “Mommy. I love when we make those candy cane reindeer. They’re just the best! Can we please make those for my class for tomorrow? Please?”

Butterer #2: “Oh please Mama. Me too? Can we make them for my class too? Please Mama.”

My Sane Inner Voice: “No!”

My Mama Inner Voice: “Well…we have a few seconds before the next this and that. I could simply swing over with my herd of little angels (I am sure they won’t melt down like maniacs as we cruise past the multitude of “Buy Me” Mountains, that are the infrastructure of Christmas coated “convenience” stores), jump in and grab the supplies lickety-split (I am sure the lines won’t loop and loop and loop around the store, giving me flashbacks to the ticket sale camp outs of my teens), and we’ll be back with time to spare to make memories and Christmas creations that even Pinterest would pride (I am sure none of my monsters will rip into their reindeer reserves with snarling teeth like rabid beasts, or wrestle for the peppermint parts like territorial tyrants leaving me with more of a moose massacre than Pinterest presents).”

And after careful consideration…

Mama wins by a landslide (not by logic). Or maybe I should say Mama loses.                           Either way, I agreed to lead my troops into a trap of impossibilities.

So as we immersed ourselves into the the Pit of Despair (a.k.a.Target with tots in craze of Christmastime), and quickly discovered the only available antlers were more rainbow than reindeer and the only available noses were more random than Rudolph, I had a choice…

My Sane Inner Voice: “Admit defeat. Get out while you can, shape some snowflakes out of scrap paper, and call it a Christmas Miracle you didn’t have to wait in that line.”

My Mama Inner Voice: “We could make this work.” (No we can’t!)

And after careful consideration…

Mama wins by a landslide (not logic). Or maybe I should say Mama loses. Either way, we headed home with a grab bag of neon nick knacks, resembling a Michael’s Outlet on Club Night, praying for that Christmas (or rather a Pinterest) Miracle.

6 little hands, a multitude of multicolored magic, a gallon of glue dripping over the dinner table (and dinner…and everything),  far too few googly eyes for suitable sight, and even fewer seconds to spare,

and  we have this…

…the Cyclops Holiday Monsters!

My Sane Inner Voice: “Lose them, hide them, make them disappear. Save yourself (or at least the innocent children) from the shame of sharing THIS!”

My Mama Inner Voice: “My minis are happy. My minis are proud. These are my mini’s, not mine. And you know what…

…these FRIGGIN’ Rock!”

And after careful consideration…

Mama wins by a landslide (not by logic). Either way…

“KIDS! Get your backpacks. I don’t want you to forget these Christmas Miracles!”

But in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365: Beautiful Oops!

A year ago, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 17:

…and proud of it!

Grateful 365: The entertainment of extra dance shoes at Sissy’s dance class.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 16: So the other day, while taxiing the troops to too many to dos,  I had the audacity to attempt a conversation with an actual adult. Not surprisingly,  mid-sentence, I was forced to turn around and demand the impossible ideal of silence.

“Excuse me! I need you to be quiet for a moment, Honey. I’m talking. “

Not a surprising scenario.

What was surprising was that at that unheard of moment in history, my children actually were quiet.

No, today, my desperate demand for a “me moment” was not actually directed at my trio of typical noise boxes, as they were uncharacteristically…quiet?

So, who WAS the honey I hushed?

Static.

As the lull of the radio switched over to unexpected static, my brain began to produce the automatic response mechanism often characterized by “Uh, huh. Yeah. I’m listening” (when listening is actually way, WAY down on your list of allocated areas of brain usage, far below the demands of “What is for dinner?”, “Wait. What did I even feed them for lunch?”, “Oh no! Did I even remember to feed them lunch?”), or “Go ask Daddy” (when you don’t even have the brain capacity left to provide the enthusiasm of the classic “Uh huh”).

I heard static, my brain heard the demand that comes from the noise that comes (continuously) from my kids, and a neurological survival response was submitted for a request for silence.

I called the static honey…and politely asked it to please…shut…up.

At least I still have enough brain capacity left to realize that

I have officially lost my mind!

But in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365: My children were so stunned by the request for static silence (and perhaps a bit fearful of my mental state), that they too (although perhaps unintentionally) followed my request for quiet…at least for a good solid second.

A year ago, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 15: We have had a week!

We ALWAYS have a week.

So we decided to push the reset button and play hookie from our revolving door of “have-tos,” and adventured over to Candy Cane Lane to oooo and awww over the magical world of competitive “Christmas Spirit,” and released our littles to make lawn angels on stranger’s whitewashed felt covered lawns.

Aside from an occasional reminder that they were not, in fact, Santa’s reindeer, and to please stand up and get out of the gutter, our invited chaos, packaged in the grace of “Ohhhh…they’re just being kids at Christmas” and camouflaged by crowded streets of fellow weeknight rebels, seemed too good to be true.  And then…

Monster 1: “Look! Giant candy canes!”

Monster 2: “Yeah, but they’re not even real.”

Monster 1: “Yes they are!”

Monster 2: “No. I KNOW they’re not real because I licked them.They’re NOT real…

…and they taste gross.”

But in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365: Hitting the reset button…and crowds to camouflage the chaos.

A year ago, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 14:

Counter Top Sous Chefs and Art Au Naturale

…………………………………………………………………..

Disaster Relief Efforts and Burnt Mickeys

Just another solo Sunday morning at the Vokoun Zoo.

Grateful 365: When Daddy comes home.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 13: Costco is a bottomless pit of despair, costumed by a mirage of free samples and fifty cent foot longs. Parents of pairs plus should never venture into a world without room on reserve for wiggly little rumps. I am aware of the double bun zone at the front of the cart. I am also aware that it only takes a single forklift worthy pack of paper towels to evict both booties from the coveted cart containment zone, leaving mischievousness in multiples to move freely throughout the chaos, that is Costco.

But on this day, in the spirit of roughing it, we had planned a family camp out, cloaked in the fairytale of a vacation. Since when did vacation become synonymous with torture by the way? After months of researching extortionately priced dirt patches nestled in the “wilderness” within walking distance of Walmart, weeks of packing preparation modeled after a meticulous military plan only mamas could maintain, days of stuffing too much into too little, only to have your kiddos disassemble your masterpiece to pull out their favorite lovey (which they will then inevitably forget to repack, leave at home, and cry about for the rest of the “vacation”), you get to magically puzzle together your entire household of “necessities” into the back of your four door. And that is just the preparation for the vacation.

So it is not surprising that in the midst of the final sprint, while moving the first mountain to the minivan too early in the AM to even mark as morning, that my littlest man would make the demand for “MAMA,” mid-move, leaving our sleeping bags for seconds aside our vacation chariot…
..to be stolen. Yep, our crappy camping comforters were stolen mid-mountain-move. Really?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

I cried.

Then, in the spirit of the events, I determined it was time to really rough it…
…and I packed in the piranhas and headed to the pit of Costco.

I naively thought, “I can just get in and get out,” and resolve the robbery. And at the same time, save my withering spouse the torture of having to periodically bunt-kick our kids back to the porch goal line, away from oncoming traffic, while strategically stacking up our grossly gluttonous definition of essentials, like some sort of magical Jenga Ninja. Meanwhile, my little darlings will sweetly snack on samples as we shoot through the simple little shop, to the shortest of queues.

I was wrong…
…and stupid.

So after a story worthy start, I somehow magically made it to the finish line with replacement overpriced dirt patch people pouches in hand and a mile long line in sight. Thinking fast, I made one last survival stop at the tranquilizer, I mean sample stand.

Oh no!
Spicy? Healthy? What? Why?

With the sample station polluted with jalapeno infused edamame, I was forced to abandon all ideals. I never would have agreed to open that lifetime supply sized bucket of chocolate covered raisins if I wasn’t in a Code Red, Level 10, War Zone Status.

There…was…no…choice!
Must…get…out!

However in that moment of weakness, they smelled the fear, and that bucket transformed into a bongo drum signaling a battle cry, with the perfect percussion to match my middle’s impromptu, guttural “Moooooomyyyyyyyyyyyy.” My own little toddler Tarzan. This climax was only peaked by the bullets that followed, as the forbidden tasty treats became ammunition for my tiniest warrior, an infectious defense against the ear piercing battle cry of his female counterpart. And as this ensemble of mortification reached its assumed crescendo, I hear this…

…“Move it or lose it, lady.”

And something broke in me.

All social standards and sanity snapped, as I turned around to face my mommy nemesis. Like a slow motion scene from the Matrix, death scowl spread, all notions of nonviolent communication violently pushed aside, ready to go all LB on this lady, opting to lose it rather than move it, when suddenly…
…my slow motion, shameful, self-imposed call to battle was abruptly halted, and then sent into a masochistic rewind, as my eyes met with…

…the dreaded mommy acquaintance!

My kind, currently kid-free, casual acquaintance, terrified by the landmines her unsuspecting sarcasm had just shattered, took a physical step back, perhaps in hope of avoiding the shrapnel of raisins and shame that continued to shoot all around her. But before I even have a chance to explain (or to even materialize an excuse I could believe myself) , my phone rings.

“Hey, Kate. It looks like they stole the chairs too. Could you go back and grab some?” Really?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I try to desperately claw my way out of the foxhole but between the battle cries and the audible loss of dignity, I’m sure it was all gibberish. So with only prayer to pull me through, I eventually limp away with my multimillion dollar reserve of “bargain” buybacks, navigate through the zoo of ravenous cars fighting for spots like a scene of walkers from the walking dead, unload my convulsing wild beasts, shoo away the line of voracious vehicles battling for my two little white lines and shift into automatic when I hear this…

…“I need to go potty, Mama! Really, REALLY bad! Right NOW!” Really?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I weigh my options.

“HOLD IT!” I scream. “I am getting us all out of here ,” as if I am some sort of purple heart patriot worthy of praise. Having weighed my options, the threat of #1 mid-carseat came nowhere near the potential Scene 2 of bringing the beasts back into public viewing.

Heading home, I hear “I’m hungry.” “I’m starving.” “I think I might die without food!” Realizing my plan of sustaining them on samples had been foiled by the natural repellent of nutrition (darn coconut water and kale stations), and realizing our refrigerator was now a cooler officially immersed in the mini van mountain masterpiece awaiting us, I opt to eliminate, one more dish, one more spill, one more scene, and spoil the unworthy savages (or rather myself) with a well-balanced diet of chicken and mac-and-cheese from the health food haven known as El Pollo Loco. To my amazement, with the instruments of torture filled with sustenance, I found an entire 30 seconds to breathe and think and be silent without interruption and experience a temporary lapse in reason, mentally patting myself on the back for surviving with only a wounded ego. Maybe this vacation will be nice? Maybe it will be relaxing now that we’re all fed and …

My fantasy is interrupted.

“Sorry Mama. So sorry mama. I didn’t mean to.”

The magical mac-and-cheese muzzle is now coating every orifice of my purse, the thoughtful disaster, making sure to not exclude even the smallest of crevice of my phone, my wallet, or even my pictures. Really?

Perfect.

Breathe Kate. Where are the wipes? Just grab a wipe.

Oh yeah…we already packed them.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Cruising into the finish-line, I silently load the troops into our bulging tank, too tired to tell the tragic story to an unsuspecting Mr. Herder.

And then…

“So, are you ready to go rough it?” he wonders aloud.

I shake my head and laugh.

Camping has nothing on Costco with kids. Nothing!

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 12: I love the rain.

Not for singin’. Not for dancin’. Not even for the rainbows it brings. No…

…nothing quite so fairytale.

Not with the hope that it might dampen the drought we are drowning in. No…

…nothing quite that noble.

No, I love the rain for its camouflage of confessions.

With the rain, breakfast stains become water marks. Bad fashion (and bad abs), hidden behind the bulk of believable pullovers. Greasy locks, sophisticated slick. Late birds become safe birds, with the unarguable defense of caution. Makeup becomes a must not, as raindrops reveal more beauty than raccoon eyes. And, of course, all obligations are excused, as desert natives would never be expected to brave a drizzle.

With rain, the guilt of it all is just washed away.

So bring on the rain, the singin’ and the stains, the dancin’ and the fashion don’ts,  the rainbows and the ratty. Let me be late and free from the stress of the sun.

I’m done with the drought. I’m ready for the excuse to camouflage some of these confessions.

Who am I kidding? I’ll still claim the stains. But maybe the rain will save you from having to ask.

Grateful 365: Rain. Nature’s excuse…and mine too.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 11:  I used to panic if my little princess wasn’t presented in anything but the perfect shade of pink.  The shimmer on the shoes, matched the sparkle on the shirt, matched the tasteless, but trendy tutu, every…single…time.  I even had pacifiers in a palette of perfect shades of silly, just to illustrate my idiocy and my perceived proficiency in parenthood.

Things looked pretty.

Even my super sitter used to tease me for taking the time for the perfect part for my princess’ crown before presenting her for play time at 7-freakin-o’clock in the morning.

“Just bring her over in something comfy, Kate,” she’d suggest.

Fast forward six years and two more monsters…

…and this is how I left my littles at our beloved babysitter’s this morning.

And it was WAY past 7am.

There is no longer any perception of pretty or proficiency in my parenting.

Grateful 365 Day 135:  The amazing thing about ugly, is it makes you search for the real beauty in it all. Still searchin’…

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 10: This is the floor of my car.

I think that image alone constitutes a full confession.

But I am not done.

The other day a well-intentioned (and apparently childless) saint offered the gift of a Christmas car wash, in the spirit of the holidays. I explained that we had just had a car wash…yesterday. This WAS the car washed.

I assure you it can be prettied, and attempts are made ALL…THE…TIME! I also assure you that there is a worthy story and an explanation for each piece of this gruesome crime scene. No excuse, but there is explanation. I also assure you that I personally think every minivan should come automatically equipped with an extra pair of 2T undies, a juice box, a board book, a sparkly Santa hat for added pizazz, and slightly stepped on goldfish crackers. Think about it. Every mom’s survival kit, right there at your fingertips (so you can reach back and throw it at them mid-highway, in hopes it will silence them for a single second).  And in my defense, the undies were clean, the juice box was full, you can’t hate on mobile literacy, who doesn’t need some easy access to the Christmas spirit, and the goldfish…well they were smashed, but freshly smashed…and whole grain!

So I graciously thanked Saint Cleanliness for their gifted intentions and inquired about a rain check on such generosity, imagining the detail bill we could rack up if we just held out until after a family road trip….a long, long road trip, with lots and lots of snacks! Now THAT would be a gift worth giving!

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 134: The car wash that opened across the street. Both in its worldly value and in its destination as evidence of divine intervention.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 9: I give up.

The complete confession is that my declaration of defeat is a daily occurrence.

So when I stormed into the husband’s office today, intent on interrupting any attempts at productivity (a brilliant behavioral tactic modeled after my little monsters…the masters of productivity prevention), waving my white flag…the melodrama didn’t possess quite the momentum I had hoped for.

Estrogen: “I’m done! I’m sending them all away.”

Testosterone: “Where?”

Estrogen: “Away. I dunno. To school. To some absurdly extended day, dawn to dusk school. Better yet, boarding school. And I’m hiring a nanny to cater to even the tiniest of cracks in between their away, and my tomorrow.”

Testosterone: “What?”

Estrogen: “And I’m going back to the real working world, where I only have to deal with crap in the figurative form, and where people pretend to produce without prompting and prompting and prompting again, and where I don’t have to conduct conference calls in the commode while muffling the “MAMA, MAMA”s with my once white towels wedged in the sliver of hope at the rock bottom saddest attempt at an “office”, and where my write-ups won’t include my failings at Pinterest and organics and scrapbooking and sickeningly cute little Christmas crafts and…

Testosterone: “And what?”

Estrogen: <insert waterworks> “And where I’m not failing…THEM!” <insert waterfall>

Unfortunately, this explosion of estrogen is not my confession. It is just the script for every Tuesday…or really every DAY! No, this is the real confession…

Testosterone: <unwavered by my routine hysteria>  “What? But you haven’t even lost it yet…and its almost eleven! Doesn’t that make today a good day?”

And there it is.

My ability to refrain from losing my mind, losing my temper, and some days just preventing the loss of my actual children through lunchtime, is all it takes to constitute a “good day” in our household.

I wish I could confess he was being a jerk.

He was not.

He was just being right.

So with his words of wisdom, I stormed back into the tornado of today, secured by the knowledge that I had already made it through lunch without a single loss, and set aside my white flag…

…well, at least until tomorrow.

Alright, I only made it another hour before I lost it all. Close enough!

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 133: Testosterone. I hate it in the moment. I mean, estrogen level HATE it! But it is only thing that keeps me from losing it.

In other words, I’m sorry, Honey!

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: YEAR 2

Day 8: I found myself immersed in a decades high relic of retired Christmas cards and caught myself consumed by the emotion of the memories. What happened to it all?

Don’t panic.

Its not what you think?

I have no intention of switching out my sinful secrets for sentiment .  There will be no heartfelt reminiscing on the joys of Christmas’ past, today. And while those who know me, know that I am known to weep at far less worthy causes then the miracle of memories, this moment is far more rooted in the tears that fall from the torture of self-awareness, then anything Hallmark. No, instead this hallmark manifested with the awareness that MY “self”, was actually me. And as I sifted through my selves of Christmas past, the  juxtaposition of my then “me” and my now “me”, resulted in one, obvious inquiry. What the heck happened…to me?

I am talking about the radical regret I am faced with while perusing pictures past. How clear it becomes that these pictures from before, would better hold the title of “after pictures”, if I had only known what I would one day become. Not because of the beauty that once was (while it always made it to my novel of new year’s resolutions, beauty basics never quite found its way to my list of “resolved”), but rather at the pitiful lack of proficiency in personal maintenance that I now realize was only the starting point in my free fall into…well, you’ll get our Christmas card.  When did my old “fat” pictures become my goal shots? How did I age a decade in a matter of days? When did the preparation of little people becoming my primary, and a ziplock bag of lip gloss and off-color concealer and the mini-van passenger pull-down mirror, become my only defense against the cruelty of the camera? Why didn’t anyone tell me these lil’ monsters would age me in dog years? And why the heck didn’t I appreciate the peak, that was my past?

But then it hit me. If last year’s ugly is this year’s envy, why waste my time terrified in my reflection? Nope! As much as it amazes me, no matter how sad this year’s shot is, next year’s will be worse. This year’s fat, will be next years foxy.  This year’s gray, will be next year’s gorgeous. Its just science, people. So the next time you find yourself cursing your current, remember this, THIS, will one day be your skinny shot, the young you, the hot mama moment you envy. THIS! So knock those lil’ monsters out of the foreground and work the camera mamas! Those sneaky little scene stealers  have got years to peak perfection. But this…THIS, is your best…

…at least compared to next year’s disaster.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 132: Perspective. Freakin’ perspective, people.

 CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 7: Evidence

Evidence of my failure in teaching the toxicity of commercialism at Christmas

OR

evidence of my success in teaching the propaganda of Hallmark Holidays?

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 131: Revelations in doodles.

A year ago, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 1

Day 6: The other day I was complimented on my hombre. I smiled…

…then I went home and Googled “hombre”.

Given the assumption that my complimentary acquaintance wasn’t making a pass at “my man”, my search engine research led me to infer that this was in fact a praise for my “ombre”, the dark rooted, dyed ends hair trend so popular with the kiddos these days.

Me? Trendy? Popular? Worthy of compliment?

No. Unfortunately, I do not have an “ombre”. At least not an intentional one. No, instead I have the coveted color that comes from the poverty and procrastination, that moves one to months too long between attempts at upkeep.

Maybe she WAS just complimenting my man?

Concerned, I quickly Googled a Groupon to add a little color back into my well-rooted world. If I am going to be accused of cool, I might as well at least try it on. Besides, it might give me the edge needed to hold onto my man, just in case she really is just after my “hombre”.

Grateful 365: The popularity of bad dye jobs and missed maintenance.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 5: Revealing One Liners

1. (Poor) Mr. Butterfly Herder

Him: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Shaving my legs?”

Him: “Really? What? Are we going on a vacation?”

A year ago, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

2. (Poor) Mr. Butterfly Herder Part II

Him: “Yeah…I can see Mia growing up to be a carny. Definitely!”

    <If you know my Mia…you are laughing and nodding right now. If you don’t, you’ll be laughing and

      nodding at the carnival in a few. Trust me!>

3: Health Nuts

Lil’ Monster: “Mama. Can I have a dessert?”

Me: “You just ate a doughnut, Crazy! THAT was dessert.”

Lil’ Monster: <authentic confusion> “What??? Doughnuts aren’t dessert. They’re breakfast.”

Me: <Rejoining Weight Watchers…tomorrow

                                                                                    …or maybe the next day.>

4. Health Nuts Part II

    <While at a home school study group, discussing the food groups and ‘My Plate’ portions.>

Me: <joking> “Hey, I don’t see the doughnut group anywhere?”

Lil’ Monster: “That’s because I think doughnuts can go under dairy and healthy grains.”

Me: <Okay, seriously rejoining Weight Watchers…TOMORROW!.>

5. Romance?

    <The Mr. and I, cheapin’ it up, sharing a hot dog at the fair, with a kid per lap…>

Lil’ Monster: “Ohhhh! That is soooo romantic Mama and Dada.”

    Me: <This is romance? Half a hot dog at the fair? Yep…I guess this is as close to romance that we’ll

    get. Hand me the ketchup.>

6. Schoolin’

Lil’ Monster: “Mama, Mama…I know that letter!”

Me: “You do, Buddy? <beaming with pride> Did Mama teach you that letter?”

Lil’ Monster: “No. The i-Pad taught me.”

Me: <humiliated>

7. Schoolin’ Part II

Lil’ Monster: “I can spell my name Mama. M – I – A…” “Poop! M – I – A. POOP!”

Me: “Perfect.”

8. Cleanliness is Next to…Well, Not Us

    <putting away dishes>

Me: “You need to clean your plate before you put it away please.”

Lil’ Monster: “They are clean, Mama. I licked them.” <said while putting away the “clean” dish>

Me: <shame…and disinfectant>

9. Killin’ Them w/ Kindness

    <No idea where they have picked up these phrases…well, maybe I do.>

Lil’ Monster:  “You’re driving me nuts!”

Lil’ Monster: “Is this really how its gonna be today? Really? THIS is how its gonna be?”

Lil’ Monster: “Seriously?” SERIOUSLY! Come ON!”

Lil’ Monster: “BAM it!” <I blame Mr. Butterfly Herder on this one.>

10:  Hangin’ on by a Prayer

Lil’ Monster: “Please Lowd! Please Lowd, help me! Help me Cheeses.”

11: Hangin’ on by a Prayer Part II
<Whenever the Lil’ Monsters want to get out of something, explain something, or just add pizazz,        they add, ““But, that’s what the bible says.”>

Example 1(excuse):

Lil’ Monster to another Lil’ Monster: “You’re a Poop Head!”

Me: “Excuse you! What did you just say?”

Lil’ Monster: “But, that’s what the bible says.”

Example 2 (explain):

Lil’ Monster: “You have to give me a Popsicle.”

Me: “And why is that?”

Lil’ Monster: “Because that’s what the bible says.”

Example 3 (pizazz):

    <Try adding this classic to any of the above gems to understand the flavor this one can add to just  

     about anything. It’s like the fortune cookie game, but for Christians.>

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 129: Grateful…because that’s what the bible says.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 4: I don’t like my children at 2 am.

I mean, I “Nightline Special: Monster Mothers” don’t like my children at 2 am.

Come to think of it, I don’t like them much at 3 am, or 4 am, or 5 am. And the only thing keeping me from killing my kids at 6 am is coffee…a massive, giant, steaming cup of liquid life. Their life, not mine. My life would never, ever begin at 6 am, if I had any choice in the matter.

I do not.

But at 2 am, TWO A.M., no amount of caffeine can save us.

A year ago yesterday, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

Since the moment I became “Mama”, my days have ceased to be mine. Thus, my nights became the days I no longer owned, filled with far more priorities then the Primetime they once possessed.

And with each little life-sucker I pop out, even “my” nights lose a little more of that “my”. Thus, the only remaining “my” in “my” life, is nestled somewhere between midnight and morning, leaving little room for things as silly as sleep. So on those extremely rare occasions when “my” time is filled with the seduction of sleep (delicious, beloved, illusive sleep), and that sweet, sacred state of unconsciousness is horrendously, abruptly interrupted with tiny, terrorist tears, my only choice is to join in the waterworks and make sure my cries are even louder.

At 2 am, TWO A.M., I find myself teeter-tottering between the desperation of (loosely labeled) lullabies and the primal snarls of the walking dead. Unfortunately, my semi-consciousness even refuses the recollection of any words resembling appropriateness, so I try to camouflage bad jingles and hip songs from high school (apparently the only thing left in the long term memory of my mid-night brain) with a gentle hum and a prayer. It is terrifying, even for me. And yet I find it surprising that my baby, having just emerged from a night mare or night terror or simply scared by their own shadow, doesn’t immediately find comfort in the nightmare of a mother they have discovered at 2am, and obediently drift back into Dreamland.

I teach child development. I TEACH it! (Another terrifying truth..I know). But at 2am, TWO A.M., theory and research and wisdom…

…are crap! And every bit of mother and martyr in me is pushed right off of the ledge, and the world’s worst hostage negotiator enters the scene.

“What do you want? WHAT do you want? What do you WANT? PLEASE, for the love of all of humanity, WHAT DO YOU WANT!” (An actual, and frequent mid-night quote.)

I have read every manual. I know all of the rules. I even have the audacity to try and tell trusting, paying people how to preserve the preciousness of their perfect little people, and the bucket of theory behind it all. I un-der-stand what “the right” thing to do is, and I will tell a class full of students do it by the book every time…no excuses.

But at 2 am, TWO A.M., you know what I really recommend?

SLEEP! Beg, borrow, bargain, blame, stack the whole brood on top of you as you sing and tickle and rock the whole mess to sleep. Do whatever the heck those little life-suckers want, so that when you wake up tomorrow and face an absolutely impossible mountain of too many to-dos, with too little sleep to tackle them, and too-tired toddlers terrorizing MY day, you DON’T end up on a Dateline Special. When the only thing standing between me and the leading role on the next episode is that gallon sized Starbucks, the absolute best strategy for everyone’s survival is SLEEP! Screw theory.

I don’t like my children at 2 am. But darn if they don’t look frickin’ a-dor-a-ble when those little life-suckers are finally curled up asleep in their cuteness…

…even at 2am.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365: Sleep. Theirs. Mine. By the book, or by bargaining. Sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 3:  Here it is…

… an exclusive glimpse into the coveted and glamorous world of a work-from-home-mama.

Oh, how I wish this was staged.

It was not.

A year ago yesterday, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

Let’s break down the beauty in the details, paired with the assumptions I am often posed with by outsiders to this illusive world…

Envious Outsider: “I wish I could stay in my pajamas all day. You are so lucky!”

Truth from the Insider: I assure you that when jammies are your official uniform, and showers are secondary to…well, just about anything on your long list of impossible must-dos, this fantasy of cozying up on the couch with a coffee in your comfy jams, are quickly proven false. The cozy wears off after 2, okay sometimes 3 days, in the same “uniform,” and is replaced with an olfactory reminder of your decision to replace your dignity with the duality of mommyhood and “work” .

Envious Outsider: “I wish I got to spend all of that quality time with my kiddos. I am so jealous!”

Truth from the Insider: Time, yes. Quality, not so much. I’ve lost my children for gross amounts of time. And my first reaction was to thank God for the blessing of a precious moment of actual productivity. My second was then to pray He would keep them safe…wherever they were. However, those little gems of absentee parenting are unfortunately not the norm. The reality of our days is…well, this. (SEE IMAGE ABOVE). This is what my children do when left with only their imagination to raise them.

Let’s break down the moment captured above: Please note the laundry basket, once filled with cleanliness that dreamed to one day reach a drawer (a myth in the world of a work-at-home-mama), now emptied (on the bathroom floor…joy), and filled with underwear-less buns (SANTA) and a bag containing my car keys, my contact lens case, my glasses, and daddy’s wallet (SANTA’S BAG OF TOYS), to be delivered to an undisclosed location and never to be seen again. Please also note the rope around the necks of my sweet princesses (REINDEERS, NEEDING REIGNS). And yes…Christmas music was blaring at an octave worthy of the neighbors calling the cops on us.

This is normal! THIS!

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 127: Life as a stay-at-home-disaster may not be glamorous or coveted, pajamas may not be a perk and quality time may be questionable, but I am grateful for every single ugly, unsanitary, and unbelievably unenviable moment of it all.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 2: I lied to the little, old lady at church. Rather, the smile that I used to mask the mania may have allowed for assumptions, implying a lie. So I lied to the little, old lady at church. Time for my confessional…
———————————————————————————————————

A year ago yesterday, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

My darlings dress themselves most days. Not as an intentional means of nurturing independence. Not as a thoughtful decision to spark self-esteem. No, while I embrace the academia that supports my fashion negligence, the sad, mad parade of stripes and dots and costume box finds are actually just the result of my white flag, times-up, defeat. I admit it.

So when the little, old lady at church came upon us, baring compliments for my kiddo’s creative ensembles and praising my parenting in allowing my littles to look the part of independence, I smiled. Her assumptions of this audacity in oddity having sprung from my little beasts was correct…

…or would have been on any other day.

But this morning, THIS morning, the dress-up disaster was intentional, and all my own. In an effort to try on the concept of being on time, I had dared to lay out their looks the night before, while they were unconscious and unable to argue with my genius. In an attempt to connect with the cool kids (rather, the cool kids’ “-rents”), I had thoughtfully fashioned my trendy toddlers with the edgiest in Osh Kosh…

…or so I thought. This was my sad, mad attempt to “make it work.”

I guess it wasn’t working.
I guess I broke it.

So instead of admitting to my fashion failure like a sane person, I smiled at the little, old church lady, silently blaming my beasts for the bad fashion I’d bullied them into.

No more. Effort and I just don’t seem to match. I am dressing myself up in my white flag for good, and letting the little ones clothe themselves in independence and self-esteem instead.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 126: Waving the white flag.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2

Day 1: My kid ate a candy cane for dinner. A year old candy cane. Alright, I think it was older than he is. And I didn’t even try to stop him.

———————————————————————————————————–

A year ago today, I decided to switch out my selfies for shame, in an attempt to change the face of this fiction. So in the spirit of giving, I am gifting y’all once again with a daily dose of self-esteem, in knowing that no matter how bad it gets, mine is probably way worse. I hope you enjoy diving into my daily, dirty little secrets this December.

Now, back to today’s sinful spoils…

So we dove into the Christmas boxes today to try to soothe the savage beasts with a temporary whine suppressant of novelty. The beauty of limitations in long term memory when you have lived less than a lollipop, is there is no need for “new” in novelty. So, I thought the manufactured memories would buy me some time, and dared to dive into the fantasy of dinner fixin’ without the music of “Mama, Mama” mixed into the mania. But then I noticed the wrapper (okay, wrappers), which I first assumed were our poor man’s menagerie of recycling bin, packing pretends (too cheap to invest in the indulgence of bubble wrap for our breakables).

I was wrong.

And when I could no longer avoid witnessing the consumption of the calcified cane, I must admit that my first reaction was not disgust…

…but delight in the epiphany that I had finally found a silencer, wrapped in cellophane, that would allow me an entire minute to myself.

So I decided not to break the silence.

And in the spirit of my long dead Grateful 365 Project, I have decided to switch my shame to celebration, in an attempt to laugh and learn and embrace the ugly.

Grateful 365 Day 125: Silence. Sticky, sickening, unsanitary silence. I’ll take it.

——————————————————————————————————
CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE (FLASHBACK)

Day 1-My 17 month old knows how to say the words lollipop and french fry…and not because he is a baby genius, but from sheer mass practice.

I am totally starting a FB revolution and I invite yall to join me. So in a similar fashion to November messages of Thanksgiving, during the month of December, in the spirit of giving, my gift to you will be one reason, each day why you can feel better about your own adventures in parenting, as you delight in my epic failures. Let me explain. While I am admittedly a FB addict, I can also testify that it is not always a healthy addiction, especially as a mama in the trenches of parenting. I’ve read the studies on FB-driven mommy depression and I’ve experienced my own FB envy while reading about your eco-friendly home gardens, planted and nurtured by your gentle wee ones, as they all desperately, although politely, fight over your fresh-picked kale and sprouts. Well, I didn’t grow my own veggies (no time), or even buy organic (no money), or heck…even feed my children anything without the word “snack” in the title today. I admit it. Still, I’ve also been the one who put up the picture of my sweet little angels all snuggling with smiles, secretly having deleted the 37 other pictures of them with their fingers up their noses, showing off their underwear, while tackling each other. The truth is FB families are a bit of a lie. Come on…admit it. And while their is nothing wrong with sharing our celebrations and putting our best foot forward, I thought it might be fun to practice a comical version of humility this month, so we can all celebrate the real parenting success…surviving another day with our little monsters and laughing about it. My theory has always been that if you aren’t exhausted and humbled at the end of each day, you are probably not parenting that well anyways. So, let’s liberate each other and share those deleted family shots and one-liners your kids said, that both humiliated and humored you. Or just read mine and find joy in the comedy I call my life. Enjoy!

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

I finally found my dream job…
…and it sucks!

The handbooks are all wrong. The experts in the field are debatable, at best. The hours are awful. The pay is insulting. There is no way the working conditions are up to code. It is borderline toxic, inhumane, even condemnable. And honestly, sometimes I wish I knew who the real boss was around here, so I could at least have someone to complain to.

I blow it…every day…every single day! I break all of the rules, shout anarchy to the masses, and then try on my newest little social experiment of contrasting ideals again and again and again. I bet they would fire me if they could, and probably should. I mean, I really, genuinely suck at this job.

But this is my dream job.

You see, I’m not the coolest. This may come as a surprise to those of you who had begun to interpret my apparent opposition to all things tasteful, as some sort of fashion forward aloofness. But, in fact, I am not gifted in anything worthy of envy. But in this job, everyone looks up to me, loves me, mimics my every move. Anything worth real admiration to the multitudes is totally lost on this crew, for which I am grateful.

I am not the prettiest. In this job, outward beauty is really pretty irrelevant…maybe even detrimental, as the preparation for pretty would just steal away the spare moments that seem to slip away faster than we can hold on. In fact, my imperfection is the perfect uniform for my profession, in that it leaves room to embrace the humility necessary to fall on my face and stand up laughing, and the perspective required in welcoming that little extra dirt under my ever-broken nails. And then there are the minions that dependably mimic me. I suppose I could swing the idea that if they are to see their own reflection as enough, then I better claim that status as well, as I am the one holding up their mirror. Thus, in this job, I can rest in my reflection, just as it is.

I am not the funniest. I try. The effort is there. But my greatest performances have always seemed to have emerged among an underage audience. And by underage, I mean single digit. Amazingly, in this job, I am still the last comic standing just in my willingness to be the fool that comes so naturally to me. I have a full house every single day and my humor is not lost on their level of maturity, often having the power to turn morale around for the whole team, taming even the wildest of critics.

Not surprisingly, my list of failures in the world of –ests could go on indefinitely. In fact, the only –ests I currently own are those far removed from the worthiness of bragging rights, and safely secured away with all of my other shame…except at my dream job. In this job, my secret world of sinful –ests are commonplace. Nobody here seems to mind them at all.

I have been known to fall (often) as I reached too high in my professional past. I have found myself clothed in my mediocrity, in the presence of the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the mosts of all, to the point of drowning in my world of ever-higher bars. I am known to collect perfect people like beanie babies, as a means of highlighting my own imperfections. And in past careers, this manifested in a continuous, downward spiral of my naturally plummeting self-esteem. But having taken on my dream job, surrounding myself with the bests has instead kept me humble, kept me learning, kept me moving upward. I get to steal the ideas of those who claim the -est, learn from the mistakes they hide from, and breathe without risk of social stigmatization, as I am so far down the social ladder that nobody would even notice a few broken rungs. I welcome each failure as an on the job training opportunity.

And so I thank God every day for my lack of fashion forward focus, for those 5 (okay maybe 10…alright 20) extra pounds, and for every other insecurity I dare to celebrate because in me, my busy, little workers see enough is enough. Enough for me. Enough for themselves. Because THEY can wear what they want, look how they do, be who they are, and see a reflection that is true.

I thank God that everything I own is invaluable enough for destruction and never stops us from our important work of living and learning and growing. And that the boss that wakes up in the morning, as unfortunate as I may be, is the same boss they will get all day long, like it or not, so there is never a missed opportunity due to a wardrobe change or unnecessary rituals in professionalism.

I thank God every day for my lack of fun funds to fill us up with the fanciest of firsts and mosts because it fills me that much more with gratitude for the hand-me-downs that always seem to come when we wear our humility. Because it gives us more opportunities to say thank you and fewer to pat ourselves on the back. Because what we have is enough…because it has to be.

I thank God for my lack of domestic divinity because our horrific working conditions are actually ideal for our professional play. The disaster is the evidence of their indescribably important work that is happening all around me, every moment of every day.

I thank God that I rarely have the answers because it shows my little people what it looks like to cry out for help, to fall to my knees and be weak, because that is the only real professional development worth our time anyways. And each time I am privileged to hear them call out, “Please Lod. Please help me,” I thank Him for every last shameful –est that led me to my knees enough to be their example.

This is my dream job! And I am pretty darn good at it. Not because I am the coolest, the prettiest, the funniest, the best in any way. But because in it, I get to give my people the only lesson I really have worth teaching…

…an authentic love of life and learning that can only come from a willingness to fail again and again and again, and the audacity to just keep getting back up.

Oh…and they can’t fire me.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

I’m a planner.

Apparently, God thinks that is quite funny.

I’m late. I’m always late.

I’m wrong. I’m always wrong.

I’m never done. Never on the right path. And my life is never, ever going as planned.

And yet, I systematically stare at the impossibility of my plans (too much, too many, too late), and still find myself consistently surprised and disappointed by my seemingly planned defeat(s)…

…and then immediately make a plan on how to better plan my next plan.

I am in love with lists.

I fantasize about the checking off of a to-do…

…sometimes with such passion that I have been known to add a “done” to my “to-do”,  just to experience the hallelujah of then immediately crossing out its significance.

It is kind of sick. I admit it.

I am the result of too many sticker charts.

I confess my dependence on my fictional extrinsic addiction, fueled by the M & M model of my gold star generation.

And yet I plan on.

But why?

I pretend the perfect Pinterest party will be the memory that my children will one day paint my portrait in. I convince myself the Disneyland destination that drains our savings will save my munchkins from the memories of their screaming, savage of a mother. I plan their “moments”  with the fantasy of a living scrapbook of their happy childhood.

I’m a planner.

Apparently, God thinks that is quite funny.

My plans will never be their moments, their memories.

Their etchings will be earned through the traditions you never intended. Those that never seemed worthy of posting. Not important enough to even mention in an old fashioned conversation.

These moments were never planned. Never listed on any “To-Do”. Never deemed significant enough to even be darkened as “Done”.

They are the strangers hand prints in the sidewalk they test each time they pass, with dreams of their tiny digits finally stretching enough to fill the puddle. The ones they make you stop and wait for, EVERY time.

It is that hidden jam where you’ve allowed, even welcomed, the forbidden Sharpie, to graffiti the inches, that seem to have evolved into feet, in the magic of years that somehow feel like a mere moment.

They are Mickey Mouse pancakes fashioned more out of imagination than anything resembling Disney, or the bad bedtime stories authored by exhaustion.

They are right there, in that “secret place” (you know the one) where they’ve created mystery out of monotony and magic out of the mundane.

This is it!

These are their memories.

So, I’m late. I’m always late.

And I’m wrong. I’m always wrong.

And I’m never done. Never on the right path. And my life is never, ever going as planned.

So what?

Be late. Because maybe, just maybe, today is the day that their hands might match the stranger in the sidewalk.

Be wrong. Because finding the “Mickey” in the mess is more magical anyways.

Dare to clear your calendar…

…because if we are always planning their next big adventures, we’ll miss out on the ones they might actually remember.

At least…

…that is my plan.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

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.

My home will never, ever be featured in Homes and Gardens…unless, of course they were in need of a dramatic before shot or some sort of warning label. Our home is cluttered with hand-me-downs and thrift store finds and, I can assure you, that any aesthetic accomplishments are purely accidental. In all honesty, we have chosen a path in life that would never allow for the kind of beauty you’d find on a cover. We just can’t afford it.  But, with equally genuine transparency, that is just how I like it. You see, while our old, questionably hygienic furniture, that should have been replaced a decade ago is surely not worthy of capturing on film, it is the perfect breeding ground for capturing moments, memories, and all of those other beauties of life that get pushed out when “beauty” is pushed in. I am grateful because when my kiddos bounce on our bed or do back flips on the couch, I don’t have to worry about “ruining the (fill in the blank…everything we own is old and deprecate)”, and in doing so ruining their moments that will become the memories that will be worth remembering one day. I am grateful for their tradition of making mountains of pillows in preparation for braving leaps from our bed. Grateful for the teamwork involved in their mischief and the rare moments without rivalry that come from letting them entertain themselves with potentially disastrous consequences. Grateful for our already disastrous life that is the perfect foundation for allowing in the chaos that brings the laughter and makes our home, a home. So truly, genuinely, absolutely, I am grateful for our hot mess home, and our hot mess children, and our hot mess home, because the beauty of our life is so much clearer when posed against it all.   But please…just give me a 15 minute warning before you come-a-knockin’ so I can hide the chaos in the closet, wipe off the visible dirt, throw a blanket over the stains, and pretend that none of this madness is true. And if you surprise me in your hunt for a cover shot and I tell you that you just “caught me at a bad time,” know that I am lying. We will never, ever be your cover shot. We will always be the warning label. It is up to you to decide what that warning is. WARNING: “If you don’t pick up the pillow pile, you might end up looking like this” or WARNING: “If you keep picking up the pillow pile, you might miss the moments that feel just like this.” I think our choice is aesthetically evident.

I just survived a Level 5, Red Alarm, Off-the-Chart, monumental meltdown in the middle of Target. I’m not saying I deserve a Purple Heart people, but I sure wouldn’t mind a smile.

Here is the scenario, we HAVE to go shopping. Believe it or not, a trip to a sweets and treats crack house with my 3 rabid addicts, pre-nap, in a busy breeding ground for judgmental eyes, is NOT my idea of meditation, or even entertainment.  But we soldier mamas battle on, in our humble quest for yogurt and apple sauce, and some indulgences (sad, but accurate word choice here) for Daddy’s lavish birthday.

So when the first battle over choice of briefs for a paternal present ensued, I was armed and ready with wise words and redirection. We even survived the chocolate aisle in a pursuit for some dark bites to be bowed, by strategically sharing the berry basket for a forbidden pre-purchase distraction. But with only moments to spare before the bomb was ignited, my battle plans were foiled when we were surprise attacked by every mama warrior’s biggest enemy, the casual acquaintance mama, WITHOUT her kids. I immediately went on high alert, hiding the open box of blueberries, and attempting to hide the drooling, snarling beasts I had pouring out of every crack of my cart, to no avail. What could have been a battle just death-defying, but successful(?) enough to be brag worthy, was immediately turned into a fragmented mess beyond repair. That momentary loss of mama-focus, that temporary lapse in superhuman intention…They smelled the fear. My fear. My insecurity. My need to please the stranger, with a portrait of motherhood that is simply…not.

And that was it. Crying. No, not crying….wailing. Kicking. No, not kicking, lashing. Screaming. No, not screaming. Howling.

Here we were. 2 items from the checkout line, basket full, and this.

Thank goodness for the experts roaming the aisles of Target, the apparent researchers and celebrated theorists in the field of parenting that have humbled themselves to the frozen food section of a discount store for their mid-afternoon sessions.

The first appeared with some amazing insight that was clearly filled with the wisdom of behavioral science. She spoke directly to the convulsing mass attached to my still walking leg, as she sang, “Ooooooh (note the intentional extra o’s)! Poor baby.”  Apparently, it was obvious that I had fastened him to my fumbling feet as some sort of torture technique for my own amusement. I was surely to blame for his misery. “Do you want some candy,” pulling some lint covered M and Ms from her therapist’s coat. I politely smiled at the well-intentioned, visiting early childhoood expert, and declined the offer.  The whole, rewarding meltdown behavior, while declining a reinforcer for the self-controlled siblings/infusing sugar into a tired toddler/candy from strangers/questionable sanitation, was sweet and temporarily tempting, but I decided to battle on sugar-free, against expert advice.

Of course, the frenzy continued. 12:30, pre-lunch, pre-nap, distracted mama, denied candy from a stranger, toddlers in Target. Surprising? For some reason it seemed to surprise the next developmental psychologist I encountered. A male (Not necessarily noted for sexist intentions. Just noted). Leaning in with a sweet smile, he shared, “I’d slap him so hard across that screaming mouth, he would never try that again,” followed by a subtle wink to assert his gentle spirit. Why thank you kind sir. Thank you. Your wisdom is well-rooted in the research of Maslow, among others, and should be featured prominently in the pages of Psychology Today. I can imagine it now, Publicly Face-Slapping Children: A Lost Science by Random Childless Single. I politely smiled and thanked him for the free session, and moved ahead, adhering to even the wildest of Social Services standards, all the way to check out.

There I met my final, friendly foe of the fit, the most subtle and common variety of floating experts among the super market circuit. Leaning in, the loving, yet long little-one-less mama, reminiscing on a tumultuous-less time in her memory, that may likely be more Hallmark than history, sweetly whispered, “You poor thing. The one and only time my son through a tantrum in a store, I turned right around and just left. He never had another one again.” Looking at my basket full of bread and butter basics and a few pathetic little presents to be bought with their own pennies, I considered her well-meant wisdom. So all I have to do is starve my hungry, over-stimulated, over-tired, toddler and deny his unknowing father of his Target brand birthday presents, and he will NEVER have another tantrum again? And the other two, calm children (who have somehow survived me all of these years, without transforming into complete savages) will be completely accepting of this no food, no purchasing their hand-picked presents for their daddy with their piggy bank pennies clause, bathing in the gratitude of leaving their good intentions behind, only to watch me battle their flailing brother into a seemingly shrinking car seat, who has now somehow developed superhuman strength and a flexibility known only by Gumby, allowing him to wiggle through my choke hold with repeated success? I weigh my options,  smile politely, and opt to gingerly move the now primitive sounding monkey surgically attached to my leg to the finish line.

It is just then that I realize I had chosen the perfect lane for my perils. A natural observation lab for these all-knowing onlookers. Really? Today, of all days, you need to card me, a 35-going-on-70-year-old looking-mother of 3,  buying Goldfish crackers and gray-covering hair dye. Really? You need to call over the manager to make sure you are charging me correctly for the bananas? Really? Charge me for the organic. Heck, charge me for the Gluten-Free, Dairy-Free, Ten-x-the-Price-Free, whatever. Please, just let me escape this looking glass. So when she began to oh-so-sweetly, meticulously fold the underwear, assuring symmetrical creases,  deaf to the serenade of screeches surrounding her, I smiled politely and bagged my own briefs, subtly sharing the surprising news that I was actually in a bit of a hurry. Please note that the innocent check-out lady likely had no suspicion of the fire she had ignited with her OCD-inspired good intentions. I was completely civilized in my state of panicked humiliation.

And as we left the bright lights of price checks and the chaos of crashing carts, and I allowed myself the first few seconds to breathe since the battle began, much to my surprise, the beast released HIMSELF.  He didn’t need a chocolate (although I might admit to have had moments of soothing my savages with sugar) or a public beating (although I might admit to the evil death stare with eyes of equivalent intentions) or a subtle starvation (although I might admit to missed meals, disguised by the dusty bag of Cheerios I found in the back of the cupboard). He didn’t even need to be picked up to please the voiceless stranger who I am quite sure just wanted him to stop by any means necessary. (I am so sincerely sorry silent stranger. If my shame could be measured in apologies, we would surely be even.) He needed quiet. He needed calm. He needed the natural consequence packaged up in patience. He needed me. I’m his expert. We’re their experts mamas.

And as my two year old terror (at times) still shaking from the severity of the scene independently murmured, “I sorry Mama. I love you Mama. I want you Mama. I wait next time Mama. I sorry,” without a prompt coated in sugar or a slap of submission, a real researcher willing to ask questions, camouflaged with a coat of offspring herself, approached me with this, “Oh my goodness! He is so sweet. How did you get him to do that?”  To which I replied, “I didn’t. He did. I just survived the battle here,” and changed the mood of our whole little world with some much-needed laughter. And then she knighted me with this, “I totally understand. Good job mama!” I smiled. Not politely this time, but in relief and sincere gratitude for her compassionate session.

She saw through the horrific scene, to see a two year old having a typical tantrum at Target, and a family who weathered the storm and somehow survived as a solid unit, and reminded me of that success. Sometimes I forget how little they are and yet how big their feelings are. They seem so monstrously big and their feelings seem so insignificantly small, when you are in it. Thank you fellow mama warrior for not sharing your stories of success at that exact moment, but sharing with me the compassion of transparency. Thank you from the deepest parts of mommyhood, for understanding.

Obviously, I am not an expert. Obviously! But I am a researcher.  And I have researched the experts, and teach about the experts (to unsuspecting students who think I know what I am doing), and, more importantly, I’m out here in my own minefields, enough to know that regardless of what you do, toddlers are hard-wired for tantrums. This will not be our last tragic scene. I foresee a clear future of callouses earned from many, many sequels. And I am equally certain that we can navigate our way through these momentary insanities in different ways, with different views, and we will all survive unscathed, as long as it is all peppered in love. I am not the expert, but I’m the closest thing they’ve got. My children are simply the experiment of a mad scientist mama trying my best to “research” my way out of an epic explosion. You’ll have to check back in a few decades and see if we all made it out alive. I only hope that in future sessions, the well-intentioned experts, might swap their sessions for support.  Smile at THAT mama at the check out stand. Help her get those groceries and go, or empower her with the magic of, “I understand.” And while I am aware that such wisdom wishers share their stories peppered in that same love that we all have for our tiny beasts (except for maybe that guy with the backhand), please-oh-please, unless you really are an expert in the field, please save your wisdom for your paid sessions.

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