Guys and Dolls

My nearly-3-year-old son loves princesses, dress-ups, and Barbies. Partially it’s because it’s what he is exposed to as “cool” since he has a big sister who loves these items. Partially it’s because, well, those interests simply appeal his preschooler self.

Considering he’s highly active, impressionable, and accident-prone, I’m grateful he hasn’t inundated himself in more violent interests. Instead of play-fighting or play-shooting, he’s diligently grooming dolls, practicing self-care through dressing himself in layers of costumes, and admiring females. I see nothing wrong with this in the least.

His present interests don’t make him lesser, don’t diminish his masculinity, don’t define his gender or sexual identity, and don’t endanger anyone at all… except for maybe those who feel personally threatened by a tulle-wearing blue-eyed boy holding a singing Ariel doll.

Lost and Found

It’s easy to lose yourself in the weight, the grind, the excitement, the worry, the messiness, the monotony, the beauty of motherhood. Rarely does one become a parent and remain the same person as before. This is good. Growth is good. Change can be good. This can also be very challenging.

When your mind, body, priorities, worldview, and life change so drastically, it can be hard to maintain the friendships you had prior to the upheaval. Often, we moms go through a lonely adjustment phase during early motherhood. We don’t quite understand who we are, what we’re doing, or where our old self went, but we realize everything has changed. Sometimes old friendships can grow with this shift, but often not. Many new moms go through a period of shedding as they try to determine who they are. It’s mournful. It’s lonely. It’s confusing. It’s temporary.

Then, one day, you realize who you are, you’re more comfortable in your stretch-marked skin, more self-aware and self-assured. This confidence allows you to make new friendships and even rekindle old ones. Your mom friend circle grows but, more importantly, it strengthens. These friends are your pack, your village, your treasures.

Growing up, I never quite felt I fully belonged. I was told I was wiser than my years, that I had an old soul… perhaps I was simply awkward. Whatever the case, I often held one or two individuals close and enjoyed a smattering of widely varied acquaintanceships with people who often would not be friends with one another, despite their ties to me. Looking back, I note the commonality among them: genuine individuality. These people were unflinchingly themselves — unabashedly outspoken, shy but funny, quirky, hippy-chic, goth-punk, soccer player, preppy, music enthusiast, etc. — every one was different but each held my admiration because they were uniquely themselves.

This ability to fearlessly be myself didn’t come until I had my second child. I’d finally come out of the first-time-mom shedding fog and was realizing who I was. I was content with myself. I began making friends that I hold dear… friends I know hold me in the esteem I hold them.

Motherhood may have initially caused me to lose myself, but the new self I found is better. The friendships I’ve made and rekindled are stronger. I am a better me and, consequently, better friend now than I was before. Motherhood helped me grow. I am a mother.

 

Mom Guilt

Mom guilt is a beast. It is the ominous haze that lingers in the back of our minds, making us second-guess ourselves, inflating our flaws, and tarnishing our strengths. It feeds on our insecurities and rattles our anxieties. It’s deafening and inescapable. No mom is absolved, but rarely do we discuss the plague.

Sometimes the guilt is predictable, such as five minutes after you’ve sat down in a — FINALLY — quiet home at the end of a year’s-long day rife with tantrums, misbehavior, mean mommy voice, and a drawn-out bedtime. Other times it’s illogical, such as when you lament your inability to express your undying love through butterfly-shaped lunch sculptures, or your failure to mold your trashcan-lickers into geniuses by way of upcycled sensory tables. Then there are the minute perceived failures escalated into life-changing monstrosities, like when you let your littlest eat who-knows-how-old Puffs from carseat crevices, or when your child’s dinner plate resembled less of of a food rainbow and more of a beige paint sample card. Yet still, there are the reasonable triggers that instigate an onslaught of mom guilt because, let’s be honest, we’re humans parenting humans all day, every day — so help us — and that leaves immense room for screw-ups.

So, what do I say to mom guilt? Don’t ignore it, don’t embrace it, just let it keep you humble. Let it fuel your growth towards becoming the kind of parent you strive to be. Let it enhance your self-awareness, not paralyze you with fear of failure or self-doubt. It’s always going to be there because it stems from love. You love your child(ren) so much, you self-flagellate because you believe your offspring deserve the very best.

In the end, do your best, know you’re human, and try again tomorrow. You’ve got this!

“That” Mom

I was just “that” mom. I am accustomed to the looks of bewilderment and shock I get when I walk in public with #1 (4.5yrs) and #2 (nearly 3yrs) holding my hands as #3 (9mnth) is strapped to my chest. Today, though, I didn’t even bother noting the surrounding glances, gawks, and glares as we painfully selected balloons for #2’s upcoming family birthday gathering.

Three “Bubble Guppies” balloons… the errand should’ve been uneventful and swift. Hahaha!

#1 had to touch every single pink ballon in sight, got a nasty case of the “I wants,” and then came the back-talk. Mean mommy verdict: “No treats tonight!” Cue the 4.5yo elbow to my thigh which she regretted about 3/4 of the way through the swing. Mean mommy point and glare.

We head to the register… My Little Pony toys, Frozen t-shirts, candy… the party store gods loathe me. I decide to ignore the rapid-fire “I wants” for sanity’s sake.

We make it to the register — I’m still ignoring — then, as I swipe my credit card, #2 decides he wants a Rapunzel party. He selected the “Bubble Guppies” theme a month ago. We have the plates. We have the cups  He came with me to order the dairy-free ocean-themed cake. We just got our three freakin’ “Bubble Guppies” balloons. Get me out of here! Sorry, bud, you’re getting “Bubble Guppies.” #2 flails. Meltdown. On the ground. Complete loss of leg control. So I drag him toward the door in the manner least likely to cue a CPS call. Now, he’s demanding his birthday is today: “My burpday is April 7th!” “Yes, but today is April 1st and your family party isn’t until the 3rd.” “Noooooooo!!!!!” I contemplated the carry-of-shame but figured he might kick #3 who was strapped to my chest. So I tried reasoning with him. It worked enough to get to the car before he melted, body half in and half out of the minivan. #1 stepped over him muttering about My Little Ponies as I slid #2 on his belly inside the van.

Buy birthday ballons: check.

Life with #2

“MY STUCK!!” It’s an announcement we hear almost daily in our house. #2 is like a beagle: cuddly, goofy, loyal, curious, and calamity-prone. He gets his elbow stuck in kitchen chair backs, his head stuck under sofas and in buckets (in public… numerous times), his hand stuck in princess teapots, his elbow stuck in ball maze toys, his bum stuck under armoires… he even got his head stuck in between a pew and a column at my mom’s church.

The other day I heard the familiar call from his room. He’d managed to buckle himself into a rocking toy but couldn’t unbuckle himself.

As I freed my bumbling minion, part of me thought: one day I’ll miss freeing him from these mishaps. Then I realized, no… this is life with #2. His body will get bigger, the places he gets stuck will get more impressive, and I will need a bigger tub of Vaseline.

Moo: How I Pump

“You have 3 under 5. How do you have time to pump milk for donation?” It’s a question I get all the time. The answer: I make time.

I’m a type-A planner with an affinity for routine. I’m also incredibly stubborn and goal-oriented. So, when I tell myself I am going to pump three times a day, I pump three times a day.

I wake up between 5:45 and 6:15, depending on how much sleep I got the night before, and I pump as the house sleeps. After lunch and once the boys are down for naps, I pump again. During this time, my 4.5-year-old plays independently. Finally, once the kids are in bed and I’ve showered, I pump while my husband and I catch up on our favorite shows.

Routine and planning are how I am able to pump daily and donate to my “milk baby.” Now it’s just a part of our family rhythm, like bedtime stories and dinnertime tantrums.