Momspiration

“Mommy, Can I Wear Girl Clothes?”

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

My 3.5-year-old son wants to wear “girl” clothes. Why? Because they make him happy, and he doesn’t give a hoot what outsiders say. As a parent, what do you say to that?

20160222_155904-1

Part of me wants to convince him to dress in accordance with social constructs, purely to protect him. Because, let’s be honest, some people are real assholes and no one wants their kid to be targeted by bubble-busters. Then, there’s the proud liberal mama part of me that wants to cheer him on, wave a big foam middle finger at naysayers, rally vehemently for his happiness, and celebrate his bravery to unabashedly seek his own contentment in a way that in no way harms others. Seriously, now, my preschooler has more self-direction and more internal fortitude than I do at 33!

Here’s the background story on our light-shedding conversation. We were driving back from a morning at my parents’ house and I asked my 3.5-year-old what he wanted to be when he grew up. “A teacher,” he replied. I asked if he’d teach little kids or big kids. He said he’d teach big kids and, “wear a long, long wig and a beautiful dress.” I asked him why he’d wear a wig and dress to teach, to which he simply answered: “Because girl clothes make me happy.”

Seeing as he was, at that moment, wearing the outfit I’d laid out for him — overalls, a long-sleeve shirt, rain boots, and a rain coat — I asked how he felt in his present ensemble. He looked down at his denim overalls, “Not happy,” he said, “I’m not beautiful in boy clothes. Girl clothes are pretty.” Fair point. Dresses, tutus, and gowns are pretty spectacular. Traditionally male attire just doesn’t carry the same pizzazz.

“How about your pink and blue button-up shirts,” I asked, “do you feel handsome in those?” He thought for a moment. “I’m not pretty in those shirts. I want to look pretty.” I asked how being pretty made him feel. “Happy!” He grinned.

My internal dueling parts battled within me as I drove down the highway. If I discourage this desire now maybe I’ll be able to protect him. Or maybe I’ll simply make him feel as if it’s wrong… as if he’s wrong. I can’t risk that. But people are assholes, I lamented. People are also wonderful, supportive, and open-minded, I countered. I took a deep breath.

“You know,” I said, “Mommy loves you no matter what you wear. However, some people only like others to dress a certain way. Those people can sometimes be mean if they see someone dressed in a way that’s different from what they think is right because the difference scares them. What would you do if someone like that was unfriendly to you.” He thought silently. “I’d say, ‘I’m sorry!'” “You apologize? Why?” I asked him in shock. “I’d say, ‘I’m sorry I scare you.’ Then I’d ask them if I can wear the dress because it makes me happy and they’d say, ‘ok. You can wear that.’ And I would. And I’d be so, so happy.” I praised the thoughtfulness of his answer.

“Your boy friends,” I continued, “wear clothes boys usually wear and your girl friends wear clothes girls usually wear. What if one of your friends asks why you’re wearing a dress?” “I’d tell my friend the dress makes me happy.” “What if someone makes fun of you?” I asked. “They should say, ‘I’m sorry.'” He replied. I asked if being teased about wearing a dress would hurt his feelings. He thought. “I’d be happy I’m wearing a dress. I’d be pretty.”

I told him that in first grade, if he attends his sister’s school, that he’d need to wear the boy uniform. I asked if he’d be ok with that. He said he would because he would wear girl clothes at home. “I can wear girl pajamas!” He exclaimed. “Please you get me girl pajamas? Today?!” I laughed with amusement at his problem-solving and excitement. “Let’s look for your sister’s old nightgowns. She has ones she’s outgrown.” “Ok !” He said as he kicked happily in his car seat, grinning wide. “We have to ask Daddy first though. If he’s ok with it, then it’s fine.”

The moment The Hubs walked through the door, our 3.5-year-old hurled the question: “Daddy, please may I wear girl pajamas?” And so tonight our middle son will be donning an Ariel nightgown to bed.

Because it makes him happy.

 

Hating on Homework

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

What do I fear more than public potty-training mishaps, raucous meltdowns in kid-unfriendly locations, and realizing my nursing cami has been obviously unclasped for an undetermined amount of hours as I went about my errands? Homework.

With a 5-year-old, 3.5-year-old, and a 16-month-old, I am securely within what veteran moms call “the busy years.” I wipe butts and noses. I avoid family meals out in public with nearly the same ferocity with which I dodge porto-potties. I navigate simultaneous meltdowns and dual nap schedules on the regular. I can buckle a car seat, settle a toy squabble, and nurse a baby at the same time. The need level is high in these early years. However, we have yet to enter the homework phase.

As much as I like to look ahead with naive aspirations of tantrum-free days and nights of uninterrupted sleep, I fear homework as a looming monster. I am a stay-at-home mom, I love my children, I adore witnessing them develop and flourish, but I am no teacher. Patience is a virtue in high demand but low in quantity for this mama, especially come dinnertime.

Evenings are treacherous territory now with my kindergartener feeling exhausted after a full day at school, my preschooler being his “professional little brother” self catching up on all of the mischievous sibling annoyance he was unable to accomplish during his sister’s school day, and my toddler demanding nursing sessions any time he sees my face. I cannot imagine adding homework drama to this.

Two ill-fated summers in a row I purchased summer workbooks for my then-preschooler eldest child. The goal was to keep her learned skills fresh. The outcome: mother-daughter battle. Every afternoon we sat down to review the material. At first, things went well. Then, the winds changed and the sky grew black. My daughter would say she couldn’t do things that she clearly could. She’d rebel against any guidance I provided. If I gave her distance to complete the work independently, she’d come find me to start a rumble. I quickly realized homework would be the death of me.

Bless my friends who homeschool. This mama was not made for the task. There are not enough vineyards in the world to make that a feasible option for us.

And so I look ahead with hopefulness and dread, wishing for the best and bracing myself for fallout. Taking a cue from The Little Blue Engine: “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

 

 

Mommy Burnout

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

I’m a stay-at-home mom of 3 kids and I’m burnt out. I am mentally, emotionally, and physically tapped. I have no more left to give, but keep giving I must because my 5-year-old, 3.5-year-old, and 16-month-old need me. My husband needs me. My family needs me. My friends need me.

My 5-year-old needs to chatter about her social escapades, ask random questions (“What do mermaids eat for dinner?”), and safely lose every one of her marbles in evening meltdowns while I listen, answer, and herd her back into wholeness. My 3.5-year-old needs to ramble about Rock Star Barbie and princesses’ hair, ask 15 times in 1 hour if we are going to Meme’s house even though his book bag and lunchbox are clearly set out for school, and request impromptu cuddles, while I act enthralled, calmly respond, and happily embrace. My 16-month-old needs to cause calamity, rough-house, and breastfeed on demand, while I ensure safety, fun, and nourishment. My husband needs me to communicate and interact like a loving, appreciative, present, well-mannered partner. They all need me to cook, clean, wrangle, organize, referee, chauffeur, and schedule. And just generally be a decent, happy human.

I have neither the energy nor the wherewithal to effectively do any of this right now. Nope. Not a bit.

I’m done. Keg’s tapped. Peaces!

So what do I do when I’m burnt out? Honestly, I snap more than I should. I lie awake wracked with mom guilt from all that I expect myself to do but can’t due to lack of time. I mentally berate myself for each of my accurate and perceived shortcomings. I replay every misstep and lament what was left undone. I feel every ounce of my overwhelmed state. I feel guilty for being overwhelmed instead of savoring this fleeting precious life stage that, one day, I will earnestly wish back into present time. Then I self-defeat by piling more tasks and to-dos onto my rambling list of expectations. Because I’m a mom… that’s what we do. Life does not stop simply because we are exhausted. There is no vacation day for us… no breather.

Without true respite, how do I pull myself out of these natural and normal burnout blips? Self-care, fortitude, and friends. Mainly, though, patience. I try to focus on things that fulfill me, fuel me, and make me feel healthy overall. For some that may be painting or jogging, yoga or reading. For me, sneaking exercise into my daily routine helps immensely. I fuel myself by focusing on hydration and nutritious foods, without depriving myself of whimsical treats. I surround myself with fun friends that leave me feeling supported, happy, light, and positive. I afford myself patience knowing this blip is reasonable, understandable, and temporary.

I cut myself slack. I forgive myself for my abbreviated patience. I remind myself this is temporary. I’ll be back in the game soon.

Mommy burnout doesn’t mean you’re a bad mom. It means you’re human.

 

 

My Amoeba and Me

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

“You’re an amoeba; you can fit in anywhere.” My husband told me. As it turns out, our 5-year-old is an amoeba too.

20161015_152634.jpg

“She does well socially in the classroom” my eldest’s kindergarten teacher said during our parent-teacher conference, “she finds friends easily in here. It takes her a little while on the playground to find which group she’d like to join. I think the playground environment is a lot for her with the big equipment and all of the children running. She has many choices at her disposal.” I nodded deeply in distinct personal recognition of this tendency. “Sometimes she chooses to play alone,” the teacher explained, “but, more often than not, she joins different groups after getting acclamated. As long as she’s not always playing alone, it’s not of concern. She gets along well with others.” I was not worried. I understood.

As a person who is anti-clique and pro-inclusion, I rarely allow myself to settle comfortably into the boundaries of a clique. Our daughter, it seems, is the same way. I knew I needed to talk with her so that she knew this nomadic social tendency was ok. That, though stressful at times, it can be a wonderful trait.

On our way to the playground that afternoon, I brought up the parent-teacher conference. I turned off the car radio and glanced in the rear view mirror at her as I talked. “Your teacher said you behave beautifully in class,” I said, “Daddy and I are proud of you. Good job!” She smiled. “I heard you have an easy time finding friends when you’re in the classroom. That’s nice!” She listed some of her favorite classroom friends. “I heard that sometimes on the playground it can take you a bit to choose which group you’d like to join. Do you know why you hesitate to join a group?” I asked. “Sometimes I don’t know what I want to play, so I don’t know who to play with.” She explained.

“I know it can be hard sometimes not knowing right away what group to join,” I said, “it can make you feel nervous and lonely. But it’s also really good to be like that too. Do you know why?” She shook her head. “Say you’re on the playground and want to play ‘family.’ If you were only friends with one group of people and they were playing ‘My Little Pony’, you’d be stuck either playing by yourself or playing what the group was playing. But, if you’re friends with people from different groups you may find one group is playing ‘tag’, another is playing on the monkey bars, and one may be playing ‘family.’ You’d get to choose which group to join because you weren’t stuck with just one group. Then, the next day, you may feel like playing ‘My Little Pony’, so you’d know exactly which group to find that day. Does that make sense?” She said it did and rehashed the lesson in her own words, telling me which group she enjoyed joining for which games.

“It’s ok to play alone sometimes too,” I said. “Mommy liked to play alone a lot as a kid. It’s good to be able to entertain yourself. As long as you’re not always playing alone.” She agreed. “And we never exclude. Do you understand?” She got it.

My little amoeba. Like mother, like daughter.

Life Lessons at 5-Years Old

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

“Other kids say I’m not a good artist,” my exhausted and melting 5-year-old lamented after I’d praised the self-portrait she’d drawn at school.

2016-11-10 06.53.59.jpg

She had been an emotional disaster since lunchtime, so I knew this upset was going to feel larger to her than usual. She was feeling raw, tired, and completely incapable of handling life.

As much as I was over her pendulum swings, I knew I needed to dig deep past the frustration and nurture. There in the kitchen, I crouched down, opened my arms, and asked if she needed a hug. She tearfully nodded and walked over. I sat cross-legged on the tile floor and she folded herself into my lap.

“I’m sorry the other kids hurt your feelings. I think you’re a great artist.” She smiled and sniffled. “It’s important to know, though, that for all of your life there will be people who are better than you, worse than you, and equally as good as you at all kinds of things. And that’s ok. Just because someone else is a great artist, it doesn’t mean you’re not good too. We all have different gifts. Some people are good at math, some are good at art, some are good at running, some are good at getting their heads stuck in holes.”

“I like running!” She said excitedly. “Good,” I said, “and your brother likes sticking his head in holes. You both have things you like doing.” We both giggled.

“You can be good at lots of things,” I told her, “but you won’t be good at them all, and that’s ok. I still think you’re a good artist though.” We hugged then off she went. Repaired for the moment.

Life lessons at 5-years old. Puberty should be fun.

Mental Snap Shot

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

Some moments something inside of you tells you, “remember this!” “Freeze-frame this!” And so you do.

You study every detail of the moment, as if taking a mental picture to file away in your mind. You feel the magnitude of the possibly trivial-seeming or overtly significant moment. You are beyond present in the moment; your are memorizing its every facet.

20161106_151434

Last weekend, on a beautiful fall afternoon, I took my troublesome trio to their preschool playground. My eldest — now a kindergartener — happily played on her alma mater grounds as my preschooler scampered to the familiar swings.

My littlest, at 16-months old, was excited but challenged by the uneven ground and play structures. As he attempted the steep equipment’s stairs, my mind commanded me to store this memory.

I memorized his struggle, his efforts to master the play structures, his bumbling gate and toddler stature. I realized that next year he would not be bumbling about the rocky, toy-strewn area but would, instead, be climbing and playing with ease. In less than one year, this would be his school’s playground. My baby will be a preschooler.

Time goes so fast.

For now, I’ll soak in all I can. Freeze-framing and mentally snap-shotting with abandon. Surviving and savoring one day at a time.

Mom Regret

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

Lately I’ve been stewing. I keep returning to the same pointless, irrational line of thinking: “I wasted 3 years of my life struggling, stressing, and straining to work part-time when all I really wanted was to be a stay-at-home mom.”

I know some people, especially those thoroughly invested in the corporate world, hear my stay-at-home mom career goal and think, “Oh, she’s lazy. She just wants to hang out at home all day.” Let me attempt to stifle my laughter. I’m sorry… I can’t.

Being a stay-at-home parent isn’t glamorous, easy, lucrative, or even widely valued. People assume that there’s endless spare time and immeasurable ass-sitting. They think about their days off and assume that must be the stay-at-home parent’s life. Maybe that’s the case for some mythical stay-at-home parents but I know no such existence.

This week, when the neighbor girl I drive home from school each day asked me how my day went, I said, “It was pretty good. Your standard day of a stay-at-home mom; both shoulders were smeared with someone else’s snot by 9:30am.” And that’s my life. Pick-ups and drop-offs, meal planning and playdate arranging, errand running and snack making, school calendar tending and social calendar pruning. I wipe butts and feed faces. I tame emotional swirls and referee skirmishes. I kiss boo-boos and read books. I balance activity time with learning time, with quality time with quiet time. I’m a chauffeur, hairstylist, counselor, nutritionist, human facial tissue, and 24-hour wet nurse but don’t get paid a dime.

But do you know what? I love it.

Even on my worst days — the ones when my throat is scratchy from yelling, my clothes are a petri dish of bodily fluids, my dark circles have dark circles, my mom guilt is raging — I still love it. “When you do what you love, you never work a day in your life,” they say. I work… I work my ass off, but I cherish the opportunity and would never trade it.

Instead, I look back at the years I worked part-time, out of both financial necessity and fear of change, and I lament the stress, the loss of time, the things — imagined and real — that I missed. Still, not only can I not undo the past, I shouldn’t. My life and myself are the way they are now because of all I learned, did, and experienced then.

I grew from those struggles. I met some wonderful people. I developed a greater appreciation for the ability to be a stay-at-home mom instead of standing with a foot in both the stay-at-home and corporate world, not truly belonging to either.

My children got quality time with their grandparents and great-aunt because I worked part-time and relied on them to care for my children. My husband, who also provided childcare while I worked, became adept at caring for our children on his own and developed a profound awareness of the demands of being a stay-at-home parent.

I wouldn’t trade those things. I wouldn’t change them. So why am I lamenting something I wouldn’t undo?

Because I’m a mom. And that’s what we do. Even when we give all that we can, we strive to give more. So much so that we delve into our past — one thing we can never change — to examine how we could have given more… how we failed. What a waste of energy and mental function!

I need to take a cue from Elsa and “Let it go!”

Locker Room Wisdom

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

“This part of our lives is infinitesimal. I wish we were able to enjoy it more as we experience it.” Some of the best hindsight-based wisdom I have received came from a grandmother in the community center locker room.

20161014_145125

As I changed my 1-year-old after his Mommy-and-Me swim class, we chatted. She was friendly and wise, happy to share her insights –and, I, glad to receive them — as a mother of twin now-men who had moved across the country when her boys were but a year old. “I never knew how to dress my boys for this Mid-Atlantic weather,” she said. “I was a California girl. I had no idea what I was doing. They were always dressed too warm or too cool,” she laughed at herself, “but, they grew up just fine. We put so much pressure on ourselves for those things.”

And so, as I nursed my 1-year-old at 3am this morning, the grandmother’s wisdom echoed in my sleep-hazed mind. Instead of lamenting the rest I was missing, I chose to savor the baby cuddles. All too soon I will be sleeping uninterrupted with empty arms.

“These are the good days”, I reminded myself. I kissed my baby’s soft hair and held him close in the dark of the too-early morning, remembering to enjoy this infinitesimal part of my life.

My Kids are A-holes: My Afternoon of Mommy Hell

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

When it’s 12:30 and you’re already wishing it was wine o’clock,  you know it’s bad.

I love my kids. I always wanted to be a mom. I’m immensely fortunate to have been granted the opportunity to parent my own biological children. Nonetheless, on occasion, my kids can be real assholes.

I knew my day was apt for a left turn when all of the kids were awake before 7:00am. Still, it was going to be a busy day complete with two school drop-offs, grocery shopping, grocery unpacking, preschool costume parade which coincided exactly with the inconveniently scheduled kindergarten early dismissal, lunch prep, breast milk pumping, and packing and shipping of frozen breastmilk for my milk recipient. There was lots to do but, fortunately, The Hubs was there to pitch to make it all work.

The Hubs took on school drop-offs and the yougest and I headed to the grocery store. Errand completed, groceries unloaded, lunch heating, and we had 15 minutes to spare before heading to the preschool parade. Just enough time for a nursing session. The Hubs manned kindergarten pick-up and the youngest and I drove to preschool. Perfection! That’s when the day went sideways.

2016-10-28-06-34-21

– We arrived at the school and the yougest was cranky. If he wasn’t attempting to waddle into the street, he was a fussy puddle of baby on the sidewalk. He repeatedly flung his chubby face at the glass double doors and streaked his way down the the glass in toddler melodrama.

– After the parade, the yougest and I headed to the classroom to retrieve the now-exhausted middle child.

– The middle child, dressed as the blue-haired merman from Nick Jr’s “Bubble Guppies”, refuses to leave the classroom or don his backpack until I put his blue wig in the backpack. Fine. Blue wig in backpack… whatever.

– We get to the car in the bustling preschool parking lot. He wants me to remove his costume pants right then and there. No. We live 3 minutes from school. You can survive. You’re wearing scale-printed leggings for goodness sakes! Get in your car seat.

– As I buckle the boys into their car seats, the middle child asks to hold his treat bag. I say he can but he may not eat anything from it. I hand him the bag. He flings it beside him in frustration because why look when you cannot eat?

– I pull out of the parking space and the middle child asks what’s for lunch. He throws his shoe when he hears it’s not noodles with meatballs.

– We haven’t even exited the parking lot when he throws his sock after I tell him that, no, I will not make him a separate lunch.

– We’re not even out of sight of the school when he throws his other shoe upon realizing, to his utter horror, that there’s a commercial on the radio. He shrieks that he wants music.

– Music comes on. I turn up the volume and he screams he doesn’t want music. I turn it louder and tell him I won’t turn it down until he stops screaming and whining.

– He eventually stops screaming and whining. I turn down the music.

– He wants his treat bag from the school party. It’s right next to him but he claims he can’t reach it. He can. He won’t. He freaks out and throws his remaining sock. Verdict: no treats for the rest of the day. He flips.

– I remind him of our in-car shoe removal policy: as soon as we park he has to collect his socks and shoes and walk inside as he is. He freaks out.

– We get home. The Hubs has successfully retrieve the eldest from school and is already back home. I unbuckle my youngest and unfasten the middle child. Within the seconds it takes me to walk around the minivan to let out the middle child, he has managed to refasten himself in the car seat and is losing his mind over being stuck in the car seat. I free him (though I really don’t want to.)

– I walk the emotional middle child through grabbing each thrown foot covering. He wails the entire time and walks barefoot into the house, the mermaid flippers appended to his scale-bedecked leggings wiggling with each step.

– The shoe-less Bubble Guppy melts as he gets inside. He remembers he didn’t want lunch.

– I put his treat bag on the counter so I can heat lunch, and he attempts to swipe the bag. I retrieve the bag and remind him that he doesn’t get treats today. Threat: his treat bag will be thrown away if he tries to steal it again.

– He complains about the lunch I’m preparing. I tell him to skip lunch then.

– He steals the treat bag. I throw the bag away. He screams. I tell him to go upstairs.

– He yells in the hallway that he’s hungry and wants lunch. He rips leaves from the fall garland and throws them down the stairs.

– Fuming, I put him in his room.

– I plate lunch. Everyone — minus the middle demon spawn — is eating. I hear him throwing stuff in his room (plastic hangers and stuffed animals) and yelling at me through his pacifier. Whatever. I’m eating.

– The tantrum is over. I send my eldest to fetch the middle child and to remind him that, if he’s good, he can come have lunch.

– Now wearing only tight whities, the middle child sits at the table, face red and puffy from the tirade, and happily exclaims that the lunch is yummy. The F… really??

– My eldest finishes lunch and goes to get a lollipop. I open the shrink wrap and lollipop shards fall all over the floor.

– I vacuum the lollipop bits. My youngest tips back in his chair (we have bungeed it to the table for just this reason) and gets stuck in the reclined position. I save him.

– My middle child can’t pick up the small pieces of lunch with his fork, so I have to feed him the rest. Meanwhile, my youngest demands immediate release from his booster seat.

– I clean up the middle and youngest children and get them ready for naptime.

– I send my middle child upstairs to go potty before naptime. He somehow pees in his underwear and in the toilet simultaneously. Skills.

– I go upstairs. I step in the pee puddle barefoot. Because, of course.

– I clean up the puddle and get my middle child ready for a nap.

– I nurse my yougest for his nap. Halfway through he pops off and wiggles down to the floor. No nap today.

– I put my youngest in the playroom where my eldest is chilling, and I get my breast pump together.

– I sit down to pump. 5 minutes in: “He stinks!” Complains my eldest. “Poo poo!” squeals my youngest.  I’m pumping so I tell them to hold on until I’m done.

– I finish pumping. Subpar output — a kick to the areolas for a pumping mom — but it’s reasonable given my stress level.

– I change my youngest: “poo poo” was an understatement. Total outfit change required.

– I have 15 minutes of break time before naptime is over. I pour a mug of hot tea and sit. Ahhh!

– 5 minutes later, the yougest is melting. He has decided that he wants to nurse and that it is now his naptime. Sorry, kid! You can nurse but you’re not napping.

– It is 2:00. Naptime is over. Post office, barber shop,,and dinner prep here we come! I unlatch the youngest and we gear up for the remainder of the day.

We survived. I didn’t lose my mind… entirely. I’ll call that a win.

 

 

 

 

Tis the Season of Crap

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

It’s prime birthday party season and Halloween is fast-approaching. You know what that means? Crap. SO much crap.

Am I the only one who can’t stand goody bags or party store loot? I know the kids love it — for the 30 seconds it lasts — and people feel inclined to give favors to party guests. I get it. Doesn’t matter though… I still despise the stuff. Not the givers, just the junk.

The bags of sweets and knickknacks only add excess crap to my already plentiful heap. The kids spend more time mourning the destruction of a $0.25 “Made in China” plastic toy than they actually spend playing with it.

Then there’s the fighting over who got what Ring Pop or which crappy kazoo is whose. The baby is mouthing every lead-tainted plastic car and trying to gnaw the rubber ball off of the plastic ball-paddle. Not to mention the bags of said crap filling my counter space. No.

Please, for the love of sanity, NO MORE CRAP!! Host a party and send my kids home empty-handed. Please!! Providing them with a fun afternoon and a sugar-high was repayment enough for whatever gift we gave.

I can guarantee most of the Teal Pumpkin items we will be collecting this Halloween will be tossed, just as I imagine the glow bracelets I dispense will be too. (Still, better to suffer a few extra spill-prone bubble tubes and googly-eye sunglasses than anaphylaxis.)

And so the circle of crap-giving continues. Halloween: the season of crap.