Motherhood

When Tantrums Attack: Go High or Go Low?

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“NO!! NO!! I don’t WANT to do that!” My 2-year-old yelled, his high-pitched shriek reverberating off of the metal grocery shelves and speckled tile floor. He awoke 1 hour ahead of schedule and we were in meltdown mode with 3/4 of the grocery run to go. So, I had two choices: go high or go low.

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“Do you see the color purple?” I asked trying to distract my little grumpus. “NO!!” He seethed. I waited before offering: “Where is a circle? I see a circle.” “No! I don’t LIKE that game!” He retorted. Now for the big guns: “Do you think we’ll see the train?” I asked, knowing the ceiling-mounted toy train is often the highlight of the grocery trip. “NOOOO!! I don’t WANT to see the train!” My 2-year-old stomped, clanging the metal frame of the car-shaped shopping cart, signaling my failure.

What a traitorous beast, this mammoth 18-wheeler of a cart! It’s cartoon car shape promises smooth, tot-friendly shopping but, instead, it has betrayed me as I navigate the well-stocked aisles with the grace of a blind water buffalo all while employing every last one of my mommy tricks to keep my raging offspring confined to the cart. Jackassery! Yet, I know full well that I will grab its unwieldy handle upon my next shopping trip because woe unto the parent who shops sans car-cart!

Car-cart in use, snack given and ignored, distractions employed and refuted, I was left with two choices: go high or go low. Essentially the fast-food fries vs. the kale salad of reaction options.

Little self-control required, going high would be the fast-food fries of options: temporarily satiating, effortless, and quick but a poor choice in the long run that might be regrettable sooner rather than later. Going high, I would release myself from the obligation of centered self-control. I’d allow my blood pressure to rise, give into the easy flight towards flustered anxiety, heightened embarrassment, and increasing aggitation. I’d risk reacting instead of calculating, moving in emotion-based speed with the ultimate goal of ending the undesirable scenario quickly but not necessarily well.

To go low I’d need to channel willpower and a centered focus. I’d need to breathe in that yogic part of myself into which I must consciously dive to make wise — yet not always easy or immediately desirable — decisions. Like the kale salad, it wouldn’t be as easy to choose or as appealing as the fries, but it’d invariably be the wise, healthy, unregrettable, adult choice. Instead of releasing control and allowing my body to naturally jitter into high-speed, I’d downshift. To go low I would ease into a calm state of even blood pressure and steady breathing, my mind centered simply on my task and my child, with only minimal awareness of those around me.

The choice was mine because I consciously retained the power to choose instead of allowing my emotions to run the show. I chose to go low.

I asked if my toddler needed a hug. He declined, only a half aisle later to yell that he needed one. I breathed and embraced him smiling. Moments later, more skrieking: “I don’t WANT to get Daddy’s cereal!” Yeah, well, too bad kid.

A fellow mom passed by giggling in that, been-there-and-thank-heavens-I’m-not-the-only-one way. I didn’t even notice her until she was beside me. Our eyes met, hers still warmly squinted in friendly laughter. “This looks just a little familar?” I said. “Very!” She replied, nodded towards her cart-riding youngster.

This was a completely developmentally normal experience. Kids obliterate your ego… that’s just parenthood. There was no need to feel the hot flush of embarrassment or let emotions boil over. But it wasn’t always this easy to choose low.

I had consciously endeavored to choose to go low daily. I wasn’t perfect but I tried. And that trying — over and over, day after day, meltdown after meltdown — is what got me to this point. In a year I imagine it’ll be an even more natural progression into steadied calm in the face of toddler terrorism.

The more often we make a certain choice — whether it be dietary choices, thought patterns, physical habits, or verbal response — the more we train ourselves to revert to that path. For example, the more I eat fries, the more I crave them. Whereas, if I habitually make healthy food choices, over time I less frequently and less fervently crave fries. Eventually I will naturally choose the kale salad and not even consider the fries. But to change that habit takes time, effort, patience, diligence, self-awareness, self-forgiveneness, and — most importantly — self-empowerment. We can’t simply play victim to our emotions; we must own them. We may not be able to control how we feel but we CAN control how we behave. That’s what we teach our children afterall, isn’t it?

Will I always choose the kale salad over fries? NO, definitely not. Some days and some situations just call for fries but, more often than not, kale salad is the better choice. I am human afterall.

In the end, the errand culminated in check-out line hugs and a little voice saying, “I’m sorry, Mommy” into the side of my neck. And I felt completely at ease. What a gift to give yourself — and others — to choose to go low!

I can’t say I’ll always be so wise, but as long as I continue choosing to go low MOST of the, I’ll be pleased.

What will you choose?

 

 

The Other Side of Shyness: How I Stopped Being Shy

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As far back as I can remember I was shy. I was scared to speak with strangers, even for something as trivial as ordering food at a restaurant. My heart would race, my throat would clench, my mind would spin on how I’d be perceived… how I’d be judged. Now, I don’t care.

I remember one afternoon circa 1993, when my mom stopped the hunter green minivan with the faux-wood paneling, handed me money, and told me to run into the convenience store to get milk. I curled into myself and shook my head. I was NOT going. Give me a tetanus shot, make me do dishes, heck have me scoop dog poo… anything but have to talk to the cashier. No. Way. My sister — two years my junior with not one ounce of social anxiety and lax impulse restraint — leapt from her seat reaching for the $5 bill. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” She clamored. “No,” my mom said, yanking the money away from my sister’s reach, “your sister needs the practice.” My sister balked. I crumbled. I survived the 2-minute errand, but it was far from a cure. Bless my mother

Decades went by and I was still shy. Cashiers and waitstaff no longer made me shrivel, but I would never dream of entering an unfamiliar room and striking up a conversation. Making friends was hard. Really hard.

More often than I’d like to admit, there were incidents in my early life when a close friend sought to expand the social circle, not wanting to end our friendship, but simply wanting to add to the group. Anxiety and ego inevitably overwhelmed me, and I would foolishly take the request as a traitorous dagger (which it was not — at all — but just try telling me that back then!) Because I couldn’t fathom reaching out to gather more friendships, I was jealous of others’ ability to do so. I felt vulnerable and defensive. Lesser. So I would get angry and end the friendship. Stupid, right? Yep.

Come young adulthood, the first years of corporate life were challenging. Most of my coworkers were at least a decade my senior and in different life stages than recent-college-grad me. I made myself even more guarded with a “work” me and a “home” me, hoping to off-set my obvious youth with professionalism. Needless to say, that level of detachment paired with shyness was not conducive to numerous work friendships.

Then I got engaged. People I barely knew would approach me with wedding-related questions throughout a workday. My shyness was waning with the increased socializing. One wedding and a few years later, I was pregnant. My world changed.

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Being pregnant granted me access to a secret club that was constantly seeking members: parents! That baby belly was like a beacon to any parent — young, old, first-time, or seasoned — and even grandparents to immediately strike up conversation. And once I was really showing, the world had a talking point in full view. As long as I kept a sense of humor and viewed awkward questions and others’ verbal diarrhea as fodder for my mental “shit people say” list, it was all good.

Then, I had my first child. I was set on giving her a variety of experiences, getting her socialized, getting her out. I took her to mom meet-ups and baby-and-me tumbling classes, story times and swim classes. We did something every day.

One day, as I entered a mom meet-up, I felt the anxiety and internal concerns over others’ perceptions bubble up within me. Then, I looked down at my chubtastic baby and thought: “but I have a built-in buddy!” And I was at ease. Being alone in a busy room without someone to talk to wasn’t so scary anymore because I had my daughter beside me. I was OK.

Not too long after, I had my middle son. I was so busy nursing my newborn while chasing my toddler, I didn’t have the time to worry what others thought. Instead, I sought out friends who resonated with me, who shared perspectives and viewpoints with me, who could relate to my present life stage. I still hesitated before reaching out, but I was getting better.

Two years later, I had my third child and by then I was comfortable with myself. I was so focused on my own standard daily chaos that I could hardly care less if you gave me the side-eye for having a tantruming toddler (that says more about you than me, afterall) or balked at my snot-smeared yoga pants and breastmilk-spotted nursing cami. I had way too much stuff to wrangle to worry about that. Even more, I realized most other people were like me and had too much going on in their own heads and lives to give me much thought! So why assume they’re judging me harshly when I may not even be on their radar or, if I am, maybe it’s positively so. If they are actually being mentally critical of me, why should I care anyway?

Less shy, I began conversing freely with fellow moms at playgrounds, classes, story times, and in the grocery store. After two incidents when I let my fear stand in the way of asking, “Want to do a playdate sometime?” (The mom version of “Wanna grab a drink?”) and subsequently suffered missed-friendship regret, I decided to do better.

I began listening to my gut, honoring my intuition. If I was drawn to connect, smile at, or chat up someone — even if I didn’t immediately understand why — I did it. And that is how I began making some of my dearest, strongest friendships: listening to my inner self, not my fears.

I was now on the other side of shyness. I could easily enter a room with confidence, seek out a person with whom I could relate, and start a conversation. I became the human shepherd, constantly aware of those on the periphery, gauging shyness verses disinterest. If I sensed shyness, I tried to bring them into the fold. If I felt a group with whom I was talking appeared unwelcoming or closed-off to others, I changed my positioning and body language to open the circle. I never wanted to make others feel the way I had so long felt: judged, alone.

I had not realized how far I’d come until recently at the playground. A mom I’d only met last year was floored to hear I was ever shy. I was floored she was floored! Little did she know, I spent more of my existence shy than not. I surely have changed. And for that I am grateful.

The world is a brighter, friendlier place when you’re on the other side of shyness. I like it here.

Finding My Path: Learning to Say “YES!”

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This year was the lull in my journey. The necessary resting phase before change rattled its way through my life. I knew that. I honored that. As a type-A planner, I had a hard time accepting that. Then I learned to say, “YES!”

As summer turned to fall and we bid the beach farewell, I felt a simultaneous sadness and trepidation. I was sad to see the chapter close; I knew this summer marked the end of not just an annual season but a life season. I felt in my core that I was entering a transition phase. But into what was I transitioning?

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Fall was busy with adjustment to the school year. I eventually settled into the pattern and, once comfortable, that’s when my mind began whirring. “What is my path?” “What should I be doing?” “When will I be able to pursue my lactation consultant goals?” In response, the wiser portion of my mind whispered, “Appreciate the lull.” I knew with absolute certainty that life would unfold in its own time, but — let’s be honest — waiting sucks. Especially when you’re a planner.

So I filled my time. Errands, yoga, volunteering at my kids’ schools, building deeper connections with friends, and eventually forming a bi-weekly mom meet-up group for my sons’ preschool.

A month went by. Sometimes I treasured my freedom. Sometimes I felt guilty… too free. Sometimes I felt I was just drifting. I was constantly eyeing path opportunities wondering, “Is that the one?” Then, one day as I readied my yoga nook for my morning practice, I realized I needed to just ask God/the universe/life to show me my path and to agree to just say, “YES!” So I did.

That day I took a walk alone in my neighborhood. As I strolled, I felt compelled to head down to a little creek. I often avoid going to the creek alone because of anxious “what ifs?” But that day it was as if I was pulled by a string to the bank of the creek. There I stood, watching the frigid water, listening to the soothing trickle.

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The chilly air biting my reddening cheeks, I shifted my gaze up creek. I noted how the water changed as it travelled. It began its journey racing, moving quickly around bends and turns, over sticks and rocks. Then there was a lull. The creek grew wide and the current slowed. Just before the water reached the stepping stones, twigs, leaves, and debris filtered out of the flow and rose to the top, creating obstacles and dams for the water. The filtered water gathered speed past the stepping stones, racing in a straight channel towards a small waterfall of rocks. Again, more debris was pulled from the water. Gradually the current smoothed and the creek was clean, free of the muck the previous lulls and obstacles withdrew. The creek ambled on in twists and turns out of sight.

Seeing this I knew somehow this was representative of my life. A reminder for me to cling to when uncertain. But I wasn’t sure how or really even why.

The next morning I met with my favorite yoga teacher turned friend. She strongly encouraged me to pursue yoga teacher training. “You’re already teaching yoga,” she said of my present lifestyle, “even if you’re not teaching the asanas.” (Asanas are the yoga poses. Yoga is more than just stretching and breathing, but the practice of mindfulness, kindness, nonviolence, giving, letting go, and more.) She told me I should connect with a woman at her yoga studio. I agreed, because why not? I left the chat smiling, feeling honored that a woman I held in such high esteem considered me worthy of walking along her own path.

I awoke the next morning to find I was copied on an email from my teacher-turned-friend to the woman she had mentioned. In the email she asked the woman to make me a yoga ambassador. I. Was. Shocked. My mind started rattling off roadblocks, doubts, and a million reasons why I shouldn’t or couldn’t pursue this. I was in panic mode all due to mom guilt, self-doubt, and fear of failure. Then I took a breath. I remembered my yoga practice. “You asked for your path”, my heart told me. I knew I had to say “YES!” So I did.

The woman contacted me asking to talk with me to go over yoga ambassador details. I agreed. We clicked immediately. She told me I could not have received a better referral than the one I had from my teacher-turned-friend. I felt deeply honored.

“I’ll need you to come in for three hours once a week,” she explained. “There’s no contract, but I’ll ask you to commit for three months.” I looked at the calendar and realized that three months from my starting date would have my shift agreement end the last week of my sons’ preschool school year. Perfect!

I spoke with my daughter and husband about possible shift times. I didn’t want to inconvenience or slight anyone. I wanted to be able to do pick-ups and drop-offs, volunteer, keep up with friends, do errands, take the kids on playdates, spend time with my husband. EVERYTHING. Like every mom, I wanted to do, be, have, and give it all.

“How about Thursday mornings?” The Hubs suggested. That was my only option for a shift that wouldn’t interfere with others. I realized I’d need to ask my husband to do preschool drop-off and a fellow preschool mom to cover the Thursday meet-up. I had to trust it would work if it was intended. I emailed the woman my one and only shift option and sighed, knowing if this didn’t work it wasn’t meant to be.

Hours later, the woman called me thanking me for choosing that shift. She had been stressing because no one had that timeslot available. My jaw dropped. Question answered: THIS was meant to be.

My husband willingly took on Thursday drop-off duty and, when I asked a fellow preschool mom to cover the Thursday morning meet-up, she happily obliged. It all went smoothly. Because it was meant to be.

From that point on, I surrendered. Everything came happily, easily, beautifully, organically. I had learned to not stand in my own way.

I learned to say, “YES!”

 

 

My Birth-related Trauma: After Effects

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I had a traumatic vaginal birth with my first child (story here.) It left me scarred in more ways than one. 20 months later, I went on to have a jarring c-section birth with an inept anesthesiologist (story here,) followed by a second c-section that went well — for which I cried tears of joy as they sewed me up — until the epidural fell out of my back on transfer from the operating table to the gurney, meaning I had zero pain relief immediately following invasive abdominal surgery. To say I have traumatic birth memories is an understatement. But birth is natural, right? Everyone on Earth arrived by way of birth. So how can something so commonplace leave such an emotional scar? It’s not like I went to war.

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But, in a small way, I did. At least, it was the closest thing I’ve ever experienced — or hope to experience — to war. There was blood and pain and true risk of death. There were tears and little control and so much fear. It was war in the delivery room. A battle to overcome.

That said, birth isn’t actual war. It’s the bringing of life. It’s something done everywhere every day. How can some women birth over and over without issue, whereas others are tormented by the memory of just one birth? How can similar experiences manifest so differently in individuals? Truly, I don’t know. They just do.

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What does my birth-related trauma look like? Not much from the outside, honestly. I keep it well-hidden. Fortunately, 6.5 years out, my bouts are much less frequently triggered than they used to be. I used to sleepwalk every night with baby-in-peril dreams that, at best, caused me to scream in my sleep and at worst spurred me to unknowingly sob while digging holes in my pillow. Even the hint of birth in movies or TV would cause me to become faint and nauseous. I had to switch to another OB in the practice because I couldn’t bear to see the doctor’s face at the other end of an exam table.

6.5 years later, when my trauma does flare, I generally know what to expect: episodes of panicky breathing, rapidfire vivid memories on an uncontrollable loop, edginess and irritability, a clenched jaw and subsequent headache, sleep disturbances  (ex: nightmares, sleepwalking, insomnia), feelings of sadness and shame, emotional detachment, and fatigue. Sometimes the trauma sticks around for a few hours, other times for days. It’s hard to predict its schedule.

During the episodes, I welcome as much mental clutter as I can to pile on top of the birth horror reel that’s constantly spinning in the back of my mind. It is the quiet time I fear. Closing my eyes in the shower, a lull in radio programming during a drive, that period before sleep when you close your eyes and welcome rest, those are the times when my trauma tightens its grip. Every birth memory I tried to shove beneath carpool and dinner prep, homework help and playdate scheduling, social media pings and friendly texts fires through my mind like an emotional inferno  All of the things I tried to forget I am reliving.

If I do sleep, it won’t be well or for long. I will likely sit up in bed thinking I’m awake when I am really somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. I may possibly sleepwalk into the closet or jump from bed in a terrified dream state. I will wake far too early exhausted but unwilling to close my eyes again for fear of repeating the process. I just want the day to start so that I can push the memories beneath the surface, weigh them down with the everyday. Bury them with the life I love.

Then, as quickly as it arrived it is gone. My trauma after effects trail away, a mental vapor. Leaving me content once again and appreciative of my unglamorous beautiful life as a stay-at-home mom of three. The memories fade and sleep is welcome once again. Until next time.

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If you — or a loved one — suffer from birth-related trauma, know it does not make you weaker or lesser or broken. You can love your child and your life, you can be a loving and appreciative parent but still suffer from the emotional wounds. It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or unfit. You are simply a human who survived.

Get help if you need it. Talk about it. Give it voice. Know it will get better. You are a survivor. There is no shame in that. Ever.

Mama Nook: A Space for Me

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Man cave, nursery, playroom, home gym, craft space, reading nook, media room, mudroom… there’s a spot in homes for just about anything. But what about a place for me?

As Mom — the driver of carpool, the wiper of noses (and butts), the planner and purchaser and cooker of meals, the calendar wrangler, the referee, the boo-boo kisser, the nightmare banisher — do I not deserve a place for myself? I share my bed, my bathroom (and Lord knows the kids’ bath toys take up more realestate in the “master” bathroom than any pampering products), and every surface with everyone. It’d be nice to have a little cranny that was just mine.

This past August, as I lamented the nearing return of school days and extracurriculars, trading the beach cooler for backpacks and sand for pavement, I knew I had to do something. I had to find a way to bring the sea home with me. But how?

Easy: daily yoga! Each beach morning I sandied my yoga mat and did seaside asanas and meditation. But at home, my yoga endeavors took place in my husband’s home office in the family room. I had already learned that seagulls are better suited to being a yoga audience than a toiling spouse. So, how to resolve this?

Move The Hubs! I talked with my less-than-enthusiastic partner about relocating his home office from the darkest end of the family room to the window-side, well-separated alcove in our oversized bedroom. He could be an entire floor away from kid chaos and natural light would do wonders for workday malaise, I mused. Ever-supportive, he agreed.

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I rearranged the family room, removed all of the clutter, and, in the sliver of space between the sofa back and the large window, I laid a yoga mat. With that swath of purple foam, I had staked my claim.

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First, just family photos and a tall houseplant populated the deep windowsill. Next, a salt lamp then a bundle of sage joined the display. Soon, I replaced old room decor that had long ago lost its luster with photos and art that spoke to my personal aspirations and our family life.

The Hubs made me a small shell-strewn tabletop waterfall to provide the water element I so missed from my beach yoga practice. I added a few more plants and a couple more tchotchkes that spoke to me, framed the heart-shaped dried leaf my middle son had proudly given me, and my space felt more complete.

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It’s my sanctuary. My sacred space. My (mostly) quiet spot. My yoga nook.

I found a place for me. Where can you make your own Mama Nook?

Where can you carve out a space — no matter how little — that is just for you? You deserve a room, a closet, corner, or even just a shelf where you can retreat in order to center yourself, fuel yourself, feel peace, be inspired, remind yourself that you matter too. Because, mama, we may make miracles happen every day, but we cannot pour from an empty cup.

Is there space for you in your life? In your home? Sure there is! Go find it. Claim it. Make it yours.

You deserve it.

 

 

How to be a Happy Parent: Enjoying the Sh*tshow

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My toddler lost his shit on an evening walk. A block from home, he began shrieking but my other two were happily biking along. I raced down the sidewalk — plastic tricycle under my arm as I scurried to launch my novice two-wheel biking daughter from a stop and tried to avoid getting run over by my middle son’s speeding training wheels — while my melting 2-year-old followed 10 feet behind me, still wearing his lime green toddler bike helmet, wailing and moaning at max volume. We were a scene.

I had three choices on that gorgeous evening: 1) get flustered and embarrassed and race everyone home in an anxious whirlwind, 2) get angry and yell a tirade while herding my brood home, 3) laugh at the ridiculousness of our situation and actually find a way to enjoy the calamity. Fortunately for me, I didn’t even realize my other two options. I defaulted to #3. I just laughed. I laughed hard. Because, why not?

A neighbor, fastidiously tending to her garden as I only wish I could, laughed at the sight. Some may have bristled if not barked at the gaffe. Instead, I laughed along with her because we looked entirely ridiculous. I mean, c’mon, what newlywed couple thinks ahead to eventual parenthood and sees that version of the family stroll in their future? None! And that’s why we procreate. Because we’re morons… naive, pompous optimistic morons.

Sometimes, though, all it takes is a little perspective and a diminished give-a-shit to survive our childrens’ childhood with any semblance of sanity or grace. We just need to choose amusement over anxiety.

Sure, I get mad and frustrated and yell… daily. You bet I lose my cool when everyone is asking for something at the same time but no one’s listening and I just. Need. To. Pee! You know I sure as heck have nights I careen into the sofa after a long day, feeling a mixture of mom guilt, emotional exhaustion, and a life-sustaining thirst for a glass of wine.

However, for the most part of most days, I try to laugh. I try to find the humor in the madness, the chaos, the misbehavior, the messes, the drama. I laugh because it is simply absurd what these children dish out. I mean, in what world would one expect to find a sock on a picture frame (unless at a frat house)?

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How is it normal to find a kid pantless in the playroom practicing W.W.E.-style rope dives from the sofa arm while another practices drag performances into a “Bubble Guppies” microphone? When did, “Don’t bite your brother’s bum”, “We don’t wipe our penises on the toilet”, and “No heads in the trashcan” become part of my daily vernacular? What have I done with my life?

Something awesome, that’s what.

I took an existence I once considered stressful and exhausting then added so much stimulus, so many demands, and so much ego-obliterating activity to it that it spun everything I thought I knew about the world and myself upside down. I realized I could choose to be angry, amused, frustrated, appreciative, flustered, calm, or joyful. I could choose the feel judged or I could choose to shamelessly own my mess and invite others to revel in the hilarity right along with me. I may not be in control of the chaos, but I am in control of how I respond to it… how I perceive it.

By shifting my perspective from, control-freak to laughter-prone, it changes everything. It changes the situational trajectory, the bystanders’ responses, and my emotional state. Being quick to laugh is a gift we not only give others but ourselves.

Why get defensive and angry at witnesses when we can let it go and just allow the audacity to amuse us? Soak it in as you would watching the scenario on a sit-com. Emotionally detach. Take a breath. Enjoy it. It’s always more fun to laugh with others anyway.

These are the hardest days, friends, but they are the best days. It’s up to us to find a way to enjoy them.

How Not to Throw a Grenade into Your Spouse’s Day

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Ever wonder why your stay-at-home significant other mutters under his/her breath or gets agitated when you delve into work (or hobbies or gaming or ass-sitting) on the weekend or evening? This is free time, right? You work all week. What gives?

You’re right, this is unscheduled time to get accomplished — or simply choose to not do — what didn’t get done during the day or week. You’re right, you do work hard all week so the family can function and live. Yep, this is the case for both of you. This time belongs to both of you.

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If one of you checks out to do work or rest, that firmly places the other parent on duty. So this means, if your work day is extending into the weekend or evening, so is your stay-at-home significant other’s. If you decide to pound out some work without telling him/her first, you’re saddling him/her with kid duty without warning. You’re making an insulting assumption that he/she is willing and available (in all capacities) to drop any and all plans to pick up your slack. But that’s the stay-at-home parent’s job, right?

Let’s make this easier for corporate minds to grasp. It’s the end of the day on Friday. You have been counting down the seconds until end-of-day Friday since 7:00AM Tuesday. Then, just as you log off, an email pings on your phone. Your colleague dipped out — either for a business trip or weekend plans — and dumped a project with a yesterday deadline on your lap. Was there a “please”, “thank you”, or “I owe you one” in the request? Nope, just task list and spreadsheet attached to a blank message. Curse words, right? A steady stream of them pour through your head. That colleague is now officially on your shit list. You have neither the time nor mental energy for this. Guess what? You’re that shit list colleague to your stay-at-home significant other when you wordlessly drop childcare duties on his/her lap.

As the stay-at-home parent, one is officially the default parent. The one immediately assumed to be one duty day and night. The one who must clearly communicate, “I’m not here” or “I need a break” to be temporarily taken out of the line of fire.

This parent is the one perpetually honing the running home to-do list, tending the kids’ schedules (from extracurriculars to school events, playdates to check-ups), preening the family calendar (vacations and extended family get togethers, outings and downtime), and running ongoing inventory for shopping lists, all while noting who’s gone potty or snacked when. Who’s watched too much TV or had a privilege revoked or needs to practice one skill or another. Who’s in a bad mood or who needs cuddles. Who’s in desperate need of one-on-one attention. Who asked for what playdate with whom and where haven’t we played recently. The mental load is an unending, ever-growing burden. It is a significant downside of the stay-at-home parent’s career path. But we all make sacrifices. As a working spouse, though, it’s worth the due diligence to be acutely aware of your partner’s taskload (if not for his/her sake, then your own.)

We all have stuff pop up. And you know what, sometimes we’re all selfish or tired or tapped-out or busy. It happens. We screw up. We take advantage of our significant other sometimes, but don’t be surprised when it bites you in the ass if the bad behavior becomes a pattern. Because it will bite you.

So, don’t want an angry partner or muttered aggressions littering your auditory space? Then don’t throw a grenade into your significant other’s day.

Communicate. Review expectations. Ask if this is a good time. You know, don’t be that shit list colleague. And if you know he/she is toast but you need to just get this one thing done or sit on your ass for a beat, own it and make up for it later. But expect a curse word or two. You can tune that out though, right? I mean, you do have kids after all… the ability to tune out is parental survival.

You can do this. I believe in you.

School Daze: Morning Prep

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School mornings… as pleasant as a hemorrhoid, no? Early start, grumpy kids (and parents), little time, lots to do, start times, and tantrums (from kids and parents.) Fun!

Though our mornings aren’t scenes of fairytale bliss, and far from serene, they are streamlined. They are organized. How? One word: preparation.

I wake up ahead of everyone to heat breakfasts, pop lunches into backpacks, and begin my day so that by the time my crew shuffles downstairs, the rhythm is already in motion. My first-thing-in-the-morning task load isn’t too great though because I prepare everything I can ahead of time.

Lunches and snacks? Made at the beginning of the week. I simply grab a container stack, the water bottle, and place it in the lunchbox.

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Outfits? Laid out for the school week on Sunday evening based on the weather forecast and week’s schedule. The day’s outfit hung in the bathroom, so there are no clothing battles in the too-early morning.

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Each outfit bundle contains a top, bottom, socks, and underwear

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A week of outfits

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The next day’s outfits

Breakfasts? Prepared and plated the night before. I just heat and place them on the table while my caffeine brews.

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Mama’s caffeine? Set up the night before and ready to brew.

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Mama’s tea

Basically, when I wake up in the morning, it’s a matter of hitting “play” as opposed to scrambling to piece it all together while attempting to ready myself and my minions for the day. (That’s a feat in and of itself.)

We all could use a leg up in the morning. Why not give yourself one with a little prepping?

 

School Daze: Out-the-Door Organization

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As requested, I am starting a little series about my school year organization and preparation tips. Let me begin with the most exhausting portion of the school day: getting out the door.

Now, let me preface this by clarifying that I am not a professional organizer or even a neat freak. I have three young close-in-age kids and a clutter-prone husband who often works from home. I aim for livable neatness (as in, “heathens live here but someone among us is trying to be neat.”)

Sure, I have donation boxes waiting for months to be offloaded. I have paper piles and a cluttered basement. BUT I know how to organize to get multiple mini-humans (and myself) out the door early every day. So, here are my tips on organizing to get out that door in the AM.

If you’re like us, you exit via your garage door as opposed to your front door. This makes the mudroom the primary portal. Getting everyone in their shoes with their backpacks out one door can seem akin to wrangling cats into a rabbit hole.

We have a primary shoe basket in the kitchen just beyond the mudroom where we keep daily use shoes. I used to keep school shoes in there too, but that lead to “I can’t find my shoes!” And “Why can’t I wear my pool sandals on the pumpkin patch field trip?” drama. So that habit needed adjusting.

Solution: backpack and school shoe central:

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Out-the-door Organization

Using damage-free Command hooks, I hung the kids’ backpacks and shoes (soles out) on the coat closet door. I added a cheap folding step stool to aid my shrimpy first grader in reaching her top-tier items. Then, I adhered her teacher’s reminders just beside the door.

And there we go. No hunting for shoes. No missing backpacks. No school debris strewn across our kitchen.

Easy peasy!

Next up: morning prep.

Mama Tears, Mama Fears: New School Year, New Chapter

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It’s that time of year again. Teachers’ classrooms are freshly invigorated with unfamiliar students and crisp bulletinboard decor. Students sport squeaky new shoes and summer tans. Parents sigh a breath of relief, having survived the final days of summer and seek solace in the reprieve from child-wrangling or piecemeal childcare arrangements of summer. Except for me.

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From pool bag to school shoes

I’m the one feeling like the odd duck; the unicorn parent who is not excited for school to begin. At all. Instead of rejoicing my additional freedom and pumpkin spice everything, I’m mourning the end of my favorite season of long days spent outside in the sunshine, soaking in my kids, the sand, the sea, the memories. I know full well my children were equal parts adorable and asshole, but I don’t care. I’m self-loathing, wishing days of togetherness with my demanding darlings instead of hours of respite.

I’m lamenting the return to school year rush and the rigid routine I feel forced, not innately inclined, to institute. I shudder at the coming winter, as if a character from “Game of Thrones.” looking ahead towards an invasion of the zombie-like icy White Walkers: WINTER IS COMING! 

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School days are here

Mostly, though, I’m crying for a closing chapter I desperately wish to pry open. I shed tears recollecting where we used to be, who my children were (even just at summer’s beginning), how fast it all has progressed. I smile recalling memories of exhaustion and cuteness, milestones and regressions, overcome worries and hard-won lessons. I am warmed by gratitude for having been granted this life experience of motherhood, for being willing and able to accept the ass-kick of corporate lay-offs to shove me from cubicle to stay-at-home mom life. I feel a mixture of unsettling uncertainty and hopeful optimism knowing that we are all progressing — as individuals and as a family — towards our future selves.

I know we were where we needed to be, we are where we’re supposed to be, and we’re going where we’re intended. I’m still scared. Still sad. Still hopeful. Still reflective. Still uncertain.

Just as I am optimistic yet unclear as to who my children will be, what their futures will look like, I am similarly hopefully and anxiously unknowing of my own path ahead. Who will I be when I grow up?

Who do I WANT to be?

A mom. I want to be a mom. “You will always be a mom”, people say. But I fear the unknown. The unfamiliarity of mothering older children, teens, adults. I fear not being needed. Not being wanted. Those days will come, as they should (if I’ve done my job right), for raising independent, resilient children is my goal. But I hope they don’t come too soon.

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With my youngest entering preschool, this is my first time having all of my children in school. Grocery trips alone, a walk through Target or DSW or Homegoods unencumbered by tantrumers or snack requests? A quiet morning spent however I choose, whether on a walk, flowing through yoga, sipping coffee with friends, folding laundry, or sitting on my ass in a quiet house? What an unfamiliar circumstance!

I am in for a whole new chapter. More freedom. More time. More ability to uncover who I want to be as opposed to simply who they need me to be. Am I ready for the answer?