Parenthood

School Daze: Out-the-Door Organization

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

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:

20170901_082126

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.

The Gift of Low Expectations: How to Survive Any Errand with Kids

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

This was me 10 minutes before we headed off to the grocery store. Yep, hiding from my bickering, tantruming, antsy, nap-skipping kids. So, how did I survive a grocery store run with all three mischievous minions in tow? Low expectations.

IMG_20170815_135527_204

Don’t get me wrong I love my kids. I mourned when I thought we couldn’t have our own children. I lament their return to school each fall and celebrate our time together. But some days… woo! Some days I hit a point after 500 snack requests, 20 sibling melees, 3 missing sock expeditions (only to find 1 in the toilet, another on the kitchen table, and 1 forever unfound), and an outing gone awry, that I feel the innate need to hide from my offspring. I’ll quietly slip into a room, close the door, and listen with equally anxious anticipation for the sound of incurred injury or approaching footsteps.

And so, yesterday, after I hid from my children for 5 calming minutes, I made the fateful decision to take my crew to the grocery store.  Because what else did I have to lose?

Had my ever-mothering mind gone berserk? Likely. However, I was armed with something so powerfully self-preserving that no childish onslaughts could undo me: a low bar.

That’s right. I entered the afternoon grocery run fully aware of my fate. I had low expectations, so diminished that simply surviving the errand would stand as a win. This would be a shit show. I owned it.

We shuffled through pre-leaving routine: pottying, pants finding, sock hunting, shoe retrieving, shoe fixing and re-fixing (because despite having only two feet, my 4-year-old can put his shoes on the incorrect feet 6 times in a row), and finally leaving. As I waited for my eldest to get buckled, I texted my dear fellow mom friend and told her of my expectation that my middle son would lose cart privileges before we ever left the produce section. My inkling that my eldest would publicly release a (understandable) fury of frustration upon her irksome younger brothers. My awareness that pushing my toddler in the shopping cart would be akin to maneuvering a rabid kleptomaniacal octopus through narrow aisles of glass jars and delicate produce. This would be a disaster. I knew it. I felt it in my bones. I didn’t dread it. I didn’t fear it. My shame had been whittled down by 6 years of parenthood. I had nothing left to lose but my patience. Her knowing response: “Good luck.”

And so we went. And so the trip descended into chaotic mayhem, with my uncoordinated 6-year-old attempting to simultaneously read a book and walk through the wine section, my 4-year-old hanging in a backbend off of the side of the cart despite my constant reminders that he shouldn’t because his head would get smushed, and my 2-year-old releasing random shrill shrieks just for the hell of it.

At one point, my 6-year-old took to poking plastic bags of bread “because it’s squishy” as my 2-year-old attempted to throw his shoes out of the cart. Then, as I turned to pick up the one jar I needed in the aisle, my 6- and 4-year-olds took off down the pasta aisle in a foot race. Yes, full-on discombobulated running complete with jabbing chicken wing elbows down the grocery aisle of dried noodle and glass-encased marinara. Who does that? Are they new here?

Then, as we reached the furthest back portion of the store: “Need pee-pee! Potty!” Shouts my potty-training 2-year-old. So we haul ass to the front of the store. Every few feet I rerun the kid count: 1-2-3, 1-2… where’s 3? “We’re not buying Fritos. Better catch up or find a new family!” Then we hit a slow moving herd with grandma pushing the shopping cart. They were the hair-ball to the shower drain. As I envisioned a deluge of toddler pee pouring from the shopping cart, I bobbed and weaved pushing my car-shaped cart through the clog, leaving my older two to either follow or flounder: “Better keep up! Your brother has to pee!” I yelled back to them.

We made it. He peed. In the potty. Then there was a meltdown over the hand dryer, but that’s normal. Well, our normal.

Back to the cart we returned. We finished or shopping, skidding into a register lane with the grace of a three-legged water buffalo. There were candy grabs, sibling squabbles, fussing, and “Are we done yet?”s, but we survived. I loaded the minivan and as I shut the trunk door, I felt accomplished. I survived the shit show. I was still smiling. I was certainly laughing. All thanks to my low expectations.

Cocoons for Babies: That’s a Thing?

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

I’ve recently encountered a trend: cocoons for babies. Who knew? The practice recommends that parents create a quiet, soothing womb-like environment for their newborns in order to offer a smoother adjustment for Baby into the world and provide a safe haven from the daily din.

Dimmed lights, calm energy, cozy decor, serenity, hush. A baby cocoon. How precious! How loving! How utterly unattainable for any child but a firstborn in an affluent home.

d03cbb3a34d3e3ff2c6177033bba81ee

Now, I love the concept of preparing a loving, welcoming, unobtrusive environment for the baby-to-be. The neutral decor, the soft fabrics, the gentle atmosphere… how sweet! The planner in me adores the meticulous research and purchasing, arranging and staging that would be entailed. The 6-years ago first-time parent in me sees the beauty and seeming prospect, the adoration- and protection-based desire and demand to create such a space for the anticipated bundle. The mother-of-three in me shudders at the thought of feeling pressured to somehow maintain any sense of zen tranquility in my bustling abode of child chaos. I can only imagine the effort it’d take to silence my entire herd for one morning. It’d be more feasible to ship them off for the baby’s infancy.

Then, I think of myself and my friends with multiple children. Their youngest child — like my own third child — entered into a world of noisy siblings, bright lights, and pinging toys. Yet that youngest child (barring any special needs) is the happiest, most well-adjusted, and adaptable of the bunch!

Babies are precious and beautiful. Babies are noisy and exhausting, messy and stressful, demanding and resilient. As any pediatrician will tell you, babies are tougher than we think. (Have you ever seen an Apgar test conducted or seen a baby birthed vaginally? Then you know they’re sturdy buggers.)

20d1ccdd05d9bbaf73942b3efd49ff96--baby-cradles-girls-toys

Do I think putting effort into spinning a warm environment for your cherished offspring is ill-advised? Not entirely. Placing love and excitement, care and appreciation into your baby preparation does nothing but positive things for all involved. If it feels right to you, do it! However, if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the task, don’t do it. Eventually your child will regularly be present in the world and, well, the world is not womb-like.

Do I think everyone has the means to create this soothing space? Even with upcycling hacks and thrift store finds, no. Not everyone has the economic, spatial, environmental, or emotional ability to create a womb-like home. Some can, and that’s wonderful, but it in no way puts those children raised outside of the cocoon at a disadvantage.

Do I think creating a quiet, serene home gives the child a leg up? If anything, I’d argue the opposite. I know far more children raised in noisy, stimulus-filled homes who are happier and better adapted to the outside world than those who easily adjusted from quiet, low-stimulus homes to the chattering world. A cocoon is not the only way to ensure a baby feels loved and secure. And, heck, the womb is not silent. There are plenty of stimuli — from stomach churning and inhalation, mom’s road rage shouting and shower singing, Dad’s yelling at the TV and sibling tantruming. Baby has already heard the outside world before ever entering it. Life is loud, inside and out.

Do I think it’s feasible to maintain such an environment? As a mom of three close-in-age children, my response: hahahahahahahahaha… no. Absolutely not. Not in any way. Nope. It’s a lovely gesture rooted in the best and purest intentions of sheltering one’s cherished child from the overwhelming world. The desire, effort, and act are nothing but sweet and commendable. However, making a womb-like home for your child is not the only way to create a safe space for your little one. Your loving arms and healing kisses, you’ll soon find, will serve as such. You needn’t paint the walls “Morning Mist” and hush everyone in your home to make Baby feel loved. Just love Baby, that’s all.

Do I think feeling compelled to maintain a hushed, serene cocoon is problematic? Somewhat. If the endeavor is to envelope the child in love and comfort, beautiful! However, any parent is soon to discover that babies are not quiet or serene… and neither is the world. Does that mean the child should fall asleep to prerecorded audio of Tokyo Street sounds or NYC at rush hour? No. I simply think the pressure to create unnatural, inorganic sensory white space in a bright and loud world is an unattainable goal for parents — especially first-time parents — who are about to enter the wholly noisy, exhausting, stressful, life-upending, relationship-testing, goal-shifting, painful, emotional, rewarding, confusing, ego-obliterating, priceless gift of parenthood. Yet, if the womb-like space — either in creation or practice — enables the parents to better cope with the monumental shift of parenthood, proves agreeable to the baby, and is easily and stresslessly maintained, by all means do it! Just don’t stress yourself — or those dwelling with you — trying to make your home, your life, your world something that it’s not.

You are your child’s sanctuary. Your arms are her safe place. Your breath and heartbeat are his lullabye. You are all the comfort your child needs.

Love your baby. Forget the rest.

Snapshots of SAHM Life

/ thedairydiaries / 3 Comments

Being a stay-at-home mom is draining and priceless, stressful and fun-filled, chaotic and routine. It’s overwhelming and unglamorous, messy and lonely, but it’s all I ever wanted… to spend my days raising my children and experiencing their days, their fleeting childhoods. To be there.

Still, days as a stay-at-home mom often involve lots of this.

20170706_155243

Caffeination on the go

A bit of this.

20170711_131550

Multi-tasking (with now-cold caffeine)

Too much of this.

IMG_20170607_193941_382

Toy mayhem

And always this.

IMG_20170512_133707_660

The insurmountable and ever-present, Mt. Laundry

Your days may also involve this.

IMG_20161228_164229_968

Grocery shopping and babywearing

Some of this.

IMG_20170611_143300_126

Nursing

And a bit of this.

IMG_20170518_094645_963

Playdate fun

Then, of course, there’s this.

IMG_20170323_120553_309

Mid-errand tantrums

This.

IMG_20161213_185621

Bizarre mishaps

A lot of this.

IMG_20170524_110225_026

In-cart public meltdown and sibling brawl

And, what day would be complete without a touch of this?

IMG_20170406_142928_223

Self-dressing drama

After all of that, you get this.

IMG_20170622_072031_999

Quirky cuddles

IMG_20170625_195650_452

Family time

IMG_20170609_162144_797.jpg

Simple fun times

Because you’re there for it all, you also get to witness this.

IMG_20170607_092410_612

Proud parenting moments

IMG_20170606_132704_701

Proof of your hard work shining through

IMG_20170505_125611_350

Love between your children

And this.

IMG_20170426_160444_346.jpg

Hard-won skills blossoming

And it’s all worth it. All of it.

IMG_20170713_121948_757

 

Beach Yoga Life Lessons: Inspiration and Surrender

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

I recently attended a free beach yoga class. Beautiful, right? Yes. Who knew I’d walk away with poignant life lessons?

8:00 in the morning on a glorious day, a herd of men, women, and a few pubescents gathered for a free beach yoga class. We were an eclectic group of soccer moms, military servicemen, corporate cubicle-dwellers, retirees, yoga enthusiasts, significant others dragged unwillingly to participate, and school age girls joining Mom for a morning stretch. Our skill levels clearly varied.

As we settled onto our mats, the instructor said, “Do not compare yourself to your neighbor. You may look to one another for inspiration, but never judge yourself or each other. Your bodies, experiences, and circumstances are completely different. Look to others for inspiration only.” Can I get an AMEN? If only that could be written on every school entryway, every social media login screen, every magazine cover!

So often I find myself pointlessly comparing myself to others. I know it’s an inaccurate comparison. I realize it’s fruitless if not self-defeating. It still happens. I see that fit mom confidently strutting her toned physique, that former schoolmate who always has it together and is forever strikingly beautiful, that mom who does it all with boundless patience, the friend with an immaculate home, the neighbor with a pristine yard, the waitress with an impeccable gift for remembering names and faces, the woman with the seemingly ideal work-life balance, the outwardly perfect family … I see all of them — and so many more — and instead of mentally praising their gifts I feel a twinge of envy. “How does she do it?” I wonder. “What am I doing wrong?” Nothing. The answer is nothing.

They are gifted and beautiful with strengths and flaws like everyone. Like me! I know just part of their story. We are on different journeys with different circumstances and experiences. Our lives cannot be compared for competition, just glanced upon for inspiration.

20170623_083943

The instructor lead us through yogic breathing as we laid on our mats. Walking amongst our deep-breathing bodies, she asked if any of us had watched the recent rocket launch, then laughed when she realized she had been the only one willing to awake at 4AM to do so.

“The launch was inspirational for me,” she said. “11 separate times they had attempted to launch this rocket but each time there was something that stood in the way. Still, the team persisted. They knew when to hold back, when the environment and circumstances were not appropriate for a successful launch. They knew when to surrender.” She paused before continuing, “It is much like in yoga, that knowledge of surrender. We need to be in tune with our bodies. We learn just how hard to push and when to relent. It is not a ‘white flag’ surrender, but more of an acceptance that ‘today is not the day.’ Surrender for now. It is not defeat. It’s simply for another day.” That note struck me.

My littlest had just celebrated his second birthday. As he blew out his candles, my life’s babyhood chapter extinguished. Internally, I rejoiced at all I’d accomplished and survived, how I’d changed and grown in the last nearly-6 years. I lamented the end of a beautiful chapter filled with countless treasured memories. I looked forward to all we could do now that our herd was growing older; the trips and experiences we could share with our maturing children. But I couldn’t help but feel lost… uncertain. Wondering what my next chapter would hold.

While pregnant with my littlest, I was laid off from my corporate job. I took that opportunity to complete the initial coursework to become an International Board Certified Lactation Consultant. However, the remaining courses were time-sensitive (they expired after a few years, so I would have to pay to retake them if I couldn’t fulfill all of my certification requirements in a timely manner) and the credits would ideally be completed while conducting significant in-hospital patient hours. With a newborn, 2-year-old, and 4-year-old, I was not at a point in my life at which I could undertake such responsibilities. Even though I knew my choice was right, I felt defeated. Embarrassed.

Still, two years later, I am not at the appropriate life stage to fulfill my goal. Like the rocket launch team, I am aware of my environment and circumstances, and know I must delay to achieve success. I must surrender to the elements. Whether I like it or not. Today is not the day. My goal is for another day. My surrender is not defeat.

And so I walked away from the beach yoga class a bit calmer, a bit more limber, and a bit wiser. Secure in myself and my present surrender. What a gift!

 

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.

Motherhood Changed Me

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

Motherhood has changed me… drastically. I am in no way the same person I was before. And I am immensely thankful for that.

#2 and Me

#2 and Me

 

As a child, I was so shy that I remember bawling when, at 6-years old, I had been asked by my mother to run into the convenience store to buy milk. The thought of interacting with the cashier — an unfamiliar adult — terrified me. Another time I nearly melted into a sobbing puddle when she asked me to run into the dog groomer’s to pick up our cocker spaniel. Conversing with strangers was a massive undertaking.

In school I had a few close friends but I never felt I fully belonged. I was self-conscious, anxious, and generally just lost. I was guarded and clingy. Socializing was entirely exhausting.

I clung to familiar faces in unfamiliar settings. I got miffed when my safety nets would want to branch off and meet new people. They didn’t want to abandon me; they simply wanted to meet new people too. I understood their desire — I wanted that as well — but I was far too shy to follow in their footsteps. Instead of encouraging their social goals, I’d get resentful (really, I was angry with myself but it was easier to throw that frustration on someone else.)

My shyness continued into young adulthood. After college, I began working in an office that predominantly employed associates at least 10 to 15 years my senior. So, my feeling of not fitting in continued. I was so much younger than my colleagues that I amplified my guarded nature in order to secure my professional demeanor. Unfortunately, this was isolating.

Then came the struggles trying to conceive. Hiding that burden burried me deeper into my self-imposed isolation. I felt unfulfilled, unhappy, and stressed. I was lost.

Then I got pregnant. Just as a colleague had once told me would happen, a whole new world of people came into my life. My pregnancy showed quickly and obviously, so people — familiar and not — felt at ease discussing pregnancy and babies with me. I enjoyed the built-in conversation starter.

I began to grow accustomed to conversing with strangers. It felt good, even when the strangers had verbal diarrhea, as is so very common when people chat with expectant women, I found the foibles entertaining. Heaven knows I had made plenty of social missteps, so I was not one to judge!

After having my first child, my sense of purpose was clear. My priorities centered upon her and my little growing three-person family. My former concerns, plans, interests, and worries seemed utterly trivial. I was happier but I was still anxious and still battling shyness. Still somewhat self-conscious, but gradually coming out of my shell.

I was slowly becoming more outgoing, more comfortable in my own skin. However, I had previously been so painfully shy that I had a long road to travel.

20.5 months later, I had my second child. Socializing was paramount. I wanted my children out and in the world, learning social cues and proper behavior. I encouraged self-confidence, outgoing tendencies, and friendliness. I wanted them not to suffer from shyness as I had and still, to some degree, did. The efforts succeeded.

2.25 years later, I had my third child. I was no longer shy. Instead, I shouldered a caretaker demeanor. Upon entering a social setting, I’d seek to include, to engage the seemingly shy ones, to help others feel welcomed and safe. I smiled, I laughed, I focused on maintaining a welcoming vibe.

I started conversations easily. I was self-confident, outgoing, and fulfilled. I was no longer anxious — but still stressed as I did have three close-in-age kids afterall — and I was happy. Social engagements no longer stirred anxiety but excitement. I enjoyed connecting with others and helping shy counterparts tiptoe into a safe, friendly, nonjudgmental conversation. My purpose was inclusion.

Motherhood, out of necessity, ripped the selfishness from me and that began the healing. When you are no longer the center of your own world, you become less self-conscious and more other-centered. When you have a purpose, you no longer feel lost. When you are content, you no longer feel insecure or depressed. When you are at peace, you are happy and can share that with others.

Motherhood made me who I am now, and I could not be more grateful.

Swimming After Undertow

/ thedairydiaries / Leave a comment

At the beach, my 5-year-old daughter, 3-year-old son, and husband entered the sea for a swim. The ocean was tame, neither harsh nor placid. Still, swimming near the lifeguards, the children wearing flotation vests… the three were cautious.

My littlest and I played in the sand, nursed, and watched passing sign-towing airplanes as the rest of our little family reveled in the sea. Then my daughter came running towards me. Blood dripping from her mouth, tears from her eyes. Shocked, I ran towards her.

“I hit the bottom!” She sobbed. My husband and son lumbered up the beach in a daze. Their hair matted and splattered with sand. “A big wave broke farther out than usual. We all got taken down. We’re ok though.” My husband explained.

I put a towel to my daughter’s lip; nothing but a quick-healing scrape. My son was unharmed. “I’m sorry that happened,” I told her, “we all get undertowed at some point, but do you know what’s most important?” She shook her head, now calmed after her tumble. “The most important thing is that you get back in.” “Noooo!” She protested. I needed a different angle.

“You’re going to kindergarten. When you tell your new friends about how you got bowled over by a wave and hit the bottom of the ocean, what would be a more rockstar ending: ‘I didn’t go back in because I was too scared’ or ‘I went right back in because I’m not afraid’?” She smiled. “I should go back in.” She said. Then her eyes widened and her eyebrows tilted, “What if I get pulled under again?” “You likely won’t,” I reassured her, “but if you do, Daddy will be right there with you. You’ll swim right in front of the lifeguards like you did last time. You’ll be safe.”

A few minutes later, into the sea she went. She exited victorious, smiling, and proud. That’s my girl!

 

Five Years A Mother

/ thedairydiaries / 1 Comment

My eldest child just turned 5-years old today. This means that, for five years I have been a mom, a caregiver, and a 24-hour concierge of sorts. What else does this milestone mean?

– For five years I’ve been perpetually concerned with the well-being of another person more so than my own.

– For five years someone else’s eating, toileting, emotional, and sleep needs have superceded my own.

– For five years I have wiped someone else’s butt multiple times daily.

– For five years I have not been able to quickly and easily leave the house on a whim.

– For five years washability has been a primary deciding factor in all clothing selections.

– For five years I have planned meals around someone else’s needs and/or tastes.

– For five years I have found mystery stains, spots, puddles, or crustiness in my home.

– For five years privacy has been a distant concept.

– For five years I have slept with my mind set to listen for sounds of my offspring in need.

– For five years any story regarding child victims has simultaneously made my heart drop and my eyes well.

– For five years I have not shopped for myself without thinking of, if not prioritizing or also buying for, my children.

– For five years I have not seen baby clothes displays without stopping to touch the fabric.

– For five years I have seen pregnant women and thought, “been there!”

– For five years my relationship with my husband has been entirely different — neither better nor worse, simply different — than before.

– For five years I have been a human tissue.

– For five years the future of our world has been a notable concern.

– For five years trips to the grocery store have been chaotic.

– For five years I have had to carefully consider wardrobe choices when at home.

– For five years solo trips to Target have seemed like a mini-vacation.

– For five years I have had to put away someone else’s laundry.

– For five years I have thought of my parents more as grandparents than as my own parents.

– For five years our home has not been quiet… unless we’re not in it.

– For five years I’ve signed my name as “Mom.”

– For five years people have often asked about how my child is doing before asking about me.

– For five years I’ve had the attention span of a goldfish

– For five years my pre-parenthood interests and concerns have seemed trivial.

– For five years I have tested the storage capacity of my cell phone with photos and videos of someone else.

– For five years each day my blood pressure has soared from frustration and my heart has swelled with love.

– For five years someone else’s sleep has dictated my own.

– For five years I have not been able to make a phone call, or answer a call, at any time I choose.

– For five years I have found experiences absolutely adorable, hilarious, and memorable that my childless self would have regarded as dull, disgusting, or inconsequential.

– For five years poop has been an acceptable and frequent topic of conversation.

– For five years I have had the most love-drenched, patience-testing, anxiety-inducing, exhausting, simultaneously unpredictable-yet-routine, absolutely most rewarding 24/7 no-days-off-ever job. And I adore it (even when I don’t.)

And, as a mother of three, this shocking realization surfaced:

– For six years I have been pregnant, nursing, pumping, or all three.

Motherhood… it changes you. For the better.