Thursday, March 26, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

In no real order, the reasons that today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day:

1. I have bronchitis. I have had bronchitis for a week. I am tired of being sick.

2. I spoke to no adults today. I am lonely and bored and am starting to pay attention to the damaging voices in my head that tell me I am worthless because I don't have a job and contribute to society. I'm not sure how damaging they are, I am starting to think they are just right. Unpleasant, but right.

3. The baby won't stop crying. And won't nap. And won't eat. And won't do anything but cry.

4. Awkward Dad isn't picking up his phone and it is going to voice mail. And voice mail is full.

5. It's rainy and cold. Again.

6. The news is depressing. Again.

7. The children are fighting. Again.

8. I keep thinking this list will somehow get funny, but it doesn't. And I don't think it is going to.

9. I think I am over blogging. I like writing, but blogging is starting to feel like the sound of one hand clapping. It used to feel useful. Like a connection or a release. Now, it merely feels like a popularity contest that I am losing. I mean, what else can I say in one of the most saturated online communities there is? Parenting is hard? Moms do crazy things? Why can't we all just get along? If I am not singing this in a slick and viral parody of Uptown Funk then I doubt anyone is going to be interested. Was that harsh? Maybe. I don't really care to temper my temper today.

10. And that's OK. No. No, it's not OK. I'm not OK.  Why even write this? I mean, it isn't funny. It isn't normal. It's isn't even awkward. It's sad and pathetic and just no good. I suppose that's the point, right? Online everything is filtered and sanitized and edited and lit in just the right way to produce whatever effect you are going for, and mostly you are going for "look at my fabulous life!" I don't have fabulous today. I'm not exactly sure I ever have fabulous. And I think all I can muster today is "Look!" That's it. Just look. Why I want you to look at this is up for debate. It isn't a pretty meltdown and it isn't an interesting meltdown. No screaming or ranting or throwing things. I'm kinda melting down slowly and sadly into a puddle here in the middle of the internet, and the internet is gonna blow right past because that is what it does. It moves fast and frantic and onto the next thing. That's fine. But I'm just gonna sit here because I am tired. And not having a particularly good day. Maybe you could sit with me? We can watch the internet rush past and just be unfiltered and unsanitized and unedited for awhile. No pressure, but maybe you are tired too. Tired, having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and just want it to be OK that it's not OK. You know what? It's OK that it's not OK.

I get it, Sad Elephant. 
I totally get it. 

Friday, March 20, 2015

Super 1st. vs. Friendship

Basically, it's a rout. 



My Precious Super 1st.-

You are many things, my strong, compassionate, genius first born. You are bold without being bossy (most of the time). You are fearless with a decent degree of caution. You are a quiet leader, and you are flexible while maintaining clear preferences. You are an open book with enough secrets to be interesting. You are balanced (most of the time), and your temper is a slow burn that will usually acquiesce to a timely hug. You are skilled in untold ways and it would take years to write them all down, so I will focus on what is going on in the other room.

You have a friend over. One of your dreamier friends who sometimes needs some patience and drawing out to feel comfortable. You do this without breaking a sweat. Toys are proffered in quick secession; rejects flung to the side and possibles placed in his lap like offerings. You rush here and there, gathering talismans while encouraging siblings to advance or retreat depending on their various noise levels. You are creating a sanctuary of play. Your friend relaxes. And then laughs. And then a spirited game of Ponies/Fairies/Restaurant spills forth. It is glorious and epic, while appearing natural and commonplace. It's one of your best play dates to date.

You are the best friend that I have ever witnessed in action. (The only one who comes close to you is your father, so that must be where is came from.) The expansiveness of your friendship is truly endless; you can hold countless friends within your open arms and yet manage to lavish love on all of them. I think your heart is a black hole, but like in a good way. You draw everything in to it. And you remember things! Who likes milk. Who hates milk. Who wants chocolate milk. Everyone's imaginary friends. Birthdays. Important dates. Who is best friends among the girls in your class, this week. Who failed the spelling test and needs some extra attention at recess. Who needs to be left alone. Who needs you to shove over. Who needs you to move in. I once witnessed you mediate a near-war by casually suggesting that instead of playing princess or house, you all play castle instead.

You have an effortless ability to catalog your friends' quirks, pulling this knowledge out like a magician's scarves. Your friends love you for it. Perhaps they are all too young to start taking advantage of you or learning to expect your lavish love, rendering it less shiny. But I doubt it; I think you have actually achieved the ability to make others feel loved and wanted, while not discounting your own worth and beauty. You know you are a good friend, like you know all your other skills. It is a knowledge so intimate and devoid of pretense that it renders bragging impossible. Of course I am a good person, you say. As are all my friends, let me count the ways.....

But it would take a year, so I will cut off your beautifully balanced ego for the moment and just lean my head toward your room. The game has shifted to Spies and if I listen close enough, I just might learn your secrets. Your magical secret to being such a wonderful friend.

I love you-
Awkward Mom

Friendship is indeed magic. 

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. Leprechaun Traps

I had never heard of Leprechaun Traps until this year. They have probably been a thing for years and they just popped onto my radar now; this is usually how very popular mom things get to me, a couple years late, so they can stir up the angst of being late to the party as well as having no idea how this new thing/theory/terror works. WikiHow has a full page on them, if you are a late bloomer, like me. Here. Check it out, I'll wait.

What fresh hell is this?!

That was my first thought. Cute crafty time-involved nonsense that Perfect Mom cooked up in her diabolical lab and then sent out, via her Pinterest clones, to torment all of the normal moms with the knowledge that we aren't good enough and stuffing our children's brief childhood with enough magical delights. Ugh.

And of course, Super 1st (being cute, crafty, and time-involved himself) was all over this idea. His requests to do something "leprechauny" for St. Patrick's Day started towards to end of February, along with my panic and shame and complete disbelief that 7-years into this whole mom thing, I still don't know what I am doing.

I went through all the stages:

1. Research.

2. Disbelief that this whole leprechaun-trap thing is a thing. And a thing so big and with so many steps. (Similar to step 2 of my Elf-on-the-Shelf panic, my attempt at a baby foot print flowerpot, and the great Christmas explosion of 2013.)

3. Conviction that it must be a joke of some kind and that I am missing the point.

4. Frantic search for "the Onion" listed anywhere in the links.

5. Realization that it is not a joke, but that I turn everything into a joke in order to deal with my total lack of real mom-abilities and crafting skills.

6. Existential crisis about my role in the universe that winds up requiring massive amounts of chocolate to get through.

7.  Stern self-talk to "Woman-up!" and just do the silly thing. Women have been giving birth and raising children and basically running the world for eons. Surely I can handle some cardboard and glitter.

8. Burst into tears when bested by the glitter glue.

9. Decide that I am going to be morally against leprechaun-traps because they detract from the religious nature of the holiday.

10. Express this to Awkward Dad and deal with his, rather excessive, laughter.

11. Cry. Again.

12. Admit defeat and tell Super 1st. that I have no idea how to build a leprechaun-trap, despite 3 weeks of research and study.

13. Listen to Super 1st say, "That's OK. I just want to give them some gold anyway. Trapping them seems kinda mean. Where should I put the gold so they will find it?"

14. Cry some more.


Since Babcia is here 
(and she is crafty),
the leprechaun took the gold and left behind a note,
tucked into a little handmade box,
that wished us all good luck this year.

We all know that I need good luck,
so thanks, Leprechauns!

Monday, March 16, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. the Church Talk

I was invited to participate in a panel discussion about care-giving. It was through the Women's Group I belong to at church. I thought it would be fun to share my talk with you all. So, it's kinda God-focused and whatnot. Not too holy or anything, there's still plenty of awkward:

We church awkwardly around here. 

OK, so, to tell you what I want to tell you, I have to take you back a few weeks to my house. It’s around 6 and, by some miracle to rival the loaves and fishes, dinner is actually on the table and everyone that I have married or given birth to is actually sitting there. Not on the table, but actually in chairs. It’s pretty amazing. Which makes it extra painful when some peas hit me right in the face. Now, I don’t know who started throwing peas. Odds are good that it was the 3-year-old because she likes to throw things. And she has an arm like a cannon. But you can’t count out the 5-year-old. He had a rough morning at preschool, something about not sharing a toy car. And the 7-year-old has one of those tempers that simmers and simmers until it just explodes. Usually around the end of the day. And, while I don’t think it was the baby, you can’t count him out; he watches all of them, real quiet-like, and he is learning way more than I think he knows. Could have been him. Could have been any of them. That’s really the point; I don’t know who starting throwing peas and that kinda makes it worse.

Naturally, I lose it. Yelling, crying, screaming. Stood up, so hard and fast, that the chair fell over. And they all freeze. Like mid-throw. And I realize that this is a teaching moment and I have to get this right. This is the moment where I can convey to them that normal families do NOT get into food fights over who is going to lead the dinner prayer. I mean, I don’t really know what normal families do, but I imagine what we are doing isn’t it. So, I am standing there, thinking about the perfect was to phrase this, eating peas off my shirt, because we haven’t prayed yet and I am hungry, and the baby thinks this is just hilarious and he starts to laugh. Now, I know that all of you, at one point or another, have heard a baby laugh. And it is one of, if not the, best sounds on earth. It just took all my mad away and, so, I smiled. Which made my husband smile, which made the children relax. And I picked up the chair, sat down, and let them say every prayer they knew because the food was cold anyway. And I want to tell you that this was an isolated incident, but it’s not. Stuff like this happens all the time.

You see, my life is so. (And I don’t mean s-e-w because I haven’t sewn anything since the first one was born.) I mean, s-o so. Because that’s the way it is in a house with little children, if there is 1 child or 20 children, everything is just so. So messy. And so noisy. And so frantic. And so much. Which makes me worry that in all that massive so-ness, where is there room for God? Of course, this is a silly question because God is the very definition of so-ness, right? So He moves into the chaos; in and around and through until He is right in the center, where He should be anyway. And I think I always knew that God would be there for the important parent stuff; births, baptisms, sacraments of any kind really, those scary ER visits, maybe the first day of school. But what was a surprise, and really what enables all of it anyway, is that God is there All The Time. All the time. In the middle of the night. In the morning. At the end of the day when they are climbing the walls. At the park when I am afraid of the moms that look more put together. For every temper tantrum; theirs and mine. For every diaper change. And when someone vomits. And when I think I might throw up myself if I have to read Good Night Moon one more time. The good. The bad. The excruciatingly boring. God is always with me. Which is the only reason that I can do this. Because this is pretty out of control. Out of my control anyway.

The thing about parenting little children is that there are very few plateaus. It’s a lotta peaks and a lotta valleys. And you usually go from one to the other in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. It’s equally parts exhausting and exhilarating. And I can’t go up and down like that by myself. I know this. God is always here. And I want my children to know that, but sometimes I think they know it better than I do.

I had these charming fantasies about educating my children spiritually. Hushed reverent talks about Jesus and adorable Norman Rockwell scenes with the 4 of them lined up in the pew, by height and in perfectly clean church clothes. The reality is a little different. Church is really more 5% listening and paying attention. And 95% keeping them from drawing on all of the donation envelopes. Oh, and dropping the kneelers. And Lucy isn’t allowed in the church much at all. Lucy is my 3-year-old with the arm like a cannon, and the child certainly lives up to her name. But rather than being, you know, a nice warm glowing light, she is really more of a towering inferno. She attends the children’s nursery during mass because when allowed into the church she attempts to re-baptize herself. Full immersion. To date, she has achieved this twice. We joke that it must not be taking… But it really must be because the child is so very full of the Holy Spirit. Of course, this doesn’t manifest in the quiet reverence that I think it should. When we walk down to the nursery and she sees the crucifix. She eyes light up and she waves and she shouts Jesus! at the top of her lungs, all love and happiness. And before she could really articulate, it sounded like she was shouting Cheezit! but I am sure Jesus understood. He gets her. She definitely isn’t quiet or even particularly reverent, but she is full of awe and wonder, which I think counts.

They so innately know that God is with them. All the time with them. I don’t always have their certainty. Sometimes I think it is because I can’t hear Him over all the noise. And I really need to hear Him; I need to know that I am doing this right. Well, as right as I can. As right as they let me. Right enough. But God knows this. He still talks to me. It is just not so much in the stillness of my heart anymore. I hear God when they finally start playing together, after almost a whole afternoon of near war-level fighting. I hear God when I find another adult to talk to at the park. I hear God when my husband calls me just to say hi. I hear God when I text a friend at 4:36 on a Tuesday just to stay sane. I would call her but I wouldn’t be able to hear her because the children appear to be acting out Lord of the Flies. And she texts me back to tell me that this too shall pass and she’s gotten run because her toddler is coloring on the wall. With her lipstick. I hear God through my friends a lot. And I know that I have heard God through each and every one of you. Lots of messages; all encouragement and hope and love. This all makes sense; God is gonna sound like all the best sounds, right?

And the big message is that these days are not forever. And it might not feel like that at 4:30 in the afternoon because 4:30 in the afternoon is full-on forever. These days, when they are little and loud and so, well, so; these days are really a very brief, precious time of my life that is going to be over well before I truly want it to be. And I don’t say that in some lame Pollyanna way to guilt myself if I don’t thoroughly enjoy the stuffing out of every second. That’s silly and impossible. There are plenty of moments of pure frustration and annoyance and angry and thrown peas. It’s OK to be human and not enjoy all of it; all of the mess and chaos of raising little children. But what those many voices of God are telling me is the truth that I already know deep in my heart; I many not love every second of parenting, but I do I love my children every second.


His current favorite voice is baby laughter. It’s a good one, especially when delivered with a side of tossed peas.

The one and only time we let her near the baptismal font willingly.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. Bold Babies

Daring Darlings-

I want you bold. Intrepid. Brave. Undaunted. Adventurous. Audacious even.

Always Audacious. 


This is not an invitation to be careless. I want you alive, so look both ways, OK? In fact, look all ways. Try all foods. Smile at strangers. (Again, not careless; still no taking candy from them.) Experience new things. Dance to songs you don't know. Do cheesy things like take pictures in those billboards with cut-out heads. Laugh so hard you fall off the couch. Have strong opinions. Care way too much. Say no. Say yes. But be you. Not me. Not your father. Not your grandma or grandpa. Not your teachers. Not people you encounter on your trek toward world domination. I mean, we're all pretty great, so take the stuff you like and use it. But be boldly you.

You aren't babies anymore. Were you ever? These bold beings that burst into my life with places to go, stuff to do, things to change. I don't want to hold you back but I'm not ready to shove you from the nest, so here we are; a messy limbo land where you're too big and too small, where time crawls and flies and no one wants to sit still. Ever. I want to tell you to just wait. Wait; it gets so much better. Wait; slow down, you want to enjoy this part. Wait; you are going run into the....too late. We're always late, aren't we? Late and out of breath and flustered. OK, I'm really the only one flustered. I can't help it; you are the most awesome people I know and I am around you all the time. Frankly, it's a wonder anything gets done around here at all. And yet everything does get done and I don't actually know how I did anything before you and your boldness showed up because it's air to me.

So, stay here with me awhile longer. This childhood will be over before you know it, believe me. Stay here and practice your skills. Stay here and let me look at you a little longer, reach out and ruffle your hair one more time. Stay here and prepare to run things. Stay. Stay and be bold. Not that you know how to be anything else. You were born bold, so keep on being your bold yous.


\
This you.


And this you.


And this you. 


And this you. 


The world doesn't stand a chance.
So, be bold but benevolent dictators when you're in charge, OK?


I love you-
Awkward Mom

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Awkward Mom and Super Baby

My Beautiful Boy-

Your birthday is tomorrow. I am writing this today because I am afraid I won't have time tomorrow. Tomorrow is pretty busy; Dad's got a ton of work, Super 1st has school, Super Preschooler has a morning playdate, Super Toddler has an afternoon playdate, it's supposed to snow and be ridiculously cold, and it's Ash Wednesday so I guess we have to figure out church and fasting and stuff. Better off just squeezing in your birthday celebration tonight. Yeah......squeeze it in.

Squeeze in your first birthday.

You get squeezed a lot, and I am not just talking about when Super T. wants to play "Mommy." Your baby book isn't finished. Someone else has worn all of your clothes before you. Played with all of your toys. Chewed up the corners of all your books. More often that I want to admit, I get your name wrong when calling you. You learned to feed yourself out of sheer need, and, let me tell you, the decision to just follow Super Toddler around and eat stuff she drops was pretty genius, You do a lot of things yourself; calmly, sedately, like it's no big thing to climb stairs and color and drink from a cup and do puzzles and get out your own shoes. Things we took a million pictures of Super 1st doing, I now notice you doing out of the corner of my eye. There are a lot of pictures of you, my darling, but there is usually someone else in there too. Trying to steal your thunder.

"Have you guys met my sister?"

"Seriously,
She's kinda a big deal."


You are so tolerant of the chaos that surrounds you at all times. And it's no surprise, my love; you're a fourth. You know that being siblings is all a numbers game. There are your powerhouse firsts. Your daydreamy seconds. Your utterly outrageous thirds. And then, there's you. A fourth. A strong, steady, easy-going fourth. I don't need to tell you this; you're an unflappable fourth. You were born wise and patient.

Those eyes may be new, but they know it all.

I'll never forget it. You were one day old, and we were staring at each other in that hospital room. You were exploring my face with your wise eyes and I was delighting in getting to focus just on you. You outside of me, that is, with no feet in my ribs. It was blissful, and then I heard them. I heard them before I saw them; it was like a herd of elephants coming down the hallway. It seems that your sister had set off the alarm in the elevator and they were fleeing the scene of the crime. They burst into the room like a hurricane; flinging coats and hats and jumping everywhere all at once.  They located the controls to the bed and began hitting things at random. The television blared on and the head of the bed flew up, taking us with it. I looked down at you, to make sure you were safe, and you were sound asleep. 

Nothing keeps you from your beauty rest. 

Seriously. 
Nothing.

I don't forget you, because you can't forget your heartbeat, but sometimes I forget you aren't three like your whirlwind of a sister or five like your creative big brother or seven like your bossy biggest brother. I leave you all to romp and head off to put a load of laundry in. I am usually halfway through switching the clothes when I remember you aren't yet one. So, I go flying up the stairs and burst into the living room to find you happily sitting in a pile of Legos, three in your mouth and one up your nose. I scoop you up, flicking Legos off you and cooing my apologies, and you snuggle perfectly into that space between my neck and my shoulder, all forgiveness and joy. You never hold your fourthness against us anyway. You surf it like a blissed-out Matthew McConaughey (only slightly more articulate). You own your place in the family and smile all wise at us when we freak out around you. Because you are calm. You are even-keeled. You are completely in control. You are totally at peace with yourself and your surroundings. You are last in line, and you know full well that the plate will get to you eventually.

You even take down intergalactic gangsters like it's no big thing.


You are number four. You are the miracle of a square. You are the beauty of total balance. You are the magic of a four leaf clover. You are the final tire that makes the car run. You are the key member of the fantastic four, the Beatles, the A-team. You are the one to bring balance to the force. 

And you deserve far more than being squeezed in. 

Therefore, tomorrow is going to be all about you, my beautiful boy. There are many more days of work and school. There will be other playdates. It is cold and snowy every winter, and Ash Wednesday will come every year like clockwork. But you turn one just this once, so the world can just hang on for a second and everyone else can wait their turn, Tomorrow is yours. All yours. You get to go first. You are an outstanding fourth, my precious, but tomorrow, you are going to be number one. 

I love you,
Awkward Mom


P.S. I am glad that I squeezed in writing this today, because tomorrow, all I want to do is get lost in the wise eyes of yours. 



Thursday, February 12, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. Just Thursday

Dearest Daring Darlings-

So, it's just Thursday. It's isn't anyone's birthday and it isn't a holiday. It's not even an exciting day, like Saturday. It's just a day. A day in February; so deep in winter that we've started to long for spring but know it's still a long way off. Nothing unusual happened today, nothing particularly noteworthy. Nothing to report to Daddy when he gets home. Just boring old life in the middle of February 2015.


You built this amazing Lego house to welcome your friend who was coming over, the one you were deeply sensitive to and allowed to lead the play, even though you had about 899 ideas about how things should go. I was so proud of you and your gentle leadership today.


You had school today and celebrated Valentine's Day, so you came home with a sack full of candy. A sack that you proceeded to divide 4 ways, so all your siblings could enjoy your bounty. I was so proud of you and your seamless generosity today. (Thanks also for being flexible and understanding that Nerds might not be the best choice of treat for the baby.)


You ran errands with me today and rode the grocery store horse, like you have done every day since you noticed her existence. You climb up there like the seasoned horsewoman you are, settle in, and gallop off on imagined journeys across the plains. Journeys that you shout to any passerby; causing numerous smiles and chuckles, especially in the grandparents that you randomly blow kisses at. I was so proud of you and your fearless friendliness today.


You climbed the stairs today. You tried to eat several toys, you tirelessly trailed your siblings through the house, and you were stepped on 4 times. And you said "mama" just once, but it was enough to melt me into a puddle of love. I was so proud of you and your endless composure in the face of a world that is too tall and not built for your comfort or ease.


There will be more exciting days. There will be warmer days. There will be more noteworthy days, with a flurry of things to report to Daddy when he gets home. And yet, when I am old and gray, walking through the store by myself, with no one to chase, and I see a young mom with her children, I'll think of you. And I probably won't think about your weddings or your graduations or the day you lost your first teeth. I won't remember some important day in June or October when the weather was perfect. I'll remember this quiet day in cold mid-February when nothing much happened. I'll think of how beautiful it was to take for granted that you would fill my day, my life, and my heart to bursting. How beautiful it is to be your mother and to get to watch the unfolding of your souls. And, while it happens everyday, sometimes it takes a just Thursday to finally notice it. Notice it and burst into tears at the sheer beauty of getting so many just Thursdays with you.

I love you, on the important Saturdays and the just Thursdays.
Always,
Awkward Mom