Friday, November 21, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. Disney World

Yes, it's true. Better get to packing the big guns. 

Thanksgiving is always awkward, even for you nice normal people out there. There is just too much food, family, and flag football for someone not to trip; it's inevitable. So, imagine trying to pull off a nice normal Thanksgiving when you are awkward. Yeah, doesn't happen. I mean, this is how things look around here on a good day.

Now, picture that at Disney World. 
With thousands and thousands of people. 
And me. Probably lost. And hungry. 
And deeply deeply awkward.

OK. Stop laughing. Got it? Come on, stop laughing. Alright, keep laughing. By the time you have stopped laughing, in a week and a half, I'll be back with tales of epic awkwardness. Probably from the spinning teacups.

P.S. Advice is very welcome, Readers, so bring it on. And yes, we do have one of those backpack leashes for Super Toddler.

I am sure she'll get out of it 2 minutes after we arrive, 
but it's existance is helping me sleeping at night. 


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. Super Toddler

Dear Super Toddler-

I love November. November has always been special; solidly set in the school year, yet bordering the wild abandon of December. The fall isn't brand new anymore, the colors a little brownish, and yet, the energy in the air feels like the first day of school. I met your father in a November; that exciting fall my first year out of college when I sat poised on the edge of my future, all ready for things to start. And start they did, as we sat in my first car and talked and talked and watched the sunrise through the fogged-up windows. (Wow, I am really glad you are not old enough to read this, and the innuendo I inadvertently layered that sentence with. Time for that soon enough.) I also married your father in November; it was a busy fall, full of weddings and change, when the first snow of the season flurried down as we scrambled into the church, giddy and slightly crazy. But I think the best November to date was that one 3 years ago, when you entered our lives with the doctor's shout that we had a "girl" and an even louder shout from you that you were far more than your gender.

Who are you calling a girl?
I prefer Wonder Woman, thank you.


I struggle to find words to describe you. The words that work are larger than life and hard to believe. You are exuberant. You are transcendent. You are effervescent. You are tremendous. You are wondrous and astounding and magnificent and outrageous and surprising and dazzling and bewitching and resplendent. People doubt your greatness until they meet you. Then, they just stare because there is really nothing else to do when faced with your amazing self.

You are so very breath-taking. 


You are the one they write songs about. You are the one they dedicate plays to. You are the one they name buildings after. You are the one that gets fleets of ships launched. No, wait, I stand corrected; you are the one sailing fleets of ships.

Although, you really prefer to ride into battle. 


My point is, you are one to change things. You are one that will be remembered. When I look at the great characters in the books I so love, I admire them deeply, but I don't join them. I am solidly a witness, a fan. Perhaps a chronicler or a friend. I know me; I'm a Watson. Meg March, Diana Berry. I'm Jane Bennet on my good days and Mary Bennet on my bad days. I'm Horatio, Sancho, Samwise, and some unnamed kid-wizard hanging out in the background somewhere at Hogwarts. That's totally fine, please don't pity me, my darling. Not all of us were meant to be in the front.

Or ruling the galaxy, as the case may be.


But you, my precious, precious one; you are Sherlock Holmes. Harry Potter. Jo. Elizabeth. Anne. You were born to rule. You were born to stand out. You were born to total and unadulterated autonomy. 

 Basically, you were born to stand on tables.


I often wonder what it was like to be Eleanor Roosevelt's mother. Or Susan B. Anthony's. Or Marie Curie's. Cleopatra's. Ella Baker's. Aphra Behn's. Can you imagine? "Eleanor, another ripped dress?" "Marie, don't touch that!" "Quiet, Susan!" "Hush, Ella.""Quit stealing my pens, Aphra!"  "Cleo, can't you find a nice normal guy? And what are you doing with that rug?" It couldn't have been easy to parent women who were born to stand on tables, but I have a feeling that it is even harder to be a little girl when you know you are really a woman born to stand on a table. 

Yes, this one goes to 11. Why?


I want you to stand. And stand tall. I want you to be the woman of strength, intelligence, and beauty that you are meant to be, but sometimes getting you there feels like trying to tame a tornado. Your little body is an uncomfortable fit for all that power and you seem to only have one speed; record-breaking. I think that is why you eat so much sausage; the energy you house in there is astronomical. So, keep eating that sausage. Keep running. Keep challenging the rules and walls around you. I am gonna hang on and try to keep you from rocketing into the street. That's really all you can do with rockets in the end; hang on and have the ride of your life. 

Happy November, my breath-taking daughter. A birthday wouldn't do for you; you require an entire month. 

I love you,
Awkward Mom



 P.S. I know you asked for a pony again this year, but Grandma (who is the expert in these matters) says that a little girl should ask for a horse for at least 10 years before she gets one. 8 more to go! 

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Out Being Awkward!

We're out being Awkward! 
Or in, binge-watching Arrow. 
Either way, enjoy these photos of the Supers 
and check back soon. 











Or check us out on Facebook.
We might be too busy 
(OK, lazy) 
To write a whole blog post right now, 
but we are never too busy for pithy little jokes on Facebook! 

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. It-all

You may have noticed a lack of posts in these here parts. Again, you may not have, given that there are new television shows to watch, pumpkins to carve, and well, your life consisting of more than reading my random ramblings. But I have noticed a lack of posts. Now, there is certainly no lack of awkward around here. Recent shopping trips, Super Baby's energetic forays into solids, a major battle with the king of all head colds, and yesterday's field trip to the pumpkin patch just being some of them. Nope, awkward as ever.

Maybe more so. I feel out of sync these days; unable to finish my to-do lists, restless, always reacting, rarely creating. This is new. This is strange. And this totally coincides with the fact that someone is now crawling:

video
He's fast but not furious. 
Unless you prevent him from going fast. 

I can't keep up. With Super Baby, of course, but just in general. I can't keep up with all the paper that comes home from school. I can't keep up with if kale is still in. I can't keep up with which milestone I am supposed to be freaking out about for which child. I can't keep up with Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. I can't keep up with what my socially appropriate title is these days. (Is it still stay-at-home mom? Household CEO? Home parent? Is housewife still passe or are we trying to reclaim that one?) I can't keep up with developments in my past career field and wonder if I'll need to be totally retrained when I go back. If I go back. I can't keep up with politics, wars, diseases, the economy, natural disasters, or if it is supposed to rain tomorrow. I am only on season 1 of Arrow (no spoilers!) and one of these days we really need to start reading Harry Potter with the supers. I can't keep up with dinner. I can't keep up with exercise. I can't keep up with cleaning this house. I can't keep up with dinner prayers and evening prayers and God questions and explaining communion in a way that doesn't sound vampiric. I can't keep up with taking all the pictures that need to exist to prove that childhood wasn't just Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and the occasional Lego fight around here. I can't. I just can't keep up with it all.

So here's the thing: I'm giving up on it-all.

Look, we're women (for the most part; hi Dad and the maybe 3 dudes that read this), and we are modern women, at that. We have been raised from day 1 to want it all. To need it all. It-all is what we are supposed to go after, accomplish, process, explain, document, and tie up in a pretty bow with some artful overhead shots before posting it on Pinterest. The problem is that no one ever really defined what "it all" is. Is it a Career? Children? Children and a career? Clean Children? Climbing Career? Charm? Connected? Civility? Capability? Centered-ness? Cute? Cookies? I want it to be cookies. If it's cookies, then I have crushed it-all and we can all go home.

It-all doesn't exist. Know why? Because it's ridiculous, impossible, and fairly insulting to think that there is one sanctioned path to true womanhood when there are billions of unique, gloriously human, stunning women roaming the planet. Therefore, I am done seeking the one true it-all and focusing my limited energy on my own four it-alls from here on out.

Right now my it-alls are: singing Let It Go at the top of his lungs from a shower that is approaching its 20th minute, spinning in circles in the living room with Invisible Grandpa, 2 teddy bears, a stick, and an Ewok, hosting a tea party at the top of her outside-voice in the bedroom for another Ewok and a naked doll that has been colored on with a permanent marker and more than resembles a prop from some horror movie, and crawling straight toward the cat food.

You know what might help me tackle tonight's current it-all concerns? Cookies!

 Check it out!
My it-alls even fit nicely on the couch! 


Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. Seatbelts

Super 1st. never got out of his seat-belt while we were driving. In fact, he used to never unbuckle himself at all. I had to teach him how when he was 5 years old because I was hugely pregnant with Super Baby and didn't want to climb into the back of the van anymore.

Super Preschooler got out of his seat-belt exactly once. It was epic, but it was only once.

Super Toddler gets out of her car-seat, and has been getting out of her car-seat for the past 6 months, while the car is moving, at least once a car trip. Every. Single. Time. Below is a partial list of the reasons Super Toddler has given for getting out of her car-seat while the car is moving:

1. It's fun.
2. I was too happy.
3. There was a bee.
4. I wanted the toy the boys had.
5. I was hungry and thought I saw a sausage under your seat.
6. I was bored.
7. I was tired.
8. I feels funny when you are standing.
9. I was hungry (this one comes up a lot).
10. I wanted to see the moon from Super Baby's side of the van.
11. I couldn't hear Frozen.
12. I needed a hug.
13. My feet wanted to run.
14. I needed that book.
15. I can.

I have gotten really good at staying calm, pulling over, and making sure we have lots and lots of books, toys, and sausages to occupy her, but the terror of realizing that she is not buckled into her seat never stops being as intense as it was the first time. Much like the constant terror of realizing that I need to get this fireball to adulthood in one piece. Which happens to be exactly as intense as the eternal joy of realizing that get to know this relentless, fearless, joyous, fabulous force of nature for the rest of my life.

I assume it will all even out in the end, but that period when she starts to drive herself is going to test the limits of terror like nothing ever has before. If someone could phase out cars and invent teleporters by then, I would be forever grateful!

Baby Girl, if it means you will stay in your car-seat, 
you can twirl your hair into a mass of knots
and I won't say a word. I promise! 

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. Judging

Dear Fellow Mom-

You have to admit it; that is one spectacular fit. When she did that spinning kicking move while totally on the ground, it looked just like a tiny toddler Curly shuffle. And her boneless move; well, that move is going to win awards, my Friend. Flawless. In the world arena of checkout lane fits, this one is definitely in the top ten; a true 10, out of the park homerun, touchdown, blaze of glory, and completely amazing to behold. And I don't blame her, M&Ms are my favorite too. But it is 9:25, so I don't blame you either. I wouldn't even blame you if you wanted to lay down next to her and throw a fit yourself; it is looking to be one of those days. And I know you think we are all staring at you and judging you. We're not.

OK, I might be staring, but it's with love, fellow Mom. The others? Well, the teens are texting, so you could be on Naboo for all they'll notice. That checker's seen it all and just wants her break and for the store to not already be playing Christmas music. That other mom, the perfect looking one in the skinny jeans and the Gucci purse? No judging there, her son pulled the same stunt earlier in the candy aisle so you missed it, just like you are missing the love she is shooting you between your daughter's screams. Those grandmas are judging nothing except maybe the cruel swiftness of time, as they restrain themselves from gathering the both of you up in their soft steely arms. I want to hug you too. Hug you tight and long and true, while I tell you the truth: You are doing a magnificent job, my dear fellow mom. Magnificent. Keep it up, we are all pulling for you. We love you. Even the teens; because if they bothered to look up, they would love you too. Who wouldn't love you? You're magnificent! We are not judging you. We are NOT judging you. We love you.

Love ya,
Awkward Mom

P.S. Still no judging if you buy those M&Ms and eat them all in the driver's seat after you strap her in and close all the car doors. Do what you gotta do.

No judging.
Just love. 

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Awkward Mom vs. Pasta

Hint: She isn't winning this battle. 

So, I miss seeing my friends and I don't have money to pay for babysitting, so I have decided to host weekly dinner parties, a la this. Who doesn't want to change her life with pasta? No one, that's who. Well, maybe the gluten intolerant, but the point is that Weekly Pasta Nights start here this coming Sunday. Now, the smart lady in the article capped her weekly guest list at 10, but that sounds like too much work so I am throwing mine open-house-style. Whoever shows up shows up. This means I could have 40-50 people in my house 4 days from now. And then 7 days from then. And 7 days from then. And so forth.....

Which is why I am painting my hallway this week. And just went shopping for tablecloths. And need to make about 100 meat balls sometime soon. But I also have a raging headache, which might be from painting in an enclosed space and forgetting to eat today. So, I am going to go lie down now, but if you want to head on over this coming Sunday, I should be up and serving up some delicious pasta. See you there!

Wrong Italian food there, Super Preschooler. 
But I like the enthusiasm.