Awkward Mom vs. Bravery

Because bravery isn't not being scared. It's being scared and trying anyway. 

So, I'm standing around at school pick-up, talking to Experienced Mom, when this happens:

Experienced Mom: Guess what?
Me: What?
Experienced Mom: I'm gonna volunteer for the Book Fair!
Me: Great! I love the Book Fair!
Experienced Mom: Yes, I'm kinda nervous, it's totally out of my comfort zone, but I'm just gonna do it.
Me: Awesome!

I'm super excited for Experienced Mom, but I'm also super shocked. Experienced Mom isn't ill-named; her youngest is the age of my oldest and she's totally got it all together. For goodness sake, her oldest is in high school; she knows how to deal with high school moming! She's not remotely new to the moming game. The idea that anything is out of her comfort zone is simply something I had not considered.

Now, I could talk about a lot of things here; how we tend to see everyone else in relationship to us, the fact that you truly never know how someone else sees herself, the sheer terror that school events can cause, but instead I am gonna talk about being brave 12-year-olds.

You see, I have a theory that there are no actual extroverts and no real introverts. I think, deep inside, we are all terrified 12-year-olds at a middle school dance, standing along the wall, desperate to dance and equally desperate to not have anyone look at us. Not a one of us knows what we are doing, but we all think that everyone else does and we simply didn't get the memo. Does anyone send memos anymore? The group text? The Snapchat? Whatevers. Point is, we all feel nervous. Pretty much all the time. Everyone reacts to this differently: Some of us fake it until we make it, with loud laughs and plenty of jokes and sheer bravado. Some of us retreat into ourselves and our books. Some of us move to private islands and communicate exclusively through Snapchat, but I think those are just the millionaire millennials. And it's OK to be terrified 12-year-olds at a middle school dance. We all are. But, it's still a dance, and that means, someone has to actually start dancing. If not, we all just at a standing-around-while-music-plays, and we might be terrified, but we aren't immune to music. We might be scared, but, deep down, we all really want to dance. We need to dance.

This is life. Communication and commerce. Book Fairs need to happen. School pick-up needs to happen. Interaction needs to happen. Humans are social, for all our fear of rejection and humiliation, and we need to interact. This can be terrifying, and this will be terrifying. Especially if Perfect Mom shows up in skin-tight Lululemon and a tan from her recent work trip to Aruba. Terrifying. But, guess what? You CAN do it. If Experienced Mom can go outside her comfort zone and volunteer for the Book Fair, then you can be Room Mom. You can smile at the bank teller. You can decide to be on the PTA. You can wave to your neighbor. You can try a different book genre at the library this week. You can do it. You can go out there and be the first one on the dance floor. It's OK; take my hand, I'll come with you.

Because life is connection and life is caution. Don't be Elsa, angry-singing on a lonely mountaintop because no one understands you because you never told anyone anything and they never got a chance to try to understand you. And don't be Anna, trying to marry the first person who comes along because you are lonely and scared and it's easier to be part of the background of something than to actually figure out who you are and shine a little and have all the eyes on you.

You need to be an extrovert and an introvert; there's a time and a place for both. And, get this, you are both. Plus a terrified 12-year-old at a middle school dance who is about to be very brave.

Twelve and terrified. 

Awkward Mom vs. the Church Directory Photo Shoot

In case anyone is curious about our previous awkward battles with Professional Photos, feel free to flashback here. And here. Over here. And there. Oh, and this one. It wasn't professional but there were attempts to coordinate outfits in a cornfield, so, you know, totally counts. Basically, professional(-ish) photo shoots seem to be our kryptonite. Throw in a healthy helping of church behavior and you've got a Royal Rumble type battle on your hands.

Bear in mind, I had the best intentions (and we all know what those pave), so, sometime in July, when the church announces that they are putting out a new directory and that we should go to this handy-dandy website to schedule a time, I am on it. Despite being a month post-partum, I am so on it. I schedule our session, put it on the calendar, and go back to being the lovely and loving embodiment of mother earth for my precious little Super Baby. I am so ill-named, I am grace itself. Except, I'm really not. Because Super 1st Grader is signed up to do fall soccer, and, for some strange reason, my mother earthy self forgets to put that on the calendar. So, a week before, when I finally remember to put soccer on the calendar, I am surprised, and why I still get surprised is a mystery for another time, but I am surprised to realize that soccer collides with our church directory photo shoot time. No matter, I naively say to myself, they have been announcing that there are plenty of times still available. I'll just pop on this here website and reschedule. For a Friday. At 8pm. Yeah, that'll be fine. There's nothing remotely problematic about taking 5 children, under the age of 10, into a space where they are supposed to be reverent, quiet, and still, after their first week of school, at 8:00 at night. That's totally gonna be fine.

And it might have been. You know, with normal children, but I wouldn't know about that. Because I am suddenly home, on Friday afternoon, recovering from the first week of the school drop-off/pick-up/was there a memo I missed because all these other moms are rocking lululemon and I am still wearing maternity pants and a VBS tshirt from 4 years ago. And I am sorta freaking out but I am yoga breathing and reminding myself that I have hours to bath people and comb out summer-damaged hair and select coordinating outfits, when Awkward Dad starts herding children into the van. It's not time, I yell, and he yells back, it totally is time. The toys went on display at midnight! And this is when I realized that Awkward Dad is operating from an entirely different calendar and the only thing on it is Force Friday. And before I have time to question if today is really the best day to go to Toys R Us to gawp at $1000 Lego sets of Hoth and  sentient imperial walkers, he has fast-and-furioused himself and 4 of my children out the driveway.

Suddenly robbed of my preparation hours, I have a good cry, remember that I am resilient, bathe Super Baby and put her in a beautiful lace dress that she promptly spits-up all over. So, I have another good cry, remember that I am resilient, let Super Baby hang out in her bassinet in a diaper, and set out nice church-photoy clothes for the other 4 children. Since they have been living in dirty shorts and Star Wars tees for the summer and all of their uniforms are now dirty after a solid week of school, pickins are slim. I come up with: (Super Oldest) a cleanish pair of shorts with a too big plaid button-up shirt that is missing 2 buttons that I hide with a sweater vest despite it being 87 degrees and August, (Super 1st Grader) the uniform shorts he is currently wearing while wandering around Toys R Us in Star Wars induced glee with a too small green buttonup shirt with ink stains on the sleeves that won't button all the way so I am hiding his belly with a tanish vest that sorta matches his shorts if you don't look too close, (Super Kindergartener) a verging on too small dress with a broken zipper that I fix with a safety pin and strict instructions that there be no cartwheels, (Super Toddler) a clean pair of shorts that are only clean because they are slightly too big and his one collared shirt that is wrinkly and definitely too small, and (Super Baby) her only other dress which is beautiful and slightly too big and some white pants that I intend to put her in the second before the photo is taken. I place all of this on the bed, remember that I am resilient, and wait. And wait. And wait. And wait some more.

They get home, full of ideas and waving Christmas wish lists at me, 15 minutes before we have to leave to get to the church on time. 15 minutes. 15. Minutes. I've blocked the next 15 minutes out so you'll just have to imagine it. Just picture this.

By some miracle and due to some speeding, we get to the church. On time. Sorta suitable dressed and not too sticky. To be told that they are running a tad bit over and there are 2 families in front of us. Should be about 15 minutes.

It is actually 30 and I have also blocked that out. There is no video scary enough on youtube to help you imagine trying to keep 5 children, quiet, wearing their nicest clothes, in the church vestibule, for 30 minutes. Frankly, I'm surprised we are all still alive.

We finally are ushered into the room with the backdrop and the lights and the camera and the little foam blocks that people are supposed to stand on and not start throwing at each other like my children are doing and the photographer stares at us like she has never seen children before and I feel really sorry for her because in motion it looks like there are 25 of them and I totally smell her fear but I am also really annoyed that we are taking photos 30 minutes later than anticipated so I stop them from throwing the foam blocks but I don't really do anything about the loud rock-paper-scissors fall-out about who gets to hold the baby for the picture and I think it made her ears bleed a little. It's not my proudest moment.

Nor is what happens next.

Sit still.
What the heck, stop licking things!
No, you can not take off your shirt.

I'm sorry it's itchy but you have to wear it.
Don't touch that!
Sit still.
I don't care if you're hungry, you should have eaten earlier!

Stop it.
Just stop it.
I don't care who started it!

Don't do that with your hands.
Don't do that with your face.
Don't do that at all.
Just don't.

The baby looks like a zombie.
No, obviously not a real one!

Stop making crazy eyes!
Sit still.
If you pinch her again, you will be in a timeout.
Oh,I'll find a place, don't you worry.

Sit still.
Sit still.
Sit still.
Oh, for the love of God!
Sit still.

This is what we went with for the church directory. 

Blessed are the awkward,

they shall inherit the inability to 

sit still! 

Awkward Mom vs. It-All

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 can't keep up with Game of Thrones, and I fell off the Defenders bandwagon. I can't keep up with Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. 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 five it-alls from here on out.

Right now my it-alls are: (1) singing Though the Mountains May Fall at the top of his lungs from a shower that is approaching its 20th minute, (2) spinning in circles in the living room with Invisible Grandpa, 2 teddy bears, a stick, and an Ewok, (3) creating art at the top of her outside-voice in the bedroom with 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, (4) hurling his 18th truck down the stairs while laughing like a Bond villain, and (5) staring at me in a particularly disconcerting way.

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

My It-Alls fit rather nicely on the couch, don't they? 

Cookies were most certainly involved in making that happen... 

Awkward Mom vs. Lunch Duty

Here's the thing, a lot of parenting foes are tackled solo. You surround yourself with friends, sidekicks, partners, but in the middle of the night, it's you and Colic throwing down until one of you emerges victorious. And exhausted.  La Leche totally has your back, but Baby-Won't-Latch is gonna have you doing all the heavy lifting. Dropping your first child off at Kindergarten is surrounded in hoopla and support, but when you get behind the wheel of your car, after all the confetti and chaos, it's just you and Mom Guilt, duking it out, until you give up. Or get home. Or let Chocolate tag in. Point is, most of moming is Batmanesque; brooding dark journeys into the inner alleys of your tormented soul. With penguins.

However, Lunch Duty is no place for lone wolves and it is not time to deal with your inner demons or daddy issues. Lunch Duty is no B list villain and she holds her own with the big dogs; right on up there with The Riddler, Magneto, PTA Meeting. Perhaps she's not quite the level of Lex Luther or Potty Training, but she is nothing to attempt lightly or alone. Lunch Duty is not just your kid. Not a friend over on a playdate. Not even a birthday party at Chuck E Cheese. No. Lunch Duty is your kid. And that kid. And those kids. And more kids. And they are all moving. And there's ketchup packets and corn. And milk cartons and juice boxes and those fruit cups that require the grip strength of an America Ninja Warrior to open. And girl drama. And food fights. And somehow more kids. And syrup on French Toast Stick day. Lunch Duty is a gosh darn alien invasion and nothing less than the Avengers is taking that down.

Lucky for you, you happen to be part of the Avengers. You didn't know that? Oh, my sweet fellow parent. Look around! You are surrounded by fellow superheros; Lunch Staff, Janitors, Teachers, Dads, Moms. The persuasive power in that lunch room is enough to bring about world peace. Or get a 5-year-old to tie his shoes. There is massive ability in here and the moment those kids arrive, it's gonna spin itself into beautiful crystal precision, with you leading the left flank.

Schools do lunch different ways; cafeteria, at desks, shifts, all at once, throwing popcorn at them in the hopes they all go away. That last one might just be the home-schoolers, I'm not sure, but, point is, there is endless variety with school lunch. At the Supers' school, they do lunch in the cafeteria, in shifts that consist of three grades at a time. They mix them up a bit, but for my purposes, which are some clarity but mostly dramatic tension, I'll be telling you about them in oldest to youngest age order.

Lunch Duty with 6th, 7th, and 8th graders is a small scale alien invasion. You might not even know you are being invaded. These aliens are well organized and mysterious; you will have no idea what their true aims are but they are definitely going to achieve them. Quietly and with minimal fuss. Whole social structures rise and collapse and phoenix back up during this lunch period and you will not know about any of it. You may hear rumors about it next week, when it's news as old as the fall of Rome, but aliens this experienced aren't gonna give much away. Lotta whispering and side-eye going on here. Frankly, it's a good warm-up for your Avengers team; a couple pointed glares at the napkins on the floor, a word or two about the chips that are crumbing all over the table, some sarcastic comments, and the room is clean and everyone is heading out to recess. They are a well-organized machine of superiority and sass, but where do you think they learned that? We may be old but we are not dead; hormonal, humorless preteens are a cakewalk compared to what is coming.

3rd, 4th, and 5th are the worst of both worlds really; you've got crushes and crumbs here. They are starting to work the gossip mill, but they can't always work their cheese stick wrappers. Your Avengers team needs to be ready for anything because this alien invasion isn't quite sure what it wants. It's gonna be disjointed and disgruntled and downright dirty. Get ready to break up fights; actual ones about stolen Twinkies and the far worse ones that hurtful 10-year-old girls can cause merely by sitting with a different friend today. Prepare for the occasional food fight. Work on your shut-up-glare because you don't want to sink to their level and tell them to actually shut up but, believe me, you are gonna want them to shut up. Astronomical noise, and most of it about absolutely nothing. Let the teachers take the lead here, they have amazingly inventive ways to produce silence; back them up and look suitably serious. The last thing you ever want to do with this age group is crack a smile; if they think what they are doing is amusing, they are never, ever, going to stop doing it. So, even if the next coming of George Carlin is up in here, don't laugh. Bite your lip if you have to. Dogs can sense fear, but kids can sense inconsistency. This is a chaotic alien invasion, use that to your advantage; divide and conquer. They're inexperienced and confused and, most importantly, open to change. They are still susceptible to a gentle nudge toward the kid sitting alone or a head nod toward the juice box on the floor. Don't forget that they are still interested in your approval. Praise works wonders with these aliens; we might just assimilate them yet.

Your Avengers are either exhausted or flying high, depending on how the 3rd, 4th, and 5th period went, and neither is great because here come the babies. Lunch Duty with 2nd, 1st, and Kindergarten is a nuclear annihilation kind of alien invasion. There will be no cooperation or coming in peace; these aliens just want to watch the world burn. Your team has got to be everywhere at once; half these kids are still getting used to eating with forks. Opening milk cartons, ketchup packages. Reminding them that napkins exist. There's usually one or two that try to eat something that is decidedly not food. Someone misses his mom. Someone decides to do a cartwheel and shows the whole cafeteria her underwear. There's sandwich envy. Someone throws away her whole lunch, including the lunch box. Someone loses her glasses. Where'd that kickball come from?! What's that smell? Whose sweater is this? Stop using that unclaimed sweater as a napkin! Someone calls someone a name. There are tears. And now we have vomit. He has to go to the bathroom. She has to go to the bathroom. Everyone has to go to the bathroom. Now, you have to go to the bathroom. Which playground is recess on today? Wanna hear a joke? Why do I have to eat peas? Where do peas come from? Why are peas green? 800 more questions about peas. And all the untied shoes.

It's do or die time, and you will do. You won't notice how amazing you are until it's over, but you are amazing. The lunch staff will achieve the impossible feats of getting 5-year-olds to try green beans and hold trays horizontally. The teachers' endless patience will rub off and you will smile during 18 stories that have no discernible characters, plots, or point. You will open 2 ketchup packets with one hand, while opening a milk in the other, plus sooth a homesick 1st grader and list all 8 planets in order from the sun, throwing in Pluto at the end, to check who's paying attention. You will tie so many shoes that you can do it without looking, which you will have to do because you are urging a Kindergartener to please get down from there. It will be epic.

And that's the thing about alien invasions and lunch duties and hurricanes and human crises; they are epic.  But they are only epic because people just turn into the Avengers. Don't think about it. Don't plan it. Just calmly and confidently take care of, well, everything. Every last one of you is impressive and amazing in your own right and during your own battles, but give humans a national disaster, or a room full of children to feed, and folks come together in ways that you only though John Woo could choreograph. It's beautiful. And messy. And exactly like life.

Avengers Assemble! 

(Sign up for Lunch Duty today.)