Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Awkward Mom vs. Mess

We think we are OK with mess. When they tell us kids are messy, we laugh and say "So are we! It'll be fine!" 

Believe me,
It won't be fine. 

By the way, this is actually cleaned up;
this represents 2 solid hours of nagging. 

Kids are messy. But not the stock-photo-messy I was picturing before I had kids, with this happy family of four playing a board game at a coffee table with 3 cups and 1 plate on it, in an otherwise immaculate room, with all of them laughing, their blindly white teeth gleaming, as the youngest gleefully knocks over a bowl of popcorn and 3 pieces fall onto the brand new Ikea shag carpet. Nope. Those folks aren't coming. I mean, you are gonna wish they would pretty much every day of your parenthood because kids are messy like this: 

1. Peanut Butter smeared onto the sliding glass door, on the surrounding walls, down the side of the couch, and still quite firmly embedded in their hair. 

2. Slime they made on a sleepover and somehow got into your house and hid under their pillow and it leaked onto the floor and a sibling stepped in it and dragged bits of it all the way down the hallway like Satan's version of Footprints in the Sand. 

3. Poop in the bathtub. 

4. You are holding them because they aren't feeling well and you are doing your best Florence Nightingale, cooing and calming like an angel of mercy, when suddenly they rear back and vomit. Right into your mouth. 

5. Playing treasure hunt with Grandma's good silver and the cat litter. 

6. Making all the paper dolls anatomically correct. 

7. Stains of unknown origin that never leave your carpet and an odor you swear you got rid of but always returns just in time for a playdate with a new mom. 

8. Urine on the ceiling. 

9. You will think diapers are gross, but within 2 weeks, you'll be able to do them blindfolded, one-handed, on the roof of a car. And then, your child will need to be potty trained and a whole Pandora's Box of gross will open up for you and you alone. 

10. Legos. 

The Ghost of Stains yet to Come.

And these are just the physical messes. Parenthood contains so much emotional mess it's like your most intense therapy session ever mashed up with the season finale of Game of Thrones set during the Christmas that your dog gave birth to puppies. And there is no escaping it; mess is indeed coming. 

Because even if you are totally cool with the smells and the poop and the utter lack of control and the legos, nothing is gonna save you from having to deal with other parents. That's when things really start to get messy. We like to call them the parent judging minefields because they are gonna pop up out of nowhere! So have fun with that. 

You see, you are gonna try not to judge. You are gonna try not to be judged. You are gonna think everything is just great; it's 2018 and we're all a glorious sisterhood! And we are! We are also very messy. 

You give birth and settle on your Infant Trifecta; you decide to be a breastfeeding, cloth diapering, bassinet in the bedroom. You keep some friends from your pre-baby days, even though Bree has decided to be a formula using, disposable diapering, cry it out; your friendship is strong and can withstand anything. Delta Zeta Forever! And here's the thing; your friendship with Bree is strong enough, you two will agree to disagree and drink wine together while Zander and Rainn eat dirt under the swing set. The judging you are gonna have to deal with is between you and Gretchen, the crunchy mom you met in your Attachment Parenting Group. Because she's a breastfeeding, elimination training, family bed. Which doesn't seem that far off from your breastfeeding, cloth diapering, bassinet, but it might as well be light years. You two are gonna have playdates more awkward than Thanksgiving between the Koreas. 

Seriously. I know; it's so messy! There are deep emotional reasons for it; you are young and passionate in your parenthoods when you meet, you don't have the deep roots that your friendship with Bree has so the winds are rougher, familiarity breeds contempt, the crunchy moms tend to like to argue and do it really well, on and on. As you both grow in your motherhoods, you will power through. Or you won't and decide to only do drop-off playdates. (Remember, only organic when Mikkel is over.) You'll figure it out and get through the parent judging minefields. Just in time for more mess! 

Not into sports? Get ready for your daughter to be the next Lionel Messi! Not terribly good at math? Here's come your son; the math whizz! Not a girly-girl? Have fun with your child, who won't go to school unless she has an Elsa braid. Or you could have my son, who decided awkward, barefaced, jeans-loving me should have to deal with dance moms for the rest of my parenting years. We call it the Alex P. Keaton phenomenon. 

Your child is not your clone. You know this but you won't know it in your heart of hearts until they do a back one-and-a-half somersaults tuck off the community pool high dive as you splash your toes in the kiddie pool. You won't feel it until you are having the older one do math homework with the younger one. You won't truly get it until you sneak in the back of the auditorium because you don't want to have to talk to other moms and your daughter is center stage, dancing a routine she choreographed, set to Bitch I'm Madonna. And you won't be able to really enjoy any of it until you accept it. (Not the Madonna. You do you, music wise.) 

And that's the key, acceptance. Phyllis Diller said "cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing," and she's right. You are just gonna have to do it again later. And again. And again. Times number of children. Times 18. Yikes. I think I'll just get snowed in. Yeah, let's do that. 

No, I am not recommending that you give up entirely. I mean, go ahead if you feel like it, but folks are nosy and someone will probably send the Hoarders producers over there before long. We all have to do dishes and wash the floors on occasion. Kids do need clean underwear, no matter what your 9-year-old tells you. And hey, if the stock-photo-mess people live at your house and you have read this whole thing vomiting into your mouth because you can't believe how disgusting we all are, then that's awesome! No sarcasm, I really think that's cool. However, you are still gonna have to deal with the parent judging minefields and the Alex P. Keatons; sorry, there's no getting around emotional mess. And there's no stock-photo for it either. 

Oh wait, there is! 
Look at her emotionally distressed white couch! So messy....
Is that a handgun amid the clean clothes that are pretending to be dirty? 
What is going on with you stock-photo-folks?!


I don't really have a point here. That's how messy blog posts are. If I did have a point, it would be that a little mess never killed anyone. Fighting and denying and stressing and trying to make people behave against their nature does kill people. It slowly kills their relationships and it kills their souls and causes them to not see the beauty around them. So, I guess I'm totally contradicting myself because I started this whole thing by saying that it wouldn't be fine when in actuality it will be fine. A little acceptance of a little mess. Or a lot acceptance of a lot mess. Whatever is happening over there, just give in or up a little and you will be amazed at the beauty that opens up before your eyes. Flowers growing in a sidewalk crack beauty. Kids playing together in a pile of toys beauty. Moms coming together to support their kids beauty. Accepting your child for who he or she is because you can't imagine the world without their unique shine beauty. Lots and lots of beauty, just beyond the massive mess.

Kids are messy and we think we are OK with the mess. And we are. 

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Awkward Mom vs. The Last Firsts

Super Baby is the last Super Baby.

Probably.

Life is long and mysterious, so I'll add that probably in there for now. You know, just in case Jor-El has another pod that he would like to send to the Midwest sometime soon. Barring that, the Supers are officially a team of 5, and number 5 will be turning 1 this coming Sunday. Happy Birthday, Super Baby!

Wait, what? 
Slow down! 
This wasn't yesterday? 

So, this is where I'm supposed to battle Nostalgia for a couple hours and talk about how fast the first year goes. And it does. It so totally does. We all know the first year goes fast. I mean, it all goes fast, but it stands to reason that first year would fly. You've heard it before. You've done it before. And watching me battle Nostalgia for like the 5874th time sounds about as exciting as battling Paint-Drying. Yawn. So, guess what? I'm not gonna make you watch that. Also, I don't actually feel like battling Nostalgia right now, and that's why I think I am experiencing the Last Firsts.

I can't remember when Super Baby started rolling. Or scooting. Or sleeping through the night. Or when we finally remembered to feed her some solids. Or when that first tooth came in. Or when she grasped a toy or found her toes or object permanence something or other. I would look in her baby book, but, oh yeah, she doesn't have one. So, I can't really tell you any milestone whatsoever. No, that isn't true. I remember her changing my life completely and infusing this household with a grace it has never before experienced. And that happened on June 24, 2017. Other than that, it's all a blur. A beautiful, relaxed, rose-colored blur of a year that I have enjoyed on a level I have never enjoyed a first year. The last first year.

This last first year has been long. Luxuriously long, like a bath at a fancy spa or a summer afternoon. It might have been 5 years or a lifetime; I lost count somewhere around week 2. It's been eternal and ethereal. There have been so many hours to just stare into her ocean colored eyes and to kiss her fingers. So many hugs. So much time to be moved by her sleeping breath, tattooing each dream shift onto my soul. So many moments just laying on the floor, watching her watch me or her siblings orbiting around her. So much time to memorize her giggles, so many days matching the beat of her leg thumps to my heartbeat. Again and again and again.

Did time slow down just for her? Perhaps God wanted to give her a gift. A gift for this one who will never having anything new or hers? But no. He's given her a million other gifts. This one was for me. This year was no slower or faster than all the others, I just finally had the wisdom to enjoy it.

And I'm not saying I spent the whole year wrapped in a rainbow, romping in an idyllic sprinkle field with some unicorns. (Although that does sound like a plan for next spring that I should really get on.)  No. There were plenty of hard and awful moments this year. Life is life, there's no changing its ebb and flow. But, you see, I've learned to surf over the years. I've learned to count to 10. I've learned to stay in the moment. And I've learn to live in the moments between the moments, where the wind stills and sunshine lengthens and all is finally peace. The peace of your sleepy child's eye. And I've learned to visit there often. Even if it is just for a moment between moments.

That's what Super Baby has brought to my life; an entire last first year that has felt like 12. 26. 57. A lifetime. I feel like I've spent 39 years in stress and anxiety and worry and frustration, and then she came and I feel like I've had 39 more years of peace and calm and relaxation and contentment. All jammed into 1 year. Yeah, I know. Don't ask me how that math works. I think she's using new math.

Or magic. 
It's probably magic. 


She's new and she's old. She just got here and she's been here forever. I know her completely and she's still a mystery. Miracles are that way; they make their own rules. The last firsts are still firsts. They're still exciting and beautiful, and they totally should be put in a baby book somewhere. (I really need to get on that...) But the last firsts are lasts too. Not her lasts, mind you. My lasts. My last first tooth. My last first step. My last baby.

My last baby.

There's grief in that. Of course there is grief in that. Change is painful and change is hard. But from change comes trees and flowers and butterflies and rainbows. (Not the ones in sprinkle fields with unicorns but give me time, I'm working on that one.) Change is the foundation of parenthood because from change comes people. From change comes people.

And what magnificent people are coming. 

That's the secret, isn't it? Parenthood is one big last first. A push out of the nest, a letting go, a change that pulls and twists and hurts. And it's so very short and it's so very long and it's so very much a miracle that makes its own rules. Each child, each change, has taught me something. Super Oldest taught me to be patient. Super 1st Grader taught me to be creative. Super Kindergartener taught me to be strong. Super Preschooler taught me to be calm. And Super Baby taught me to be graceful. Not that kind of graceful; I'm still totally awkward and I still trip 14 times a day. No, not that kind. She taught me to be full of Grace.

Grace to go from this:


To this:


In a year of last firsts and to feel every single glorious second of it. Yes, Grace. So very Full of Grace.

Happy Birthday, Super Baby, you beautiful graceful wonderful miraculous last first! 


Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Awkward Mom vs. Invisible Grandpa's Summer Bucket List

Summer expectations are difficult to manage. What looks like acres of time and energy to learn a new language, bond with nature, complete the summer reading list, and travel to exotic places somehow becomes 2 abandoned attempts to make homemade chalk and 85 episodes of Paw Patrol. It can be discouraging, so I go online to distract myself, but there I am only met by Perfect Mom's Instagram feed, where she is detailing their epic journey to all the national parks in a tiny house she made herself, the coding homework she developed to battle the Summer Slide, and an actual slide she built in her backyard from sustainable and recycled materials. Ah, summer; how relaxing.

Invisible Grandpa (Super 1st Grader's Imaginary Friend, if you are new to these parts. Welcome, by the way!) has no fear of summer expectations. Huge shock there. Nope, he goes all out. Here, in no particular order, are the summer plans of Invisible Grandpa and Super 1st Grader.

1. Jump off all the trees in the backyard as a way of measuring them.

2. Find a volcano and go swimming in it.

3. Play hide-and-seek with some people who can't see Invisible Grandpa (this would be everyone except Super 1st Grader) and laugh wildly when Invisible Grandpa wins every time.

4. Go to the top of the tallest mountain to meditate for awhile or "maybe do mountaintop stuff."

5. Read everyone else's summer reading lists and then shout the endings at them while they are in the middle of the books.

6. Find out where the stuff in our house was made and take it back there because "they might want it back and we have too much stuff anyway."

7. Go to islands one of three ways; race car that can drive on water (may need to build this), plane that is probably stolen, or speedboat but that's kinda boring for Invisible Grandpa so it's really a transformer.

8. Continue work on the time machine.

9. "When we come back to where we started, we will build things and it will probably take 200 years and that's why we need the time machine."

10. Eat seeds and grow stomach gardens.

11. Try at least 7 new things a day. "Even the stuff we end up not being too great at."

12. Sleep one minute. Just one.

13. Plan the trip to the north pole "but we're not going until winter because Invisible Grandpa wants to kidnap an elf and they are more likely to be sleepy and easier to catch near to Christmas."



Checked in this morning 
and apparently they are midway through #6.