Awkward Mom vs. My Perfect Path

So, I have had 3 C-sections and 2 Vaginal births. Pop quiz: which is which?

No fair guessing if you were there, Awkward Dad....

Who had formula? Who slept through the night at 6 weeks? Who used the cloth diapers? Who did we send to preschool in a pull-up? Who read at 3 years old? Who still struggles to read? Who ate homemade baby food? Who had Gerber out of a jar? Who didn't have solids until 10 months old? Who didn't lose a tooth until Kindergarten? Who lost 4 teeth the first week of summer? Who gets scared at sleep-overs? Who's run away? Who had night terrors? Who often goes to bed at midnight? Who sneaks Pringles into the closet and eats them? Who had to drink Ensure to gain weight? Who still can't walk? (I thought I'd throw you a gimme there.)

You can't tell. It doesn't show. All you see is a pile of beautiful kids who would much rather be watching Story Bots and enjoying the last precious moments of summer than posing for their mother's rather unhealthy photography habit.

My point is this: I walked (OK, waddled) into Super Oldest birth with a birth plan that I thought was pretty reasonable: "Everything will be fine as long as we don't have a C-section." Well, we promptly had an emergency C-section that saved my baby's life. I banned princess toys until my son developed a love of storytelling. I refused to buy new shoes until my second child couldn't walk without specialized footwear. I forbid devices but then the school discovered that Super 3rd Grader was reading a lot easier with access to the games on the iPad. I made my own baby food until I decided I would rather spend that time playing with my kids. And watching Netflix. But mostly playing with my kids....while watching Netflix....

But you can't tell. I mean, you can tell because I told you. Because I have a big mouth and don't like secrets. But if you just saw the Supers, you wouldn't see anything but the magical people they are and are becoming. You wouldn't see any of the messy paths that led there or the messy, awkward mom that they dragged off her own path to get there. OK, you might see her. She doesn't hide well.

Perfectionism and I are old foes. I constantly struggle with my desire to make the process as lovely as the end result. This is not an easy way to parent. It isn't an easy way to live. And it's an impossible way to live if you are living with other people. People who have their own journeys and processes that weave with yours on a messy shared romp through the life-forest.

My children. Your children. Our children. That's what we call them. For ease, identification, sentence structure; all the delights that pronouns offer. But the reality is that they aren't anyone's. They are human beings, independent and autonomous with ways that we will never truly understand. They aren't really ours at all. We get to borrow them for awhile. A long while. The longests of all the mammals. 18 summers to run after them through the sand. 18 winters of cuddles and scarves. 18 springs to stomp in puddles and freeze at soccer games and watch the new dandelions pop up overnight like magic. 18 falls of Halloween costumes and new teachers and friendship fights and leaf-crunching laughter ringing in a wind alive with anticipation. 18 precious birthdays. 18 years of learning to treasure interests that aren't yours; dinosaurs and baseball and rocks and Pokemon and ballet and 3147 Disney princesses. 18 years of walking paths that are not yours.

And then they leave? I don't know. No one has left yet. But they will someday and then I can have my path back. My path through the life-forest might stop branching off into a thousand side journeys that I didn't plan on. Perfectionism and I can hold hands again as we march straight and steady through the perfect process that I planned. My Path. My Perfect Path that I don't have to share anymore.

But maybe not. Maybe I won't want that anymore. Maybe I will have learned something by sharing my life with other lives. Maybe I will learn that letting go of control isn't half as scary as I thought it would be. Maybe I will learn that I don't own all the great ideas, that they aren't all mine. Maybe I will learn that sometimes babies know where the best views are, just beyond these trees you think you can't climb. Maybe I will learn that I can. I can climb all the trees I want. I can go anywhere I want. All I have to do is step off the Perfection Path and try.

Her path looks more fun anyway. 

Awkward Mom vs. July poetry

It's the humidity that does it.

Popsicle sticks on the stairs, pants on the kitchen floor. They say that I will miss this someday. I'm sure I will, but will I get there to miss it? Because, right now, the forest is deep and dark and endless and I can't see my way out of it. I suppose I shouldn't try to get out of it; journeys twist and turn and sometimes you stop so you can build a house of popsicle sticks to wait out the storms. That's the way of journeys. 

I just didn't think I would be waiting out the storms in the actual storms. And sticky storms they are, storms of expectations and worries and fights over the window seat. Of spilled milk and lost friendships and fear monstrously huge, ones that won't be silenced with kisses and bandaids. Storms so wild, there is nothing to do but surf the tsunamis in boats of faith and adrenaline. And I do, I surf and sail and land in houses made of popsicle sticks and laughter and castoff socks and the detritus of weedy children, growing overnight to colonize my ordered garden of expectations and goals. 

The metaphors mix, while I sit on the stairs and try to remember why I wanted it so ordered when the chaos colors match the carpet so much better. A moment of clarity in a messy glen in the deep dark forest that will stir me to despair again. Today most likely, with Freeziepop sleeves in the bathroom and underwear under the couch. How like life to be so beautifully inconstant and marvelously messy. How very like her. 

Awkward Mom vs. Control

Here, in no particular order, are the things I cannot control.

1. The fact that pretty much all the moms at the kids' school are taller than me.
2. The lighting on Game of Thrones.
3. Rain.
4. Super Oldest's passion for dance and the resulting company of dance moms that I have to deal with on a weekly basis.
5. The inevitability of aging, death, and that the child visiting for a playdate will find the cat vomit first.
6. Girls' pants sizing.
7. Any comments section.
8. Ocean tides.
9. Other people's children.
10. The reality that there will be at least one moment a day, but more likely 56 of them, when I look around and think "I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. Do these other people know that I don't know what I am doing? Why haven't they figured it out yet; it's not like I am hiding my incompetence well or anything."
11. Dust.
12. Cats.
13. Super Daughter's passion for softball and the resulting company of sports moms that I have to deal with on a weekly basis.
14. How slow the hours go.
15. How fast the years go.
16. That teacher appreciation week is 4 weeks before the last day of school and I am way too Mayed out to be crafty so I buy a gift card and some chocolate and send it to school in a Ziploc bag and call it a win.
17. Mosquitos.
18. Most of the US government's foreign policy.
19. The transition from baby to toddler and that it will most likely happen during church or in front of the PTA president or in a store that has a lot of glass ornaments about 2 and a half feet off the floor.
20. Red lights.
21. My inner 13-year-old, who enjoys popping up multiple times a day to whisper defeatist nonsense in my ear about how pretty all the other moms are and how they all have it together and and what palaces their houses are and how clean everything they touch is and what they whisper about me when I am not there and how their children don't eat dirt during school pickup or climb onto the roof of their vans and pretend to be Dr. Frankenstein harnessing the coming storm for nefarious purposes.
22. The hormones of a preteen and how they force the eyes of said preteen to roll at the merest mention of helping with the dishes.
23. How easily I cry.
24. Gravity.
25. That the laundry is never actually finished unless you are doing it naked.
26. The unflattering light in changing rooms.
27. Time.
28. Space.
29. Who my children want to be friends with.
30. My husband's aversion to pants and his belief that socks belong under the coffee table.
31. Genes.
32. Tornadoes.
33. Other people's opinions.
34. That weird week in October when it gets really hot and doesn't behave like fall in the slightest.
35. Other drivers.
36. That it will rain the day of the zoo field trip or the temperature will resemble the surface of the sun.
37. Superbowl outcomes.
38. The ending of Life is Beautiful.
39. Four-year-olds who really don't want to put their shoes on.
40. How awkward I feel 98% of the day and how strong the temptation is to just hide in my house and avoid all social interaction because then there will be a 98% chance that the pretty and popular ones won't laugh at me or pity me or talk to me at all and I can read all the time and float around in my mind, where everything is magical and kind and whirling around on clouds made out of dreams and summer wind and I can sink into my best me, who is relaxed and gentle and funny and open and not concerned and therefore able to be strong and bright and fantastic and full of loud snort-laughs.


Here, in no particular order, are the things that I can control.

1. My Netflix queue.
2. My candy hiding spot that Awkward Dad and the children still haven't found.
3. My attitude.
4. My words.
5. My openness to the 2% of me that doesn't want to hide away in safety, but wants to stride purposely on the battlefield of human interaction and just connect. With you.

I forgot one.

Not that anyone in her right mind would want to control 

Babies in Bounce Houses. 

Awkward Mom vs. Star Wars Art

The Awkwards went to Star Wars Celebration 2 weekends ago, and that is a tale that I hope to tell you all one day, but I'm still floating around in joy and can't quite get it on paper. (Blog-paper? blaper?) No, this is a far less ambitious story. But maybe not.

All Super Daughter wanted to do at Star Wars Celebration was to see the artists. Those daring souls who attempt to capture Dewbacks in oils and Blurrgs in pastels, the rebels who imagine the wedding invites to the Solo wedding, the dreamers who sculpt TIE fighters and Yavin sunsets. While all Awkwards love Star Wars (we don't speak about Super Preschooler's anti-Lucas phase of ages 2-4), Super Daughter is the one who has embraced the visual delights of the world. She is the one who wants to know how to make Twi'lek dresses, Ewok armor, Rey hair styles. She's the one who doodles storm troopers next to her unicorns and mermaids and paints forest scenes saturated with swirling Tatooine yellows and deep Endor blues. She'll sit in the middle of a clone war, with light sabers inches from her head, and just trace force ghosts in the dirt. She's moved by the story, she loves the characters, she thinks the script of Episode 3 is unfortunate; she's just like us. But unlike us, there is something special in her eyes when she watches the Millennium Falcon soar or the fires of Mustafar rage. We are content to watch. Maybe discuss. Even fight about why Lando did not betray Han at all but did what he had to do for his people. (Come on, fight me. You know you want to.) We may be loud, but we're happy in the audience. Not Super Daughter. Super Daughter is an artist and she's got a X-wing to catch.

Which is why, armed with a handful of colored pencils, a homemade sketch book that says STAR WARS across it in rainbow letters, and one very prized gel pen, all stuffed in a crochet bag with a yarn llama on it, Super Daughter strides into the artist section of the convention, stars in her eyes and purpose in her feet. She looks around for a moment, and then, as if pulled by a tractor beam, finds herself in front of Karen Hallion's booth. It is crowded there, but Super Daughter gently eases her way to the front of the table and patiently waits for her artist-sister to finish talking to someone. Eventually, Ms. Hallion notices this tiny girl in front of her and smiles at her. Super Daughter meets her eyes with her own ocean ones, takes a deep breath, and says, quietly but firmly, "where did you get all those marker pens?"

Ms. Hallion looks confused, so the man with her, nudges her softly and points to the huge selection of beautiful artist markers next to her, just behind a large pile of her art that fans are rummaging through. He winks at Super Daughter and says, "you must be an artist too, to notice all these." Super Daughter smiles her slow-building smile that starts in the left corner of her mouth and rises into a lopsided grin so lovely that it has been known shatter stones. Its affect is not lost on anyone present and you can feel the collective breath hold, as Super Daughter reaches up and touches the marker tops, while whispering, "I use pencils, but someday..." Time stops and the crowd behind her does something I have never ever seen at a convention; they step back. They seemingly recognize in her the children they once were, those small spirits so moved by alien bravery in a galaxy far far away that it would stay with them long after the credits rolled and the world told them to be sensible.

Ms. Hallion reaches over and taps Super Daughter on the hand; "pick one," she encourages. Super Daughter points to a winking silver, which is pronounced "a good choice," with a follow-up, "do you like BB-8?" Super Daughter nods, and Ms. Hallion eases into her own magic. Awed murmurs rise up around us, but Super Daughter is focused on what is before her, with a laser curiosity only a fellow artist can posses. Once finished, Ms. Hallion waves the card to dry it and then flourishes it into Super Daughter's hands. Their eyes meet again, hold, and crinkle into identical and knowing smiles; they will meet again. Someday, in a galaxy maybe not so far far away.

Someday...

Awkward Mom vs. No

You wanna know the really sad part of this constant battle of mine? No isn't even bad. She's not a villain at all. No is that gruff character in the beginning of the movie who you are totally scared of, until you catch him surreptitiously feed stray cats. No is your basic Bruiser with a Soft Center. No isn't trying to hurt me; in fact, she just really wants me to stop shoving her away so she can hug me. Hold me. Make it all better and calmer. No is always trying to get close to me, but I fight her. I yell at her, argue with her, ignore her, and misunderstand her, usually on purpose. But No keeps trying, she's that into me.

The main reason I keep rejecting No is that I have it bad for Yes. Sweet sweet Yes. Yes is just more alluring, more charming, more inclusive, more in keeping with my spirit of can-do. Yes is full of energy and passion. Yes is loud and exciting and full of compliments. She's always there for me, usually with a huge pile of paperwork and a sheepish grin. "Erin, you are just so talented, could you help me with this? And that? And this other thing? Oh, you are amazing, we simply must have brunch soon." Then, she gives me air-kisses and sails out of the room on a cloud of mystery and purpose.

Yes is kinda like Professor X. (I like to picture the Patrick Stewart version but you do whatever works for you.) Yes is positive and passionate and personable. Yes is totally convinced the mutants and humans can work together. Or the stay-at-home moms and the working moms. Or the yogas and the crossfits. Or the cosleepers and the cry-it-outers. Or the Star-Treks and Star-Wars. Whoever, wherever, whatever; we are all gonna get along and hold hands and sing and I guess drink Coke? I don't know where this analogy is going, but it is starting to sound like a product placement, which is weird because I prefer Pepsi. Anywho, Yes makes you feel like you can take on the world and that you should.

Hey, wait a minute, why would Yes be keeping company with Awkward Mom arch-nemesis Should? That's very suspicious and should be setting off some alarm bells.

Oh, lovely Reader, you are so much more on the uptake that I have been for 40-odd years. It's totally suspicious. You see, Yes wants stuff to happen and sometimes to make stuff happen you have to consort with questionable allies. The ends justify the means or some such; those means being Should and Guilt and Pressure and Comparison and Empty-Flattery and Getting-Identity-From-Outside-Sources and Peer-Pressure and Fear-Of-Failure and Self-Recrimination and Caffeine. Lots and lots of Caffeine. Caffeine is like the foot soldier in the Yes army. Wait. Why would Yes have an army....

Because, basically, Yes is a Villain with Good Publicity. Big Reveal! Plot Twist! Holy Cats, Never Saw That Coming! Zoinks! I'm Questioning Everything Right Now! Is Captain America Even Good? He's In Hydra, WHAT?!?!

OK, not really. (They totally fixed Cap, no worries.) It's really much more complicated than that, but TVtropes is a really fun website if you want to poke around over there. I'll wait.

You done? It's fun, isn't it?! God bless those internet wizards. So, where were we? Oh, yes, Yes. Yes the sorta villain who you think is a hero. Hold the phone now! Does that make No the sorta hero who you think is a villain? Does that make No Magneto?  Does that mean Magneto was right all along and that the mutants should take over? Which Magneto? Because if we are going with Michael Fassbender Magneto, then I am totally on team No.

No. It doesn't mean that. But Yes, it kinda does mean that. It's complicated. Geez, complicated internal struggles regarding human consciousness and societal existence; that ol' trope. Couldn't it just be simple for once? Like mutants/human relations? I'll untangle that knot if you just don't make me face my own soul.

No and Yes are neither good nor bad, they aren't villains or heroes. They are responses of my psyche designed to work together so that the very best Erin can shine and grow. They are both there to keep me safe. They are both there to keep me engaged. No is no more a violent retreat from the world, than Yes is a creative cheerful savior we have all been waiting for. Neither is No the passionate protector of sanity, while Yes is the sneaky killer of dreams and sleep. To reduce No and Yes to such black or white caricatures limits the power of both, and that is foolish, for they are incredibly powerful when used in tandem.

Our natural personalities probably do lean more in more direction, depending on a myriad of reasons from childhood on up. Everyone most likely aligns better with the X-Men or the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, although those of you in the latter camp might want to consider a rebrand, just saying. I prefer Yes because moments of pre-adolescent isolation have made me very sensitive to inclusion and my natural rebelliousness makes me fiercely independent. It has taken years of therapy, self-reflection, and truly terrible poetry for me to realize this about myself, and it will take years for me to embrace No the way she deserves to be embraced. Maybe you cling to No because you have been hurt and rejected. Maybe you court Yes because you need validation you didn't get as a child. Maybe you say No to everything because you are saying Yes to Game of Thrones. I'm not here to judge; it's all human and it's all getting you through your life. It's just that when you say Yes to a new experience or person, you might open and let more of your shine out into the world, and if you say No once in awhile, you might find that the recharge you get refreshes you to let more of your shine out into the world. And when you finish Game of Thrones, we'll all be here to hear your secret Targaryen and mermen theories. (That link has spoilers. Well, sorta.)

Point is, Yes and No are much more powerful and powerfully good for you when you embrace both of them. Can you imagine what Professor X and Magneto could have accomplished if they worked together? I mean, together not in a Bryan Singer bloated cinematic mess that I could have fixed if anyone in Hollywood had bothered to ask me...NO, I'm not sorry I said it. See, I'm growing already!

Super Baby says NO to pictures,

and YES to upside-down reading! 

She's advanced.

Awkward Mom vs. Spring Break Flu

If August causes Summer Fever, then mid-March causes Spring Break Flu. August Expectations bring March Fevers, something like that...

Much like the Spanish Flu, Spring Break Flu is an epidemic of catastrophic proportions. It develops very quickly, is extremely powerful, spreads like a wildfire (mostly via Instagram), and is violently dangerous toward any and all expectations. Spring Break Flu craves your expectations with the hunger of 1000 teenagers after a swim meet, and it will obliterate them like a swarm of locusts. It isn't quite at Birthday Botulism or Wedding Plague levels, but, still, I wouldn't go leaving any expectations just laying around if Spring Break Flu is visiting your house.

I'm sure I've addressed Expectations before, but, just to remind everyone, Expectations is major villain in the Awkward Universe. He is a Big Baddie; Dr. Doom, Kingpin, Apocalypse (comicverse, not movieverse, obviously), Green Goblin, General Zod. You get the picture; this is Boss Level stuff. (P.S. All those links are fantastic, but Kingpin in those purple pants has got it going on like Donkey Kong.) Expectations is NOT a villain to trifle with, and yet, it is unbelievable how many of us just toy with him, expecting that everything will work out fine. (Ugh, is she gonna keep doing that? Yeah, I expect so.)

Here's how my Spring Break Flu is going this week. Expect to be horrified.

Monday. 

The only really planned event of the week was set for today. From previous battles with Expectations, I have learned over time, so I only planned one travel-based event this Spring Break. I have clearly not learned enough.

Some backstory: Super Oldest has a birthday at the end of February and all he wanted this year was to go to the Field Museum. So, we carefully planned and were all set to go to Chicago the day after his birthday, which was the day I got diagnosed with strep throat.

That plan scrapped, we carefully planned and were all set to go to Chicago the first day of Spring Break, which was the day Super Daughter got diagnosed with the stomach flu.

And by diagnosed, I mean, threw up on me at 2am. But I wasn't gonna let that deter me; I carefully dressed her, cajoled her, begged her, bribed her, and fed her sips of water from 6am-8am in an effort to show that she just ate something weird and was not, in fact, battling Stomach Flu. At 8:05am, she threw up on me again, and I was forced to admit that she would not be able to make the trip to Chicago. This left us with many options, none of them good. (1) Reschedule again, (2) scrap the whole idea, or (3) one of us take some of the children. We opted for option 3 and I was chosen to go, mostly since Awkward Dad has more medical experience and I have more experience driving in Chicago, plus marginally more self-control in gift shops. So, I gathered up all 3 Super Boys, our packed lunch, the pass to our local museum (which has a reciprocity program with the Field and you should check your local museum out for this too, Frugal Fans!), and what remained of my confidence, which wasn't a lot.

Going into the Field Museum, I had no remaining reserves against Expectations. I thought that, without Awkward Dad's boundless and often foolish enthusiasm, we would last 2 hours at the most, and I braced for a lot of fighting about which exhibits to see, a lot of whining about being tired, and a lot of demands for museum food and gift shop toys.

 Gotta love a good foreshadowing shadow.

None of that happened. Much like a Tyrannosaurs-Rex, Expectations can smell fear and foolish pride. I had none left, so Expectations left me alone to go bother a rather sweet looking family from Ohio. Their toddler broke a shoe, their 8-year-old had a melt-down over Legos, and they didn't make it past 3pm, poor loves. The Supers and I, on the other hand, rambled where the wind took us and had a happy afternoon, mostly lost in the Hall of Animals, watching art students sketch. It was utterly magical, especially the part where I told Awkward Dad not to expect anything from the gift shop and then totally bought him a book.

Tuesday.

Tired from yesterday, all I expected to do was to clean the play room, which has sorely needed it for 4 weeks. Months. Can't be 4 years, we've only been in this house 3 and a half. OK, maybe 3 and a half.... But I was confident that I could clean one room in one day. Totally doable.

Totally not doable.

Super Daughter, while not actively throwing up, was still weak and in need of snacks, Gatorade, and attention. As was Super Baby, who has learned to open the pantry to get her own snacks and Gatorade, but still sorely requires attention, as she isn't quite as skilled at getting said snacks and Gatorade into her mouth. Therefore, this required about 7 kitchen floor cleans by the end of the day. And then Awkward Dad came home early, slipped on the clean (and wet) kitchen floor, and therefore did not make it all the way to the bathroom before throwing up. I never should have told the children that I expected them to share...

I gave up expecting to clean the play room and sat on a pile of toys in there and cried, in-between floor cleanings and fetching buckets.

Wednesday.

Have you ever had stir-crazy children and a man-sick spouse in your house at the same time? I didn't expect to survive Wednesday at all.

I did survive. So, that's nice. I guess. 

Thursday.

Awkward Dad, not quite well but no longer actively vomiting on the kitchen floor, headed back to work. The children all seemed healthy enough, so I allowed a playdate with some neighbor kids, expecting this to have a calming effect on the children. Yeah, about that...

So, during a particularly important moment during Wii Bowling, Super 2nd-Grader bowled a solid strike, which would have been awesome, if the Wii control hadn't flown off his wrist and also landed a solid strike, right in the middle of the TV.

Strike! 

It's certainly not a spare...

The next 3 hours are a bit of a blur, I think Expectations got in a few head-shots and I expect I have a head injury. Super 2nd-Grader, expecting that Awkward Dad was going to kill him, locked himself in a closet. The neighbor kids vanished (nice super powers there, guys!), and the Supers were suddenly incredibly focused on cleaning the aforementioned play room. I do remember contacting Awkward Dad at work so that he could talk Super 2nd-Grader out of the closet, but after that, I sorta collapsed on the my bed and that's where Awkward Dad found me, cuddling a sleeping Super Baby and mumbling about bowling expectations.

He took Super Baby, tucked me in, took the kids out for take-out (which I had expected us to give up for Lent), and told me that he fully expected me to do nothing on Friday, except attend my therapy session. He even offered to change his spring break expectation to visit a friend over the weekend, in light of current illnesses and a suspicious coughing from Super 2nd-Grader.

Friday. 

Super 2nd Grader has been vomiting since this morning, so I blew off every expectation I had for today to write to you all. Now, I expect....No, not expect. I don't expect anything.

I AM going to read and eat Thin Mints until my therapy session this afternoon.

I like to pre-therapy for therapy.

Expectations has not left the house. I have mom-hearing and I can hear him cackling in the corners right now. He's a major villain and here for the long haul. I lose a lot of battles with him, but I will win the war. I AM going to win the war. I have support, awareness, and enough Girl Scout cookies to defend my heart until the end of time. I will beat him someday. Spring Break Flu is not a major villain and will leave soon. However, I do not expect that until probably midnight on Sunday night.

At which point, I fully expect to catch a Book Fair Cold...

Awkward Mom vs. Reboots

If my obsessive comic book reading has taught me one thing, it has taught me this: never ever plan a vacation to the Savage Land.

OK, I suppose, comic books have taught me many things, but here's the most important one: you can always reboot. You can always begin again and you can always start over. Adapt, alter, relaunch, blame it on Skrulls. Change it all; your story arc, your powers, your computer, pretty much anything goes in the comics. Captain Marvel is now a woman. How many Spidermans are there? The X-men change teams pretty much every issue. And don't even get me started on movieverse vs canon vs that weird mutant ninja turtle fan fiction some guy your cousin knows is writing. Everything is a playground of fresh starts and new eyes, just gotta get something down on the page.

So, what's my point? Am I gearing up for some massive change to this blog? Am I going to vlog makeup tutorials like a millennial? Am I prepping you for the unveiling of my gothic steampunk My Little Pony fan fiction? (You know you want to see that.) No, no, nothing so ambitious. I am merely returning to the beginning of the story. Well, not really. Rather the story as it stands now. We're just gonna start right here and now because no one has time to go back to the beginning.

Anyway, right now has doughnuts. 

I'm rebooting this blog because it's time. It's time because sometimes superheroes stop telling their stories for a little bit. They don't stop living their stories, but maybe it's time for a quick time-out in the action. You know, a pause to study with a shaman in Tibet or backpack across the US or a quick trip to another dimension or maybe a move to a new place and another baby and so you kinda lose yourself in the daily minutiae of raising 5 kids and not drowning in laundry and making new mom friends and way over-committing at the school and then getting super sick all the time because of total lack of self-care and then you turn 40 and wonder who you are as a person not just as a mother  and have a massive existential crisis and get depressed and then get back into therapy and decide to start writing again because well you aren't sure but maybe it will bring the joy back. I mean, you know, hypothetically.

So, let's get started, no need for origin stories, right? You know how superherohood/parenthood works; flailing about a lot in lots of green slime with some screaming. Caught up? Cool.

Today is Thursday. It's a normal March Thursday, meaning we are sick to death of winter and also sick to death in general. I am home today but I shouldn't be. (Should and Shouldn't still reign as Awkward Mom's biggest nemeses.) I just finished helping with the school play and am launching into the Book Fair. I am also Cookie Mom for Super Daughter's Girl Scout Troop because Saying No and I have been fighting a lot lately. She's winning.

Super Oldest also has trouble saying no. 

Super Oldest is currently at school; taking advanced math, excelling in every subject, playing clarinet, singing in the choir, acting in the school play, practicing his ballet, tap, and jazz moves, reading about Greek mythology, and winning a war on the school's recycle policy by getting them to add plastics and metal. 

He did all of that today. 

Super 2nd Grader is winning his war on no shirts. 

Super 2nd grader is currently on the couch; he threw up 6 times last night and is the reason we are home today instead of setting up the Book Fair. He is surrounded by 3 imaginary friends and they are having an animated conversation about a future trip to Mars. He has refused all offers of Gatorade and toast, saying that Invisible Grandpa gave him "a brew of herbs from the past." 

Sounds magically delicious. 

Super Daughter has zero trouble saying no. 

Super Daughter is at school and she may be principal by now, things seemed to be heading that way last night when she breezed through her homework, her brother's homework, and some of Awkward Dad's medical notes that were on the kitchen table. I'll pick her up around 3, take her to her scout meeting, softball practice, and perhaps the UN to broker peace in the Middle East. We'll see where the evening take us.

The evening usually take us wherever Super Daughter wants to go. 

Super Preschooler doesn't fight with No or Yes, he just abstains.

Courteously. 

Super Preschooler brought down a collection of trucks and cars to entertain Super 2nd Grader. That Super 2nd Grader would throw them across the room because they were "bothering Borgee," isn't something that could have been predicted. I guess Imaginary Spiders aren't into vehicles. 

Super Preschooler wasn't bothered. Not much bothers Super Preschooler. 

He just moved his vehicles to a different room and is now developing a colony of diggers that he calls "the Land of Excavators." 

We won't see him for the rest of the day. 

Super Baby doesn't say much, but she can say no. 

Super Baby is in nap prison after I caught her playing in the downstairs toilet. She was extremely distressed to be removed from her game of splashing her hands, and a nearby (entire!) roll of toilet paper, into this fun bowl of water she found, exactly at the right height, now that she can pull up. I cleaned her but haven't attempted the bathroom. That can wait until later, along with the mess of strawberries she used to color on the kitchen walls, the cereal that she threw all over the den, and the puddle of mysterious origins that has sprung up in the dining room. It can all wait. 

Everything can wait while I admire those apple cheeks. 

That's what's going on here. I mean, along with the laundry and dishes and wishes and garbage and disappointments and dreams and sheets that need to be washed and too many toys and cat vomit and fights with friends and concerns that life is passing too quickly but why won't bedtime come faster and maybe we could afford a trip to the Savage Land you know if we stopped eating out all the time and really buckled down and I guess I better make lunch because I don't think Invisible Grandpa brought past-brews for everyone. 

Nice to see you again, Readers!

Tune in next week;

It's Spring Break and, since we aren't going to the Savage Land, 

I'm sure there will be loads of home adventures for me to awkward up!