Awkward Mom vs. Table-Standing Daughters

We’re 5 years later now and she keeps finding taller tables. Higher and higher; ever fearless, her body is slowly catching up to her soul but it’s hungry. She’s never done, never over or finished. For her spirit is an entire universe. She dances like the music comes from her very heart. She reads like written language was created just for her; delighted eyes dancing over the pages, journal nearby when inspiration strikes. She eats like a farm hand, she learns like a sponge. She gives herself away constantly; there’s simply so much of her, her fountain of gifts never runs dry. I can’t contain her. Why would I want to? I feel for Cleopatra’s mother; power this strong does not develop slowly, it explodes and you try desperately to keep it out of the road. You can not steer rockets, you can merely point them in the right direction and pray. She is my prayer. My prayer for the world and all in it.

Awkward Mom vs. Back to School

We here in the land of Awkward start school in 2 days. My friends in Michigan have to wait 2 more weeks. My friends in Indiana started 2 weeks ago. My homeschooler friends never stopped. The empty nester friends are going back themselves. Lotta different ways to school, but, however, whenever, and wherever you school, this is for you. 

Hey, Mom with the prefect first day of school Instagram pictures complete with chalkboard and autumnal filter; fabulous, keep being you!

Hey, Mom whose child got a tardy the first day, head high, you’ve got this!

Hey, Dads who pack Bento Boxes with the sandwich cut into a lion, beautiful work!

Hey, Parents whose lunch account is filled up and ready to go, Outstanding!

Loving that retro brown bag, Mom who found last year’s banana still in that Batman lunch box.

And to those of us who were in the negative during the first week; the lunch staff is kind, kids still ate, and it’s number 14 on the to-do-list and will get done sometime this September, yeah us!

Hey, Mom who irons the uniform jumpers, Rock on!

Hey, Mom who isn’t quite sure what the green stain is, No Worries! (P.S. It’s Pizza Day, circa 2015, and no shame, Friend. That shirt’s got some years left.)

I see you, Home-School Mom; that planner is stunning!

Hi, Mom who had to drive the kids today because they missed the bus and whose boss was a jerk about it; Remember, my Beautiful Iron Iris, that you are a multitasking genius who should be running NASA and he wears ugly ties from the 80s, so take a long lunch today, alright?

Nice Creedence, Drop Off Dad, kids gotta wake up somehow.

Take your time, First Time Preschool Mom; we’re here for hugs all day.

Enjoy that pedicure, They’re Finally all in School Mom!

Thank you for basically being a wizard, Mom who is also a Teacher.

I think the research is still out regarding implanted homing beacons, Oldest Just Left for College Dad, but you go ahead and text him for the 14th time, no one is judging.

Rock your bad self, Volunteered for Lunch Duty the very first day of Kindergarten Mom!

My dear, tired, hopeful, amazing Brothers and Sisters, it’s time for school and we’ve got this. We’ve got this all week long. I see you over there, being all awesome.

What? Of course, you are awesome. Your children are awesome, aren't they? And they love you, don't they? So, if people that awesome love you, it means that you are awesome. That's just math. That I learned in school. Because I am awesome.

You. Are. Awesome. 

Awkward Mom vs. Dr. Strangemom

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Obscure References. 

There are a LOT of ways to parent, so, naturally, there are a lot of parenting books. Important parenting books written by important people; some of them are even doctors. Dr. Sears. Dr. Dobson. Dr. Spock. Dr. Seuss. (My entire parenting playbook came from that last one.) It seems every time I visit the library, which is quite often as you know, there are like 15 new parenting books. And 15 new ways I should be parenting.

Ah. There he is. That pesky Should. I knew he was hiding in here somewhere. Should is probably the villain I tangle with more than any other villain, and that includes Potty Training and What's That Smell. Should is powerful and he goes after everyone, you don't have to be a parent to be attacked by Should, you just have to be breathing. Or not. I am sure ghosts are bothered by Should too, or his twin sister, Shouldn't. I shouldn't have walked so close to that cliff edge, etc. 

I got a rock. 

Should and Shouldn't are relentless. They'll climb into your head and just knock stuff over. They're like the jerk cats of the villains gallery. "Oops, there goes Self-esteem, unfortunately it's rather delicate and completely shattered." "Oh, did you want that full glass of Self-control? Too bad, I seem to have spilled it on top of something called Random Outburst." "Well, why would you leave Confidence sitting so close to the edge of the table?" Jerks....

Anywho, back to parenting. There are LOTS of different ways to parent, interestingly, about just as many as there are parents roaming around out there. To quote one of those important doctors who wrote one of those important books: "What good mothers and fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is usually best after all." -Dr. Benjamin Spock (Awkward Mom impressively avoids a Star Trek reference here.) He's right and the reason I have yet to create a chore chart but Super 1st Grader has founded his first book club.

Yes, it's Harry Potter themed. 

Yes, it's glorious. 

It's also the reason Super Kindergarten knows all the words to Fat Bottomed Girls. And why Super Oldest owns more books than the local library. And why we have three movie nights a week, but no regular bedtime. And why Super Preschooler is obsessed with Nova. And why Awkward Dad calls Super Baby his little Kingpin and no one really worries about that. And it's why my decorating style leans toward nouveau-Munsters and this:

Space-themed string art is the velvet Elvis of the string art world. 

Now, I would be lying if I didn't tell you that there are still several moments every single day that I think I don't have the slightest idea what is best for my children. I should read more parenting books and Pinterest stuff and paint everything beige and maybe check those birth certificates again because who in their right minds would trust me with human lives?!?!

Should? Should, is that you in there? Stop touching that! That Self-Contentment is new, get your hands off it! Get out!

Let's regroup with another Dr. Spock quote: "All the time a person is a child, he is both a child and learning to be a parent. After he becomes a parent, he becomes predominantly a parent reliving childhood." You know what this mean, right? This means that all that time I spent chasing fireflies and daydreaming about pirates and making mistakes and eating blueberries and painting on the walls and trying to make friends and writing letters and loving stuffed animals and reading my way through my parents' library I was actually preparing to be the me that is here today, in charge of the initial development of 5 human phenoms.

Yeah, but I am sure they mean people who didn't waste their childhoods. They mean people who were serious and highly talented and truly artistic and actually paying attention, like you should've been.

Should?! Should, I see you over there! You can hide yourself with contractions all you want, but I would know your whining anywhere. Get out of there and get your hands off my memories, those are valuable!

OK, let's try this again. I'm bringing out the big guns: "Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do." -Dr. Benjamin Spock

I know how to make cute kids, 

I trust myself to do that.

I know a lot of stuff. Some of it is traditional parenting stuff, but most of it is not. Most of it has to do with movies and comic books and the Muppets and Star Wars and 1970s folk music. Is this stuff that a self-respecting modern mother should know? You know what? Yes. Yes, Should. Yes, it is. I am not the best mother in the world, but I am the best mother for my children.

Should and Shouldn't are pesky jerks, but they aren't going anywhere. I think it's part of being human to deal with them, part of being a person with conscious thought and emotional awareness. I wouldn't trade those away, so I guess I'm stuck with Should and Shouldn't. Maybe the trick is spotting them, seeing them for who and what they are and for who and what they are not. They are noise and fury, they are not truth and light. They are a pause in the music, they are not the music. They are regrets and worries, they are not hopes and dreams. They are part of me, but they are not all of me.

And I should remember that all of me 

is strange and beautiful and unique 

and capable of shaping extraordinary new life.

Awkward Mom vs. Summer Fever

Hi, Parents! It's nearly August and time to take your summer temperature. Your risk of fever, of course, depends on many factors, not the least of which is your summer-parent affiliation. Someone nudge the pool parents; they aren't listening. Looks like they are plugged into their audio-books and might be napping under those Jackie O. sunglasses, I can't quite tell. The super organized parents have had new planners since July 5th, are crafting a brand new French Bulletin Board for their Kitchen Command Center, and, naturally, can NOT wait for school to start. The working parents are sick of paying for camp, thank you very much. The homeschoolers took a 2 week break in late June to visit the National Parks, refreshed the schoolroom the first week of Target's back to school sale, got right into the new curriculum, and would like us to keep it down, please. The no-screen parents are running out of ideas. The all-screen parents haven't actually seen their 12-year-old leave the basement in 6 days and are wondering when and if he is going to the bathroom. They have also taken to humming the Fortnite music around the office and coworkers are concerned. Someone pass the Disney parents some granola bars, they look exhausted and this is gonna take awhile.

Summer Fever happens every August; we all start to panic or rejoice that the summer is coming to an end. In August. The most summer of the summer months. Even the word August sounds like the sigh of a Southern gentleman as he sits under a weeping willow, slowly fanning himself and sipping a sweating glass of lemonade. And yet, we hear it and start freaking out about school shoes and fall leaves and pumpkins and backpacks and plaid skirted nostalgia. Old Man Calendar shakes his fist and yells at us that we have tons of time, summer doesn't actually end until September 22, why aren't we listening to him and why won't we get off his lawn?! We could blame the change of farming culture, a more robust education budget (compared to the 1800s, mind you), more fall/spring breaks, and Target. I love you, Target, but that back to school sale started the second you put those fourth of July flags away, and, holy cats, is that Halloween stuff I spy over there?! Target, take a nap already!

Summer Fevers are fevers; they make you sweaty, tired, dizzy, and pretty crazy. They will convince you that you are totally failing your children by not having enjoyed the stuffing out of every precious day of summer so far and by not infusing every remaining day of summer with memory-making, bucket list experiences, and circus-level excitement. And you will feel this way whether you yourself like summer or not; the fall-lovers will just feel more guilt about the proceedings. And this will go on until the first day of school, when you will trade your Summer Fever for Back-to-School Flu, where everyone obsessively compares first day photos until someone throws up. Which, in turn, gives way to Football Fatigue, Homework Shock, Halloween Haze, and Christmas Paralysis. On and on and on until you set up a chair next to Old Man Calendar and yell at your grandchildren to slow down and get off the lawn for Pete's sake!

Or you could join the resistance...

This is the Resistance.

Of course, we have dinosaurs. 

First of all, resist the urge to compare your summer to anyone else's summer. No one else knows the inner workings of your life, bank account, patience, or sand tolerance. Facebook thinks it does, but that's just your political preference and Amazon search history. I know it's tempting, but don't confuse those things with your soul. Your summer is not going to look like the summer of the woman with the gorgeous hair that you went to middle school with. And here's a secret I have to tell you; her summer doesn't really look like her summer either, I don't care what Instagram told you. Comparison and selective framing is a way of life in our social media existence, but that doesn't make it healthy or sane. Please stop comparing your summers and thinking anyone's opinion matters. The only summer opinions that matter are yours. And your children's. And speaking of that....

Second of all, resist the urge to create magical summer experiences for your children. They are going to hate them anyway and tell you the best moment of the summer was when those two neighbor dogs got into a fight on the lawn and you had to break it up by turning on the hose. Children are children; they have the attention span of gnats. They will have the worst day of their lives because you gave them 4 chicken nuggets instead of 5. 10 minutes later, they will be elated because the Disney channel is showing the Little Mermaid. 5 minutes after that they will upend the table you set that Pinterest craft on, that took you 3 hours to prep, and declare they are building a fort, which they will abandon 14 minutes later to stare out the window for awhile. This is why we take 800 pictures when we do anything with our children that cost us energy and money because we know our children are not going to remember it. But that time your dropped a watermelon in the Whole Foods produce section and also dropped the F bomb? Yeah, they are never gonna forget that. Look for that one to come up at Thanksgiving 2037.

Third of all, resist the urge the think that children experience time the same way adults do. They don't. Time doesn't move quickly until you can actually tell time. This is way toddlers hate naps; 10 minutes or 10 years, it's all the same to them. Some seriously heady existential Rip-Van-Winkle stuff going on up in here. Think about your own memories, your own childhood. Which lasted longer; ages 10-20 or ages 20-30? I bet you lived about 18 lifetimes between 10-20, and 20-30 passed one weekend during a particularly intense Burning Man. Childhood feels endless, and that is why stuffing it with every possible activity, outing, and freezie-pop is just ridiculous. (Testing is not complete regarding freezie-pop possibilities; check back with us around September 22.) Children don't feel summer slipping away or escaping; they are busy on 14 different adventures you will never know about until they need some tape. Now, you. Well, you feel like summer is rushing by because it is. It really is.

My dear Friend, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you are an adult. We're adults, everything is rushing. We can tell time now, and, unfortunately, time takes this familiarity as an excuse to speed up. Time's like a professor that knows you understand the material and decides to push through at double speed. This sucks, no real way around that. However, being an adult does have its perks. I vividly remember the summer I was 12; it just would not end and life would just not start and being an adult and able to drive and escape and control my destiny would just be the best thing ever. Guess what? You are an adult; you get to decide what the best thing ever is. In case you are napping by the pool or finishing up that French Bulletin Board, I've taken the liberty of making a summer best thing ever list for you.

Best things about summer because you are now an adult

You can love summer, every second of it, all the way to September 22, and sit poolside until you need a sweater over your bikini. If you want to sun some more and skip back-to-school night, I'll pick up your packet for you, just let me know.

You can hate summer and long dreamily for pumpkin spice lattes and flannel tights with plaid skirts and hipster scarves and the apple-scented chill in the air. Put an autumn candle directly in front of your air conditioner and close your eyes. We'll wake you up for dinner.

You can give your children screens. That 11 hour Minecraft session is gonna let you finish 2 books. Personal experience.

Don't give your children any screens. Sneak in some screen time yourself and print out some fabulous summer ideas. Your chalk art and train track building skills are gonna be expert level by mid-July.

Limit screen time; for them, for you, for the dog, whatever works. Your phone has a timer feature, use it.

Say you limit screen time and then totally forget the TV is a screen. Yes, Netflix, I am still watching. Gee, judge much?

Take an expensive vacation. You only live once.

Don't take an expensive vacation. College isn't going to pay for itself.

Decide a trip to the community pool is an expensive vacation because, let's be honest, why are they charging more than a $1 for chips?!

Homeschool fractions.

Embrace the summer slide.

Decide Octonauts is educational, throw a bag of cherries on the couch, and call it a day.

Make experimental art with your sunglasses and found items.

Sky's the limit. 

There are more, but these cherries aren't gonna eat themselves. It's almost August, and I've got summering to do. Remember, the best cure for Summer Fever is something delicious, a deep breath, your best calm-down voice, and the knowledge that you are doing the very best you can for your children when you are true to yourself and your unique skills. Fall will come, Summer will last, Time is what you make of it. It's going too fast and you have lots of time; it's weird but welcome to the miracle that it parenthood.

Be you. You are doing just fine, I promise.

Now, Summer Brain Freeze has no known cure.

Maybe the homeschoolers have figured it out, 

those guys are tireless! 

Awkward Mom vs. Sports Moms

Children propel parenthood. It's the natural order of things. You think parenthood is one big push of the children out of the nest, but, in fact, the children push you first; back you up, bit by bit, until you have a decent running start and a view of where they are trying to go. This slow backing up is just part of that important parenting lesson that even though this small human looks like you and talks like you and walks like you, he or she is not, in fact, you, but a complete and independent person who just isn't going to fit in your nest someday. Now, your basement nest, I suppose that is a different story and a tale for another time.

No, today, we are talking about autonomy-shoves. And these pushes are usually gradual steady slides that I wouldn't say you are ready for but they don't typically come out of nowhere. Super Oldest pushed me into the world of Dance Moms; I didn't love it, never have figured out those pesky false eyelashes, but I have a theater degree and a love of drama, so it wasn't a far leap. Super 1st Grader pushed me into saying, with alarming regularity, "Oh, don't sit there, Super 1st Grader's invisible spider likes that chair best." But, again, this wasn't too far from my own defiantly imaginative home base, louder perhaps, but familiar.

But, Super Kindergartener. Oh, Super Kindergartener. Well, you see, Super K. is her own fireball, always has been. That child entered the world like a tornado and really hasn't slowed down in 6 years of being here. So, I suppose it stands to reason that her pushing wouldn't be gentle or gradual. No, Super K. decided to shove me off a cliff into the world of Sports Moms, and I'm pretty sure I'm still falling.

You're killing me, Smalls! 

I am not competitive or coordinated. I usually lose at Monopoly because I've given all my money away so we can all keep playing, and even I know that socialist-monopoly is a pretty bizarre winning strategy; much more of a jigsaw puzzle kind of girl. And then, of course, there is my ability to trip on mere air. I mean, my name is Awkward Mom, you do the math. Point is, Sports and I have never been allies. I wouldn't call him a villain, I enjoy his Olympic events and the occasional baseball game hot dog and watching all the hotties in the World Cup, but Sports and I aren't exactly buddies. I've got no major problems with him, but sometimes his followers are hard to take. (Restrains self from launching into a tangent on organized religion)

Sports fan are wild and loud and I wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator with them, but for the most part they are good natured people who get really excited about penalty arcs or encroachment, no different than your average comic book fan. For comics and sports, the panels and spread are all still there, there's just usually more sunlight involved in the latter. Anywho, like I said, I'm cool with Sports and I'm at peace with most of his followers, so where does the reluctance come in? Well, where it always comes in; looking foolish in front of my peers. And there aren't any peers more intimidating than Sports Moms.

You've met them; these masters of the mini-van, these behemoths of the ball field. Leaders in lululomon and north face vests, who always seem to have an unlimited supply of orange slices and energy. Valkyries who stalk the sidelines, too powerful to sit in the tricked-out camp chairs they set up by the dugout. You've met a Sports Mom. She's always early and somehow her son's hockey stuff is always clean. She knows the schedule and the score without having to ask the coach. She is completely aware of your child's strengths, weaknesses, and season record, and you still aren't quite sure if her daughter is Evelyn or Avery or Eva. Sports Moms are amazing, self-assured, strong, beautiful women who know how to inspire a herd of 8-year-olds, while making reservations for next month's tournament on their phone, and weaving coordinating ribbons into pigtails, while assessing the other team's goalie's covering angles, and keeping an eye on 3 siblings at the nearby park. Basically, they are terrifying.

Especially if your pale self happens to be used to life in the wings, this dazzling display of athletic fireworks can knock you for a loop. And it did. At Super K.'s first softball game, I wanted to run right back to the wings and hide, and I would have, if we were talking about 6-year-old Awkward Mom. But we aren't. We are talking about 6-year-old Super Kindergartener, and her autonomy looks nothing like the cool dark library mine lives in. No, hers lives in the blaring sun of a diamond. Super K. has needs that I don't understand; a need to win, a need to run, a need to chant rude things at the pitcher. I could deny it. I could easily shoehorn her into my dreams for her. I mean, she doesn't look like an athlete, with her tiny frame and little flapper bob and hands still with baby dimples. It would be easy to pass her off as anything else. She's got it all really, she could function in any world. And yet, it's there and it won't be denied. Not really denied. Maybe delayed but never denied. It's there in her eyes. A fierce focus that will not be cooed or rationalized away.

It's always been there.

I don't understand it, but I respect it. Her need to be herself will be respected, I swear it. But Sports Moms? Why did it have to be Sports Moms? I have nothing in common with them, and lord knows what they are going to make of me. I can't do this. I don't want to freeze in April and burn in June. I don't want to fend off bugs and uncharitable thoughts about umpires. I don't want to prep water bottles and clean helmets and have every pair of shoes I own covered in dirt. I don't want to sit here in this comfortable chair in the shade and shout "Hustle!" at sweating 8-year-olds wearing face masks and baseball pants; I'll choke on the hypocrisy. I can't hang with Sports Moms, they are too strong and tall and knowledgeable and confident and tan. I just can't.

But I will. 

For her. 

I'll do it for her. I'll back up for her. I'll back all the way up and tetter on the edge of my nest, windmilling my arms to try not to fall, if that's what it takes to help her grow her autonomy. If that's what I have to do to get her where she is going. If that's what she need to be herself, then OK, let's sports-mom. Let's sports-mom all that way to ribbon ponytails and powerade.

Because that's parenthood, isn't it? Stretching further than you've ever thought possible, sometimes literally, just because your baby asked you to. Propelling forward on nothing but faith and the needs of your child. You can't see the other side, but you know they need to get there, so you go. You say a prayer and you jump off the cliff. Maybe you try to remember the sunscreen but you still go. You swallow your fear and you chat with the impossibly fit woman next to you about batting averages and the cut-off man. Maybe it will never feel totally comfortable and maybe it will never truly be your home, but that's OK; this isn't about you.

It's about her. 

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. 

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!