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  1. Moms are Superhuman Too

    April 9, 2013 by admin

    Becoming a mother is kind of like becoming Spiderman. Only instead of being bitten by some radioactive arachnid, you’re injected with…well, presumably you know what you’ve been injected with and I SO totally don’t need to go there. But the end results are similar: Superhuman Powers. Because let’s face it, once a woman begins to GROW ANOTHER HUMAN BEING INSIDE HER OWN BODY, everything changes. I’ve been a mom for nearly eight years now, and the side-effects of motherhood still never cease to amaze me. My abilities – like all moms I know – are endless and constantly evolving. Spiderman may be able to sense danger, cling to skyscrapers and possess cat-like reflexes, but here’s some of the things I can do.

     

    • I may not be able to crush a car with my bare hands, but I can carry six grocery bags, a gallon of milk, a cup of coffee and a writhing toddler from the car to the front door with no casualties.
    • I often moonlight as a human lie-detector, able to detect kid bullshit with almost 100 percent accuracy. (One percent fail rate due to 4-year-old’s recently-aquired and surprisingly powerful ability to fib.)
    • I can decipher who has not flushed the toilet by quick visual analysis.
    • I possess superhuman focus, and by that I mean I can tune things out as well as a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Applicable “things” include cries, whines, screams, screeches of terror (obviously fake) and other obnoxious noises, plus ridiculously outrageous pleas and requests, bickering, tattling and many other forms of verbal diarrhea. This power is used only when absolutely necessary and when no one is in imminent danger.
    • When not picking up, trying to donate or hide old toys under leftover pasta in the trash, I sometimes use my superhuman Toy Detector power to help the kids find things.

     

    – “Mom, where’s that microscopic Lego headlight that goes on my 2,000-piece Lego race car that keeps falling off into random and hard-to-find places?”

    – “In between the left and middle cushions on the smaller couch in the family room, honey. Under the dirty sock and banana peel.”

    (This power also works for finding additional things, such as articles of clothing, homework assignments and other school-related things and sports equipment.)

     

    • When not cooking an actual meal (which admittedly is more nights than not lately) I have the unique ability of presenting food in such a way as kids still think they are eating an actual meal so that the next time they do, in fact, eat an actual meal, they won’t know the difference. (Please, please comment if you get what I’m saying here.)
    • Despite how weird it sounds, being shameless is a special Superhuman Mom Power too, one that I most definitely possess. Since bearing three children, shame has totally gone out the window. Thank God too, because how else would I be able to walk my son to the bus stop in my pajamas or scream like a banshee from the stands at a Mite hockey game?
    • The ability to always make my kids laugh. Am NOT adverse to using potty humor when necessary. But other tricks include:

     

    Making random faces and asking if they’d let me volunteer at their respective schools looking like this:

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    Showing them funny pictures of their baby sister, like this:

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          Dancing uncontrollably across the kitchen floor, like M.C. Hammer on Crack. (Definitely no photo available of that.) Admittedly, this method sometimes backfires and I end up the victim of comments like, “Mom, you are so weird.”

    • The ability to be in a thousand places at once. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean. School, grocery shopping, errands, activities, practice, games, work. The liquor store.  That kind of commitment takes more than just a GPS. 
    • I’m about to get serious on you with this one: I have the ability to comfort my children when no one else can. A tight hug. A soft kiss. A gentle pat on the head or brush of the cheek. Three little words. I love you. Coming from a mom, nothing is more powerful. Not even Spiderman swinging between skyscrapers.

     

    Moms – and Dads, because they have superpowers too – what amazing abilities have you developed since becoming a parent?

    Category Family Life, Uncategorized | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  2. J.C. has Risen and so has my OCD

    April 2, 2013 by admin

    As we all celebrated the resurrection of J.C. on Sunday with chocolate bunnies and cream-filled eggs, something from my own past was also brought back from the (almost) dead.

    OCD.

    I should have known it was going to be an interesting day when our 7-year-old woke at 4am, strolled wide-eyed into our room and asked if it was time to hunt for eggs. His excitement for Easter this year was…weird. He didn’t even wake up that early on Christmas morning. But in the days leading up to Easter, he was all hyped up, talking about the Easter bunny and what he was going to bring. I said, “Easter is not like Christmas, you know.” “I know, mom,” he said. “I just like to hunt for the eggs around the house.”

    (As an aside, the day before Easter, said 7-year-old asked me if I knew why we got presents on Christmas. “Why?” I asked.  “Because we’re celebrating Zeus,” he said. “And Zeus got presents.” “We get presents on Christmas because of a mythical Greek god? I think you mean Jesus,” I said. He sort of laughs as if he actually knows the mistake he’s made. “Yeah, Jesus,” he said. Perhaps it might be time for a little ad hoc religious education.)

    Anyway, after we demanded he go back to bed, Braedan visited our room every 15 minutes or so (no lie) until we gave in at about 6:45 and told him “Yes, Yes. Hunt for eggs!”

    Everything gets a little hazy after that, but from what I can piece together, in no time at all, all three kids were up. The boys find their Easter baskets, which I realized only the night before were totally disproportionate, but thank goodness the 4-year-old doesn’t notice things like that. They oohed and ahhed over the baskets’ contents for a few minutes while our baby girl squealed in excitement about her stuffed chick, rubber ducky and board book.

    AriaEaster

    Then, before I knew it, the boys were commando rolling all over our tiny house and body checking each other in the race for eggs, while poor, tiny Aria was left to waddle around and eat the gold fish and animal crackers from her special eggs, the ones that were “hidden” directly ON HER HIGH CHAIR and which had already been cracked open in the fray, off the floor. Not that she seemed entirely upset about that. But I begin explaining (yelling) about the difference between the eggs anyway, and that surely the Easter Bunny left the Hello Kitty and Elmo eggs for the baby, and would you please beat on each other in the next room so that your sister can eat her treats off the floor in peace.

    So the boys are racing around the house, both screeching “No fair” when the other finds an egg. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth I could still be campaigning for a fourth child. And my husband is sitting in the rocker in our daughter’s room with his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to witness all the festivities?” I ask. “It sounds really fun,” he says. But he doesn’t move or open his eyes.

    Once the egg hunt is over, the boys commence a fresh argument about who got the coolest stuff in their eggs. Braedan found the golden egg with the $5 bill in it, but is complaining anyway because Colin opened an egg to find a 25 pesatas piece with a hole in it, which, according to Braedan, is the “coolest thing.”

    Now, it’s time to start thinking about getting ready to leave for brunch in Rhode Island, which I am excited about, but am also dreading because at least one child has already been awake since 4am. Against all odds, the kids go out for a bike ride and then, albeit an hour late, we all shower and get ready. I even iron my pants.

    We leave.

    I am fidgety in the driver’s seat (I always drive because my husband can’t stand my back seat driving if I don’t).

    I should turn around now, while we’re not too far from home. 

    We get gas.

    Do it now. Before there’s no turning back. 

    We pull out and are about to turn onto the highway, when I turn to my husband.

    “I am not entirely sure I unplugged the iron.”

    I say this even though I am pretty sure I did, like 99.9 percent sure. But then there is that chance that I just thought I did. Shit. How can I enjoy waffles and cabernet when there is so much uncertainty?

    “Should I go back? I have to go back.”

    “Brilliant. That’s going to take 10 minutes. I want to see Grammy,” my son says from the backseat of our minivan.

    Now I want to pull over and drop-kick my 7-year-old before I go home to check the iron.

    Anyway, we make it back home and, of course, the iron is unplugged. But I feel so. much. better. The house most definitely will not burn down while we are away for the day. At least not from a plugged-in iron.

    Off to R.I. we go.

    The day goes off without a hitch. The kids are surprisingly well behaved. The food is great. And the company is welcome.

    Then I tell my family about the deal with the iron that morning. My brother and husband laugh knowingly.

    “I sometimes use you as an example in my psych class,” my brother, the high school teacher, says.

    “Nice.”

    He tells his class about how I used to check my alarm clock about 20 times before getting in bed. “AM-PM; AM-PM.” I’d say this over and over while pressing the button on my alarm clock to prove to myself that I had actually set it up so that it would go off at 6am rather that 6pm, as if I’d sleep for 20 hours straight through. My brother says his students were baffled to discover there were people out there who actually behaved like this.

    High school students are idiots.

    Then my husband chimes in about how before we were married and I used to stay at his apartment – shocking, I know –  I would turn on the stereo to help lull me to sleep. I’d settle down into bed only to discover that I’d turned the music up just a little too loud. So I’d turn it down and settle back in. Too soft. Again. Too loud. Too soft…It could go on for many minutes. I never could get it just right.

    “And you stayed,” my brother says to my husband.

    Then I think about all the other things I used to do. Turning around and driving home to blow out candles I may or may not have lit. Or to make sure the oven was turned off. Checking light switches multiple times before leaving the house. And some others that just make me sound completely crazy.

    I don’t do those things nearly as much as I used to. I just don’t have time with three little kids, I guess. Nowadays, I am just concerned with getting out of the house dressed and wearing matching shoes. Which I DID manage to do yesterday.

    But at least my resurrected OCD made for good conversation.

    Category Family Life, Uncategorized | Tags: | 1 Comment

  3. So you think you’re the shittiest mom in the world

    March 27, 2013 by admin

    To all my fellow moms who sometimes feel like the shittiest parents in the world:

    Stop.

    You’re good enough. You’re smart enough. And Goddammit, your kids love you.

    Okay so maybe not as much as the mom wearing her see-through lululemon yoga pants and studying Pinterest until the wee hours for this year’s most adorably impossible way to craft THE perfect Easter basket. (Hint: it involves some up-cycled doodads, a glue gun, organic fabric, six hours of free time and at least two Target bags filled with plastic crap and candy.)

    But still, you’re not so bad.

    Your kids at least like you.

    Appreciate you?

    Respect you?

    Talk to you as you pass them on the way to the bathroom?

    It’s not as bad as all that here, but the past week or so I have felt like a pretty shitty mom, just not on top of my game. It might have to do with me being sick, exhausted and incredibly grouchy. Or it’s the fact that I’ve served frozen chicken for dinner more times than I’d like to admit in the last seven days. The truth is, it’s pretty easy for me to lose confidence in my parenting abilities during any given week nowadays. And it’s even easier for me to dwell on all of the things I think I’ve done wrong or at what I’ve come to believe is at a subpar standard. Usually it doesn’t take much to send me into a tailspin of temporary, but extreme mom-guilt. This week, it’s frozen chicken. Next week it could be a forgotten library book. Shoddy  hygiene. Or frozen chicken. Again.

    But the absolute worst is not keeping my temper in check. Yelling at my kids can make me feel guilty for days, especially if it’s right before school. (But really? 15 minutes to change out of pajamas? Ain’t nobody got time for that!) Walking to the bus stop angry. Kissing my son’s tear-stained cheek right before he climbs on the school bus. Seeing his sad face in the window as it drives away. It’s enough to make me want to go home and write a script for a Hallmark Movie.

    But sometimes parenting is just so. damn. exhausting. And we’re only human. And humans – most of us anyway – have breaking points. And if anything or anyone can break you, it’s kids. Oh, and other moms. With constant updates of all the great things everybody else is doing for their kids via Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest, our collective notion of the pinnacles of motherhood are evolving to fit a new set of unrealistic and somewhat skewed priorities. Making things bigger. better. Giving more. Doing more. Being more. And then, letting everyone know about it as soon as you can get to a phone, ipad or computer. Motherhood has always been competitive, but suddenly, the competition is on a stage that we can’t escape even in our own homes. And it’s overwhelming, frustrating and frankly, a bit annoying.

    Whatever your tipping point may be, when we lose it or feel incompetent – whether real or perceived – all we can do is move on and make the next day a better one, or at least try to be a little easier on ourselves.

    • So you yelled at your kid today. He’ll survive. (Or tell his teacher you’re the absolute worst mom in the world. But still, he’ll survive.) And most likely he’ll get off the school bus at the end of the day like nothing ever happened. Kids have horrible memories for a reason.
    • You served frozen chicken for dinner. Again. Well at least you fed them.
    • The children watched three hours of television so you could organize your linen closet. They’ll be okay. (As long as it wasn’t Caillou. Anything but Caillou.)
    • For lunch your child ate white bread, non-organic cheese crackers and drank three juice boxes. They will still grow up healthy and strong.

    The point is that we don’t screw up our kids nearly as much as we think we do. We can’t be perfect. And despite what you may have read or heard, no one can. And besides, perfection is so boring.

    Mom 1: Hey, how are you?

    Mom 2: Perfect. Just perfect. You?

    Mom 1:Yup. Perfect too.

    Mom 2: How’s Johnny doing in school?

    Mom 1: Perfect. Teddie?

    Mom 2: Perfect.

    (If you hear a conversation like this at the playground, run. Run as fast as you can.)

    While it’s so easy for me to take note or write about all of the things I’ve done wrong as a mom, I usually pay little attention to the things I’ve done right or really well. Self-depracation is much more socially acceptable, makes for better conversation and, most importantly, is much less off-putting than mommy-bragging. Nevertheless, I’m going to try a little experiment. And I think you should too. When you’re feeling a build-up of parental inadequacies, wallow in them for a bit if you wish, but then think about all the great stuff you do for your kids, big and small, or all the ways you don’t screw up. Sit with those things in your head for a minute, or write them down. Visit them often as a reminder that you are doing one of the hardest and most important jobs in the world.

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: | 3 Comments

  4. Boycotting the Leprechaun

    March 18, 2013 by admin

    It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and no, a damn leprechaun didn’t visit our house and leave green piss in our toilet or give the kids presents or candy or pots filled with fool’s gold (the thing my 7-year-old said was supposed to happen). I didn’t bake a green cake, dye the kids’ milk green, make corned beef and cabbage or bring the family to an Irish pub for a Guinness.

    We celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in our own quiet way, some Celtic music over breakfast sandwiches and a Shamrock tattoo on my oldest son’s cheek for his hockey game.

    I don’t begrudge anyone their celebrations or traditions. At all. I am the first to admit that I LOVE making a big deal about holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, even Easter (though I have no idea why I buy the kids cheap toys and hide eggs to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection): I love to do little things for the kids to make the day special.

    But when did St. Patrick’s Day become another one of those holidays?

    “I wish the leprechaun had come to visit our house,” my 7-year-old lamented St. Patrick’s Day morning. “Some of my friends were getting fool’s gold. That’s what I want.”

    “Sorry,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

    I was caught between feeling guilty (surprise, surprise) and peeved that yet another holiday is becoming (or maybe it always was and I just didn’t know it) about the kids getting something and making it a big to-do.

    I am still recovering from last year’s elf on the shelf. Thirty whole days of moving that creepy-looking thing all around the house, trying to bedazzle the kids with new feats of creativity. You just can’t be the lame ass mom who leaves the elf on the mantle or God forbid, A SHELF, every morning. It has to be swinging one-handed from a chandelier or writing a Christmas card in Latin or baking a cake with almond flour and organic eggs. And now I am supposed to pretend a leprechaun visits too?

     

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    Before you say anything, I know this would not be a huge, time-consuming endeavor. A little drop of green food coloring in the toilet. Some chocolate-covered coins. But, as one Facebook friend put it: “Since when does EVERY holiday have to be a dog & pony show??”

    Because when you think about it, most of them are. Christmas. Easter (“Now, the Easter Bunny is a Jr. version of Santa, according to my kids,” said another Facebook friend). Even Valentine’s Day has become about what we can buy and do for our kids. And lots of times what we can buy and do for our kids turn into Facebook photo ops or  Pinterest boards that other moms can look at and see what we buy and do for our kids and feel guilty and think to themselves, “Wow, I should have done that.”

    I am definitely not immune to this mentality, and I know that if I look back through my own Facebook timeline there are pictures of present-engulfed Christmas trees, food cut into the shape of hearts and ridiculously decorated party rooms. Because in the end we are all moms who are just trying to make our kids happy. But I’m determined now not to let it totally take me in.

    Why can’t St. Patrick’s Day just be about listening to some Celtic music over breakfast and wearing a Shamrock tattoo? In our house, it will.

     

     

     

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