No Parking In The Comfort Zone

There is something to be said for the comfort zone – it is, umm, comfortable. I suppose we could all live our lives comfortable in it. Not that we would be lazy, the comfort zone can be pretty busy, hectic at times – with the cleaning, the laundry, the errands, work, volunteering, family, vacations, etc. A life inside the comfort zone could be a full and happy one. But, is that the life we are meant to live?

If there was a “No Parking” sign posted on our comfort zone, could we have reached a higher potential? Is there a life we are meant to live outside the comfort zone?

I recently came across this quote (on a friend’s fridge):

“Life Begins At The End of Your Comfort Zone”
~ Neale Donald Walsch

This friend recently left her own comfort zone – her job, her apartment, her life – and moved to another part of the state to begin a physical therapy program. She took a leap of faith and left her comfort zone to answer a calling rather than sit back and ignore it.

Is there a calling that we are afraid to answer whilst sitting comfortable in the zone?

I would like to say that I am finally answering the call to be a writer. But, my writing life is going along happily in its own comfort zone right now. Being a comfortable drawer writer eliminates all stress and obligation from the process (writing something and hiding it in my drawer). Writing something, revising it, submitting it somewhere – that is way out of the comfort zone I am currently parked in. The draft for my NaNoWriMo novel, for example, I have picked up a half a dozen times since November but never really accomplish anything noteworthy. What’s the rush, really, when you are in a comfort zone and no one is threatening to tow you?

And this inability to reach beyond the comfort zone stretches into many areas of life – relationships, physical activity, and diet. We can allow ourselves to get into cycles that keep us from ever really experiencing life to its capacity.

As a married woman with three children approaching 40, I was OK with the way I look, my physical activity, my diet. Sure, I kinda wish I looked a little better in a two piece bathing suit. I kinda wish I could run any amount of distance without wanting to pass out. Maybe it would be nice to have a little more energy without relying on coffee loaded with cream and sugar.

A few weeks back I decided to listen to another friend and try out a nutritional cleansing program she recommends. And I am wondering why in the heck I didn’t try it sooner! It’s like going from Good to Great – I feel great (and 10 days in I lost 6 lbs and over 9 inches)! I didn’t even know it was possible!

I am trying to detoxify my body inside and out – go beyond just OK to the best I can be…

What about you? Are you parked in a comfort zone? Can you do something today to push yourself outside comfortable to the best you possible?

Spring is approaching. It is time to wake up and move out of the comfort zone. Take some chances. Do something differently. Get out of the rut and live to our fullest potential.

Who’s with me?!

(If you want to know more about the nutritional cleansing program I am on, shoot me an email – we can do it together!)

Lice PTSD For The Holidays

Ahhh. It’s the New Year. The Holidays are over and the kids are back in school. It’s time to sit back and reflect on the previous year, and make plans for the new one. As I reflect on this past Holiday season I realize that I may be suffering from a mental illness I will name “Lice Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Are you worried you may have suffered from Lice PTSD this past holiday season too? The first step is to recognize the signs, then seek treatment (although what the treatment is, I’m not sure. Maybe a Xanax? A stiff drink?).
 

Signs you suffered from Lice PTSD over the Holidays:

• All holiday guests were given a wet comb through before entering your house (because you know that the best way to find those fast little buggers is by dousing them with conditioner and combing the hair with a nit-pick).
• Your new found head lice knowledge was the go-to conversation starter at all holiday functions. For instance, did you know… Head lice will not infest your home the way fleas or bed bugs can (they only live about 24-48 off of a host); lice is generally spread from head-to-head contact; lice reproduce sexually with mating lasting an hour; a female louse will lay around 6 to 10 eggs per day after mating once; a louse can hold its breath for up to 8 hours.
• You correctly identified this picture as a male head louse:
  
  

  

  "Male human head louse" by Gilles San Martin - originally posted to Flickr. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:
  Male_human_head_louse.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Male_human_head_louse.jpg

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• You treated, nit-picked, and checked your head daily for lice but it would not stop itching. Finally, during a Google search you found a condition that you were convinced you had. Upon further investigation, you discovered that it is a psychosomatic condition. You regret including the diagnosis on your year-end newsletter.
• When making your Christmas cards, you note the family pictures before lice (heads touching) and after lice (heads as far away as possible).
• Family members began to avoid sitting near you because you were known to shriek “no touching heads!” every time you saw two young cousins with their heads close together. On one occasion you were seen elbowing grandma and pole-vaulting over Aunt Ethel to separate your daughter and her cousin quietly playing Barbies in the corner.
• You replaced all brushes in your house with nit combs which you store in individual zip-lock bags in the freezer even at your mother’s house next to the turkey.
• You sported the Sinead O’Connor in all holiday pictures.
• When reading 'Twas Night Before Christmas to the children you recited: “not a creature was stirring, not even a louse” as a little prayer.
• Before leaving your in-laws, you quietly put all pillows and cushions in trash bags on the back porch and told them to keep them there for a few days just in case.
• You have decided to homeschool instead of sending your kids back to school after the holiday break.

And, the number one sign you may have suffered from lice PTSD this holiday season:

• You composed a blog about it.

I wish you a lice-free 2015! Please share if you or someone you love may be suffering from Lice PTSD…

There Is A Louse In My House #drasticmeasures #amNOTwriting

I've been behind on my NaNoWriMo word count but nothing a few word sprints couldn't solve… But, when you have three children, you never know what surprises might keep you from your plans. This time, it was lice.

Remember my blog post a while back titled "I Wasn't Prepared for THIS!"? Well, add lice to the list of things I did not think of when my children were just a twinkle in my eye. More specifically, the idea that I, at 38 years old, would be experiencing my first case of head lice.

For all of you out there who have not had the wonderful experience of head lice in 2014 – it is not like in the 80s when a treatment of Nix would knock those suckers, eggs and all, out of the park. No, those of us inclined to put pesticides in our hair will soon learn that these lice are immune to it. So, in a word, it’s useless. A fine tooth comb and some time (HOURS A DAY) to sift through your hair is really the only sure fire way. There are natural alternative on the market (like Fairytale Goodbye Lice), and certain shampoos (like Coal Tar Shampoo), certain conditioners (like Suave Coconut Conditioner), and good ol' fashion home remedies (like mayonnaise and saran wrap), plus blow drying and flat ironing. Ultimately, though, you still have to sit and pick those suckers out with a comb every single day. Which I've been doing. Not to mention all the laundry which is a completely separate blog post for me because as some of you know I have been using a Laundromat since March even though I have a fancy washer and dryer in my basement (we have gas/propane/plumbing issues that are going to be solved “any day now”).

Anywho, my excuse for not writing this week thus far is that I have been busy de-lousing. Going  slightly crazy as one does when fear of infestation takes over. One might say I went a little more than slightly crazy when I was alone picking through my long locks, imagining the lice taunting me like the mucus guy in those commercials: "We’re setting up shop in here! You’ll never find us in all these tangles!” That’s when I found myself reaching for the scissors….

Drastic times call for drastic measures

 Take that you lousy louse!

I have to admit it looks cute in a it-looks-like-you-cut-your-own-hair kind of way... More pictures to come (after I find a proper hair dresser to fix it and give me a good dye job). Now off to write (after another trip to the laundromat).

I Am Not Meant For This!

     After I put my youngest on the bus, I surveyed the disaster that my children left in their wake, got down on my knees and cried out “I am not meant for this sh$t!” Then my dog put his stinky muzzle in my face, licked the lone tear, and hacked something on my cheek.

    Hopefully, it was the lack of sleep that made me question the 10 years I have spent doing exactly this shit. See, the night before my husband and I were sleeping in our usual positions – on opposite edges of the mattress with our five year old sprawled perpendicular between us – when our son wakes us with the declaration, “I peed myself.” We dutifully sent him off to change and wash his hands while we inched further away from the middle lest the pee touch us whispering blame: Did you make sure he peed before bed? Did you let him have something to drink before bed? You have to actually watch him pee because he lies. Maybe you shouldn't have given him that fourth juice box. The boy returned, crawled into my arms and fell back asleep cradled over the edge of the bed. Me, watching the clock until it was time to go downstairs and make breakfast and lunches, dreading the choices: cereal is processed and has too much sugar; oatmeal but not the instant because that too is processed and has too much sugar; or eggs but only the free range ones from a local farm otherwise the chickens most likely were caged up cannibals injected with antibiotics and hormones. And, for lunch: do I use whole wheat bread or does that have too much gluten? Am I allowed to use peanut butter or is the kid sitting next to my daughter going to go into anaphylactic shock? How about hazelnut, is that actually a nut? 

     Sleep deprivation aside, if I am not meant to do this shit, what am I meant to do? And, why is it that I can’t seem to manage to do the same shit that women were doing for centuries before me? What is my excuse? 

     Logically, I can blame my mother. Maybe she, in the post-feminist world, didn't feel it necessary to prepare me for this shit so logically when I am faced with the conundrums: how do I make this from scratch; how do I iron that; how do I sew this; how do I clean that? The answer is: I don’t f'ing know. And neither does she! So maybe that means I blame her mother or her mother’s mother. Maybe for generations women have been whispering into their baby girls' ears: “You are not meant for this shit.” 

     Now what? Who’s going to do this shit? Are we turning into a generation of stay at home moms that send their two year olds to school because we don’t know what to do with them; send the laundry and the mending out; hire cleaning ladies; cook all our meals with a box, 2 cups of water and a microwave? And, if we absolve ourselves from all activities that were once meant for women, do we then absolve our husbands – are they no longer obligated to fix our cars; mow our lawns; pay our bills? And, if so, what are we all going to do – sit around watching Netflix? Piddling around with novels while really just reading articles posted to Facebook?

     Maybe we just have too much shit to do. Do our kids really have to wear something cute and unique every single day? Does that cute outfit then have to immediately be stain-treated, washed, and folded neatly in the drawer with 20 other cute and unique outfits? Do they have to be in every sport offered per season plus piano lessons, art classes, and Sunday school? Do we have to seek out BFFs for them and make sure to jam-pack free time with playdates so they never feel unpopular at school? 

     Or, maybe, I really am just tired. Maybe I’ll change the pee sheets, take a nap, take a shower, bake those homemade sugar-free, gluten-free, peanut-free muffins I found on Pinterest and feel like supermom by the time the kindergarten bus rolls in... (Or, search for the recipe, get distracted by an article about the Kardashian's until my son's school bus is sitting out front honking at me.).

The Pull Of The PTO

I often wonder how successful female writers/moms structure their time – how do they fit it all in? I, of course, fantasize that they hire out most of their chores, have nannies, and spend very little time with their kids. I am sure; however, this is not true. I am sure that they attack writing with much more discipline than I and therefore are able to actually complete manuscripts and sell them while dinner is simmering in the crockpot.

I am a classic time-waster/procrastinator; therefore, this year I told myself I was going to limit the activities that would keep me away from writing during my kid-free writing time. To that end, I resisted the initial urge to volunteer as a room parent for my children’s classes this year. But somehow as my son’s very sweet kindergarten teacher announced repeatedly that they were still looking for room parents, I found myself volunteering to help. Two days later while the kids were all in school I was sitting in a PTO meeting listening to women debate policies, activities, fundraisers, and budgets. I couldn't help feel it was a colossal waste of time – I mean, really, is my involvement in the Parent-Teacher Organization going to help my children with their education?

Once again, I find myself wondering – was Jodi Picoult ever a room mom? Is Sara Gruen active in the PTO/PTA/Home School Association? Has Jennifer Weiner stood in school during picture day to comb the hair of kindergartners? Has Judy Blume ever sorted Kidstuff books?

I know JK Rowling wrote in a café while her children napped in their prams but I squandered away what little napping time I had on laundry and dishes. According to Wikipedia, Danielle Steel was determined to spend as much time as possible with her own SEVEN children, often writing at night and making do with only four hours of sleep. Apparently Toni Morrison also would write before the kids woke up and after they went to sleep at night. In an interview, she is cited as having said:

“I remember one day when I was confused about what I had to do next – write a review, pick up groceries, what? I took out a yellow pad and made a list of all the things I had to do. It included large things, like ‘be a good daughter and a good mother,’ and small things, like ‘call the phone company.’ I made another list of the things I wanted to do. There were only two things without which I couldn't live: mother my children and write books. Then I cut out everything that didn't have to do with those two things.”

That sounds like a new mantra to me! The look on my kids’ faces when I enter the school for whatever reason is worth every minute I am away from my computer. Yesterday, I may have spent my writing time monitoring school pictures, but as my kindergartner flaunted me around to his classmates, surreptitiously kissing my hand -- I knew it was worth it. I may fail daily at achieving both the title of “Supermom” and “Author” but if I can achieve little advances towards both I am happy and hopefully so are the kids!

How could I resist missing this Field-Day Face just to piddle away at writing?

On The Back-To-School Emotional Rollercoaster

Ahhh… Back-to-school time… the time of year when even the most even-tempered mother can feel like an undiagnosed manic depressive. As I prepare to send all three of my children on the school bus for the first time, I vacillate between wanting to run around the house and complete all items on my to-do list in a single child-free day to wanting to spend the day crying on the corner anxiously wringing my hands until the bus returns my baby-turned-kindergartner safely into my arms.  

For the last ten years I have some form of baby, toddler, or small child in my arms for the better part of the day. I have spent a large portion of my adult life pregnant, nursing, and changing diapers. And now that is over. I now hand my children over to be educated by strangers. Part of me wants to sing “I’m Free!!” in operatic falsetto while the other part of me wants to grab a hold of my uterus and beg “Just one more, give me just one more!”

How did the years slip by so fast? How did this summer pass by so fast? How is vacation already over?

I’ll survive back-to-school. And they will thrive. After the first few days, those child-free hours will go by oh-too-quickly. Before I know it, another summer will come and go and there will be another back-to-school to prepare for. I will have three children in school full day then. That time will come when I will be told that producing live children from my womb and keeping them alive is no longer a sufficient contribution to society. I will need to do something. Tick.

I will be putting my three biggest excuses on the bus… Tick.

Now is the time to make something of my writing or find anything else to do. Boom.

Yipes. Maybe I should go have that talk with my uterus (Just kidding, uterus. You've done good work but it is time for you to retire).

A Daily Tribute Through Reading

My family is big on reading. Take a trip with any member of my family, and you'd better bring several books because that is what we will be doing: Reading. I think my grandmother was the driving force behind our love of books. She was the one who gave us many of the books that we cherish today. She was the one who introduced me to so many books -- books like the Secret Garden or Jane Eyre I read because of her energetic descriptions of them. As I grew up, I loved to discuss books with her even though we didn't always agree (she being conservative and me being, well, not). And try as she might I never got into Wind in the Willows or Little House on the Prairie but did pass these books along to my children.

When I was pregnant with my first child, my grandmom gave me the book, The Read Aloud Handbook by Jim Trelease -- lauding this book as essential to my child's upbringing. I read this book and refereed to it often while my daughter was little -- reading many of the recommended titles including Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little to her when she was just three years old. Reading aloud to our children continues to be a cherished part of our daily routines. We have read The Little House on the Prairie; The Wind in the Willows; The Secret Garden; Heidi; Anne of Green Gables; numerous Beverly Cleary books; Roald Dahl; almost the entire Magic Tree House Series; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; and recently we've begun the Harry Potter series.

My grandmother passed away a year ago but when I see the love of reading that my 9 year-old daughter has, I feel my grandmom. That spark was started by her and lives on in my family every day. It lives on when I can't get my daughter to do anything because she can't/won't put her book down. It lives on when the last thing my daughter sees at night are the words in a book and the first thing she does in the morning is pick up her book. My daughter makes a little tribute to my grandmother everyday through her love of reading.

Thanks GGMom for being a wonderful example to your children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. We miss you and think of you daily when we pick up a book!

(If you haven't read The Read Aloud Handbook I highly recommend it, link below:)



The Read-Aloud Handbook: Seventh Edition

It Is Back-To-YOU Time

It has happened once again. Just yesterday we were making New Year's Resolutions (like mine here AND here). Then we blinked and started planning summer activities (whoops, did I forget to do that?). And now we've sent the kids back to school.

Take a deep breath.

It's time to get back into the routine (or find one). It's time to get back to you. Yes, I'm talking to YOU. Ok, fine, I'm talking to ME.

Here's some of my back-to-school resolutions:

     * Do a load of laundry and a household chore at least three times a week.    
     * Exercise after big kids get on bus at least four times a week.
     * Run errands with little kid in tow once or twice a week.
     * Go to the library to write while said little kid is in school three times a week.
     * Write from home the other 2 days (and catch up on any household chores).

But, of course, I am giving myself the first week off so that I can simply catch up on everything I didn't do over the summer like put away end-of-school stuff and tackle the mounds of summer laundry.

Got any back-to-school resolutions (or excuses to avoid them)?

It's Been That Kind of Summer

Summer is almost over! How did that happen? I still have a pile of school work from last year to decide what to do with (sadly, I suppose the recycling bin is the option)! Some moments I am excited to see them go: to get into a routine, to have that 2 1/2 hours of child-free time EVERY SINGLE DAY. Then other moments I am sad that it is over - I want them to experience more summer. Some how, even though we seemed busy everyday, I feel like they didn't experience enough. Even though I tried to balance scheduled activities with unscheduled activities, I feel like we didn't have enough of either. Even though it felt like we were running around all summer, I feel like we didn't do enough. Somehow, even though I have piles of beach/pool towels and bathing suits to wash, I feel like we didn't spend enough time at either.

Maybe it's because of my disbelief of how quickly summer ended that I almost forgot to go to my son's preschool orientation day. Maybe it's because my brain has been off all summer that I almost forgot to turn in the preschool paperwork that will give me those 2 1/2 hours every single day. Maybe it's just been that kind of summer. The kind of summer that I triple book myself on a given day and almost forget to do all three things.

Thanks to a Facebook post, I was reminded of the orientation with one hour to spare. Just long enough to beg a neighbor to watch the older kids, send them off on their bikes, shower, scrounge the house for the needed paperwork (birth certificate, utility bill, shot records, physical form, etc), go to the wrong door at the school, and still only be 10 minutes late (that's practically on-time for me). It's been that kind of summer.

And here he is checking out the preschool playground, happy and excited to start school. Note that to prepare him for the day, I threw a collared shirt on top of his bathing suit and tee shirt. He is still wearing miss-matched shoes. It's been that kind of summer:

I Used To Be The Best Mom

I used to be the best mom. I used to do everything right. It was so effortless -- I followed my instinct or, when that failed, I followed the advice of an expert which would work perfectly because they were the experts and I was nothing but a mom in the trenches.

I look back on those days of my perfection fondly...

When everything was sterile, controlled, mess-free.

The days when my children napped in their beds according to the schedule I put them on. They nursed every two hours, exactly 20 minutes per side.

At night, they would stir to nurse at the same regularity  I would lift them gently out of their beautiful bassinet, nurse, then gently place them back in -- never falling asleep with them in bed because that could be dangerous. My children never co-slept with us -- for the dangers as well as the boundary issues.  

I used only cloth diapers. My babies never drank cows milk. I made my own baby food.

They certainly never had candy, junk food, juice boxes, or happy meals. It was all organic whole foods for us.

None of my children spent time in front of the TV or other electronics. We spent our time doing educational activities and crafts. My children embraced puzzles, games, crafts, writing. Their toys, always gender neutral, never included weapons.

I never yelled at my children because they respected my authority and listened when first requested. Failing that, I had a system of positive and negative reinforcement. I never needed to resort to punishment. I remember those days fondly. I remember when I was the best mom. Then, of course, I had children.

And now I am just a mom doing my best like all the rest. Hope you had a wonderful mother's day.

I Wasn't Prepared For THIS!

I thought I was prepared for children, back when I was a stupid 27 year-old. I was a big sister, a babysitter; some of my friends had kids. I managed to squeak out a degree in Psychology with a minor in Human Development and Family Studies. I read mommy-manuals. Besides, I liked kids. I understood kids. I knew they’d be messy. I knew they’d be loud. I knew they’d be unruly at times. But I knew how to handle it all, I was prepared.

Insert a big-fat mommy-guffaw here: HA!! Hahahaha!

This morning I awoke to my third consecutive morning of snotty, hacking kids which means following children around with tissues, hand sanitizer  and Lysol, trying to sound motherly and soothing while I have kid-snot on my hands and spittle on my face.

Ha! Snotty Lottie seemed like a joke! Joke's on me!

Why was I not prepared for this amount of bodily fluids? Where were the warnings on how to handle the volumes of bodily fluid I alone would be responsible for cleaning?

So here you are, mommies-to-be. Here you are, all those contemplating procreation. Here are the warnings you will not get anywhere else:

Become one with pee, because it will be everywhere.
You will hold your beautiful newborn daughter in your arms. Reveling in how angelic she is, your heart will expand in ways you never thought possible. You will start to feel warm all over. Oh, wait, it’s wet and warm. It’s pee! Because somehow those little infant diapers are unable able to hold your daughter’s pee! Every single time she pees she will very likely pee straight through the diaper! Every single time your sweet newborn son wakes wailing in the middle of the night (and it will be often), he will be wet. The little wisps of hair on his head will be matted down with piss. The tips of the booties that his feet are swimming in will be soaked with urine. His bassinet, soaked through the waterproof pads straight to the mattress.

It won’t stop at potty training, either, just so you are aware. Your son will RARELY make the toilet even if you have him sit, his little KINDERGARTEN voice will come from the bathroom, “Mom, I accidentally peed on my pants again!” as the bus pulls up in front of the house. And girls! It is actually possible for a girl to miss. No lie. You’ll sit there in front of your little 2 or 3 year old excited for her as she pee-pees in the potty and it’ll shoot out and hit you in the face. WHAT?

Oh, there is an end in sight. My doctor told us that boys can stop wetting the bed at 8, even as old as 12!

So, you've got a handle on pee. You tell yourself that pee really isn't all that bad, it’s supposedly sterile anyways…. But be prepared for poo:

You will see, analyze, and discuss poo more than you ever imagined.
Do you remember having real discussions with your spouse? How you discussed the universe and your place in it? You discussed the meaning of life and religion. You discussed politics. Well, no more. Now you will discuss poop. From the very first black-tar meconium poop that you have to scrap off your infant’s tiny tushie to the green and mustardy breast-milk poo. You’ll hold the poo up to your computer screen and compare it. You’ll sniff it. Discussing the smell, “It’s kinda sweet, isn't it?”

You’ll be amazed at how sometimes the poo manages to blast right out, missing the diaper and heading straight for the baby’s back. You will name the poo-types, laying claim to them – “This one is a rock, I’ll take this one.” Or “Oh, this one is a blow-out, you handle it.”

You’ll change your baby’s diaper, prepared for the pee to shoot out because you've already made one with the pee, when your baby makes a cute little bunched up face and a big fat fart-poo will shoot right out at you.

Again, it will only get worse with potty-training. You’ll be getting your little three year old daughter ready for bed, pull down her pants and out will roll a big fat turd. And she’ll just smile at you. Your three year old son will hold his poop for a week rather than poo on the potty but one day while he is in the bathtub it’ll slip out in a fury. And continue slipping as you lift him out. Plop onto the floor before your foot has time to react and squish, you've stepped in human feces.

But it won’t stop there, you’ll sort your 8 year-old's laundry and put your hands in something and throw up a little in your mouth because you know no matter how many times you wash and sanitize your hand the rest of the day it will still smell like shit!

Speaking of throwing up in your mouth, those with a weak-stomach need not apply to this job of parenthood because, you guessed it:

Get used to vomit!
You’re slightly prepared for spit-up – you were given all those spit rags and bibs at your shower, even that cute little pink bib that says “Spit Happens.” Where’s the mommy version? The one that covers your shoulders arms and back – because that’s what you will very likely need! Spit happens alright and rarely does it happen on the cute embroidered spit-up rag. It happens down your back, in your hair, or straight over everything onto a pile on your floor. Sweet.

You’ll get used to the spit-up; regardless, it’ll stop at about the age of one. But one day while your child is just a toddler you will be awakened in the middle of the night and find her covered in an implausible amount of thick, chunky, vomit – in her hair, in between her fingers, down her jammies, puddled in her crib, and oozing out the slats onto the carpet. She’ll be utterly distraught at what just happened to her, you’ll want to scoop her up and comfort her but you have absolutely no idea where to begin. As the stomach bug goes racing through every member of the household you will find yourself hunched over the toilet wishing for the days when all you had to clean up was some projectile milk spit up.

Should I stop there? Or should I relay some more snot-stories? I haven’t even touched on pet messes! How about you? You got some good turd-tales? Any vomit sonnets? Any poo-parables?

I suppose it doesn't really matter, my warnings, because I know the truth: You, expectant parent, will not believe me. You will think me silly. You will think I am exaggerating. You will think that it will never happen to you. You will think that you are prepared. Furthermore, I will soon forget myself. One day my daughter, with her belly bulging, will look to me for advice. I will tell her about the wonders of holding her newborn infant in her arms. The milk-drunk face with tiny drops of spit on his lips, falling asleep in her arms still making sucking noises. I won’t talk of projectile vomit or poopy blow-outs. Even if I did, she will look up at me with those same big innocent brown eyes she had as a toddler and say, “Not my baby.”

I’ve Been In Survivor-Mode

I've been stuck in survivor mode without even realizing it. We've been plugging along, surviving the days. We've been just fine. When you are just fine, it’s hard to identify that you’re also not great.

Then the other day I had one of those moments when I felt like an utter failure. This is not how it was supposed to be like, I thought. I was not supposed to be this kind of parent. I felt like I had given up and given in. I felt like I was walking through a perpetual cycle of lunchables, happy meals, electronics, and screaming in the most fish-wifiest voice, “IF YOU DON’T STOP FIGHTING YOU ARE ALL GOING TO YOUR ROOM!” And them screaming back, “YOU HATE US!” I felt my heart breaking and my children are still little. What is it going to be like in ten years? I felt like lost my daughter to some mommy-hating teenager and she’s only 8. I felt like I’d lost my vegetable eating children somewhere in the McDonald’s play area.

Then something happened right around dinner time, the witching hour. Nobody was pulling on me. Nobody was whining for snack food. Nobody was begging to play Wii. The boys were playing with actual toys and imagination. My daughter was up in her room taking her punishment. I called the children to dinner. They sat down to plates of Black bean taquitos, mini chicken and bean tamalitos, Edamame, and oranges. Nobody whined. My daughter sat there popping Edamame with vigor that is usually only reserved for Sun Chips. My son tried four then politely concluded that they taste like a cross between eggs and green beans, so he’ll pass. My three year old ate numerous. They divided the seconds of black bean taquitos amongst themselves without incident. They finished their milk with minimal coaxing. They showered and got ready for bed as instructed. My daughter discussed how she was going to handle Day 2 and Day 3 of her punishment without any you-are-the-worst mom in the world angst.

Whew. We did more than just survive the day - there may have even been some good lessons learned there! I know it’s not the end. I know that we have to keep actively trying, not just putting out fires and surviving. I know that we need to work on a better positive reinforcement plan. I know that punishing my children for bad behavior isn't the only answer. I know they won’t always eat their vegetables but I don't have to give in. I have to actively raise my kids to be healthy adults with good character not just survive their childhood until they grow to be semi-competent grown-ups with high cholesterol.

Heading off to Daddy/Daughter Dance:
She didn't want to go, she didn't want to wear a dress. But she went and made some good memories 

It doesn't hurt to try. Isn't that what we tell our kids? The worst thing that is going to happen is it doesn't work but you won’t be any worse off. Sometimes you make a plan to nip a behavior in the bud with a severe grounding and you think it isn't going to work, but it does. Sometimes you put a strange vegetable in front of your children and they eat it! Just never give up on yourself or your children. Maybe you’ll find you’re not such an utter failure after all.

Maybe one day I’ll extend that just try attitude to my writing life. Stay tuned! 

Because One Day The Kids Will Be Grown

one day there will be
no Cheerios under foot
clean floors - lamenting 

sibling cease fire
quiet rooms will soon abound
mayhem now - relish

empty lap and arms
no more attention demands
time ownership – weep

I Need Some Obsession Up in Here

You know what we need in my house. We need some good old-fashioned UHB-sesh-uhN. I’m not talking about going all sociopathic with alters and candles. No candles involved, that’s just unsafe. Nor am I talking about boring habits or passive addictions. Habits are formed. You become addicted.

Obsessions are not passive. Obsessions require motivation. Obsessions require activity - over and over and over again. Obsessed people get sh!t done!

Normal middle class people, we are not obsessed. We are watered-down versions. We keep things in check, we do everything in moderation. We don’t let our kids obsess. We take away their binkies, blankies, and dirty old bears. We don’t want them to put all their eggs in one basket. We sign them up for swimming, soccer, basketball, baseball, scouts, and piano. We make sure they are well-rounded. We send them to elementary schools where they jump from subject to subject. We want them to be safe and happy. We allow them to flick on the TV, DS, Wii, Computer or whatever.

Let’s talk about the obsessed.

Rapper DMX. Obsessed. (If the title of this blog did not put his song “Party Up (Up in Here)” into your head, please insert it now.) A quick peek at DMX’s Wikipedia biography shows you that he has had NUMEROUS personal issues starting at a very young age but that did not stop him from releasing repeatedly successful albums, being nominated for like 10 Grammy’s and winning one.

Also, according to Wikipedia, you know who likes to listen to "Party Up" before races? Michael Phelps. Now, he’s obsessed. You don’t win 18 Olympic gold medals hanging around the house watching TV.

Taylor Swift. So obsessed with starting a country singing career she convinced her family to move from Pennsylvania to Nashville when she was 14. She didn't sit at home and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Obsessed!

People obsessed with eating right? Skinny. People obsessed with exercise? Fit. People obsessed with order? Organized. People obsessed with germs? Clean.

Me? Obsessed? Eh. Not so much.

How about you – Obsess much?

Excuse Me!

I recently had a melanoma scare (in my head). And, quite frankly, melanoma still hasn’t been ruled out since I have yet to see the doctor (no time). During this frightening half hour I came to the realization that I could die soon. A trip to the doctor for an atypical mole that turns out to be melanoma that has spread to the lungs (my college friends KNEW I’d die of lung cancer!).

You are supposed to laugh. But, while you’re laughing I am defending myself saying “It happens!” Bob Marley died at the age of 36 of melanoma that spread to his brain. Who knew? And - are you kidding me? 36! Look at his legacy! I’m 36! What is my legacy? Sure, I have 3 kids. But what am I teaching them? To say please and thank you (some of the time); to look both ways when you cross the street (1/2 the time); to cover your mouth when you sneeze (most of the time); to wash your hands (almost all the time)?

If I go to the doctor next month and am told I have melanoma that has spread and I’m going to die in 1 year, what would great wisdoms would I want to teach my children before I go? What will they remember of me (that I yelled all the time? That I spent too much time on the computer?)?

As a wannabe writer - what do I have to show the world when I’m gone? A bunch of crappy ½ written stories and novels that my sisters (probably not my husband) will read as they throw them in the recycling bin? And, if I had 1 year to live would I spend that time writing the great American novel? Doubtful. Why? I really don’t even know – I have hundreds of excuses. I’m sure I’ve got at least one excuse each day!

You know what, though, I don’t think I’m much different than anyone in America. No different than you reading this blog (shouldn’t you be doing dishes?). Are these excuses keeping us from living a fulfilled life? (Who really cares about those dishes in the sink anyways?) Are excuses keeping us from achieving the American dream? What is that dream these days? And, does it even matter if we are happy with our excuses?

                There you have it the birth of my blog, 365 Excuses. One woman’s reasons why I may or may not be living a fulfilled life. Excuses for why I may or may not ever be a published writer. Excuses for why I have a sink full of dishes, a sticky kitchen floor, and 3 laundry baskets of clean unfolded laundry. While we are at it – the excuse for why there is cereal on the floor (my 6 year old had to get his own breakfast because Mommy was writing her blog).

                While we are being honest, it will be more like “52 Excuses.”

                Hope you enjoy!