Motherhood Uncensored

Can't find a better mom

There's something about a couple of weeks vacation away from my role as primary caregiver that makes me want to be a better mom.

I suppose it's not really the best time to make a bid for mom of the year. That's like Kelly McGillis launching a huge comeback.

Of course, we all probably said the same thing about Neil Patrick Harris. And harem pants.

Stop! Hammer time!

Who knew that Neil Patrick Harris would be my flask of hope?

But really, the chance to step back and enjoy your children on a "husbandly basis" (at least in our house, anyway) is refreshing, mostly because you get to wipe the film off your parenting glasses and see things clearly.

Rose colored, even.

Yes, it was just that awesome.

You know, when meals are meals again and not an hour-long food litigation case, and mega blocks are fun, creative toys and not the tools for building the devil's empire.

So considering that I've endured a pretty strict diet and most recently, an exercise program, making the decision to become a better parent shouldn't be that difficult. But unfortunately, in those situations, I was the one in control. With kids, I am at their will, or better, at their will and 4000 other factors that converge on a daily basis.

Or just lack of sleep. That's enough to make any good parent strike out.

But if I can make Jillian Michaels my bitch, then I'm determined to make a conscious effort to be a better mom to my kids.

Ironically, it has less to do with my actual interactions with them, and more with how I take care of myself. I've made plenty of efforts over the last five years to ensure that my kids are afforded the best opportunities. I'm not talking baby yoga classes and private Mandarin Chinese lessons. Just activities outside of the daily routine of eat, sleep, and play.

But sadly, the activities I do with them are far more than I do for myself. Hell, I can barely find time to shower.

I've put aside a lot for my kids. Probably too much.

And I've gotten busy, with things that I enjoy, don't get me wrong, but many of which are a time suck. A needless time suck that I've used as a way to escape from what tends to be a challenging existence.

So I'm refocusing my attention. I'm reorganizing my priorities. And I'm trying to figure out what's really important to me and what I need to let go.

Early in the morning

Apparently 5am is the new 7am around here.

A few days ago, when she was waking up at 5am after sleeping through the entire night, it wasn't so bad.

Oh who am I kidding? It was still sort of sucky, particularly because I was still going to bed at midnight. It's hard to enjoy the fact that she slept from 7pm through until 5am when it's still bloody dark out and you're oddly more exhausted then you were when you were waking up to feed her twice every night.

It was fine yesterday when I was going to wake up anyway to run 7 miles.

(Can you believe I actually chose to run 7 miles yesterday? Well, actually 7.5 miles but still? Insane!)

But alas. Since arriving at the in-laws, she's been waking up 3-4 times. Thankfully my FIL is here to alert me to her screaming since I didn't just put her back down at 3am and couldn't hear her in the room right next to her.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!!!!

(Seriously the gusto with which he knocked was more annoying than the fact that he was actually knocking).

I tried to ignore it but he kept knocking.

"YES," I groaned.

"I just wanted to let you know that the baby is screaming," he said.

Great. Thanks for that astute observation.

After she had already woken up once at midnight, I decided to let her cry when 3am rolled around, which went over light a pair of lead brick booties because she had poop in her diaper.

POOP? What are we, 2 months old here, Margot? You're 11 and 5/8 months kid. Buck up.

I swear to God they totally know that we're trying to get them to go back to sleep and they're like "I'll squeeze out the teeniest tiniest pebbles of poop so that I can't possibly go back to sleep and then I shall scream and you will come in and feel reaallllly bad for letting me scream and then I will repeat this entire cycle tomorrow except without the poop because you'll come in without that because you're so fucking predictable." Cue evil laugh.

Of course, she's pooped again at 5am again both days. I'm guessing that she gets pissed-off induced constipation so the entire time I was away she didn't go.

But what she doesn't realize is that I need my Goddamn beauty sleep.

Seriously kid. Don't you know who I am?

Got mojo?

There's nothing like a few days away with friends in Vegas and a new snappy haircut to remind me that I haven't had my mojo sucked out of me by Dr. Evil, or in my life, Dr. "parenting three awesome but incredibly challenging children."

Of course now you've got to pump your boobs before dinner and you're more concerned with the comfort of your shoe and not the size of its heel.

But even with a pair of uneven tits and flat gladiator sandals, I was able to get a little swing back in my step and a hair toss that made short drunk men try to pick me up in the middle of the Hard Rock Hotel.

"Hey big mama!"

ROWR.

What's amazing is that I spent most of the days leading up to the trip talking myself out of going. It's easy to tell yourself that it's just too hard to get away - what if Margot doesn't stop crying? What if the kids don't listen?

This infinite list of "what ifs" almost renders me powerless.

I've been refining the art of the Type-A Mom lately, much to my chagrin. It's not that surprising, considering I'm a Type-A personality in everything except when it comes to letting out the dog and putting my shoes away. But the more I'm home alone with the kids and the less I get to go out and leave them with someone else (including their own father), I'm becoming stuck in a vacuum of "my way is the only way."

Thankfully, my former self combined with my tired mom who needs and deserves a little time away self kicked that controlling, anxious "bitch" in the ass and dragged me (mostly uncontested) to a completely unsponsored *gasp* trip to a trade show in Vegas with a few of my dearest friends.

That doesn't mean I escaped the desperate 11pm "Margot won't stop crying" texts from my husband or the sore, engorged boobs.

But it's a small price to pay for a few days where I get to dress up, wear make-up, and soak up the company of truly awesome women.

And I'm amazed at how treating myself to a little love and attention can make me ready, even grateful, to go back to providing love and attention to others on a 24 hour basis.

PutStuffOnMom101.Com

There's only so much you can do to someone who's asleep, not passed out at midnight (or really 3am - damn pacific time zone) and who then wakes up when you are trying to put stuff all over her and take pictures because you were trying to add a cold bottle of Moet to the lame and fairly unimaginative "bra and breast pump horn" combo.

It's no PutStuffOnHerBadMother.Com or anything, but we should all aspire to such greatness. Or badness.

On death and deployments. Or those things you never really wanted to have to talk to your kids about.

My husband leaves for his deployment on 9/11.

Oh sweet irony.

I've been feeling a bit sorry for my own self that I completely forgot to discuss it with my daughter.

It's not that I've been purposely avoiding it says the former therapist who tends to get her ass kicked my Freud on a regular basis.

I'm all for discussing everything that I possibly can with my daughter in a matter of fact sort of way, mostly because my parents told me nothing about anything and I attribute at least 3/4 of my therapy to that simple fact.

Plus, I don't want her to get some kindergarten (or kindergarten teacher) definition of sex, drugs, or 9/11.

Too bad it was a little late for that last one. Although the strongly edited Catholic sensitive five-year-old version wasn't that far off.

So over dinner a few days ago, we explained everything that went down on 9/11.

These talks are never easy, but add in my husband's penchant for using big words, slang, and analogies and it becomes a bit more complicated.

"We let our guard down" he said. "And they took advantage of us."

Blank stares from the peanut gallery.

Try again, dear.

She asked question after question, quizzing us about the details. Even the gory ones. And we let her ask.

"So are the men who flew the planes being punished?" she wanted to know.

"Well, they're dead" I replied. My husband glared.

He'd just as soon gloss over all those parts.

"Did children die on the planes, Daddy?"

"NO!" "YES!" - we answered at the same time.

It's hard to know what is too much to say.

"It's because of 9/11 that I have to go for my extra long trip in a week" he said.

How's that for a segue?

"I don't want you to die!" she exclaimed, completely out of nowhere, tears streaming down her face.

We did our best to reassure her that he'd be safe and lots of men with guns ("100 soldiers!" she decided upon) would keep their eye on him.

It shouldn't have to be like this.

The next day she asked me what happens when people die.

"We turn into dust" I replied. "Some people believe we come back again, like a baby, and other people believe we go to heaven."

"In school we believe in heaven."

I don't deny hope that heaven gives people who are trying to deal with a lost loved one. It makes sense to believe that they go to a better place. It reassures and soothes us when we're otherwise distraught.

I told her so.

"I don't want to die, Mommy" she cried. "I want to be like magic and live forever."

I can't disagree with her.

"So let's focus on living," I said. "And all the amazing things we get to do and see."

"I want to see the world, Mom. I want to travel everywhere before I die."

"So then you shall, Goose," gulping back tears.

She'd always been my serious, sensitive child from as early as I can remember.

"Just promise me one thing mommy," she choked through her sobs. "When I'm older and I'm a mommy and I have kids, you'll come to see me."

"Every day. If you'll have me."

It'll be a long two months while my husband is gone. But the more he's gone, the more I'm learning to cherish the moments when it's just the four of us.

Two months compared to a lifetime.

I think we'll be just fine.