Motherhood Uncensored

Look to the right

A tweak in my neck this morning has left me only seeing what's right. 

I couldn't have made up a stronger metaphor for what my life needs right now if I tried. So much lately has been about what's wrong.

I'm carrying a lot on my shoulders these days, much of it by my own doing. It doesn't help that I had to stop taking the meds because they destroyed my stomach. And the nuva ring I started last week was making me so anxious that I had to pull it out. 

Or maybe that's my own hormones. It's hard to tell lately. 

I stared at my body in the ballet class mirror, larger than I'd want it, flucuating, I swear, every couple of weeks courtesy of hormone surges that I'm pretty sure push me up and down a clothes size. 

If I'd run more, or eat less, or JUST ONE LESS COOKIE God I'm too old for this bullshit.

I realized the other day as I stumbled through the woods on a Monday evening run with neighbors, the last, slowest member of the group, that I just want to feel like I'm good at something.

That sometimes just finishing, doing, or surviving isn't enough. 

I know it's the old kid of an alcoholic coming out, someone I've done well to scold and punish until my mom lets her out of the corner again and says "It's like your father risen from the dead!" when you are just doing a regular old nice thing like clean her disgusting house. 

And my shoulders ache with the weight of that burden. 

My best was never enough in my house, you see, it always had to be "the" best, and since I couldn't always be the best I just didn't try a lot of things. I just gave up and watched and waited and hoped because I didn't want to mess up or fail. Even though my best was often better than anyone else's it just wasn't good enough. 

Quinlan tried out for The Nutcracker last week and didn't make it, but God I was so proud that she tried, the odds stacked against her based on age and ability level, because I would have never done it. I would never have even tried. 

She stared her failure right in the face and flipped it the fuck off. Metaphorically, of course.

I told my mom I couldn't carry her shit with my dad anymore. And the nonsense between my husband and his mother that works it's way into our daily existence has no place here.

And I'm trying hard not to care about messing up, about being the slowest one at the back of the pack, when it comes to being a wife, a mother, a person. 

I'm looking at what's right. For now, because I have to. But even after I can see both ways again.

My best is enough.

The other side.

A few days ago, Drew came down for school in long pants, at which point, we sent him right back upstairs to change considering it was a balmy 85 degrees here in Atlanta at 7:30am. 

This didn't go over very well -- cue screaming, stomping, and my favorite, flopping on the ground. 

I generally start with 1-2-3 Magic, my decibel level dependent on how many cups of coffee I've been able to imbibe before the arguments begin, and how much I can focus my mind away from the utter ridiculousness of fighting a child to change his clothing. 

But thanks to therapy, I decided to take a different approach and ask him why he didn't want to change his pants. 

A novel idea, I know, but one that often gets lost in the sheer madness and exhaustion of living in a house with a whole lot of kids.

Turns out, you see, that he didn't have any shorts in his drawers, which would sort of make it hard for him to put shorts on in the first place. And change into shorts after the fact. 

And so, I spent the rest of the day imagining all the times I cut him off before even asking about the real problem, my impatience and frustration often stopping me from seeing the other side.

And I tried not to feel too guilty about it. 

Fast forward a week to a post by a friend of mine, expressing her anger towards parents who choose not to vaccinate (or delay vaccinations of) their children because she felt it resulted in her own child getting sick. Cue the onslaught of comments about crazy parents and their crazy choices. 

I suppose my vaccination choices make me one of those crazy parents. But there are reasons, good ones, actually, that I chose to delay the DTaP until my kids were a little older. 

I have hot button parenting issues too, we all do really, and as much as I personally loathe kid leashes and spanking, in fact, I can get pretty riled up by them, I can actually see situations where a parent might resort to them. 

Well, not soda in a baby bottle. Sorry.

But when you see a parent walking her kid on a leash, maybe he has special needs. Maybe the kid was about to dash into the street and her first instinct was to smack him. 

I get that sometimes the other side is that people are ignorant idiots. Unfortunately, being a dumbass does not preclude you from reproducing. 

But lately, I've been trying to give people the benefit of the doubt before I give them a rash of shit because I realize that there might be a decent, acceptable explanation for what I might otherwise deem as ridiculous. 

There's a way to share your strong opinions, your ire, even, and also accept that the choices you wouldn't make for your own kids and family might have been thoughtfully made by others.

And I figure, the energy you're using to bash other parenting choices, well, why not use that to make your parenting better for your own kids. 

{image via}

On overcoming fears and childhood anxiety

Since the great Vacation Bible School thunderstorm trauma of 2011, Drew has been afraid of rain. Or really, tornadoes, being electrocuted, and us dying, as I recently learned in his therapy sessions. 

Yes, my husband and I were all excited about Jesus and his free babysitting and now we're paying that back ten-fold in a therapy bill. 

Since last year at exactly this time, his anxiety has increased to the point where it was affecting the other kids. No fun outings to the playground if a tiny gray cloud was in the sky, even with the sun shining so brightly he needed sunscreen. And way too many frantic trips home from the pool due to the remote possibility of lightning. 

And that, combined with the 2am visits and monsters in The closet and "IF I HAVE 6 NIGHTLIGHTS MOMMY I'LL BE ABLE TO SLEEP ALONE," we decided to take him to see a therapist.  

Of course this means we are now dipping into his college-slash-therapy fund, but here's hoping that since he's needing it now, he won't need it later. 

On the bright side, it's an amazing investment, and one that's helping us parent him (and our other kids) in other ways. 

And it's made me realize how freaking anxious I am. Which I sort of knew. But now I really know. 

I shared the entire story about trying to find a therapist for my son and what she's been working with him on over at mom.me. And yes, I realize you pretty much have to give them your social security number to leave a comment there, so feel free to leave one here or drop me an email if you have any questions.

It's amazing how easy it can be to find someone to take care of your kid's weird rash, but when it comes to something equally as common, like childhood anxiety, it's much more challenging. 

The rights of a baby on a plane. How about all the other assholes?

I've flown with kids numerous times over the last eight years and have never thought to hand out notes and goody bags to passengers seated near me. 

But that's what a couple of parents did recently and wow, the comments. 

I mean, I appreciate the sentiment of a nice note and a couple of Jolly Ranchers and ear plugs, but in my experience, the candy is best used on your own kids.

If you're going to give anything out, shouldn't it be booze? 

Even though my kids are pretty experienced flyers, I still get anxious on flights with them, especially with Bridget, who's at the age where nothing keeps her occupied for any length of time. There is no amount of toys, food, even bubble gum (hi, 4th kid people) that will keep her busy for longer than a few minutes. 

The flight to Salt Lake City with her on my lap in the middle seat on a packed plane was pure hell. 

But in my opinion, crying babies part of what comes with flying in coach (for the most part) in a plane that is not your own private jet. 

And really, I'm usually much more upset about it than anyone else around me because I'm a people pleaser and I hate when anyone is annoyed with me even if I'm never going to see them again which generally makes my kids more anxious which means they're more likely to freak out.

So I've learned that when I'm relaxed, they are too. Or maybe that's just the Zarbees. 

But seriously, crying babies are hardly an annoyance because at some point, they stop. With a binky, a bottle or a boob firmly inserted in their mouth. 

And if they don't, well that's why they invented headphones. 

Unfortunately that doesn't work so well with far more egregious airline passenger behaviors.

So if we're going to start cheering for parents who hand out goody bags to help appease fellow passengers when they fly with their kids, I think we should start expecting the same from the dopes who are likely to commit much larger offenses: 

- Aromatherapy spray from the gassy guy next to you who thinks because we can't hear doesn't mean we can't smell. 

- Cattle prods from the idiot who can't seem to purchase a neck pillow and instead uses your shoulder as one. 

- Mace from the married asshole who gets drunk on a bunch of Jack and Cokes on the 8am flight and won't stop hitting on you. {Or free WIFI so you can tweet the whole thing}

- Muzzles from the parents with tweens sitting alone in front of you who won't stop talking OMFG SHUT UP ALREADY.

- Fly swatters from the hippie chick in the seat behind you who puts her ugly bare foot on your arm rest. 

- Nose plugs from the dude who's never heard of deodorant. Or who decided to drench himself in Drakkar Noir. 

So look, parents. Take a fucking chill pill when you're flying with your kids because just giving a simple apology is about ten times more than anyone else ever hands out. 

{Awesome baby onesie via Cool Mom Picks, of course; Story link via Lisa}