Like every other parent I know in the midst of this crazy Pandemic, I’m completely overwhelmed with all of the upcoming school decisions, what-if questions without answers and “possible” Plan B’s (& Plan C’s & D’s). It’s unnerving and I feel like I’m slowly losing my ever-lovin’, Covid-hatin’ mind. Being an avid planner and organizer by nature, all the ‘unknowns’ are driving me bonkers!
Can I get an ‘Amen’?!
For now, this big ol’ fam of mine is trying to just keep on trucking. Planning for upcoming events and appointments while remaining fully aware that things will change multiple times in the days ahead. All we can do is just keep on keepin’ on, right?!
As parents, we are charged with the impossible task of planning a future of “normalcy” while juggling the knowledge that the next handful of months (or possibly more) will be nothing at all like we had hoped.
No matter what this new school year throws at us, whether it be in the buildings or online, being organized and on top of our calendar game is going to be more important than ever! Which is where needing a good academic planner comes into play.
It’s no easy feat to take on camping in the wilderness with little ones (and even not-so-little-ones). Whether it’s one kid, 3 kids or 8 kids, it’s a J.O.B. and you have to approach it like a B.O.S.S or you will F.A.I.L.
I always laugh when people ask how our “vacation” went when we return from camping. I mean, really? That’s a pretty loose term when applied to sweating over an open fire trying to cook rudimentary potatoes and meat, or to describe the act of sleeping outside with the only barrier separating you and trash pandas is a thin piece of canvas or attempting to play cards on a picnic table under a tree canopy in the rain. Don’t get me wrong, the positives definitely outweigh the negatives of enjoying the great outdoors with the fam. But still, I’m literally Suzy Homemaker in the middle of the woods with limited supplies, bugs everywhere, stinky kids, stinky shoes, stinky towels, stinky dogs, stinky everything and typically no washer, dryer, dishwasher or actual bathtub in sight. And don’t even get me started on the “Camping 10” (you haven’t heard of the Camping 10? Think Freshman 15, Covid 15 etc…) Eating is the main past-time for our trips. (I’m fairly certain for me it’s actually stress-induced eating. Plus, it’s s’mores guys. Come on….)
In all honesty, we really do love it. The joy I see on my kids faces when we’re camping or when they’re retelling a funny camping story from the past makes all the list making, packing, food shopping, sweating, dirt and laundry (so much friggin’ laundry) worth it. We log off the internet and log in to each other. There’s conversations, laughter, fighting and games – it’s what memories are made of, my friends.
Through the years I’ve tried loads of different hacks or tricks to survive our camping trips. With over 20 years of many successful endeavors and many, many failures, I’ve compiled a list of my best tips to survive camping with kids and pets (and husbands).
Lists
Lists are your friend, my friend. Before you leave to go shopping, before you order anything from Amazon, before you raid your pantry, make a list. Plan out your meals (breakfast, lunch and dinner). Now, don’t panic. I don’t mean necessarily plan every single meal for every single day (although you totally could if that puts you at ease). I simply mean to figure out what you’re going to eat during the trip as a whole – one day hot-dogs, one day pizza pies, one day meat and potatoes, etc. Then you can break up those meals into your grocery list.
How much you buy and pack before you leave relies heavily on how long you will be gone and if you are planning on doing any grocery shopping while camping. If you are camping for an extended length of time and will be making many camping stops along the way, plan for a few days to a week of food at a time. Map out local grocery stores closest to where you will be for reference and give yourself one day in your planning to shop and restock.
Most campgrounds have general stores within them for emergency supplies (camper accessories, parts for repair or basic medicine) and camping basics (ice, forgotten marshmallows, a can of soup or a quart of milk) but expect to pay more for these items.
Supply lists – This is not something I throw together the day before. I usually start these about a week before we head out. This allows me time to add to it as I go about my business. You’d be surprised how easily you can forget to pack a package of chocolate, a phone charger, a ball cap or socks.
Next Time List – I keep a notepad and pen in the camper so I can write out my Next Time List at the end of each trip. It is all the things we wish we had brought, forgot to pack or need to remember to do before our next outing (there’s always something that needs fixed after each trip – I guess it’s part of the joy of camping in a 5 decade old camper am’i’right?!)
Snack Basket
Instead of packing loads of boxes and bags of individually wrapped snacks, I open them all up and dump them into a big plastic tote/basket with handles. Easy to grab and throw in the van during travel, in the camper or tent at night and on-the-go to the beach or pool.
Meal Prep
I try to clean, cook and prepare as much food as I can beforehand. For instance, if we are planning on having taco salad one night, I brown and season the meat the day before we leave, store it in a plastic bag and throw it in the fridge or cooler. If we are having a dinner with potatoes, I peel, cut and boil them for a few minutes at home. Potatoes take forever to cook over a fire. Having them already blanched will save you loads of time. Fun foil meals (for example: ground beef, potatoes, carrots, onions and seasoning) can be packaged and wrapped at home and stored in ziplocs (don’t forget to boil your potatoes and carrots first!). Sausage, biscuits and gravy is a must-have breakfast for us. My aunt taught me years ago to bake the biscuits before I leave home (genius!) Veggies – wash, cut and individually bag to make for easy addition to lunches, snacks or salads. The more work you do at home before you leave, the more “relaxed” the trip will feel and will relieve a lot of the stress at meal time.
Frozen Foods
Freeze as much as you can before you go. Water bottles, chocolate bars for s’mores, yogurts, bags of water, etc. Not only will it help keep your cooler well, cooler, it will also provide a super cold drink or a great snack for a hot day – frozen yogurt tubes are the bomb!
Water Bottles
We’re not big soda pop drinkers. And we try to encourage using reusable water bottles as much as we can. But sometimes we can’t help but grab a case of water bottles while camping for the convenience. When we do, only one case/trip is our rule. I have a plastic food storage canister in the camper that holds a sharpie marker, a pair of scissors and a whole bunch of individual water flavoring packets. Each kid gets one water bottle at the beginning of our trip. The very first thing they do is label the bottle and the lid. They can refill the bottle at the spigot and if the water is especially “campy” flavored (if you’ve often drank from campground spigots you know what I’m talking about) a packet of fruit, tea or lemonade flavoring will mask the strange taste and keep the kiddos well hydrated.
CrockPot
Planning on going out for the day to swim, hike or explore? Throw your meal into a CrockPot before you leave on low and have dinner ready and waiting for you when you get back.
Our personal favorite is BBQ Chicken Sandwiches – chicken breasts and barbecue sauce in the CrockPot on low for 5-6 hours. Shred cooked chicken (we like to recoat our cooked chicken with a new bottle of barbecue sauce) and serve on a hamburger bun.
Pots & Pans
A plastic storage tote is perfect for holding your camping pots and pans. The tote keeps them all together, clean and slides right underneath the camper when not in use.
Clothing
We’ve camped in a tent, in a pop-up and now we have “upgraded” to a 50 year old smaller travel trailer. When we pack for our trips, no matter where we are sleeping, space is always a factor. Not many campers are built to hold all the food, clothing and supplies for a family of 10 so I’ve had to get a little creative and think outside the box.
Extra clothes. Basic rule – the younger the child, the more extra sets of clothes I pack. One outfit per day, with an additional 2-5 per child. Note:A lot of campgrounds offer coin washer and dryers. I try to keep a handful of rolls of quarters in our camper for emergency washes. ‘Cause *hit happens.
Clothes Roll, Clothes Roll, Clothes Roll. This little extra step in packing our clothes has saved us loads of space and headaches during the dreaded end of the day, crabby kids shower house packing time. Lay out shorts or pants, the shirt on top, a pair of underwear and then socks. Roll the outfit like a burrito. Wrap a rubber band around it and you’ve got an easy-to-grab clothes roll. Typically we place each kid’s clothes rolls in a paper grocery bag and shove them in the under bed storage.
No pajamas. We gave up PJ’s while camping years ago. Shower in the evening, wear tomorrow’s clothes to bed, wake up and go in the morning. No muss and fuss with pajamas and the kids love that they can literally wake up and start their day.
Big canvas laundry bags are amazing for storing dirty clothes. We typically store them in the back of the van when they get full (who the heck wants to sleep next to those stinky, nasty bags anyway?!) I throw them in the wash at home along with the clothes and store them back in the camper until the next time we go out!
The Aftermath of a Week Long Camping Trip
Shoe Storage
We pack one pair of shower shoes (flip flops), one pair of creek walkin’ or river wadin’ shoes and one pair of tennis shoes. That’s 3 pairs each for 10 people and a whole heckuvalotta shoes. And after a few days, they get quite smelly (if you have boys, chances are they smell from the start anyway). I’ve learned that a plastic laundry basket is the key to our shoe dilemma. The holes allow them to air out and one basket means one spot for easy and quick storage. It probably should be noted, that due to the general aroma of said shoes, the basket stays outside the camper door. * I do try to line up the water shoes or any wet shoes in the sun during the day to try to dry them up and sanitize them a bit.*
Hanging Shoe Storage
These babies are not just for shoes! They’re amazing for camping crap storage, too! I prefer the heavy-duty canvas hangers to the cheap dollar store plastic ones, but either will serve the purpose! I have one hanging right inside our camper door to hold all the little things we need while setting up, tearing down or just daily (zip ties, hooks, flashlights, dog leashes, trash bags, etc.), one on our teeny tiny itsy bitsy bathroom wall to hold the toiletries (soap. toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, etc) and one in the storage closet for batteries, bug spray, sunscreen, lightbulbs, etc.
Shower House Buckets
Who knew a 5 gallon plastic bucket (found at Home Depot, Lowes, Walmart, Menards, etc.) could be so useful in the shower? We have one “Girls” bucket and one “Boys” bucket. Each holds all the shower basics – shampoo, soap, face wash, washcloths, etc. The kids grab their clothes roll, grab their towel, stuff them in the bucket and walk down to the shower house with only a bucket to carry between the group of them. For us, there’s multiple bars of soap and bottles of shampoo in both buckets to allow more than one person to shower at a time – but the bucket is big enough to hold it all! Plus, if there’s a line to take a shower, the bucket gives the impatient little people a place to sit while they wait.
Plastic Drawers
Plastic drawer carts are a great solution for pet supplies, diaper and wipe storage, toy storage, and even food storage. They can be placed in the back of your vehicle for easy access, in your camper or even in your tent. Lightweight and easy to move, they’re a must-have for organized camping.
Beach Survival
Heading to the beach? Grab a bottle of baby powder!
You know that moment when you’re leaving the beach at the end of a hot day, everyone is tired and crabby, you’re sweaty from carrying all the supplies a gazillion miles through the steamy sand to where your parked and you realize that everyone is about to get in the van covered in sand? And you also uncomfortably realize there’s sand in places that sand should most definitely not be? Baby powder to the rescue! Just sprinkle on legs, feet, arms, in underwear, in pits, on the back of your neck, etc and brush the sand right off. You’re welcome (’cause I know you’re gonna be thanking me later!)
Beach toys (which for us is also rock toys, dirt toys, grass toys, everything camping toys) are a necessity. Grab a cheap white mesh net laundry bag from the dollar store to hold the toys. Most have a drawstring for closing which is just a bonus for carrying around! The mesh fabric allows sand and dirt to fall through and air circulation for anything that may be still wet when thrown in. Plus, if it gets really gross, you can just wash the bag out in the water!
Plastic zip-up comforter and sheet bags are ideal for holding camping supplies! We have one that holds our silverware caddy, one that holds our plastic plates, cups and bowls, one for napkins and a few larger ones that hold our towels. We place our storage bags right on the picnic table or food prep table outside. They keep your dishware and silverware dry and clean while allowing easy access for use.
Back-Up Activities
The weather can change in a minute – especially if you are camping in the mountains. I keep a big plastic tackle box full of coloring books, notepads, crayons, markers, a deck of cards and a few travel-sized board games for rainy days, when I need to keep the kiddos close but busy while I cook or clean or simply to give myself a break.
Bug Fan
I’m not a fan of eating my food while covered in flies, mosquitos and gnats. It’s a major sanity breaking point for me. My husband learned years ago that his wife is much happier at dinner time if there’s a box fan on the table, set to high, blowing all those obnoxious bugs away while we eat. Game.Changer.
Light
A few cheapo solar light garden stakes are a perfect way to light the path to your tent, your camper or your picnic table without worrying about extension cords all over the place.
Plastic Trays
Plastic art & activity trays are a great addition to any traveling or camping trip. The trays stack up for easy storage and make a great solution to eating in the car on-the-go or eating in a cramped camper or tent if the weather is uncooperative. They’re also great for holding toys, art supplies and legos while the kiddos play in the car.
Hand Washing Station
Even if your campsite sits fairly close to a water spigot, you will be surprised how much little ones will need to wash (or at least rinse) off their hands and feet. A 5 gallon water carrier sitting on the edge of the picnic bench seat, on a stool or on a stump with a roll of paper towels bungee-corded around the top and a pump of soap right next to it will be well worth the 5 minutes it takes to set up.
Camping Supplies
The more you camp, the more supplies and gear you will accumulate. Keeping your camping stuff in the camper when not in use or in plastic storage totes around the house makes for way easier preparation packing. There are a few shelves in our garage reserved for our extra supplies. This makes it a simple grab and go when it comes down to packing day. Trust me: a little garage, shed or basement reorganizing to give yourself a place to store your camping crap together will be well worth the effort later.
Odds & Ends
Sometimes there are things you don’t even think about needing until you need it, ya know? Like backpacks (great for hiking, swimming, walking or exploring), binoculars, a small travel cooler, table cover, sunglasses, hammocks, a radio, tissues, toilet paper, baby wipes, eye drops, q-tips, extra paper towels, trash bags, umbrellas, clothesline, citronella candles, a firefly catching jar and a hatchet)
Sometimes it still seems like a wild dream. The flight, the driver, the hotel, the makeup and hair, the green room, the meeting Kelly Clarkson!
But, it was real. And I worked crazy hard to get there.
I’ve had loads (I mean a serious crap ton) of people approach me, email me, call me (seriously though – don’t call. Send a text. It freaks me out when my phone rings – it’s just too much commitment to answer the call) and ask me: “HOW DID YOU GET ON THAT SHOW?” Because, obviously, they were scratching their heads in as much disbelief as I was myself.
There’s no short answer to this question. Fate? Talent? My Adorably Chubby Face? I know for a fact it’s not any one thing that landed me there – although my chubby face helped, I’m sure of it.
So, for those of you who have been curious how this yoga pants wearin’ non-yoga doin’ girl from little Medina, Ohio got to meet Kelly Clarkson – here’s the short version:
First off, nothing has ever really come easy for me. I’ve always been the girl that had to work twice as hard (sometimes in my teen years it seemed 50 thousand times harder) than the person doing the same thing next to me. I wasn’t “naturally” good at much of anything. But, I learned early on that if I really, realllllly tried, I could manage being okay at most everything. Just “okay”. Which was especially frustrating in school when I was busting my hiney, practicing or studying every night religiously while the other person just showed up but still managed to be better. I just wanted to be considered good at something. ANYTHING.
And this is why I’m proud to say that without a doubt, I’ve finally found something I excel at.
Being my kids Mom.
I’m not saying I’m a Super Mom. Or the Best Mom. Or The Mom to be. I’m simply saying I’m a Rock Star at being their Mom. All 8 of ’em.
And, because I’m a Mom of 8, ranging in age from 2-20, I’ve learned a few ‘tricks and tips’, some ‘do’s and don’ts’ and a heck of a lot of ‘probably best to never do that again’s’ along the way. With an arsenal of parenting wins and fails, systems for shopping on a low (loooow) budget, perfecting our larger-than-most meals and creating a home for my family using mostly reimagined items, I’m the queen bee of this adorably unique castle; which is actually a small-ish house that we’re all squished in together all cozy like – just like a bee hive – noisy, sticky and at any moment, depending who you touch, you may get stung.
So here I am. Sitting at my computer. Typing these words to you in an attempt to explain how this girl that was never really fantastic at anything hopped a plane to LA and had a spot on National Television creating a craft alongside Kelly Clarkson – AND Octavia Spencer!
Was it just pure dumb luck? Honestly, I’d be lying if I didn’t say probably a little bit.
But, was it mostly hard work, perseverance, sleepless nights, loads and loads of failed ideas, and repeatedly getting up and dusting myself off every.single.time someone or something knocked me down? Absolutely. Yes. Since I started blogging and making television appearances, I’ve had my fair share of “NO’s”.
“No, you’re not good enough.” “No, we’re not interested.” “No, you will need to trim up a bit before we even consider that.” “No, we’re not sure you are what the viewers want.”
In the past 2 years, I’ve heard it all.
What I wasn’t hearing, because I was too busy listening to all of the outside noise, was myself. And the moment I finally started listening to what I had to say, was a moment of self reckoning. It was when I realized God had been leading me down my path all along. It wasn’t about what I was or wasn’t good at.
It was about what I was here to do and who I was here to do it for.
I was meant to be a Mom. A Mom of Many. And I was meant to do it a bit different than every other Mom I’d known before. What started as a big mistake and a lot of hard lessons (I was a teenage mom – but that’s a whole different ugly-cryin’ long story) turned into a purpose and a direction. And a large and wonderful family that I love with every inch of my being.
Having a soccer team big fam means you learn how to pinch pennies while you feed, clothe and raise a small army on the daily. And for me in particular, it meant getting creative with our spaces and corners to curate a home for my growing family that showcased a little bit of all 10 of us under one roof. And sharing my ideas and creations with the world on this blog was a way of helping this tired, worn-out mother find a hobby of her own that had nothing to do with poop, snot or dirty laundry.
So to make a long, somewhat dramatic story short, allllll of that and a maybe a teensy bit more that I don’t even know, led me to Los Angeles and The Kelly Clarkson Show.
Flying home from this experience, all I could think about was being back with my little and not-so-little ones. Sleeping under the same roof, on my own pillow (I’m funny about pillows. And sheets. And hotel floors. Don’t get me started on the bathtubs.) and kissing all those sweet cheeks. There was a moment when I was standing in my shower at 3 am scrubbing the airplane grime off, my false eyelashes from the show were slowly detaching into what looked like disgusting squished spiders in my hand and I realized it was over. I was back where I was meant to be. This place, these people, after all, were the whole reason I am where I am and why I was on the show in the first place.
But, let’s be real. For that 36 hours, I was a friggin’ STAR with killer lashes in overalls!
But wait! Before you think this is a “And everything was perfect. The End.” type of roses and sunshine story, I should add in full disclosure: the entire duration of this amazing time in my life, I had strep throat, pink eye and pretty much no eyeballs due to extreme sensitivity to light and the inability to open my eyelids thanks to a tremendous amount of nasty, green conjunctivitis gunk. Also, I was heavily drugged. Sooo, yeah.
Ten people sharing space under our one small-ish roof means that privacy is a premium luxury. It’s obviously something that is mandatory while using the restroom, taking a shower or getting dressed. But, other than that, it is a commodity found few and far between around here. Most especially when we are talking about electronics.
Oh, electronics. The bane of my motherly existence. I seriously have a love/hate relationship with smart technology and young people. I love being able to get a hold of my children within seconds (and it seriously must be within seconds: hell hath no fury if Mama calls and no one answers). I love the peace of mind of knowing if they need me, I am within their reach at all times.
But, I cannot stand seeing their faces hidden behind screens every time I look at them (but when I speak, they better look up). I despise the addictive quality of so many games and apps and I get so frustrated when their idea of hanging out with their friends consists of sharing the same couch while conversing with other people over their phones.
While I don’t think there are really any absolute right or wrong answers when it comes to technology expectations and limits within the home, like any house rules set in place, each family will respond and react to them differently. My husband and I have had a few guidelines of our own since our oldest received his first phone years ago and they continue to serve us well.
It is important to note that my children do not receive a phone of their own until Middle School. We feel at this point, they are mature enough to handle the responsibility that comes along with the device as well as understand and respect our 6 basic rules.
1. No phones at the dinner table. AT ALL.
No exceptions — that includes parents.
2. No phones during homework time.
You need to concentrate on the work at hand. School is always first.
3. No game time during the school week and only on weekends after your chores are completed.
There is entirely too much going on during week nights between school work, after-school activities, sports and family obligations that there is NO way we can possibly add computer games appropriately into this time frame. In our home, game time is an earned commodity. They are played only after the completion of your responsibilities.
4. There is an alarm set on everyone’s phone that rings at 7:30 p.m. during the school week.
The 7:30 alarm means electronic hours are over and your phone must be turned into the phone/tablet basket immediately. No excuses, no exceptions. I firmly believe children need time away from electronics before bed to help turn their smarticles “off” for the night. My husband and I keep the chargers in our room and have a plug-in station for everyone’s stuff. Seriously. Go read a book, kids.
5. No phones in the morning until you have fully and completely prepared yourself for your school day.
And if you miss the bus because you were preoccupied on your phone and not paying attention to the time, you better start walking and you better be fast. Being tardy to school will not be accepted. (And in case you are curious, yes, my children have had to walk to school. And it was cold and raining. They have not had to walk since. I think they learned their lesson fairly quickly with this one.)
6. Your phone is not your property.
It does not belong to you. It belongs to us, your parents. We paid for the phone and we pay the monthly bill. You must ask permission before downloading any games or apps and I must have every password of yours written down so that I am able to access anything I choose on your phone. And if I choose to add a GPS Tracker app, a Mobile Monitoring app or a handful of apps I read about in a magazine designed for paranoid parents that make me feel more at ease, so be it.
Clearly “privacy” is something that is nonexistent when it comes to electronics in our home. We check our children’s phones nightly. We read their texts and scroll through their apps. We don’t do this to be overbearing or nosy. We don’t do it to be mean or strict. We do it because we love them and it is the only way we feel we can protect them. Does it annoy our children? Absolutely, yes. We don’t care, though.
Here’s the thing: that small, thin rectangle in their hands wields entirely too much power. There are so many unknowns out there in the world wide web. Too many predators to fear and way too much for any parent to fully comprehend or keep tabs on. I mean, I can’t even turn on the news anymore without hearing a horror story regarding a child, the internet and some sicko. Or a child hurting themselves due to online bullying that could have been prevented and dealt with if only the parents, school or authorities knew.
We may believe our children are “smart enough” or “mature enough” to make the right choices when faced with scary, unimaginable scenarios, but do we really know 100%? And is it worth the risk? I think not.
I’m totally cool with being the “Mean Mom” this time. And maybe, just maybe, some day far, far away, they just might thank me.
Before we get to my new Mom Ramblings post, I have a HUGE favor to ask of you, friends!
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Now, to my latest Mom Ramblings with some Real Life Mom Hacks, Tips & Fables…
I spent my afternoon yesterday delivering “New Baby Meals” to a couple of my dear friends that were recently blessed with beautiful additions to their families.
What is it exactly about a brand spankin’ new baby that is so good for the heart and soul?
It’s like these teeny tiny people are an adorable package of hope, peace and possibility. The realization that miracles are absolutely possible and that there will always be light in darkness (okay, I’m starting to sound like Dumbledore, but you catch my drift.)
As I was driving home from my visits, I found myself reflecting on my own motherhood experiences. Although these particular “new” mommies aren’t “first-timers”, nearly every mama I know is on the lookout for new tips and tricks to survive motherhood. I personally love a good hack or a busted mommy myth.
So, I’ve compiled a short list of Real Life Mom Hacks, Tips & Fables for your education and pleasure.
Grab a glass of cheap wine and enjoy!
* The Mysterious Stain
That mysterious spot you find on the couch, your clothes, the carpet or the curtain?
It’s probably poop. There’s a slight chance it may be snot, juice or milk, but always assume it’s poop. Just wash it.
* Broken People
Although not scientifically proven (yet), in the average household, the mother’s back is, in fact, the only back that actually bends. Which completely explains the age old question of “Why can’t my husband pick up his dirty socks?”
*That Mysterious Smell
That smelly smell you smell every time you walk past a certain space or room in your house?
It’s probably poop. Always assume it’s poop. Start your frantic search for the source of offending smell immediately…
*Mediocrity Killed the Cat
False news, friends. Being a mediocre mom is awesome. No overly high Pinterest-y expectations, but people don’t think you’re a total loser either. You’re just an ‘OK-ish’ Mom and it’s truly glorious to be stuck in the middle.
*The Mysterious Taste
You know that time you find the cereal bar on the kitchen counter that looks as though it’s been barely eaten so you figure, what the heck, no need for good food to go to waste (plus you realize you yourself haven’t eaten in over 8 hours)?! You pop it in your mouth and notice that not-quite-right taste? Yeeaaaahhhh. Just don’t eat it. #itsprobablypoop
*The Rule of 3
Have a house full of boys that wrestle? A home full of girls that cat fight? Maybe a mix of boys and girls that all to attack each other like feral, wild animals? And no matter how many times you tell them to “STOP” or try to intercede they just can’t seem to keep their hands (feet, arms, legs, ankles, elbows, chins, shoulders, etc) off of each other?! Then it’s time to just go with the Mother’s Golden Rule of 3: Broken, Bleeding or Dying. As in: “Unless you’re broken, bleeding or dying, don’t come crying to me!”
*Alcohol Impairs Your Judgement
Fact. Yes, yes it absolutely-oodely does and this is why we fellow mothers love it (need it?) after a long, exhausting day. It’s also been known in ‘certain circles’ to be the culprit for the “additions” to a family (just sayin’).
To sum it all up; to me motherhood is a full circle of never-ending cleaning, poop and refereeing while holding a liquid cup of sanity (coffee or wine – depending on the day) all intertwined with a whole lot of love and fun in between.
Seriously though, Mommyhood is truly an amazing journey that I have learned to adore for all of its craziness and expertly duck all of the curveballs it throws at me.
Oh, and as an “added bonus” (as if it couldn’t get any better), I have gained the superpower of identifying smells faster than a dog in search of bacon. So, there’s that…
Halloween is just a few weeks away and my children already have visions of mounds of chocolate and sour candy dancing in their heads while they sleep. Wait, wrong holiday poem. My bad. My kids really are always so excited for the spookiness of Halloween, though. The decorations, the candy and the costumes. So much fun, right?
For a mother to a preteen girl, let me tell you, Halloween gets more and more not-so-fun. Every year that goes by I find myself dreading what she wants to “be”. Luckily, my boys are fairly easy. I try to steer clear of gory, horror costumes (much to their dismay), but they typically come up with something that makes us both happy and doesn’t involve anything too bloody or creepy. I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat, but some of those costumes for boys can be down right spooky.
But, I’ll tell you what’s even more scary, friends. Going to the Halloween store to find a costume for your almost teen daughter and having the choice be A)Sexy Nerd/GeekB)Sexy WitchC)Sexy Teacher or D) a huge, overstuffed Hotdog with ketchup and mustard on top – I mean, what the freaking WHAT?! What sick, SOB of a man thought up these costume ideas and who in the ever-loving world of innocence agreed to actually make and package them?!
In my possibly some-what over-protective and maybe a bit over-bearing and slightly over-dramatic motherly mind, I can’t help imagining an overweight, balding CEO with fat, stubby fingers sitting behind a desk on his phone yell talking to the poor bloke on the other end that the “Sexy Handmaiden” costume will be the hit of 2018. “Bonuses all around!” he laughs.
Except, how can it be a “hit” costume if no one is buying it? Because, I mean, no oneis buying them, right?!!?!? Please, PUHLEEZE, tell me no one is buying them!
Sadly I think we are becoming desensitized to these types of things in society. I mean, I can’t even look at Homecoming pictures posted on social media without noticing that a lot of the girls are about a wind gust away from showing everyone their personal lady parts except for the fact that the dresses are so form-fittingly tight that no gust of wind, no matter the velocity, will blow anything around (which I guess is a good thing?)
But, I can’t help but wonder what is keeping that ever-so-important inch of fabric pulled down over their nether regions? I am hoping there’s tape under there. Lots and lots of tape.
I mean, the tighter the fabric, the more chances of it rolling up, right? Asking for a friend, of course. And said “friend” has had many a round with good ol’ spanx. Spanx are by definition, body shapers made from spandex. Their purpose is to help someone who say, had 8 kids (just an example, of course) fit a bit better and feel a tad more secure in dressy clothing. But, the problem with them is they tend to roll. Like a burrito. And if you don’t catch the rolling in time, they keep going right up – or down – or both – until they reach a road block which is typically your boobs, your gut or if you’re really lucky, the other half of the roll. Wearing spanx is a commitment.
You have to reallywant it. And be willing to not breathe adjust it all night.
So, setting up that image, I am horrified at the thought of these beautiful girls with skin tight, fancy spanx-made-to-look-like-formal-wear dresses dancing their little hearts out only to have that small scrap of stretchy fabric roll up on them faster than a roller window shade in the morning.
Here’s the sad reality though. It’s not the nasty CEO I made up in my mind that’s the problem, really. We are the ones buying these clothes for our daughters. We are sending them out into the world of the unknown with practically nothing unknown about their bodies. The dresses seem to get shorter and shorter and the shoes higher and higher. But, what about their self-esteem? Their confidence? Are those soaring as well?
Seems to me, the more provocative and inappropriate the “norm” gets, the more our girls are doubting themselves and questioning their worth. We need to be teaching them that they are SO much more than a skinny body or a high heel. Their worth is immeasurable and cannot be dictated through trendy fashions or costumes labeled “sexy”.
Oh, and you may be wondering what my preteen will be wearing for Halloween?
She’s dressing up as a football player. Complete with all the padding, protective gear and helmet. She loves it and thinks it’s the best costume she’s had yet.
I am honest enough with myself to know my talents and admit my faults. For instance; I am a Bad Mama Jama baker. I can take those ingredients and whip up a fresh batch of yumminess from scratch with my eyes closed. Crafting and creating? Yes, absolutely. Pooping with a kid on my lap and a kid on my feet while reading ‘If You Take A Mouse To School’ all while holding a sippy cup of milk? So freaking good. Keeping plants alive? Eh. (let’s just say it’s a good thing keeping plants alive and keeping kids alive aren’t closely related talents). Remembering anything? Like, anything at all? I’m a total failure. Being a funny mom? Still up for debate…
I know where I excel and where I need work. Motherhood is no exception. If anything, becoming a mother is when you really start to learn how absolutely sucky you are at so, SO many things. And if you are unsure if you’re good or not, just wait for your sweet little one to start talking. They will let you know your shortcomings. Their honesty comes daily but it’s done in the most adorably brutal way. “Mommy, you should brush your teef better cause you bref stink.” Or “Mommy, you don’t cook good.” Or my personal favorite, “You the meanest mommy in the world and I want a new one.”
And the minute you let your guard down, the second you begin to feel pretty good about your parenting skills, something happens. Something always happens. And it seems to most often take place quickly and unexpectedly.
One specific (of many) mom failure stories of mine comes to mind here: What had begun as a fun afternoon at the park with the local Mom & Tots group my son and I had recently joined, quickly turned in a scene straight out of JAWS. Complete with the theatrical screaming, running, chaos and terror. “Biter!” moms yelled. “My daughter was bit!” another mom hollered, ghastly horrified. I found myself frantically looking through the crowd to find my kid. Grabbing him and hurriedly checking over his body for any signs of injury, I slowly began to realize the horror of the situation. My toddler was the shark. And the hunters were on the prowl.
The walk back to the van was a slow walk of shame, friends.
I apologized repeatedly to everyone and anyone that was brave enough to make eye contact with me. Not surprisingly, the group kindly requested, through email, that we refrained from anymore organized outings until my Great White had been dentally trained. It was a new “mommy low” for me and my hopes of finding fellow mom friends was extinguished quicker than a birthday candle on an ice cream cake. For fear of a repeat of this nightmare, we pretty much remained indoors for the following 6 months. I kept the shark in the tank, so to speak, until the threat of attack was no longer evident.
Obviously, we all know having a biter or not having a biter is not really the fault of the mother. Sometimes there’s a reason why a child bites, other times there’s no explanation at all. But, this day was the first day I remember referring to myself a Sucktastic Mom. It seemed fitting to me. I was fantastically sucky at being a Club Mom. I mean, props to my kid and I from being expelled the first day. That’s got to be a record, right? And now this memory from years ago serves as a funny tale that can be laughed about at our dinner table.
But, seriously, aren’t we all just a group of Sucktastic Moms? We are all fantastically sucky at something. Awesome sites like Pinterest give us crazy cool over-the-top mandatory birthday party ideas to ensure our kids’ childhoods are complete with the happiness they so much deserve as well as fully detailed step-by-step instructions with pictures for weaving a better, more fulfilled life existence using simple everyday supplies like yarn, chalk and white glue. Okay, I totally made that DIY up, but you get the idea. Just because you aren’t Martha Stewart-ish doesn’t mean you’re not a good mom. I may be good at something that you stink at. And you may be awesome at something that I am horrible at. And none of these talents will dictate the limits of our children’s talents.
So, let’s just be honest with ourselves. Let’s own our Sucktastic-ness and lift one another up for everyone’s own individual talents and abilities. I think these are the true instructions for a content mom life.
I am always amazed by those parents that claim to be ‘friends’ with their children. Not only because I feel it is inappropriate to be friends with your child until they are adults themselves (that’s a whole ‘nother post), but also because I just don’t get it. Why on earth would I want to be friends with these people? Nothing but a bit of real life parenting today, my friends!
Listen up. Part of what’s so great about being a grown-up is the ability to determine who you want in your life, right? You get to freely share FB posts with beautiful nature scenes and serene music that talk about standing up for yourself, letting your past go and walking away from the negativity and naysayers. Saying ‘Adios!’ to those who bring you down so you can prove to the entire social media world that you are done being a walking door mat. Now that you’re mature and wiser, you will opt to surround yourself with those who build you up and support you, and you don’t owe anyone an apology for that, thank you very much!
Yet, YET, every evening you sit alongside miniature faces strangely resembling your own that silently try to kill you with death stares across the dining room table. You subject yourself to verbal assault due to the amount of vegetables that are in the Banquet Pot-Pie or because of the lack of halved cherries in the can of mixed fruit. You are degraded because of your inability to fix the broken banana or un-smoosh the smooshed cereal bar. I mean, can you do anything?!
The whole vibe of your morning depends entirely on the mood of the awakening cherubic spawn of satan. Did she toss and turn last night? Is her blanket covering her left foot the full 77% she dictates, allowing her right foot to freely rest on top of the blanket all while simultaneously covering the entire rest of her little body and folded neatly under her chin as she prefers? Is her strawberry milk mixed to perfection in her favorite heart cup at her favorite place at the breakfast bar for when she’s ready to drink it? Seriously – what have you done all morning?!
And don’t even get me started on the inability to act properly around their friends. Tips for raising a preteen and/or teen: Joking around is embarrassing. Questions are embarrassing. Conversation is embarrassing. You speaking at all, in any way, is embarrassing. Your shirt is embarrassing (I don’t even know what you are currently wearing, but it’s embarrassing). Pretty much anything about you is embarrassing. And if you are not fully “in the know” about why she’s upset after all of the non-talking you’ve done with her (I mean, obviously it’s because Joey told her that Betty and Judy said to Sam who told Ricky (in front of the entire 7th period class) that her shirt was teal. It’s totally turquoise. NO ONE wears teal!) – don’t you even care about her life?!
All of this and more, and still you continue to hug them even though you would receive a warmer response by cuddling the tree in the backyard. Your kisses are typically taken by force, which doesn’t bode well at all, but you do it everyday, multiple times a day because you apparently have some major mommy issues. Your choice to love these stinkers even when their reception to your love is frostier than Elsa’s storm on the fjord is not even debatable. They are truly your people. Your tribe. They were handcrafted by you.
But you want to be ‘friends’ with these smaller humans?
No thanks. I don’t need that sort of negativity in my life.
I woke up this morning and logged onto my computer life. Google decided to give me all the fuzzy feels by showing me a throw-back picture of this day 9 years ago. It was my oldest daughter during of her very first ballet classes. She was practicing one of those fancy ballerina-like poses. You know, with her arms and legs in certain ballerina-like positions? Okay, okay. I’ll admit that I honestly have no idea what the name of the pose actually is because, quite simply, I was a horrible ‘dance mom’.
When I found out I was pregnant with a girl 12 years ago, I was totally thrilled! Finally, a little human I could dress up – pretty rompers, frilly dresses, sparkly shoes, painted nails and big hair bows! I wanted to give her the most girly life a little girl could dream of. I was raised in a single parent household so “extras” were far and few between for my brother and I. I didn’t have a lot of pretty outfits to choose from, I was never a Brownie or Girl Scout, I had one pair of dress shoes and a handful of hair bows. I could only sign up for activities if they took place right after school (to alleviate the need for a ride anywhere) and they had to be no cost. I’m not saying I had a horrible childhood because I certainly didn’t. To be honest, I didn’t even really realize these things until I was much older.
But, I decided my daughter was going to have a different experience.
I was going to let this little Barbie-doll of mine do all the girly things her little beautiful heart desired. As soon as she was old enough – I excitedly signed her up at the nearest dance studio for her first (of many, I was sure) ballet/tap combo classes. I had so much fun shopping for her pink leotard (“leo” is the term in veteran dance mom circles, in case you didn’t know), her little shoes and her sweet tights. I remember being so nervous before the first day of class. Would the other moms like me? Would we hit it off? Would they be intimidated by my daughter’s totally remarkable and natural dance abilities that would take her into years of intense training to eventually be the Lead role in the Nutcracker Ballet?! Okay, I got that last part from her fave book at the time Ballerina Bear (and maybe added a bit of the Flash Dance movie?) regardless, our lives were about to change. I just knew it.
I vividly remember sitting in the ‘parents room’ after all the little girls were dropped off in the ‘dance room’ that first morning. No one made eye contact. No one spoke. Someone may have coughed. That was about it. When the instructor came out to tell us the first class went “amazingly well” and that we all had “sweet girls with so much inner talent” we all breathed a sigh of relief, happily grabbed our tiny dancers and left as quickly as we could, making as little eye contact as possible. This same scenario went on for weeks. Weeks. Occasionally someone was on the phone and everyone acted as though we were otherwise occupied while we were actually a captive audience to the private, echoing conversation. The bathroom was located directly behind the ‘parents room’ with a dividing wall that must have been made of cardboard. When the inevitable happened and someone had to pee after sipping on their coffee the whole class, you awkwardly pretended to not hear the sound of the urinator or the loud, messy flush that followed out of respect for the brave soul that couldn’t hold it. God help the poor lady that had to go #2 – that was a rough one.
Eventually we began to relax around one another after unavoidably sharing so many personal affairs. Small talk ensued in our little Tuesday morning group and we all got to know each other a bit. I didn’t become everlasting friends with any of these ladies and I honestly cannot even remember their names, but they were a nice enough fellowship of mamas. Most had ‘dance mom’ experience with their older daughters so I was the novice in the room. Every once in a while someone would be telling a story of a past dance experience and I would secretly question if I was cut out for this. Quickly I would assure myself that of course I was going to be good at this. That I would eventually find myself in the ranks with these moms with so many years under their belt.
Boy was I wrong.
The day I really began to sweat and question my inner ‘dance mom’ was when the time came for Dance Recital preparations. We were given a telephone book sized packet of information regarding costume measurements, professional picture order forms, rules and regulations for proper dance attire and appearance as well as ticket ordering. Wait, what? I was paying monthly for an entire year of lessons and I had to pay to watch my daughter perform the dance that I had already paid for her to learn?! It must be a mistake, I naively thought. This must be the order for for additional guests. Obviously this would not, could not, apply for her father and I!
I innocently walked up to the dance studio’s office window. The office was an area on the other side of the building. It was set-up similarly to a bank teller (which was quite fitting) complete with limited operating hours, a sign posted indicating the enforcement of late fees for past-due accounts, threats of violence and acts of embarrassment if your daughter tried to dance without a current, paid account (okay, I think I made that one up), and a sliding window that only opened from the inside. I stood at the window staring at the woman sitting on the other side of the meticulously clean glass. I waited. And waited. She must have been writing something extremely important because I cleared my throat and fixed my hair in an attempt to make movement and sound to gain her attention. She eventually looked up, acted surprised to see me and opened the window with a huge smile that screamed “What do you want? It’s not a billing week.” So we were going to play the fake happiness convo? Awesome. I’m a total rock star at this game.
I plastered on a winning smile and pointed out that a mistake was made on our alphabetically-ordered and professionally bound dance recital manifestation. I’ll never forget this moment, friends. She smiled at me with one those “Awww. Aren’t you sweet?” smiles. It was a “Honey. Let me explain the ways of the dance world” smiles. I remember feeling scared. And weak. She proceeded to explain that there is no error. That, of course, the words on those pages are truer than the words of the Holy Book itself and “as a gentle reminder, don’t forget the due dates for the costume down-payment and final payment as there is, unfortunately, no grace period. Okay, sweetheart?”
Later that night, with an over-sized glass of wine in hand and a mouth-full of goldfish crackers, I began reading the mini novel-like ‘Book of Dance’. There were signatures needed for photo and video permissions and due dates. So many stinking due dates. Picture dates, picture pick-up dates, non-mandatory but strongly encouraged additional practice dates, costume measurement dates, costume try-on dates, costume pick-up dates, ticket order dates, ticket pick-up dates, rehearsal dates and of course an entire weekend of Recital dates. And the money? Holy crap the money! I decided it would be easier to hand over full access to my checking account and just have them let me know how much of a balance is left for grocery shopping at Aldi. The house could be refinanced. No biggie.
You would think that all of this would have broken me, but I’m stronger than that, my friends. The straw that actually broke this camel’s back, the actual final straw itself, was ‘The Makeup Requirement’ chapter. Red lipstick, face foundation and “colorful” eye shadow – preferable blues and greens – to ensure “standing out” and “being seen” while on stage (spray tanning and glitter spray optional). What in the ever-loving-Elmo’s-World? I didn’t even wear red lipstick or colorful eye makeup and spray tanning and glitter spray were pretty much never optional in my life. They were actually quite nonexistent in my life. What type of Showgirls-esque performance did I sign my innocent girl up for? I mean, chapstick had never even graced her adorably perfect little lips and the only covering that had ever been on her face had an SPF of 50. This was not going to work. For as much as it broke my heart, my ‘dance mom’ dreams and I were going to have to break-up.
Now, we aren’t quitters. My husband and I raise our children to follow through in their commitments and this was no different. We made it through the 3 months of dates and deadlines. We didn’t eat for months paid all of our dues and we bought our over-priced tickets. We attended all 3 mandatory performances and even purchased a memorable picture package. Here’s what we didn’t do. We didn’t put on red lipstick, colorful eye shadow or foundation. We didn’t spray tan or glitter spray. I firmly believe that some rules are meant to be, practically begging to be, broken. All of the other girls and mamas in her group followed the rules to a “T”. Those fellow princess dancers were more bedazzled than a bag of swarovski crystals. And I don’t say this meanly. Truly. Some moms are meant for this dance life. They thrive on the competition, the costumes and the recitals. I am not judging and I certainly do not see them as lesser mothers. They are just different than me. I wasn’t cut-out for that world. I am a self-professed, horribly horrible ‘dance mom’.
After all of this deep reflection today, I have decided to give myself my own title. I have concluded that I am more of a ‘makeup free, dance party in the living room, pants optional’ kind of mom. And I’m not ashamed.
The other morning I was watching a daily news program during my morning 15 Minutes of Silence (if you Mama’s out there don’t practice this habit, trust me, you need this! Start your day, before the kiddos wake up and the chaos ensues, with at least 15 minutes of only you, your fav coffee mug and whatever you fancy – Candy Crush, The Today Show, Facebook, planner planning, bible journaling, staring off into space, dreaming of going back to bed in 15 hours. Whatevs. You choose.)
And because wine is frowned upon in the mornings, this really is the next best thing. It is so good for the soul and for your AM ‘mom mood’.
Anyway, the reporter was discussing the increase of women reentering the workforce. They ended the segment for a commercial break with a question: “Why were so many women taking on ‘side hustles’ or choosing to become entrepreneurs?” It’s true.
I have noticed within my own inner circle of peeps that more and more of my beauteous women friends have either gone back to work, gone back to school, or have become distributors of skin care essentials, spatulas, herbal supplements, mascara etc. Here’s the thing – each one of my girlfriends appear truly proud of the business they represent.
Like, ‘shout it from the rooftops and tell everyone about it’ proud. I felt like I was right back in Mrs.White’s class in the 3rd grade. Raising my hand, flailing it around in the air, jumping up and down hoping the reporter would see me so I could answer his question. I knew why they had chosen to go back to work. Why they had chosen to say “yes” to themselves; “Ooooh! Oooooh! Pick me! I know! I know! Pick meeeeee!” It was so obvious: They were lost in the laundry! Duh!
Okay, so obviously these women are not lost in the laundry.
At least not in the literal sense (I hope). Although, sometimes the piles around here are so high this might actually be possible. {Sooo, if you don’t hear from me for a while, you know where to look.} For some women the choice to go back to work stems strictly from a financial standpoint -and we all can agree that extra moolah for Target shopping is never a bad thing- I do believe there are also women who are simply feeling lost. And I was most definitely lost.
You see, I have been a mom since I was 17.
It’s one of the few things I have consistently done in my adult years. And I don’t say that out of spite. It has just been my life for almost 20 years. I love my mom job more than anything, and I wouldn’t change a single thing that has led me to where I am. But, once upon a time, I was just a girl named Kristin. A nerd introvert that loved watching movies, reading anything I could get my hands on, writing stories and jamming to Rod Stewart while imagining my wedding to the Dirty Dancing version of Patrick Swayze.
And I had some plans. Some BIG life plans.
There was a moment a year or so ago that I found myself on the floor of my bedroom sobbing. It was one of those really ugly cries, my friends. Most likely due to the fact that my oldest son was making his own big plans.
Huge life changes were in his horizon. He spent his evenings after school and work applying for grants and scholarships. My baby was in the midst of deciding which college to enroll in and in turn, choosing a major he would earn a degree in that would eventually serve him and his future family for the rest of their lives.
And while I was blowing (honking) my nose into my tissues all alone, it occurred to me that the last time I knew what I was good at, knew what I was truly passionate about -other than my family, of course- was when I was a teenager preparing for a future that would never materialize. I had lost myself in these past 20 years.
I was so caught up in the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking, grocery shopping and taxi driving, the sports and the after-school clubs, the play dates and the PTO meetings that I wasn’t quite sure where I fit into all of this.
Where did I go? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love volunteering in my kids’ schools. I love that my kids are involved in activities and sports. And I really freaking love being their mom. But, who the heck was I anymore? Was I really just a non-yoga practicing, yoga pant wearing, messy bun rocking, soccer mom? What did I like to do? Did I have a hobby? Could I even say I had interests? I honestly didn’t know anymore.
I remember reading somewhere that journal writing helped to clear the mind and ease anxiety. So, I started there.
Once I began writing, it was like a flood of feelings overwhelmed me.
I remembered how much I adored taking a pen to paper. The journal writing then led me to start a ‘stupid blog that no one would want to read’. The stupid blog led me to start an Instagram page where I could share all of the crap I’ve made for my home. And guess what I realized? I was actually good at something that didn’t begin and end with an ‘m’ and have an ‘o’ in between! And most importantly, in the journaling, the stupid blog and the IG page, I found myself! It was like myself and I picked up right where we left off all those years ago.
I mean, sure, we were both a bit older and a smidge wiser with possibly a few gray hairs.
She was obviously a little worse for wear after being lost so long in that dang laundry, but all-in-all, we were pretty much both as equally amazing as we’d always been.
I’m still a Mom and Wife first and foremost. A woman that loves my kids, my husband and my life to the moon and back. But, I’m also Kristin. Just a quirky, obsessively clean crafter with a creative soul. I love to make crap from junk and writing posts on my blog is my passion.
I have been called many things as a mom (I think most are good). But, a ‘Hover Mother’, I am not.
I personally know and dearly love many so-called ‘Helicopter Moms’. Heck, 5 or 6 babies ago I was most likely one myself (okay, I know for a fact I was 100% a Germaphobic, Pessimistic, Hovering Helicopter, Angry Bear, Stray Cat, Alpha Wolf, Tiger Mother). But, with time and many kids comes wisdom. And sheer exhaustion. For the sake of transparency, and at the risk of having CPS called, here is some real life conversations I’ve had with my kids: “I don’t care if you go outside, just make sure you don’t get run over, m’kay?” “And please, try to fall out of that tree feet first. I’m honestly too busy for a trip to the ER right now. Plus, I don’t have a bra on.” Or “yes, absolutely you can swim in the pool, let me just put your life vest on. Hang on, I’ll go ahead and add some arm floaties and donut floaties to make sure the entire top half of your body stays above water at all times and then Mommy won’t have to dress up like Shamu in her black whale suit to get in the water next to you, doesn’t that sound like fun, sweetums?” And my personal favorite – “For real? You’re hungry again? Didn’t we just eat lunch like 5 hours ago? Here, have some Fruit Loops cereal and milk. It’s like those fancy all-in-one casserole dishes you see on Pinterest – your grains, fiber, fruit and dairy all in one bowl!”
Does this confession make me a lesser mother? Does it make some mothers cringe? Does it mean my children are less loved? Does it mean I am failing at parenting? Maybe, probably, no and I hope not?!
Listen, I don’t know a single person that is a perfect parent. I honestly don’t even know what a perfect parent would look like. And would it mean that they, in turn, are raising perfect kids?
Does such a thing exist?
Would we even want perfect kids?
I sure the heck know I wouldn’t. My kids are messy, loud and crazy. They fight and bicker and occasionally think it’s a good idea to get ‘lippy’ with me (no worries. They realize real quick-like that it is, in fact, not a good idea). Their idea of cleaning up their room consists of picking up 2 toys and getting 20 more out. A few store their dirty socks under the couch, most can be absolutely disgusting and sometimes they all make my house smell (for real though, whatis that smell?!?) These kids of mine can make my head spin Exorcist-style with more efficiency than a brand spankin’ new front loading washing machine. I may have actually spewed green foulness from my mouth a time or two (not officially documented, but we are all fairly confident it happened).
But, to this Mama, my kids are imperfectly perfect. They are beautiful in their messiness. Their goofiness makes me laugh and the stories they can tell are just as big as their personalities. Each is uniquely made. Each is beautifully, perfectly and exceptionally flawed. Like a good pie, every individual slice, no matter how big or small, is one part of our family whole. Without one piece, the pie’s just not complete.
Let’s stop putting fellow mothers in categories and stereo-types. Can we just agree at the end of another draining day, whether you’ve spent it nursing a baby, cleaning up after a toddler, working a full time job, folding laundry or eating Bon Bon’s barefoot in the kitchen that we’re all just doing the best we can? And that no matter what “type” of parent we are – we all respond to the same name?
Even when we don’t want to because we’ve heard “MOOOOOOOOOOOOM” about 78 more times than we’d have preferred today?
So, let’s try a bit of mutual aid fellowship, friends. Because we’re all in this parenting thing together.
Here, I’ll go first: “My name is Kristin. I am a recovering Hover Mother. I consider myself a mediocre parent raising exceptional kids. I believe exceptionalism is so much more important than perfectionism. And I am still looking for that smell – seriously – what is that?!”
You know that moment when you find yourself standing in line at the grocery store next to the ‘All-Together Woman’?
Come on girls, you know the one.
She very well may have just stepped out of a magazine centerfold while you are fairly certain you resemble something more along the lines of a real-life Fraggle Rock muppet. This woman is flawless. Her makeup is spot-on, her clothes are wrinkle-free. Her toes are manicured and her fingernails look like they never once, in the course of her what-must-be-a-dream-life, scrubbed a single dirty bathtub, poopy toilet or messy kitchen floor. She certainly never had her hands in soapy dish water so often during the day it was a miracle her skin didn’t fall off let alone demolish her perfectly pink nail polish. She is a walking perfection of the female species.
Okay, seriously, I know you know what I am talking about now.
But, here’s the thing. I don’t hate her. I don’t even envy her. Because I don’t know her. I have no idea what her personal struggles are. I applaud her for her obvious fashion skills and mad make-up abilities. I will probably even tell her I love her hair. Or her shoes. Or her something. And, for all I know, while I am admiring her trendy jacket and cropped top (and those darn perky boobs under them) she very well may be admiring my children and my life. Maybe, just maybe, she thinks my Danskin yoga pants paired with a hoodie and clean-ish Converse tennies along with my ridiculously huge diaper bag that seconds as my purse and kitchen fridge on-the-go are totally adorbs! {Okay, that’s probably stretching it a wee bit} But, the grass is always greener on the other side, right?!
I will most likely scrounge up the courage to drag myself to a mirror sometime in the next hour or so just to see what exactly I looked like next to this magical being. Chances are I had green and blue fruit loops bits stuck somewhere between my teeth, a messy bun that closely resembled a bird’s nest and overly unplucked eyebrows. Chances are also extremely high there was not a lick of make-up to hide my exhausted, sleep deprived eyelids, either. My boobs will still be saggy and my tummy will still be loose.
Listen, my seasons will change. All too soon my kids will be older and I will have more energy to prep myself before going out in public. I will be more rested and will probably (hopefully) have lost some pre/post baby weight. I won’t be rushed to pick up peanut butter and milk after school drop-off but before nap. Brushing my teeth in the morning will no longer seem like a luxury. Heck, I may even be the “All-Together Woman”. But, in this season, today, I am going to tell myself “I am enough.” Because I AM enough.
My babies don’t see her and her gorgeous, immaculate femininity. They see ME, their Mommy and #1 Person. They love me unconditionally. And I am enough. My husband respects me as his partner and the mother of his children. He tells me I’m beautiful and loves my body, including all of the wreckage and battle scars left behind from 8 babies. And I am enough. My friends see me for who I am. They know I’m clumsy, goofy and imperfect. And they don’t even care that I wear Pajama Jeans. I am enough.
It is easy (entirely too easy) to look at ourselves as the lesser version of our reality. We women are our biggest critics and shamers. Our own worst enemies. And we are passing down these practices to our children. It’s so important that we begin teaching our daughters that they are enough. That who they are in the inside will manifest itself into what they are on the outside. Let’s teach our girls, together, to claim their beauty, their strengths and their sense-of-self from within. First and always.
Everything on the outside is literally just the icing on the cake.
It’s time, ladies. And I know you can do it. Because you are enough.
I nursed 7 of my 8. I didn’t love it. I didn’t like it a little. I hated it. I truly hated nursing. Now don’t gather your pitchforks just yet. Before you think I am a horrible mother, and proceed to tell me so below in the comment section, hear me out. I know some women love it. They relish in the act and are gutted and lost when their child weans themselves from the nipple. I used to read stories on breastfeeding when I was first pregnant and I just knew deep in my soul that I would be equally amazed and in love with the experience as so many other moms before me had. It would be so natural, organic and breathtaking. I was even planning on having portraits fit for a magazine taken of my baby and I in some beautiful sunny setting, naturally sitting in a field of daisies or clovers, absorbed in one another while nursing.
Then I had my son. And I started trying to nurse in the hospital. Reality kicked in BIG time. It was a nightmare. Everything about it was a nightmare. Nothing went well. Nothing worked right. I tried for months (months!) after he was born. There were countless trips to the breastfeeding consultant, numerous trips to the Dr. and a ton of reading and studying and experimenting on different positions (FYI I DESPISE the ‘Football Hold’. Don’t know why. I just do.) and proper latching. We tried and tried and tried and tried some more. We.just.couldn’t.do.it. I cried. I screamed. I cried. And boy, oh boy, did baby cry. He was hungry! I was managing to feed him a bit at a time, but never a full-length nursing session. I was literally nursing him every 15-20 minutes around the clock. AROUND THE CLOCK, PEOPLE. And don’t even get me started on the cracked, bleeding and bruised nipples. UGH.
I will never forget the day the Breastfeeding Consultant walked into the waiting room to find both myself and my 3-month-old son crying (again) while we were trying (again) to unsuccessfully breastfeed. We were on a first name basis, this Nurse and I, due to my countless trips to her office since I had brought my baby home. She looked at me and said “Kristin. Honey. I think it’s time to explore other options. You have tried. Baby has tried. Now it’s time to try something else. Let’s talk about expressing.” I heard every word she was saying. I understood every word she was saying. It all made sense. But, I was heartbroken. Devastated, I walked out of there feeling like the biggest failure in the history of motherhood. I couldn’t do the one thing that ALL moms are supposed to do. I couldn’t feed my baby the way nature intended. I sucked at being a Mom already. Three months in on parenting and I was certain I was giving my kid life-long Mommy issues because I couldn’t even feed him. My mind fast-forwarded 18 years and I saw this sweet cherub’s future. He was face to face with a policeman, middle of the night with flashing red and blue lights all around him, and he was saying “That’s why I robbed the gas station at gunpoint officer. My mommy couldn’t even feed me.” As soon as I got home and relayed the message from the nurse to my husband (I probably left out the flash forward glimpse of the future. At this point, my husband was already greatly concerned for my sanity. No need to tip the boat any further) and he went straight to the store, purchased a breast pump (top of the line, too). Needless to say, in the midst of all of the agonizing tears and frustration my sweet little one and I shared all day and night, this poor new daddy could do nothing but stand by and watch and he was ready for the new plan. He was relieved and optimistic. So, I pumped my milk that night. And for the first time in 3 months, my breasts were completely empty and not sore to the touch. And, most importantly, for the first time in 3 months, my little guy was full. And content. And happy. And he slept better than any of us had since he was born. Maybe I couldn’t feed him straight from the breast, but maybe I could just keep on expressing. So, pump and feed, pump and feed was my life for the following 9 months. I carried that breast pump bag around like it was my purse. Heck, I think maybe I did use it as a purse rather than carry around 2 bags. To this day, the sound of a breast pump in a public restroom or church nursery gives me major panic attacks. Now, I understand that some of you may be wondering why in the world I even tried to nurse again after all of that. Sheer determination and stubbornness are really the only things I can think of. I figured out how to nurse like a pro with each of my next 7 babies. I still hated it. To me, nursing was uncomfortable and sweaty. I had to wear pads so full of milk I could ring them out and I smelled like a walking creamery. I was thirsty all the dang time and I really, really wanted to sleep through the night. But, after a certain point, when we had a small tribe in our home to provide for, I was simply nursing out of necessity. The cost of formula vs. free breast milk is easy math.
Nursing is, was and most likely will always be one of my least favorite things about being a mom. After each pregnancy I have struggled postpartum with depression, anxiety and low self-esteem. Nursing and the demands that accompany it just seem to add to the confusion and discomfort for me those first few months. But, it’s not all horrible. I came across a journal entry I had written about a year ago. I was in the throes of nursing my #8 and I honestly don’t even remember writing this: “After the mountain has been climbed. After I regain my confidence and control. After the discomforts and pains fade and time seems to be in a constant state of fast-forward, these beautiful cheeks are what I see all day. Breastfeeding forces me to stop everything I am doing and sit with him. Be with him. To pray for him and his brothers and sisters. To plan their futures and give their hopes and dreams to God. To watch him sleep on me with a full belly, this amazing child that I am blessed enough to be able to provide life, nourishment and love for. He trusts me with all of his little heart and I love him with all of mine. This is motherhood for me.”
Maybe I’m not in love with breastfeeding, but I am in love with being a mother (and my husband, of course!) My children are my greatest blessing and achievement. And, on the bright side, I won’t have to worry about the last 7 robbing a gas station at gunpoint (I hope).
Edward and I started this family motto a few years ago. We adopted these words as our own because we felt as though they would never become outdated in our children’s lives. These simple words have graced our household’s lips many, many times. I have heard my children using it against one another when one of them wants to walk away from what they feel is an unfair game of neighborhood tag. Or when they are frustrated with being second-best at a dual player video game. Or my favorite, when they realize they are about to lose a nail-biting game of Candy Land and attempt to sabotage the board before the game officially ends. And when they look to me for an infinite piece of Motherhood Wisdom that can only come from the one person that loves them most in the whole world, the only thing I can come up with is “You’re going to have to just get over it. Life stinks sometimes”. As harsh as that sounds, I believe this is a huge part of what molds our “little” people into the person they will become. How they deal with not being perfect or the best, how they cope with it and how they prepare themselves to try it again (and possibly still be crappy at it) all helps to form the “Big” person they are going to be. And while we’re on the subject of being an average person, I am not a fan of participation trophies (I know, I know. I am in the minority here. But before you judge me, read on!) I think a trophy should be an award for excellence. Not something given because you paid to put your child’s name on a roster. Trophies are passed out like t-shirts anymore. My children all seem to have a matching shirt and medal for every activity they have ever partaken in. And sometimes, they don’t deserve it. Like when my then 5-year-old son had begged to play soccer, so we signed him up and he was so excited until he realized that he, in fact, hated soccer. I had to drag him to practices and games. There were tears and a general refusal to play the game. We said those dang family motto words every.single.week to him. Other than being completely embarrassed by my kid, I must admit that I was impressed by his shear will and determination to NOT participate. He held steadfast in his refusal to kick the ball. If there was an award for “The Kid Who Never Actually Participated” he would have been a shoe-in. So, when the end of the season approached and the traditional email with awards ceremony information was announced I respectfully responded to the team’s Coach that we would most definitely not be in attendance.
I have also found myself referencing our phrase throughout an especially tough day or time in my life. For instance, the time I found myself standing in a pool of my kid’s vomit. We were in our small guest bathroom, he missed the toilet and it splashed (splattered 360*, really) everywhere. I used italics there because it’s no joke. No exaggeration. It was everywhere. As I stood there trying to wrap my head around the sucky situation at hand, I decided that the best thing to do would be to walk out the door. Just leave. ‘Throw in the towel’ so to speak. Of course, I didn’t. Even now when I think back to that fateful day I have no idea how I cleaned that disaster up (I mean, it was on the friggin’ ceiling people!) How I managed to clean up myself, my ill child and care for the other children I had at home is unbeknownst to me. I am fairly confident that I have purposefully blocked out the details from my memory. I do recall reminding myself, out-loud, over and over through the gagging and watering eyes “Gambaccini’s don’t quit.” I also remember telling my husband later that evening that I deserved a gold plated, diamond-encrusted Tiara. Possibly an all-inclusive vacation someplace far, far away and completely alone. At the very least a full-time maid. Needless to say, no participation awards were handed out to me for this particular event. But, every once in a blue moon, this ‘memory’ of ours will pop up in family conversation (because my kids think it’s rather hilarious) and they beg for me to “tell the puke story!” The last time this happened, my son – aka ‘The Puker’– looked at me after I finished the story we all know by heart and said “You have to get over it Mom. Life stinks sometimes.” Well played, kid.
I get a lot of questions regarding how we manage our time with our tribe.
It ain’t easy.
But, one thing Edward and I started doing years ago that has helped us out tremendously with this conundrum is “Mommy Daddy Nights”. (Remember those numbered popsicle sticks I wrote about the other day? Those come into play here!) Each child pulls a stick on Sunday evening to determine their “Mommy Daddy Night”. On said “MDN”, they get Edward and I all to themselves while everyone else goes to bed. That’s 15/20 minutes of extra time talking, reading, telling jokes, playing ‘I Spy’, etc. Whatever they want to do. The only rules are that we have to be relaxing in our bed and it has to be a calm activity. The kids truly look forward to their special evenings of alone time with us.
Now if I could just figure out how to properly tape my eyes open so I stay awake every night!
Moms! Are you listening? I have a LIFE CHANGING tip for you!
Okay, maybe not life changing, but seriously, it works and is practically free to make. Continue reading to become a better mother 😆
“It’s my turn!” “I want to go first!” “Why can’t I ever be first?” “I want it now!” “Who gets to go first?” “Can I go next?” “Whhhhhyyyyyy?”
Any mother can relate to these phrases ⬆ every.single.day. AMIRIGHT? I am pretty sure I was going to go insane hearing these questions. If you asked my kids, they probably would have told you that I WAS insane (Okay, they will probably tell you that I still am insane. But, I digress.) I needed a solution to the “take turns” chaos that ensues in my home every day all day at all times. This little jar was my savior. It was my breath of ‘fair’ air. It was a much needed break from trying to remember who exactly went first last time, or the time before that, or the time before that time… Good grief! I mean, it’s hard enough just making sure your kids stay alive every day. Who has time to remember who was the last one that brushed their teeth first in the downstairs bathroom (morning and evening, cause you know, it’s different)? Or who sat in the 3rd chair from the left in the second row of the van last? I mean, seriously!
All you need are popsicle sticks. Number each popsicle stick for each little one that “never gets to go first”. Throw them in a jar of any sort – and voila! Everyone takes a turn pulling a stick and your number is YOUR NUMBER in line! Throw the jar in your purse, in the car for those extra long rides or keep it in the kitchen for easy access. Take it with you wherever you go.
Phew – life can commence (until the next time the 2-year-old doesn’t get her way).
***This message brought to you by a mother close to losing her mind daily***
My second oldest son recently finished his first year running cross country for his Middle School team. It was a season full of hard work, commitment and grief. Lots of grief.
This isn’t an “I’m so proud of my kid because he’s a #1 winner” post.
This is an “I’m so proud of my kid because he’s a #1 loser” post.
You read that right. He lost. A lot. So much that I thought my heart would break. But, he never knew I felt that way. I would slap on my mom smile and scream “you’re doing great buddy!” as he struggled to finish his race. There were times he crossed that finish line and I held back tears that were equally sad and proud. He never cried – although I am sure he wanted to. And let’s be real, it had to be embarrassing – it had to be really hard to start a race knowing beforehand that you were most likely going to be last. Could you do that? I am not sure I could. In the beginning of the season he tried to come up with plenty of excuses to get out of practice, but we wouldn’t let him. We wanted him to understand that he was part of a team and his team depended on him. He eventually stopped trying to skip-out and accepted that he was going regardless of his desire to not go.
Let me backtrack ~
As his mother I can honestly say that he has never been a star athlete. He trips over his own feet. Literally. But when Edward and I found out that a handful of his friends were joining the team, we forcibly encouraged him to join too.
The conversation went something like this: Me-“Hey, I think you should run cross country this year.” Kid-“No thanks.” Me-“I really think you should. You might enjoy it.” Kid-“That’s okay. Running’s not my thing.” Me-“Well it could be your thing if you tried it.” Kid-“I’d really rather not.” Me-“Okay, I am going to sign you up. All of your friends are doing it!” Kid-thisis the part where he didn’t say anything and just stared at me. I am pretty sure what he was thinking was “Did you not just hear what I said mom?!”
Listen. Middle School is hard. We felt like the more opportunity he had to spend with kids outside of school, the better. Not to mention being a part of a team can broaden a child’s comfort levels and encourage them to become friends with kids they may have never met before, he’d be spending time outside away from electronics, nothing but fresh air, blah, blah, blah. He didn’t want to do it. He expressed he didn’t want to do it. I signed him up anyway. Maybe that’s why my mom guilt was at an all-time high – it was all my doing.
Now, to be clear, Edward and I have since solemnly pinky swore to him that unless he chooses to do so, we will NEVER, EVER, EVER again make him partake in a school sport. EVER. And we are okay with that agreement. All along we thought we were teaching our child about perseverance and teamwork. And while I do think those lessons were learned, he taught Edward and I so much more. There was a moment during one of his final races that he managed to finish before 2 other kids. As soon as his feet crossed the finish line, this amazing child of mine turned around to cheer on the 2 boys behind him. This was the moment. This was when I realized my kid was winning. He is winning at being good, kind and humble. Life is about learning how to pick yourself up and keep running no matter how often you lose the race. And this kid is winning.
He may not be an amazing athlete, but he is the kind of guy I would want on my team. He will give it his all and lose like a winner. Over and over.
When I married Edward, my life changed for the absolute best. We agreed to jump into this marriage thing head on and take on life together for better for worse, for richer for poorer.
I am pretty sure we thought we would have a few kids and be so much “cooler” than our parents. But, like so many young newlyweds, were we so wrong!
We had no idea what God had in store.
Here we are, 13 years later, blessed with 8 healthy, amazing kids and a parental style that deeply resembles the ideals and principals we were both raised with.
In honor of that day, and every blessed day since, I am starting this chronicle of our life. I want to share our love, our laughs, our struggles and our failures. I want to leave behind a legacy of faith and hope for our children. I want them to know that mom was more than just the taxi driver or dinner maker. I want them to know how my every day was filled with deeds, thoughts and prayers to keep their hearts happy, keep their bellies full, to keep their home warm and welcoming and keep smiles on their beautiful faces. I want them to understand that dad worked tirelessly to provide us with what we needed because he loved us more than words can express. I want them to see there is so much to love about life and so many reasons to be happy.
Most importantly, I want them to remember our family motto: “We are not quitters.” Because some days I’m killing it, and some days are killing me. But tomorrow, I get to try again. And by remembering our faith and love of the Lord, we will get through this crazy train together.
Edward and I started this family motto a few years ago. We adopted these words as our own because we felt as though they would never become outdated in our children’s lives. These simple words have graced our household’s lips many, many times. I have heard my children using it against one another when one of them wants to walk away from what they feel is an unfair game of neighborhood tag. Or when they are frustrated with being second-best at a dual player video game. Or my favorite, when they realize they are about to lose a nail-biting game of Candy Land and attempt to sabotage the board before the game officially ends. And when they look to me for an infinite piece of Motherhood Wisdom that can only come from the one person that loves them most in the whole world, the only thing I can come up with is “You’re going to have to just get over it. Life stinks sometimes”. As harsh as that sounds, I believe this is a huge part of what molds our “little” people into the person they will become. How they deal with not being perfect or the best, how they cope with it and how they prepare themselves to try it again (and possibly still be crappy at it) all helps to form the “Big” person they are going to be. And while we’re on the subject of being an average person, I am not a fan of participation trophies (I know, I know. I am in the minority here. But before you judge me, read on!) I think a trophy should be an award for excellence. Not something given because you paid to put your child’s name on a roster. Trophies are passed out like t-shirts anymore. My children all seem to have a matching shirt and medal for every activity they have ever partaken in. And sometimes, they don’t deserve it. Like when my then 5-year-old son had begged to play soccer, so we signed him up and he was so excited until he realized that he, in fact, hated soccer. I had to drag him to practices and games. There were tears and a general refusal to play the game. We said those dang family motto words every.single.week to him. Other than being completely embarrassed by my kid, I must admit that I was impressed by his shear will and determination to NOT participate. He held steadfast in his refusal to kick the ball. If there was an award for “The Kid Who Never Actually Participated” he would have been a shoe-in. So, when the end of the season approached and the traditional email with awards ceremony information was announced I respectfully responded to the team’s Coach that we would most definitely not be in attendance.
