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    Ramblings of a Mother

    Ummm, No To You Mr. Halloween Costume Maker.

    sisters halloween perfectlydestressed.com

    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/Geek B) Sexy Witch C) 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 one is 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 really want 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.

    So do I, honey. So do I.

     

    Read my last post here!

    Ramblings of a Mother

    Potato, Potahto – We’re All Sucktastic

    Funny Mom Blog perfectlydestressed.com

    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.

     

    Did you read my last post? My Kids Would Make Crappy Friends

    Ramblings of a Mother

    My Kids Would Make Crappy Friends.

    mom and kids @perfectlydestressed

    My Kids Would Make Crappy Friends.

    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.

    Have you read my last post?

    This article was recently published on Blunt Mom’s! Check it out!

    Ramblings of a Mother

    I’m Totally a Pants-Optional Kind of Mom

    dance girl perfectlydestressed.com

    I was a Horrible Dance Mom

    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.

    Did you see my last post?

    Ramblings of a Mother

    I Was Lost in the Laundry. Did Anyone Even Notice I was Gone?

    perfectlydestressed.com

    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.

    And I really am so happy to meet you!

    Did you see my last post?

    Ramblings of a Mother

    Hover Mother, I am not.

    mom life perfectlydestressed.com

    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, what is 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?!”

    Your turn:

     

    Ramblings of a Mother

    I am Enough

    reflections of a girl perfectlydestressed.com

    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.

    @perfectlydestressed

    Ramblings of a Mother

    Confessions of an Abnormal Mom

    nursing baby perfectlydestressed.com

    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).

    Ramblings of a Mother

    Life Changing Mom Tip!

    mom tips perfectlydestressed.com

    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***

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