What if I clicked on that forgot password button and reset my password and logged into my long-forgotten blog and read a few old posts and then wrote something down?
Would it expose too much of me if I shared that I barely remember that girl who wrote those posts below?
Would it seem cliche if I acknowledged that those challenges she faced, the acne and the bedtimes and the veganism and the temper tantrums, seem like the challenges of a lifetime ago, of another person almost?
What would happen if I admitted to feeling like, in hindsight, those were trivial things? That when I thought I was doing the hard shit, the universe was just preparing me for the really hard shit?
I was working so hard to do the right things.
I read.
I made adjustments.
I dragged my husband to therapy. I dragged my kids to therapy.
Read some other book.
Ate some other thing.
Got some other job.
So far, it’s worked. Those babies are teens and tweens. They are generally good humans, doing their best to carve a path in the world.
So what do I do now?
Now it’s me who needs to grow stronger and more resilient.
I need to rediscover my voice and clarify my vision of how I want to walk through the world.
I need to ask and answer the question of what my gifts are. Who I should share them with. How I might be of service to others while ultimately knowing that I’m not very good at being of service to myself.
What if I wrote about that journey, now that my children are of an age where it doesn’t feel right to write about theirs?
It has been a while since my head was clear enough to write anything here. Long story very short, I have a new job, closer to home, and am spending twice as much time with the kids. No more nannies. No more getting home after bed time. I’m doing work that I love, locally. I no longer commute, and I pick my kids up at a reasonable hour.
THey aren’t allowed to watch much TV. They never leave me alone. So I don’t get much writing done.
Since I last sat down to write a blog post, we have also gone vegan, cheated a bunch, and have landed onto 5 day a week ova-vegetarianism for all of our home cooked meals, with minimal grassfed meat consumption on the weekends.
We have 4 new chicks, one of whom is most certainly a rooster. And an asshole.
I am the primary caregiver of my children for the first time since Rhys was one year old. And I don’t even have bacon to lean on.
Just to compare, last time I was REALLY in charge, they looked like this: One and three
Babies! Both of them were babies! This had it’s own set of challenges, but parenting PEOPLE is different in so many ways.
THESE KIDS See, real people
They require negotiation. Talks about private parts and name calling and accessorizing and stranger danger and anger and the importance of not shoving all your neatly folded clothes into one fucking drawer because your mother is going to lose it.
It is really exhausting.
But now I actually KNOW my kids, and they are beginning to get to know me. It’s awesome. It also takes a shit-ton of effort that I often don’t feel like I have to offer at the end of the day. Plus the husband works at least one weekend day a week (both of them this weekend) and every “shopping” holiday, so I am spending a LOT of time single parenting.
I’m not used to arranging play dates and practicing bike riding and the appropriate amount of time between last snack and dinner. I am horrible at all of these things. It’s getting better, but we have a long road ahead. So bear with me as I whine incessantly and only occasionally have anything funny to say.
Hopefully, you will get a few vegetarian meal ideas from me at some point, too. Maybe. No promises.
My sweet sweet little burrita of a girl turned FIVE, people.
I didn’t cry.
I hugged her a lot. We “high fived”, and I’ve taken to just calling her “Five” because it makes her grin ear to ear.
I gave her barbies and slutty barbie clothes with sky high platform heeled whore boots and mini skirts because that is what she wanted. Things I promised myself I would never EVER purchase for her (to my credit, they were freecycled, so I didn’t actually purchase the Barbies, but I did buy her six whore outfits for those damn dolls).
She and her little brother sit and play dress up with the barbies, stripping them down to nothing over and over and over…always needing help with the damn whore shoes. I can’t get them on either, and I think it’s a testament to the fact that they shouldn’t exist in the first place. But she asked for them. And she is amazing. So she can have them on her 5th birthday. I’m confident that one of every pair will go missing by April, having slipped down a heater vent or been thrown into a couch cushion by her pesky little brother.
She also received art supplies and chapter books and poetry and a flower press.
She colors obsessively on everything, drawing rainbows and people and writing “Love Mommy Daddy Rhys Darian” on every piece of paper.
She wrote out all of the names on her birthday party invitations using a pen we got her that has all the different colored inks, where you push up the color you want to use. I was only allowed to write my part in one color.
She skips most of the vowels, which is developmentally appropriate and makes me realize that vowels are really optional anyway. I learn from her every day.
Today she wore a Tie-dyed shirt, brown and white giraffe print skirt, and black and white polka dot leggings. She IS fashion, and wears the shit out of every outfit, making her momma so damn proud.
She calls herself SparklePony. And she sparkles brilliantly.
I’m not grinchy. Or scroogey. But I’m very fucking cranky about this whole “Elf on the Shelf” phenomenon.
He looks sweet, but he's pissing me off.
Eventually one of my children will see this elf in your home. And they will want one for OUR home. And that shit aint happening. Because we do not allow tattling. That Elf is nothing but a big ol’ tattle tale. I’m not having it. Not even a little.
I’m already lying to my kids and going out of my way to perpetuate a story about a fat dude squeezing down the chimney we don’t have, watching my children’s every move. It takes everything I’ve got to keep the Santa Claus myth going. My kids don’t even BLINK when I tell them to be good because Santa is watching. They just don’t care…or maybe they don’t believe that they won’t get presents (which is totally true. I would never withhold gifts on Christmas because of a temper tantrum, or painting with toothpaste. Drug use? Maybe. But it will be years before that really becomes likely.)
We talk and talk and talk about telling the truth. We work on being good for the sake of being good, that there are no rewards except for knowing that you have done good deeds and seeing the smile on people’s faces. They seem to get this concept as much as little tiny people can.
Until November, at which point everything changes.
Not only will you get PRESENTS when you are good, but there are threats of NO PRESENTS if you are bad. This goes against every parenting bone in my body. He already knows everything you do. The song says so.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He’s really fucking creepy.” Oh, the song doesn’t say that exactly? I’ve always kind of made up my own words to songs…
Back to the Elf. Supposedly, this elf watches you all day, and goes to report to Santa at night. The parents are responsible for getting the elf into mischief prior to the children waking up. When they find the elf, everyone laughs and shakes their head and wonders WHAT he was thinking.
Let me get this straight. First the elf tattles on you (totally not allowed). THEN he does bad things that my children would get in trouble for (double standard…Elves aren’t supposed to be good, too?) That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. Talk about mixed messages.
I can’t lie to my kids like that. I even tried to come clean about Santa in October, and they just wouldn’t believe me.
“Only some people believe in Santa Claus. How would you feel if he wasn’t real?”
“Mom, you are wrong. Santa lives in the North Pole with the elves. How else would we get those presents? If people don’t believe then he hates them and they don’t get presents anymore.”
She’s seemed to go it all worked out…so I pussied out and told her she was right. Plus, if they actually knew the truth, they would tell their friends. I would be responsible for the death of Christmas for 30 3 and 4 year olds. I can’t have that. It’s hard enough to make parent friends. Ruining Christmas for their toddlers certainly wouldn’t help.
But I’m still not into the elf. Because once you tell a lie, you have to keep embellishing the details to make it seem real. I know a guy that actually put his foot in SOOT and tracked it from the fireplace to the tree so his 7 year old would believe for 1 more year. This woman has a pretty amazing rant about not wanting to go crazy with naughty elf “fun”, and I totally totally feel her…which is why I plan on staying as far away from the elf as possible.
This is madness.
I can’t even bring myself to eat the cookies we leave out for Santa.
Call me lazy, call me a bad parent. Call me whatever you want. There will be no elves here. If you tell my child about the damn elf, I will just let them know that we don’t need no stinking elf. We have a direct line to Santa. He and I have a very close personal relationship and I’LL let him know when you’ve been naughty or nice.
I vividly remember learning “the right way” to do dishes. We had hosted a wedding at our house for our dear friends, and the wedding was catered by another friend of the family. After all the guests were trickling out, Mike prepped the dishes to be done in a way I’d never seen before.
Two clean sinks.
Silverware soaking in hot soapy water in the bottom of one of the sinks. Dishes stacked neatly, waiting their turn for a dip. I was sold.
There is something so PROPER about a clean dish. No, I am not kidding.
No, I will not do your dishes.
Except if you cook me dinner at your house. Then I’ll wash your dishes as long as you give me sips of wine and stay in the kitchen to chat. I hate missing the party.
It seems as though I will always be a dishwasher. Growing up, it was one of the only chores I didn’t hate being assigned to.
Something about the warm water, soapy dishes and repetition of it all was less awful than folding laundry and washing windows.
The one thing I hate about doing dishes is dishpan hands. I am a grown ass woman. I have to clean shit up ALL.THE.TIME. But I can never find a pair of rubber gloves with which to protect my hands.
That’s a lie. I could find them if I owned them. It simply never occurs to me to buy them.
I’ve been looking longingly at a few pairs of beautiful heavy duty gloves lately, and I thought I’d share them with you for shits and giggles.
Don’t get me wrong. If I had a choice, I’d delegate the dishes too. My husband has the bad habit of leaving the pots and pans for me, even when he’s done every other dish in the sink. So I’m pretty sure I’ll be stuck at the sink until my kids stop thinking of water in the sink as time for a nice swim.
What chore do you dislike the least in your house?
He's pissed...and not wearing any pants. that's what happens when he gets angry. He strips.
On my drive home yesterday, I came up with an awesome way to explain Unconditional Parenting to y’all.
Unconditional Parenting is almost exactly like being a good manager.
• You talk to your children like they are adults that can make their own choices, while giving clear guidelines for behavior and setting reasonable expectations.
• You LISTEN intently, repeat what was said so you are sure you understand the question, and help the person come up with a reasonable solution to their problem.
• You listen to their complaints and validate their feelings.
• You consider making adjustments when the team is not working at their full potential.
• You are always changing and growing with your team, working with their strengths and weaknesses.
• You are always available to talk, and you ask what your child needs from you in order for us to be successful.
I find myself dipping into my old bag of management tricks often when I’m working with my kids, and as they grow, they respond really well to these techniques.
It can be so tempting to speak with exasperation, or raise your voice, or be impatient with your kids. Most of the time, I feel like Jekyll and Hyde. I switch from being tolerant, understanding, explaining every detail, and managing their conflicting needs to being the most impatient, demanding and irritable mother on the planet. This usually happens when I am hungry, tired, or solo parenting for the day.
If you also find yourself sassing back at your 4 year old, I really really understand.
What usually helps me is a glass of red wine and a cuddle. Slow breathing, holding my kids tight and ignoring the to do list running through my head makes a world of difference. When we are back on track, I try my hardest to be a good manager; kind, understanding, firm, and guiding my kids through whatever totally ridiculous shit they insist on dragging me into….and sometimes it even works!
As someone with 40ish pounds to drop, I should probably invest in a pair of shoes for exercising. My husband purchased my last pair of tennis shoes for me before my daughter was born, 5 years ago. I recently was told that you should replace your shoes every 6 months. I am so behind the times. These are sooooo purty. I probably don’t need a $120.00 pair of shoes…but I can still drool!
So turquoise and shit.
Does anyone have any recommendations for a running shoe for people with a high arch? I look like I’m en pointe even flat footed.
Dirt Don't Hurt 