Jingle Bells...a Mommy's Christmas Carol

Dashing through the store, 
In an oh-so-panicked way.
Must get it done before,
They are home to stay.
No, No, No.
No more time alone,
Not a minute to myself,
Being home twenty-four-seven,
Is hazardous to their health.

Oh, Jingle Bells!  Christmas spells,
Two weeks off from school.
No more books,
Just dirty looks,
The holidays are cruel.

Oh, Jingle Bells!  Mommy smells,
Trouble brewing soon.
Screaming, fighting,
Hitting, biting,
Mommy’s drinking before noon.

"Mommy, Is Santa Claus Real?"

Well, it’s that time of year again.  The time when trees are topped, lights are strung, and carols sung.  The time when shopping malls and street corners are invaded by fat men in red suits.  The time when my failures as a mother become glaringly obvious.

I was presented with an opportunity to shine one day last December.  It was my moment.  The moment to encompass everything I always said I would be as a mother.  The moment to portray truth and nurture a relationship of honesty and trust.  I looked that opportunity straight in its’ big, blue eyes, and failed.  Big. Fat. Failure.

Yesterday, I was once again presented with the perfect opportunity to redeem myself…to climb atop my parental pedestal and shine truth and light.  There they were.  Five little words, uttered by my beautiful little girl.  Those 5 little words, a mother’s most dreaded question (second only to, “Where do babies come from?”), resonated in my head.

“Mommy, is Santa Claus real?”  

Some snot-nosed little brat in Megan’s class took it upon herself to shatter the beautiful deception that is Santa Claus, declaring that this jolly old elf is none other than her mom and dad.  She has essentially attacked the final frontier of her innocence.  What a little shit.

{Must not track and torture seven-year-old little shit.}

“Mommy, is Santa Claus real?”

I should have seized the moment.  I should have been honest with her.  I should have ripped her heart out of her chest and thrown it on the floor.  I didn’t.  I lied.  I failed.

Me:   “What do you believe, baby?”
Megan: “Um, I think he’s real.”
Me:         “Then, of course he is real!  It is okay to believe in something that others don’t.  You know, when you stop                                     believing in Santa, Mommy and Daddy have to do it.  Then you only get underwear.” 
Megan: “Really?”
Me:         “Yes.  Now go clean your room.  Santa is watching.”

Don’t judge me.

I couldn’t do it.  Maybe next year.

In my defense, I do try to keep the focus of Christmas on Christ’s birth and emulating the charity of Christ.  But, let’s face it.  Jesus - he’s a pretty forgiving guy.  Santa Claus - not so much.  With Santa it's all, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town."  And worse, Santa spies on you.  "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake."  You'd better be good or good ole Santa won't bring you any toys.

I’m sure I’m scarring her for life.  I’m sure I’m nurturing trust issues and fostering a perpetuation of lies.  Just add another notch on the old parental failure score board.  At least she'll have a lot to talk about in therapy one day.

http://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/MjAxMi1mMDdmYjRkOTIwNTU3ODhk

Viral Russian Roulette

You think 6 years of motherhood would have taught me something by now.  I should know that my excitement over the ability to sleep in will be short-lived.  It should be ingrained in my head that if my children are in still bed after 8:00a.m., there is a 99.9% certainty that they are ill.

So, here we are again.  The pediatrician’s office.  My home away from home.

{ Insert Cheers theme music here…♪♪ Where everybody knows your name…♪♪ }

After being greeted by the all-too-familiar office staff (most of whom will make the Christmas list this year), we begin our game of Viral Russian Roulette.  Though I am always thankful for being “worked in” for an appointment, the extended wait time in this human petri dish makes my skin crawl.  Loaded up on probiotics and Purel, my son begins his tour of the room.  Bouncing from chair to chair, swinging from the check-in counter, flirting with the front office staff, at least 2 trips to the bathroom, and finally settling in to play with the dreaded waiting room toys.  These sticky, disease laden objects should have hazmat labels.  And what is wrong with my son?  At 4 years old, he is still determined to put things in his mouth.  I’ve even seen him lick a waiting room chair.  Really??  He has a death wish.

His name is called.  Hooray!  Now begins the wait in the smaller petri dish.  This is where the magic happens.  As if stepping into a paradoxical universe, all illness, disease, and pain will vanish instantaneously.  An inevitable “all-better syndrome” is developed.  Symptoms gone.  Fever vanished.  A surge of energy equivalent to a monkey on Red Bull sends him running around the exam table.  Upon physician examination, questions like, “How do you feel?” and “Where does it hurt?” will be answered with, “Fine.” and “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Thank you, son.  Thank you for transforming me from concerned mother to neurotic hypochondriac in mere seconds.  I’m now seemingly “that mom” who carries her kid to the doctor for each and every sniffle.  

Thank goodness for our fantastic pediatrician who could see through his healthy façade and see that I wasn’t actually bat-shit crazy.  Turns out he does have something viral.  Of course, it’s viral.  It’s always viral.  The catch-all term for “we don’t know exactly what it is, what caused it, or how to treat it so we will prescribe rest and fluids.”

Great.  Fortunately, the trip alone cured you…at least until tonight, after office hours, when your fever will spike and whatever disease you picked up in the waiting room will rear it’s ugly head.  

At least you’re cute, you virus-harboring monkey.  Mommy loves you and your crust covered, snotty nose.

I. Am. Supermom.

For some people, vomit is like Kryptonite, effectively reducing grown men to tears and setting in motion a domino-like effect of mass destruction. For me, it is a catalyst. A super-power, if you will. Upon the first inkling of gastro-intestinal upset, my adrenaline starts pumping and every sense in my body becomes super-charged. I instantly have the power to jump backwards 20 feet in a single bound. I can carry another heaving human down the hall to the restroom with the velocity of a speeding bullet. I am able to withstand chemical burns and toxic levels of bleach inhalation in an effort to combat the enemy. And when disaster is averted, I am able to restore order and soothe my "dude in distress" (no effective male equivalent for damsel) with one embrace. I. Am. Supermom.

Happy Mother's Day!

About this time 9 years ago. I saw the flutter of a heartbeat and became a mother for the first time.  Sadly, that heartbeat faded too soon.  A year later, I was again granted the gift of unconditional love.  I held my precious Joshua for 22 fleeting minutes before he drifted away.  By God's grace, I went on to become a mother two more times - blessing me with my Megan Grace and Jackson Benjamin (a.k.a. Bucket and Rooster).  Today, I am blessed beyond measure with two of the most energetic, charismatic, loving children imaginable.  Though some days I am quite certain I would sell them to the highest bidder, at the end of the day, before complete and utter exhaustion sets in, I am thankful for my little blessings and the fleeting moments that burn precious memories onto my heart.  Happy Mother's Day!


Here are a few of the gifts from my kiddos...

Dogs and Frogs and Bears…Oh, My!

I have always known that my children were plotting my eventual demise.  I was not aware until recently however, that their diabolical maneuvering extended into the animal kingdom.  I am now fully convinced that every living, breathing creature around me is conspiring in an effort to make mommy lose her freaking mind.  One may think that this line of thinking earns me a one-way ticket to the loony bin.  But, allow me to make my case.

I watched one night before bed what I thought was a 20 minute belly-scratching lovefest between my kids and dogs. Adorable and innocent, right? Wrong. I now understand this must have been a covert, tactical meeting to devise a plan to drive mommy bat-shit crazy.  I’m pretty sure the dialogue went something like this:  "Ok, you two take the daylight hours. Make sure you have an urgent request in another room any time her butt makes contact with the sofa. Optimum striking zones include the kitchen and bathroom - but timing is key. We'll take the hours between midnight and 6:00a.m. Sleep deprivation is crucial. We'll insist on going outside every hour on the hour. We'll bark incessantly into the vast darkness of the backyard. This will play on her security fears. It won't be easy. But with hard work and determination, we can do this. If at any time you suspect you've been made, abort mission. Just grab her corkscrew and run!"

Innocent?  Ha!

Crazy?  I think not.

Need more evidence?  What about the frogs?  These slimy little bastards first appeared about a month ago.  They first began their attack with the element of surprise.  Jumping out at me anytime I walked out the door.  Hiding under the trash cans.  One even suctioned himself to the window of my car and hitched a ride.  Then they began their nightly lullaby outside my bedroom window.  I swear those damn things conjured up a symphony of toads with the solitary intention of waking this already sleep-deprived mom.  Then they enlisted an accomplice – my son.  He spends hours outside “playing with” and “capturing” frogs.  Ha!  More like and “scheming with” and “harboring” frogs.  Yesterday, I left Jackson alone in the backyard hunting frogs for five minutes while I went to fold laundry. I left the sliding door open so I could listen for him. Anyone want to guess what happened next? That's right...a frog race in our family room. I found three and he says there were only three. Somehow, I don't feel assured.  I’ve started searching my son like a TSA agent upon entering our house.

Conspiracy at its' finest.

Yes, you’re starting to believe me now aren’t you?

Still not convinced?  Coastal living in Florida - one would think major concerns would be hurricanes, shark attacks, gators. Nope. Black bears. Specifically the family of black bears living directly behind my house. More specifically, the black bears my dogs chase out of the backyard every night. Fan-freaking-tastic!  Yogi and pals have made quite an all-you-can-eat buffet from our trash.  They have succeeded in breaking the “bear resistant” locking trashcans and chowing down in the wee hours.  Of course, this has not gone unnoticed by the dogs.  They are now seemingly on full alert, barking at every bump in the night, and forcing me to place them in headlocks and sleeper holds to quiet them.  I know it is just a ploy.  You can’t tell me they aren’t working together to invade my peaceful slumber.  They must be back-up for the frogs.

(photo courtesy of Kristal Walsh)

The conspiracy is clear and supported by solid evidence.  So, when the inevitable day comes where I am found locked in the closet, surrounded by empty wine bottles, rocking back and forth, eating frog legs and wrapped in a bear skin rug, you will have some background to give to the psychiatrist.

Mourning...

I find myself a little melancholy tonight and with a little soul-searching, I realize I am in mourning.

Mourning the loss of my pre-pregnancy body that will never be again.  Enough said.

Mourning a diet rich in carbs, gluten, meat, high fructose corn syrup, and processed foods.  I may live longer but I’m not sure it’s worth it.

Mourning the loss of my babies who have now become kids.  When did that happen?  Overnight?  Megan, now 6 years old, has become an independent, energetic, strong-willed ball of attitude.  Most days I’m in awe of her stubbornness and determination.  Though she pushes my buttons faster than anyone on this planet, I pray this strong-willed character will enable her to steer her own course in life without the desire to fit in to any mold or succumb to outside influence.  I look into her bright eyes with pure love and pride, but I do long for those sweet baby snuggles… those soft coos and giggles at 4:00am that brought a smile to my face… rocking her to sleep and humming her favorite lullaby every night.

And my baby will soon be four – 4 YEARS OLD!!  It doesn’t seem real.  Jackson has become the most charismatic, loving, curious, whirlwind of energy.  I’m sure he must have been a cat in a previous life.  If there is a button, he will push it.  If it opens, he will open it.  If it has wheels, he will ride it.  If it stands still, he will climb it.  Though his “why’s” get so repetitive that I am often compelled to scream, “because I said so”, I pray this natural curiosity and constant activity will develop into knowledge and a constant zest for life.  His wild eyes are so alive and full of thought…and mischief.  Mostly, I long for the days when I could lay him down all swaddled up in a blanket and he wouldn’t move… the days before he would crawl, walk, run, jump, and climb.

I am sure that at every stage of their lives I will look back with feelings of relief, regret, and nostalgia.  I’m sure it won’t get any easier to watch the days months years fly by.  I am thankful for the memories of their infancy and look forward to the ups and downs of their childhood.

Mourning the loss of my friends.  Of course, I mourn the loss of my youth.  It slips by faster every day.  I miss my childhood friends and cherish high school memories.  But only in my adulthood, more specifically the last 6 years, did God begin to show me the pure joy of friendship.  While stationed at Cannon AFB in Clovis, NM, which most people believe to be the center of Hell on Earth, I found my true friends.  I have been so very blessed to have welcomed these women, from all walks and stages of life, into my heart.  What a blessing it was to have found kindred spirits with which I could share laughter, disappointment, frustrations of motherhood, faith, loss, and love.  We shared playdates with our children, holidays with our families, spiritual retreats…quiet moments, very loud moments, moments we can’t forget, moments we wish we could.  Rarely did a day go by that I didn’t have something to do and someone to do it with.  My home was always open and often full to the brim with kids and mommies.

Now having been away for over a year now, hundreds of miles away in Florida, I find myself still trying to find my new identity.  I have been very fortunate to have developed some new relationships here.  I have a handful of friends for support when needed and a very small few that I trust with my children and my heart.  Playdates, family get-togethers, and girl days still happen but are fewer and far between.  Work and school schedules, extra curricular activities, absent spouses and the delicate balance of motherly duties often compete for time.

I miss being a social butterfly…event planner…playdate coordinator…surrogate big sister/little sister and at times, referee.  I long for my daily companions.  I miss my friends.

Some friends came and went.  Some are still close at heart.  Some are Facebook friends.  Some are bonded to me forever as family.  All left permanent impressions on my heart.

Maybe I’m not in mourning, maybe this is just PMS.  Maybe I just need a glass of wine and some chocolate.  Yep, let’s try that.

A Day in the Life...

Just a peek into the daily conversation I have with my three-year-old:

"No, Jackson.  It's okay that you pulled Mommy out of the shower for your Pop Tart emergency.  I'll just shave the other leg tomorrow... Oh, and thank you for helping Mommy clean.  The toilet probably was the best place for you to wash the dog poo off of your rain boots... Yes, Mommy does have a "squishy" tummy. Thank you for noticing... No, it's Mommy's fault for letting you eat in the living room.  I've been meaning to shampoo the carpet anyway."

{pours second glass of wine}