10 Minutes.

So my husband knows more than anyone (yes, even ME) how my moods can change at the drop of a hat.......but he also knows how I have moods that just seem to stick with me like honey sticks to my three year old's face.  The fun, slippery moods are here and gone so quick lately.  The sticky ones are lots of sad, grumpy, or just ... meh.... days all strung together.  I think that's why it's been so hard for me to get to writing this week.  I like making people laugh and feel relieved that they aren't the only crazies out there, and I can't do that when I'm in a Sticky mood.

Writing has gotten me through some troubling times. Writing is a type of therapy for me, so I'm hoping that this will give me a boost.  Whenever I put up a post it's like I'm putting it out there for everyone to see.  I'm exposed and vulnerable, wondering if anyone will read it, care, love it, hate it, call Child Protective Services.... or Heaven forbid, UN-friend me (oh well).

Writing about my life, my experiences, my opinions is one thing, but writing about my feelings? My thoughts, my reflections, my inner workings of what makes me...ME? Feels like quite another.

Well I guess I'll just do what I do and JUMP.

On the outside looking in I'm doing everything I normally do the way I normally do it.  I'm still the loving, caring, patient(to a point. Let's get real, here) mother I am.  True, I haven't showered in three days, but I still have a little mascara left on my lashes and my hair pinned back.  The kids have peanut butter from ear to ear, but they are smiling and playing "let's jump off of the stool and pretend to fly like Peter Pan and Wendy".  They only fight and pull each other's hair maybe 20% of the time, not all day long like it seems to me.  I'm run down not because I'm a bad mother, but because I've had two kids out of three waking up in the middle of the night with fevers and sore throats wanting ice water and to snuggle in bed, and "one more song, Mommy."  The laundry hasn't been done because I hate doing laundry.  I said let's get real, didn't I? 




On the inside of my twisted, chemically imbalanced, crazy brain I'm a failure as a wife and mother and daughter and sister and neighbor.......The house looks like an episode of Hoarders. The children are heathens. The dogs are starving. The upstairs closet is unorganized.  The laundry hasn't been done in three weeks and there's no clean underwear for ANYONE. The occupants of the refrigerator took first place at the county science fair. We ate potato chips and Gatorade for lunch and dinner was a complete and total PINTROCITY. (because I think my cooking is horrible, I have to find something on Pinterest only to ruin it because.....my cooking IS horrible.)  So I'm running around trying to keep up with everything while feeling like a complete utter failure in every way.........might explode soon, but I'm a passive aggressive person, so I just soldier on without saying anything and continue to suffer and go insane in silence.

So the tired, run down, and yes, cranky Sticky mood clings on.

But, something I've learned from cleaning lots of sticky faces.....it comes off with a little warm water and soap.

Into the shower I go.  Just 10 minutes is all I need.  The baby is fed, the girls have chocolate milk, and I have my Orange Ginger body wash.  10 minutes.  The kids will survive without me for 10 minutes.  Breathe. Close my eyes and listen to the water pitter pattering against the shower curtain,  let the warm water rain down and soak my tired hair.  Feel the sweat and tears rinse down the drain with a sigh. 10 minutes. Wash the worries away, scrub the depression off my skin, let it all go down with the suds in the drain. 

As the faucet screeches off I can hear the drip drip drip like a short epilogue to my escape.  When I pull back the wet curtain and the cold air prickles my skin, I step back into the world and hear the girls playing quietly with their toys.  After a deep breath and a mental re-set, I dress, dry my hair and slap on some mascara. Not because I plan on company, but because it feels good. With a little warm water and soap, the Sticky is gone for now.  Ready to start over, ready to try again.

I can look at my daughter's beautiful faces and adore them again.  Kiss their soft, crumb-covered cheeks.  Hold their dimpled little hands in mine.  Let the dishes wait because I'm snuggling with my girls while they watch Tinker Bell (again). Snuggle with my son as he wobbles his head and smiles up at me.

I'm a mother.  I'm not perfect.  I have limits.  Sometimes I need to re-set.  Sometimes I just need 10 minutes.

And that's My House in Real Life.

The Scrub Bug

I'll have to start out by apologizing.  I recently set a goal to write a post every week.  Well, my last post was on a Friday......and it's Saturday.  I know there were dozens upon dozens of highly disappointed readers.  Haha. yeah, right.  Well better late than never.

I have an excuse.  And it's a pretty good one.  I couldn't think of anything to write about!!

Well, that's one reason, but the other reason (the bigger one) was that my two youngest kids were sucking me dry for love, attention, food, juice, formula, snuggles, and so on and so forth...... ALL. WEEK. LONG.  I barely had time to feed us all and keep us living and breathing.  Well when my sister-in-law offered to have the girls over for a sleepover, I was so excited for the break.  My hubster was on an overnight camp out trip with a handful of 11 year old boys, so it was just me and my little chubby cheeks boy.  I imagined myself lounging on the couch eating ice cream and watching my TV series all by myself without interruption and finishing up the night with a brilliantly funny blog post.

....................crickets chirping..............................okay maybe not.

Then I walked through the door and the condition of my home overcame me.  There was a faint aroma that was less than appealing, but not quite identifiable.  I couldn't tell if it was coming from a  week's worth of dishes in the sink, I don't know how many days of garbage, or when was the last time I cleaned out the fridge?  I tiptoed around the house like I was going to sneak up on the stink.  *Sniiiiifff*....*sniiiiiiiifffff* ing my way around like a bloodhound.  Maybe it was a mixture of the garbage and the diaper pail.  During my stench pursuit I tripped over toys, balls, stuffed rhino's, crayons, laundry, and books about birds that say "cheep, cheep" and "how many starfish can you count?"  Yes, the very toys, balls, stuffed rhino's, crayons, laundry, and books about birds that say "cheep, cheep" and "how many starfish can you count?"  that I asked the girls to pick up before going to their slumber party.  In my frustration I could feel it coming.....my nostrils flared, my breathing became faster, my blood pressure rose.....I was catching the fever.

The SCRUB BUG.  It happens. It's encompassing, and debilitating and there's nothing that can stop it.  Even bed rest.  I'm not proud to say I was caught scrubbing my base boards while eight months pregnant and bedridden.  That is just an example of how it snatches you. Takes no prisoners.

It all started with the rug.  My husband bought me a beautiful area rug for the TV room.  I love it. I love to look at it.  But where did it go?  It was being hidden under piles of toys, balls, stuffed rhino's, crayons, laundry, and books about birds that say "cheep, cheep" and "how many starfish can you count?" 

Fully infected, I went straight for the living room.  With a twitch in my eye and full tank of gas I found the beautiful area rug once lost and gone.  I cleared the toys, picked up the garbage, tossed the diapers, put MORE sippy cups that were hiding from the girls in the sink, and GOOD GREIF, has this sectional couch been here the whole time?!  I never would have guessed with all of the laundry concealing it.  Sneaky, sneaky. 

Because the house plan is somewhat open, my disease spilled over to the sitting room.  This shoe box hasn't been cleaned out in months, and only half of them fit the kids anymore.  OH. MY. PAW PRINTS!! LOOK AT THIS FLOOR!  Where's the broom?  After sweeping almost half of the hard floors, I passed the bathroom.  The virus morphed into Multi-Room Scrub Bug and I gave in.  On my way to get the dust pan, I grabbed a rag and spray bottle for the bathroom.  Once satisfied with the progress, I spilled over, yet again, to another room.  Perhaps the biggest parasite of the first floor. THE KITCHEN.  Dried Spaghettio's on the table, sidewalk chalk sprinkling the tile, more toys, soggy dish rags on the counter, stained rings on the glass top.  Yes.  It was a perfect host for the Scrub Bug.  And it was thriving.  In me. 

Once all of the obvious symptoms had passed, I suffered from the insanity-inducing side effects.  While bending to place a rug after mopping the floor, I spotted the door frame.  Dogs have been scratching.  Out comes the Magic Eraser.  While finishing up the door frame I noticed the side of the kitchen island.  Then the dishwasher, then the back door where the Newfie sleeps.  Horrific.  *Gasp!* Chocolate finger prints! Peanut butter! Cheetos dust! Brownies? When did we have brownies?  I circled the perimeter of the room with eraser in hand, working the grime off of the walls.  Suddenly, a tickle runs down my face.  What's this?  I blink my way back into consciousness and touch the sweat on my face.  I take a deep breath in, feeling my lungs fill with Lysol air. I exhale as I look over the main floor of our house.  It's gone. I'm cured. It's over.

The baby was ready for a bottle again.  Where did the time go?  I looked at the clock and realized it was time for bed.  Another symptom.  Time laps. 

I still sense a trace of Lysol when I enter the house today, but I like that better than the unidentifiable stench that it has now replaced. 

And that's My House in Real Life.

Confessions of a Real Mom

So I've been thinking.  Which is dangerous, I know.  But here's the thing. Over in my profile I mentioned how I don't live in a beautiful magazine house, and I'm okay with that.  Well, here's another one for ya. 

If you are a female, and you have one or more children, chances are you have subscribed, read, skimmed, or flipped through a parenting magazine; am I right? If not, I will take a moment to explain what I like to call........The Magazine Mom.

DISCLAIMER: This is my personal opinion.  If you love parenting magazines and study them like the Bible, Awesome. Rock on. Work it, sister. However, these are my thoughts.

In a parenting magazines, we moms are bombarded with expectations and suggestions.  Your child should be getting this much sleep, this many ounces of whole milk, water down their juice, only serve your toddler organic foods, make your own baby food cause you have oodles of time on your hands between feeding your child three healthy and balanced meals with two healthy snacks in between that are never accompanied by processed foods or Red dye #40 or GOOD HEAVENS, IS THAT HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP!?  Buy this ridiculously expensive toy for them to drool on so their development will be 34% more on target. Your baby should weigh so much as this age, and spend this much time doing developmentally stimulating activities every day, oh and by the way, have you started the three day potty training method while you keep the grocery store tantrums completely under control?......  *PHEW*

This encompasses.......The Magazine Mom.  The moms that *appear to* spend a whole lot of time trying to keep up with all this crap! (excuse me)  They are all around us.  Making us "Real Moms" feel silly and inadequate.  I've hard them be referred to as  "Cute Moms" for their ability to always look like they just walked out of a photo shoot for a parenting magazine.  *Oy.*  Such high expectations that I have been feeling!  Feeling like if I'm a Magazine Mom, that means I'm a GOOD mom......and anything short of that is......well.....unacceptable.  Of course, this isn't the intent of the magazine people (I don't think it is, anyway) but like I said before.... these are my thoughts.  I feel like I'm expected to obtain all of these skyscraper levels of parenting.

I will admit, I was giddy when my sister gave me my first subscription to a parenting magazine for my birthday.  GIDDY, I tell you.  I did try to follow the experts and study the articles like there was going to be a test.  And yes, I admit, I made my own baby food.  It was terrible, and my daughter refused to eat it. LOL  I only had one child and already felt overwhelmed with all of the studies and statistics.  Was my daughter on target? Was she getting enough calories? Is it safe for her to be eating white bread? Should I be testing this food for three days to see if she's allergic?  So many things that I was not only thinking about, but WORRYING about.  My husband kept telling me I was being really silly worrying about these things.  Repeatedly. And I have something to say about my behavior.  I'm so sorry for worrying about silly things that don't really matter as much as I thought they did.

Now here's the thing.  CLEARLY.... I am not a Magazine Mom.  I am a Real Mom.  And here come my Confessions of a Real Mom:

My girls had Cheetos and chocolate milk for breakfast the other day,  I give them 100% NOT watered down apple juice *gasp* and 2% milk!! I also shared a bowl of brownies and ice cream with my three year old last night at 9pm. My girls have spent three straight days in the same pajamas because we didn't leave the house and I didn't want to do the extra laundry.  I have wiped their boogers with their shirts on numberless occasions, I RARELY sanitize a fallen pacifier,  I have no idea what time the baby had how many ounces.....he's hungry, feed him.  I let the dogs lick their faces, When my two girls start fighting.......I let them duke it out for a while before breaking it up.  And here comes a doozy...... I spank their little butts.  Their five basic food groups are peanut butter and nutella sandwiches, grilled cheese, hot dogs with Salt and Vinegar chips, pizza and Spaghettios (princess shapes) and I let them watch a whole lot of TV.

Sounds like a pretty lazy mom, doesn't it?  Wait. It gets better, I promise.

I am not a Magazine Mom.  Does that mean I'm a Bad Mom?  No.  And here comes the why:

My children (ages 3 and almost two) say "please" "thank you" "you're welcome" and "sorry" to my husband, myself, each other, and anybody else who comes in contact with them....(here it comes)....... with minimal prompts.  They have chores. I feel that if they can reach it, they can do it.....and if they can't reach it, they can go get their stool.  They help put clean dishes away, sweep, switch laundry and take the (small bags of) garbage out. They help pick up their toys, shoes, laundry, garbage, and know where each of those items belong.  My three year old is learning to go potty without any help (she still needs help with the wiping process) No, I don't expect them to know how to read or even know the alphabet. They are toddlers, for crying out loud. Let them enjoy being toddlers.

Now I sound like a slave driver, don't I?

 Well, here's the game changer.  Ready?  The girls are doing these chores and activities by their own free will and choice 90% of the time.  Why?  Because instead of spending my time measuring how many ounces of milk they've had in the past 24 hours, and trying to be a Magazine Mom, I'm TEACHING my children. Encouraging my children.  Praising my children. Playing with my children. Loving my children. I have no clue what percentile they are in, nor do I care. I have better things to concentrate on like kissing skinned knees, wiping crocodile tears, snuggling away the monsters, singing bedtime songs, dancing to the movie credits music, and nibbling soft lavender scented baby necks after bath time. Do you know what that makes me?

NOT a Magazine Mom.

 A Real Mom.

A Good Mom.

I am not a Magazine Mom.  And I'm okay with that.

And that's My House in Real Life.