Just

I am no longer familiar with how to live simply. Children, without intention, drastically complicate everything. The other day, we were going about our business and out of no where one of my daughters got hit with a 103.5-degree fever. While I was patting her down with a wash cloth because, to her, a bath sounded “too wet”, my oldest was sobbing uncontrollably over never being able to grow a mermaid tail, which initially was hilarious and then stopped being so at about the 7-minute mark. This was just a Tuesday.

On Mother’s Day I decided to take a bath in our jacuzzi tub for the first time ever, since we moved in 2 years ago. Our bathtub is about 2 feet from where I keep our laundry, and so I managed to just sit for about 20 minutes before I noticed that the last of the baby swaddles was dirty. My husband, having read my previous blog, followed it so completely, he stood guard at the top of our locked stairs, so no tiny humans could sneak past into our bedroom. Because for me to just take a bath, he needed to be the troll at the drawbridge and I needed to teleport our tub to a place free from laundry. This is the point I am trying to make, with kids there is no just. Just taking a bath, just quieting your to-do list; let alone your mind. You’ve become one of those circus performers that is riding a unicycle, twirling a plate, and the kids keep tossing you flaming bowling pins in the form of: fevers, vegetable aversions, and tiny fists of each other’s hair.

See, your children aren’t trying to overwhelm or knock you off balance, because they aren’t even aware that you even exist outside of them. Why would you possible need to use the bathroom if that’s the exact moment they need a sandwich? Just make a sandwich. Except right when you place the plate before them, they have already decided they no longer like bread. Every day of motherhood is one long metaphor for the premise of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. Don’t get out the finger paints unless you are looking to mop the kitchen and give them a bath.

 

But if we see the glass as half-full--the opposite can also be said, that there is never a dull moment. A trip to Target is an opportunity to: sing carpool karaoke, run into friends, and strengthen their immune system when they eat unwashed produce off the floor. I no longer mourn the loss of the just; in this season of life I cannot just put on my shoes and go. See, after one child, let alone three, moments are no longer simple they are full, and that’s just fine with me.

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The Mother of all Days

Every day in our house is Mother’s Day. I feel celebrated by my husband and children on a regular basis. Sometimes out of no where my husband will send me a text saying, “I appreciate you” or Maddie (typically when I offer her a popsicle after dinner) will tell me, “You’re just the best Mom” and then plant a cold wet kiss on my lips.

During Charlotte’s first six months of life I could count on one hand the number of hours I was away from her. Not days, hours. With the arrival of Josephine, I’ve learned that time away from my kids can actually be just as necessary and beneficial as time spent with them. It is not about quantity, but quality. I read somewhere that 71% of moms of young children want alone time on Mother’s Day, which means the other 29% must not have understood the question. This is why on Saturday we can plan for a family picnic at the park, but on Sunday I want to sit on a throne of solitude while my kids play happily nowhere near me.

I joyously revel in my role; but I am constantly in a state of meeting others’ needs that are not mine and so when my husband lovingly asked what I wanted for Sunday, besides some homemade-glittered-crap from the girls, I told him I wanted a day that is entirely my own. In order for it to be special and truly unique or, excuse the pun, the Mother of all days— it would need to be a day where: I make food that is only for me, sleep according to my body’s needs, exercise without pushing a stroller, read a book where the main character doesn’t live on a farm and most importantly, when someone calls out for Mom, only Dad will answer.  

Happy Mother’s Day to moms everywhere, especially my own.

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My Scrambled Brain with a Side of I Already Forgot

I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I no longer have a cohesive mind. I realize my kids need to wash their hands after they are already eating a fistful of strawberries and spent the morning digging for slugs. I can in one moment be thinking how reasonably King Triton dealt with his mischievous mermaid daughter and suddenly I remember we are out of peanut butter. I will be walking to the refrigerator to grab a sparkling water and then be completely side tracked by the dog or the doorbell and by the time I get back to the fridge, Maddie has nabbed my water and I accidentally call her Alexa—to which Alexa responds, “What would you like to order.” My former UCD-educated-mind, preferably one that remembers all my kids when I’m leaving the supermarket.

So now it seems only fitting I share with you some random occurrence that follow no particular theme or pattern because even if I wanted to follow a logical train of thought, I wouldn’t be able to find my keys to get there.

  • Having a third baby makes you worry less about the common milestones like walking or talking and worry more about what age they will start picking their nose and eating it in public.

  • Yesterday, I used my hair dryer that I haven’t used on myself in 6 months, to dry off Barbie’s outfit as suggested and requested by my 5-year-old.

  • When my baby doesn’t poop for more than 3 days, I will dress her in an outgrown outfit I’m prepared to throw away.

  • As I loaded up my herd into our minivan and used my bare hands to wipe someone’s snot, I thought about how my current situation is the exact opposite of whatever it is people do at Coachella.

  • While some Mom’s may have been busy the night before Easter filling their kid’s baskets and hiding eggs; I was stuffing Ariel costumes and princess dresses into upper cabinets, so the only outfits my daughters could find to wear were pre-screened and approved for Easter brunch.

As moms we are busy—constantly thinking for or about our tiny humans: I wonder why they act tired but won’t go to sleep and for the love of Velcro and slip-on, “Please go put on your shoes.” We don’t have the luxury of only thinking about ourselves, which leaves us with a brain and life that often resembles an egg; scrambled, over hard, but never over easy.

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