Stir Crazy Rainy Daze

You’ve never truly known the meaning of the expression “stir crazy” until you’ve stayed at home with your kids on a rainy day. It would be one thing if I could plop them down in front of the TV with popcorn and let them watch Sesame Street until their brains turned into Alphabet Soup, but there is just something about being trapped indoors that brings out their inner hamsters on a wheel. Of course my children own rain gear and we could go out and splash in puddles or do other indoor activities, and it’s not so much the amount of effort it takes to suit them up and strip them down, but the fact that I’d have to change out of my PJ's, which is where in the plan that I must immediately throw down my all-powerful mommy veto.

To say that my house gets messy on these days is like saying a hurricane has mild wind and light rain. If someone were to pop over unexpectedly, I would be forced to turn off the lights and hide with my children in the pantry, since we passed suitable for guests with our Play-Doh and pasta food fight. Although this is probably unwise because I can see someone looking through our window and believing that we were the victims of a looting or perhaps the before picture for a show on HGTV and then immediately contacting the necessary authorities. However if this lands us on some sort of home makeover show where they send my family to Disneyland for a week, our last name is spelled with 3 r's, not 2.

These are the days where New Girl’s “True American” or Friends’ “Fireball” were invented-- except you aren’t still living in a loft with 4 other roommates and you have actual responsibilities, so none of your games can include alcohol or fire. Instead our wholesome family activities are a very literal translation of “climbing the walls” and me raiding various closets for novel items that my kids have yet to put in their mouths or hit each other with. The rain is expected to continue through the weekend, so things are about to get a whole lot more interesting over here. If you are reading this please send more Play-Doh and lots of coffee-- we might only be one rainy day away from matching mother and daughters' footie pajamas. 

Behind the Family Photo

Behind every family photo I can still feel the Herculean effort and coordination it took to get it. We are never just strolling through an orchard in flannel at sunset with a selfie stick. It starts with locating all family members, which can be difficult especially if you are in an open space. This feels a lot like herding cats who are very angry because you forced them to wear sweaters. The only time two independent toddlers want to be held is when your arms are already full of groceries or another child, so you are forced to artfully create a scene that makes the “arched back pose” seem natural (parents will also recognize it as the “it’s time to sit in your car seat pose”).

Never say cheese! That quickly reminds your children of the food bribe you have offered them to smile which is most definitely not a complete protein, but rather ice cream or something equally goopy and sticky that you have withheld from them for the sake of the outfits. The only break you seem to catch is that fall colors actually blend well with spills, snot, and dirt. You have long since ditched your dogs for the photo because wrangling that many wild animals is only something you'd enjoy watching on the Discovery Channel from the comfort of your couch. 

It is never the picture where you look gorgeous because in that one no one else does and this is simply sacrifice number one million two hundred fifty-six you’ve made since you became a mother, but who’s counting? They say a picture is worth a thousand words and even then, it's not the whole picture. 

All the Feels

There was a time when I’d roll my eyes with the best of them, but now if I see a meme of tiny footsteps in the sand, I’m tempted to look for it on a throw pillow, add a quote about the fleeting nature of childhood innocence and I’ll probably be in tears. Strike that; I will absolutely be in tears. Ever since I peed on a stick and literally saw a double rainbow, I am one big ball of cheesy. While some moms are tempted to laugh it off and blame hormones, it is so much more liberating to crawl out from behind the box of tissues.

Recently a friend of mine had a baby. In college we bonded over a shared hatred of kissy pictures and dad's wearing their children as accessories. I asked her what she thought of motherhood so far and she texted me a picture of her husband rocking a Baby Bjorn along with some happy crying emojis, “It’s all those sappy, clichéd things we used to make fun of.” Exactly.

On Saturday I completed my fourth half marathon and one of the pacers near me continued to shout words of encouragement to runners that looked like they were struggling. At one point I wasn't sure if it was tears, sweat, or rain in my eyes. Afterwards I talked to another mom friend that completed the half and asked her if she too got choked up at several points during the race. "Absolutely!" she said, "On mile 12 when I got to the same location where I trained with my son in the stroller, I heard his little voice telling me I could do it and it empowered me to get to the end." I'm not crying, you're crying. 

I knew I was already done for because I was a very emotional person before kids. But as a parent, you feel everything at an eleven, so when your oldest runs into her sister's room to pat her on the head and tell her “Good morning, I love you, Sissie!” it hits you somewhere between your tear ducts and your ovaries.

I’m not sure who coined the term “all the feels” but my money is on a mother.