My Kinda Crazy

Dear Mom of a “Strong-Willed” little,

-You’re tired, aren’t you? Of the arguing and the drama and the witty comebacks that come from that smart little brain.
-You’re worried aren’t you? That this isn’t just a “phase” like everyone keeps saying. That one day your child will be grown into a loner because people can’t handle that argumentative, big personality.
-You’re frustrated, aren’t you? That the wrong shirt sends the morning into a tale-spin of blurts, grunts, and curses because nothing other than exactly what is wanted is acceptable. 
-You’re annoyed, aren’t you? Of the notes home from the teacher…because your daughter pushed someone who was teasing her down. (Insert invisible pride here.)
-You’re confused, aren’t you? That the exact same thing you scold your child for in kindergarten is what you’ll be congratulating them for as an adult.
-You’re strong, aren’t you? You’re navigating your babe on a rollercoaster with a shitty compass…endlessly trying to dull the fire, yet never (ever) allowing it to go out. 
-You’re proud, aren’t you? That this little is full of “piss & vinegar”…that your little will never be pushed around…and that amount of gumption is bound for big things.
I hereby grant you permission to feel all of those things, especially proud. 
Love, 

Mama to a turd too

I started and ended my day with dishes. Four times in total, actually. I f’in hate doing dishes, but not quite as much as I hate them sitting there on my counter festering in filth. Hate them. Hate. Them. 

You know what I love? I LOVE the friend who responds to an impromtu message like, “Drink?” With something like “Yep.”  

Followed by “Pick you up in 5. I’m wearing sweats.”  

Followed by Captain Morgan… strangers… giggles in the corner… and NOT even a second’s thought about dishes!!  

I love friends who make me forget about my responsibilities and let me laugh. The ones who enthusiastically participate in people watching and can read your thoughts with a head nod.  The ones who let me have my ugly moments (hair and morals) and love me anyhow.  

I’m a realist by nature, so the drop-everything and-go-get-yourself-the-drink-you-earned-today moment doesn’t happen often. I’ve got too many responsibilities and things to check off the list. But I’m learning that letting loose a bit is sometimes (gasp!) NECESSARY to maintain sanity. So if you don’t have one, be on the look-out for the perfect “let loose” friend…you need them! 

The responsible friendships and discussions about life’s purpose and religion and financial planning…they’re awesome too.  

But tonight I’m sending some air guitar and knuckles to the carefree, judgement-free friendships that survive on messages of sarcasm and random drinks at the local watering hole…and I’m not talking about my damn sink!  

Do you remember how MAGICAL Christmas was as a kid? The lights. The presents. The time with my cousins and family. Endless cookies. Presents. Santa and his spectacular magic. It. Was. Amazing. 

Fast forward thirty years and two kids. Holy shit…I need more moscato. Never do we ever get the lights up before it’s 9 f’in degrees…and there’s no attempted sexual favor negotiations for my husband to do it. 

There’s the cleaning. Keep the house spotless for family in town…cause God forbid I let family see a stack of clothes or the box of g’damn fruit loops in our couch cushions. Don’t get me started on the pee stains on my toilet seat: husband or toddler? I’ll never know, but neither know how to clean it yet. (Ok I’ll admit, this one is basically because I have issues.)

There’s all of the presents. My daughter’s Santa list this year: a real dog, a real cat, and a real monkey. This is the kind of pressure that only moscato can help me with. First glass: “Time to learn the truth about Santa…I don’t care if you’re only 5.” Second glass: “I’ll just buy her 1853 other things and maybe she’ll forget.” Third glass: “The world is tough. She can’t get everything she wants: socks and books only.” Last glass (drunk at 12am baking for the class party tomorrow): “Maybe Zulily has a cat on two-day shipping.”

Oh and that—that was just the wine it took me to get my daughter taken care of. There’s the husband, the parents, the in-laws, friends, secret Santa at work, teachers, giving tree, and “Better throw something nice in there for myself cause this generous shit is a lot of work.”  Make that two things…my husband will probably forget the only damn gift he has to buy.

The running. And not the kind that keeps the sugar cookies from accumulating on my ass. The kind that means we have three Christmases in one day. Add the guilt trip. Multiply the sugar and swear words. Minus the sleep. And divide the happy married life. There’s extra trips to the grocery store, Target, the post office, the mall, and (my favorite) the liquor store. I feel like I need a personal assistant. 

The family. The sister-in-law who wants you to get the gift for the parents, then gets mad cause you spent too much. The grandma who is just a bit “too honest” or political to be able to enjoy a meal without awkwardness. My own kids, who will inevitably have a fit about a gift or another treat…or even repeat one of my favorite four-letter words and mortify me. 

The lack of sleep. Am I the only one who can only wrap presents at midnight? (And no matter how hard I try they never look “pretty”…serious thoughts of putting stuff in Target bags have occurred in the wee hours of wrapping.) Schedules are off. Kids don’t sleep, and if they do it’s with their knee in my back.

The old memories Christmas stirs up. My heart aches when I think of Christmases past: cherished moments baking with my Grandma, my Grandpa cutting the ham, Carefree Christmas parties with friends. Less work. More magic. And people I adored who I can’t anymore. 

There are some good things: sugar cookies and wine. Haha…I kid. There’s more: My kids eyes when they’re searching for “Twinkle” our pesky Elf on the Shelf. The look people get when you give them “the perfect gift”. Christmas Mass and teaching the littles about the nativity and the real meaning of Christmas. The tears in the eyes of the bell ringer when you bring him hot packs for his hands, a coffee, and a snickers. The music. The generousity. Uncle Eddie in a bathrobe…at least three times.  

So…I guess it’s not all bad…but then again, maybe that’s the wine talking. 

For real though, Merry Christmas to my crew. I love you guys…it really is a magical time of year if you open your heart to it.  I hope you experience more magic than mayhem this Christmas. 

 Cheers.

How many times a day do you say “Thank You”? Those magic words…the ones that toddlers adorably attempt. (My little says, “Tank tu, Mama!” and melts a tiny layer of ice off of my frigid heart.) Most of us probably say it 10-20 times a day…instinctively, without a thought! Anyone who hands me coffee or food gets a thanks. The people who come see me at work. The gentleman who holds the door for me. The people who let me and my babe cross the crosswalk in the “danger zone” before school…and don’t rev their engine or scowl. You get a “Thank you”. You get a “Thank you”! Everyone gets a “Thank you”! Except for…you know what I noticed lately? It’s like the people we are closest to we forget to thank. 
Awhile back my insomnia led me to an article about the best ways to make a man feel good. One of them said they like to hear “Thank you.” So I started telling the hubs I appreciated him doing the dishes, switching out the laundry, or picking up the kiddos so I could hit the gym. The little stuff that I would usually bitch about: “Why do you stack the dishes that way?” or “For shits sake leave the washer lid open or our clothes will smell like butt!” I have to admit that I noticed the more I said thanks…the more he did, and the better I felt about it. Like a little puppy aiming to please? Or maybe it feels better to do things knowing that someone notices? I think it’s the later.
Since we first started dating I have asked him something that to this day makes him roll his eyes: “Tell me something.” We spent the majority of our relationship apart in the early years and I was dying to know everything about him. The rules were simple: tell me something I don’t know. It can be a story about work(but those are my least favorite), or what his favorite holiday was as a kid, or something he loves (about me preferably). Recently we were snuggled in bed without a child screaming or karate kicking our faces and I whipped out the old, “Tell me something.” This time he didn’t roll his eyes, you know what he said? (Brace yourselves!). He said, “Thank you. Thank you for supporting me. Thanks for doing so much with the kids when I’m gone. Thank you.” I cried. And I realized how good it felt to have someone recognize my efforts…to hear him sincerely say it…because the truth is most times I feel less than adequate as a working mama. Most of the time I feel like a naggy, half done-in maid. But you see…I’m giving it my all every day. And it felt so good to hear someone say that my all was possibly enough. And appreciated.
So here’s the deal…tell those close people you love “Thank You!!”. Shout it. Write it. Whisper it, if that’s all you can do. Even if sometimes you wish they’d just flipping put the toilet paper roll on the right way just flipping once…they put it on there. This goes for the mom who watches the kids in a pinch. The friends who come baring wine after a rough day. The co-worker who has your back when your mind is somewhere else. The crew who keeps us glued together…who gives us what they have when we need it. And even though sometimes we want and expect more from those we adore…sometimes what they’re giving us is EVERYTHING they have at that moment. And we’re pretty damn lucky after all. So let’s tell them!!

Please tell me I’m not the only person who can sit alone (with my earbuds and playlist) in the middle of a busy place and be completely entertained.

Let’s get real here: crowds make me nervous.  I’m a bit of an anxiety bug and by nature incredibly shy.  I was recently at a baby shower and had to verbalize my advice for the beautiful babe’s dad.  I was shaking and on the verge of tears during all 10 words I said…and at least 10 minutes recovering.  So unpredictable.

Pair this with the lovely genetic gift of a face that when in it’s natural resting state looks like I want to rip your teeth out one by one..  Growing up I constantly had people saying “What’s wrong?” or  “You look upset.”  Well I’m not dammit, I’m completely content, but I can’t walk around with a giant Ed-McMahon-came-to-my-door smile all day.  My cheek muscles aren’t up for it. Through the years I have also picked up on the fact that I must be quite an intimidating presence.  Which I hate.  Because I’m about the most sensitive person you could meet.  I cry.  Too often.  I like hugs and am the awkward person that compliments strangers and tells people she loves them.  So…without a constant smile, my face makes me look like a frigid B.  Thus began the jokes about my Resting Bitch Face (RBF to be a bit more PC).  

So in crowds where I have to participate: I’m a stressball with a RBF.  In crowds where I can sit against the wall with tunes in my ears and let my mind wander…I am content and entertained.  I’m sure I look like I’m secretly planning to attack the blonde whose body bounces in perfect unison as she pulls her sparkly pink suitcase through the jetway with her five inch heels and recently drawn-on plush, pink lips.  Really my mind is more like this: “Oh shit…I would totally trip in those heels.  If they’d fit more than half of my foot.  How is she walking?  Don’t trip.  Ok…maybe trip. I didn’t mean that!  Be kind!  Don’t trip, hunnie.  And those lips:  if I drew lips on they’d look like my 5 year old helped.  Does she have a stencil for that?  I love my Asics and chapstick.”

If you haven’t done it, let me help with a few of my favorite games.

“Guess what he/she does”- my hub and I used to go down to Lake Michigan next to a marina and watch people on their boats.  We’d guess what the people did: from the dentist with the boat named “Pearly Whites” to the guys who we are pretty sure run the mob with their gold chains, furry chests, and much younger, bikini clad babes accompanying them.  Some people were easy to predict, some people we would have to conjure up a complete bullshit story with complete conviction.  “No. no. no…he looks like a pimp, but he was raised by disco fever parents in a suburban neighborhood.  He rocks a fro cause it’s all he knows.  He’s actually a science teacher who won the Illinois State Lottery and bought his parents the boat.  They’re napping in the lower deck.  And the girls- they’re his daughter’s friends.  It’s her 17th birthday.”

Another good one: “What animal is he/she?”.  This one works nicely for your 10th straight hour of continuing education or work training.  Each person has a spirit animal that they resemble.  I’m telling you.  Fox with red hair, distinct cheek bones, slender, maybe even a little sly in their nature.  It’s fun.  Try it. It’s even more fun if you can be messaging a friend in the same audience google pictures of animals and make them guess which person matches the animal.  I’m still not sure what I am:  angry hippo?

Some people act like I’m “judging” when I people watch.  But the deal is, it’s complete BS.  And I am aware of that.  I don’t really want someone to be part of the mob.  I only half wanted that girl to trip…and only for a few seconds.  I hope someone is people watching me right now in this coffee shop: Meal planning, research reading, and blog writing in sweats with humidity-controlled-frizzy hair, with a mean RBF.  Either I’m a beautiful movie star without hair and make-up just trying to blend in…or I’m a mom on her beloved day off.  
“People Peepin’”: completely free entertainment.  No anxiety.  No judgment.  No harm.  Your choice of mood music.  Just do me a favor and go easy on the other people in this world who were blessed with the RBF, they may not be planning to rip anyone’s head off.  

Let’s talk about happiness. Are you happy? Do you have a list of at least five specific things that make your soul crave more…the stuff where if you could pull your personal camera of life out and watch yourself you would be sporting a glowing smile without putting forth any effort.  

Here’s what I have:

-Races: A group of people coming together who have (most often) put in some form of training and effort to perform, meet a goal, or even just to be healthy.  Finish lines move me to tears.  And races are usually in memory of someone or for a great cause so the entire environment has such a beautiful sense of community.  

-Farmers Markets: the colors, the crisp morning air, the healthy produce that someone sweated and toiled over from seedling to final sell-able product. And have you ever noticed the people who sell the stuff—a lot of times it’s a family with kids helping.  The whole ambiance topped off with a warm coffee in my hand–pure, organic bliss.

-Music: specifically good live music performed by people passionate about their talent.  I love hearing the emotion in their voice and seeing the spirit in their face.  A little live harmonica about makes my heart beat out of my chest.  (Insert uncontrollable smile and happy dance here.)

-Traveling:  I love new places, new cultures, new music, not-to-mention new food.  I love exploring.  Booking flights and getting passport stamps are like my safer (and probably equally expensive) version of “taking a hit”.  I live for that shit.

-Last but not least…and probably the most obvious: I love my babies…on their good moments.  Like when my youngest giggles as I tickle him or repeats funny things like “Dammit” or “Oh Goodness”.  Or when my daughter sings along to the radio while helping me measure flour.  Or when she sweetly recalls my beloved Gram and says things like “I know you miss her, Mama. But she’s in our hearts.”  Yeah- you get the drift.  I could go on all night.  

You know the rule: I showed you mine- time to show me your’s!!! What is your happy?  

The world is BUSY.  If you watch enough news it is also negative, scary, and full of pain.  Here’s what I am learning: happiness is an active choice.  And it is SO much easier to achieve if you can list the things that give you that glorious, euphoric feeling.  Even more importantly – you HAVE to do those very things that make you happy!

 Make it happen!  Go on the run.  Buy front row seats.  Book that damn flight!  Or take the day off of work to spend 100% engulfed in the giggles and wit of your babies.  
MAKE YOUR HAPPY HAPPEN!  Double dog dare you.  

Beep-beep, tap-tap, curse-curse: the unofficial theme song of the school drop-off line. The madness the ensues within a four block radius of any school is overwhelming for this kindergarten mom.  No bringing the kids inside, because it’s no longer safe opening up a school to adults.  No supervision on the play ground prior to 7:40.  And a group of chartreuse sporting traffic controllers that could provide sufficient energy to light up Vegas with the amount of arm wind-milling done in a 20 minute time frame.

So it was raining, I have a toddler in tote too, how bad could the drop-off line be…I thought?  And then a SUV turned a two lane road into four for just enough time to cut me off and get into the turning lane.  Sweet. Wanker.  I get into the loop-de-loop, pull up as far as I could (following the neon windmills’ directions). Stop and put it in park.  Unbuckle my precious babe, get her book bag on her, and try to help her open the door to hop out.  I look up and all the cars ahead of me are gone and the principal windmill is giving me the “ What are you doing?!?” sign.  First instinct: fly her the bird and tend to my baby.  Second thought: bad impression for second day of school. “ Babe, get going!! Find a familiar face. Love you!” Slam door from the front seat while strangling myself with seat belt and hightail it to regain air…and composure.  (Only to have to slam on my breaks because one kid darted in front of me and another Starbucks jacked-up soccer mom had somewhere to be that was more important than the rest of us…I assume.)

So my question is… What in the hell is it about the drop-off line that makes people lose all common sense let alone common courtesy?  I wasn’t discussing Pythagorean theorem or even what pi equals with my kindergartner. I was simply trying to help her open a door that weighs more than her.  And do the neon windmills get a bonus if they get a certain number of kids to the curb in their 20 minute shift?  And what the hell makes you think that you are so much more important than me or anyone else that you need to swerve around me (risking accident or hitting a poor babe who is so excited to enter a building of learning, kindness, and understanding.)?

Possible Conclusions: put a mini van with push button doors on at least one of the three f*ing school supply lists floating around…right next to “34 glue sticks” and “a case of Crayola (not generic) classic, washable markers”??  Or hand out Xanax to parents within a 10 block radius of school?  Or wake up an hour earlier to take toddler to daycare then park 5 blocks away and walk your excited babe up to the school.  Watch her play and interact with other kids for just a second. And if you’re really lucky, you might block out the horns, hood tapping, and mental cursing galore—just enough to hear your babe scream from the top of the jungle gym “Love you, Mama!!! Kisses!”

Sign me up for the lack of sleep and the kisses…and the time for a Starbucks stop.

Toot! Toot!

Let’s talk about cheerleaders

Those who know me probably would say that I’m not really the “cheerleader” type.  Growing up when I got “ready for a game” it did not involve a skirt, pom poms, or sparkly eyeshadow.   I played on the court, wore the jersey, and scored the points.  Don’t cruicify me here, but in a past life I may have mocked cheerleaders a bit.  But I’m older and wiser now, so allow me to give a few props to the following pep squads:

-the gals who kept cheering and kept the crowd “into it” even when we were behind by 10 points with a minute left in the game.

-to the friend who sends flowers after you choke back tears and respond “my son is 6 weeks old” when someone asks when you’re due.

-to the mom who sees the fatigue in your eyes and folds two loads of laundry while distracting the kids so you can shower without an audience or pee without someone on your lap (GROSS- I know, but don’t even pretend like you other moms are above it.  I refuse to hear it!).

-to the friends who throw an impromptu birthday party for one of your littles…because they are dead set on helping me make her feel special in every way.

-to the friends who leave work to sit in the back row of your grandma’s funeral and let you ugly cry without judgment cause they know you’re hurting.

-to the babies who say “MOMMY!!!” and sprint to clutch your leg with such innocent excitement that you suddenly forget about the crazy busy day or the wanker who just cut you off in traffic.

-to the friends who send you frequent texts full of lies like “You’re beautiful.”, “You’re doing a great job”, or “Stop being so hard on yourself” when you’re in a slump that’s turned into a damn Grand Canyon (AKA: Aunt Flo is coming.)

-to the teachers who say “I don’t expect you to be perfect the first time you do this…but I don’t expect you to stop trying until you are dang close to perfect.”

-to the hubbies who come up behind you with a cheek kiss and a “You are beautiful,” as you step on the scale and sigh…again.

-to the friend who says “You can do it.  I know you can” as you’re breathing heavy, want to let your mind win, and just stop running.

The truth is:  we all need cheerleaders.

The truth is: I could not get through a single day with out mine.

If you don’t have one,  find one.  If you have three, tell them you love them and make sure you pull out the megaphone and pom poms for them too.  This game of life can be tough; we can get behind, we can lose focus, we can even fall down and lose.  But if we surround ourselves with cheerleaders; the downs will be doable, the losses will be lessons, and there will be a helping hand to pull us out of our damn Grand Canyons.

To all you people…you wonderful people…my squad with the invisible pom-poms who have kept me up and kept me in the game.  

You are A-M-A-Z-I-N-G! (Insert peppy head knod, loud clap, and muscle-pulling high kick here)