The Dumb Fight Award

We have a little award we give in our house on a regular basis. It's called the Dumb Fight Award. It can be bestowed upon any and all members of our household for a number of infractions ranging from petty bickering (is not...is too...is not...is too) to knock down dragout screaming matches over whether the talking Woody doll says "One-Eyed Bart" or "One-Eyed Dart." Tonight, I humbly accept the Dumb Fight Award on behalf of myself and my husband, who couldn't be present right now because he is stubbornly avoiding me in an effort to prove a point.

What, pray tell, was our game winning strategy to earn this magnificent honor? It was apparently so incredibly dumb I can't even remember its inception. That kind of stupidity takes real, very raw talent. I do seem to recall debating which one of us works harder and a very serious analysis of our unfulfilled needs for something along the lines of accolades and praise from the other for the jobs we do. Well, I concede. We both work very hard at very different types of jobs. We should each bestow our very deserving partners with a medal AND a cookie. Case dismissed--but not before we earned ourselves the coveted prize of Dumb Fight Award. Our kids will be so proud.

Attack of the Laundry Monster

I can tell I'm getting really comfortable in my own skin when my parents' arrival in town hasn't sent me into a cleaning frenzy. That's right. I'm embracing my inner slob. It's not like my dad didn't threaten my life growing up in order to get me to clean my room. For several months I had the wool pulled over his eyes by stuffing all the items on my floor into trash bags and hiding them in my closet. Unfortunately when he and my mother (pre-divorce) discovered all the bags, they dumped them back onto my floor and made me clean up all the mess. 

These days the messes I deal with are on a whole new level. There is little boy pee in parts of the bathroom I didn't know existed, I can barely wash enough loads of laundry a day to keep everyone in clean underwear, and I get a Lego embedded in my foot at least twice a week. Very painful, by the way. Tonight I actually found a piece of pizza in my purse.

Right now my big dilemma lies in the decision to wash towels and washcloths (which we are completely out of) or our green shirts for the big St. Patty's Day Parade. Clearly we can't be the only lads and lassies wearing blue or black shirts in Downtown tomorrow, so the scales are tipped. I will either stay up late enough to wash towels, too, or I will drip dry in the morning. The outcome remains to be seen.

Deep Thoughts by Molly Jones

Do you ever feel like you've lost your mojo? Not the Austin Powers kind of mojo but the zest that sort of sets your personality apart. I've felt like that for the past few weeks. I've had writer's block, and when I've written anything, it has just seemed bland and boring. There are two possibilities. Possibility one is that my kids have behaved too well for the last month, thus offering me very little inspiring material with which to poke fun at myself. Ha! Or possibility two is that I've let this blog (and my fledgling writing career in general) become a crucial component of my self-esteem. As a result I've sometimes hesitated before writing what I truly think or feel for fear of offending someone.

When I wrote the blog about vaccinations, I worried I would offend the moms who opted not to vaccinate their kids at all or elicit eye rolls from those who believe in sticking to the vaccination schedule without exception. Whenever I include references like Austin Powers that have just a hint of inappropriate innuendo (which my very immature sense of humor finds hilarious), I worry I'll offend my more conservative friends who mean so much to me. Showing who we truly are is sometimes difficult, and being proud of who we are is even harder. Sometimes what I want to do is vehemently and impulsively express myself, but age (and a reserved husband) has taught me to filter much of what I say and temper it with diplomacy and tact.

Don't get me wrong. Diplomacy and tact should never be underrated. I would say I'm a much better version of myself than the girl in her twenties who sometimes let a brash, overly passionate personality and bold determination to succeed get in her own way. In learning tact I've gained a bit of dignity I didn't really possess back in the day. I once called a woman who interviewed me twice for a PR position I wanted so badly and tearfully implored her to tell me why she chose another candidate over me. Very awkward and embarrassing, even now when I look back on it.

It's completely egocentric for me to assume any of you is interseted in what I have to say and even more so for me to assume you have noticed the shift in my writing. So for those who follow my blog and support my writing, I thank you. I'm letting all of you into my weird little world and opening myself up to the possibility I won't please everyone with what I have to say. This is not an easy task for a former sufferer of crippling insecurity. Yeah, former. That's the word I'm tentatively going with. In order to take back my mojo, I'm going to try and stop worrying so much about pleasing everyone and embrace my true, quirky, dorky, slightly (sometimes not so slightly) inappropriate view of the world and write without overthinking.

The truth is I hope to show it's possible to be a loving mom who tries really hard but is far from a perfect parent, a Christian who relies on my faith to guide me through all situations, a grown woman with the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy, a wife madly and passionately in love with her delicious husband, a fiercely loyal friend who loves without judging, and a Baptist who enjoys a good cocktail every now and then all at the same time. We're all conundrums struggling to love and embrace who we are without guilt, and I'm no different. In seeking to accept myself for the complicated mess I am rather than constantly striving (and falling short) to be who I think people want me to be, I hope my writing can be something that flows freely from me again. I want to write because I love it instead of writing because I want people to love me.

Tales of a Card-Carrying Nutbag Mom, Volume 30

No one likes having to make tough decisions. Some choices for me are easy and straightforward. If I have a choice of cookies, I'll always go with chocolate chip. Hands down I feel like PBS Kids has the best TV programs for my little dudes and dudette. I choose friends by instinct and almost always make great decisions. Today, however, I made a choice that for some reason I have turned over in my mind a hundred different ways. I've counseled with members of my trusted cirlce of Savannah moms and driven my husband (and friends) certifiably insane by soliciting advice repeatedly. After all these weeks of analyzing and worrying, I finally chose to prioritize my mom instinct above and beyond any other contributing factor.

Today I chose to put in a request to change pediatricians. I know. All my friends who read today's vague Facebook status update lamenting I was worried about making a kid-related decision are probably throwing their hands up in exasperation thinking "That's it?!!" Yep, that's it. Switching doctors is something people do all the time, so why have I tortured myself? The answer is a mixture of factors. Part principle, part indignation, and part reluctance to sever a professional relationship I've spent months cultivating among a doctor, myself, and my kids. 

You see, our doc is awesome. He's the one all the moms want to see. He dotes on baby Scout, he cuts up with my little dudes, he apologizes profusely if I'm kept waiting more than fifteen minutes, and he stays after hours to see my kids if need be. Best of all he does it all with an easygoing manner that lets you know he truly loves what he does. Three weeks ago I just happened to disagree with him on how to handle Scout's next round of vaccinations.

After her previous set of shots, she had a nasty local reaction that left her unwilling to use her legs for two days. No crawling, no pulling up, and no cruising. Two of the boys had similar reactions at her age, and I'm not sure why. Maybe my kids are just weird like that. I'm certainly quirky enough to have been the culprit in passing down such a strange glitch in DNA. To treat the boys' reactions, my former pediatrician split the subsequent shots into two visits, which I requested my new doc do for Scout. He respectfully and adamantly disagreed with me, and thus I've been at a crossroads of neuroticism all this time. 

I've looked at the situation from every possible angle. Do I leave a doctor I trust and my kids adore over this one difference in opinion, or do I suck it up and let her have the shots all in one dose--even though my mommy instincts are telling me it's not what's best for my daughter? On the one hand I can respect his professional opinion and see that he's trying to do what he feels is best for his patient, but on the other I'm frustrated he doesn't put more faith in my experience with my children and work to reach a compromise we both feel comfortable with. I finally determined I couldn't let my professional respect for him trump what I feel like is the right decision for Scout.

I am by nature neurotic overly analytical, which is somewhat of a blessing because it allows me to make an extremely carefully considered decision when I need to. Even with difficult decisions like this one, I rarely look back once I finally make a choice because I know it wasn't made in haste. In the end every decision I make for my kids has to come down to what I believe is best for my them. It's my job to love them, to care for them, to guide them, and to protect them. A mom's instinct is an indisputable force of nature, and learning to fully trust your own takes time. Letting go of my worries and trusting my gut has never steered me in the wrong direction as a mom. Let your internal "mommy compass" guide you above and beyond all else, even when the decision is over something as seemingly simple as choosing a pediatrician. Because it's our jobs as parents to make a big deal over small things and be a complete nutbag for our kids when it really matters.

Breaking News! Rock Star Super Dad Earns Brownie Points

Our life has just enough drama right now to keep things interesting without making it overwhelming. Today was a great day riddled with just a bit of insanity. Jason was an awesome motivator in getting our reluctant family out the door to church this morning, and of course I was so thankful we were there once we actually made it. Our faith is a huge part of what helped us make the move here, and our new church home gives me just the right jumpstart when I feel like my life is starting to veer into oncoming traffic.

After church Jason whipped up a delicious batch of grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches complete with a side of Doritos. Even without considering that any meal I don't have to cook is a darn good meal, he actually makes a mean sandwich. With full bellies we ventured out into the neighborhood for a bike ride.

My patience is always strained when we are ever so bold as to attempt The Family Bike Ride. Lawson's little legs can't keep up with his big brothers, Camden always has at least two bike wrecks, Hudson feels the need to stop every fifteen feet to "rest," and Scout has developed a habit of lifting my shirt and pulling at the waist band of my pants. And you know, I'm just not really ready to show all of my neighbors my lower back and the top of my underwear. A stop at the duck pond ensured soggy shoes from getting too close to the edge and a wet, stinky Labrador shaking the water out of her fur just as she manuevered into the middle of where we were all gathered. On a sidenote, Libby the Farting Dog is so fat that it's quite entertaining to see her swimming out in the pond like a big, black manatee.

Today's adventures were capped off by a trip to the carwash, which the kids always love. We were due back at church at 6:00, after which I planned to prepare a scrumptious chicken and pasta dish for dinner. Instead, Jason locked his keys in the truck, and we ate Little Caesar's pizza in the parking lot while we waited for the locksmith.

I know I'm lucky because some people would find the unplanned, inconvenient snags in our day frustrating, and instead, I usually I find mishaps like these hilarious and entertaining. Not always, but usually. I'm so thankful for each and every crazy moment, and the two hours we spent at the carwash were actually the best quality time I had with the kids the whole day. Of course, this may be because they were restrained in their carseats and unable to engage in any monkey business beyond the length of space their arms and legs could stretch, but I'll take what I can get.

My husband was the epitome of patience tonight. I understand this particular phenomenon is likely because he was the one who locked the keys in the truck and not me (believe me, I'm as surprised as you are), but he was still a rock star. All in all I can honestly say I hope tomorrow is half as cool as today was.

Five Year Olds Are Meanies

It's been one of those days when I have to ponder the question, "does my kid have a behavior disorder?" And you know those can never be good days. The words I HATE YOU have lost their potency, which I'm sure causes my son a great deal of ire. That's his zinger and he's used it so much I'm immune to it. I see his tiny little wheels turning, and I know he's sifting through his mental catalogues of devastating insults for mom. I thought a nap just might turn the tides, but alas our sweet babysitter caught the tail end of his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. That's cold, little dude.

What I wouldn't give to be inside his complicated little head for a day. I'm learning not to be surprised when he walks out the front door with his determination face on ready to run away. The respect for my parents and the job they had dealing with me as a child grows tremendously on a daily basis. What I wish I had was a padded room used specifically for throwing tantrums and a circular track for running out negative energy. What I have is a Little Tykes grocery cart that gets thrown against his door when he's angry and a dwindling confidence that I'm steering him through his impulse control stage of development with my GPS set to the right destination. I just keep telling myself I survived it with Camden and psyching myself up to go through it for the third year in a row by the time Lawson hits this age. I'll be an old pro by then.  

The Gift of Time

Time is one of the most confounding intangibles in life. We have such a love/hate relationship with it. When we're stuck in a boring class in college, we need it to move faster. When we're racing to make it to carpool line as adults, we need it to move slower. There is no way to control time itself, only ways to learn to manage the time God gives us...in an hour, in a day, in a month, in a year, in a lifetime.

If I could choose one art to master, it would be not just managing time, but savoring time. As parents we wish for nothing other than the ability to stop time altogether in those especially poignant moments with our little ones. I sometimes rush so much through my day struggling to make it to one location or another that I find myself at night staring at my sleeping babies wondering how in the world I let the day slip by me so fast. Did I love them enough today? Did I validate them? Can I criticize a little less tomorrow? Can I listen more attentively---even when I'm listening to the fourth recap of how Spongebob drove Squidward insane on today's episode?

No matter how confounding or complicated our relationship with the concept is, there is no denying time is one of the greatest gifts we've been given. Tomorrow I will try harder to be present in my children's lives. I will try to make eye contact more often, reminding myself that what seems trivial to me is extremely important to them. I will examine and praise each rock, pine cone, and acorn Hudson and Lawson gather for their "collections" and remember they're trying to convey their appreciation for nature. I will try not to cringe as Camden gives me the run-down of every classmate's behavior for the day and remember what he's trying to tell me is that his behavior was exemplary and he wants me to be proud of him. When Scout cries after me to pick her up for the fifteenth time, I'll try and keep in mind she's telling me she loves me and needs me to help her feel safe, loved, and secure. Each of these moments is a gift; sometimes I just need to be reminded of that.

"Use Your Big Kid Words" and Other Condescending Favorites

My husband and I are struggling to see eye to eye on what I like to call the Equitable Division of Responsibility. This argument also masquerades under the unfortunate aliases of Why Are You Home From Work So Late?, Whose Fault is it the Kids are Late for Basketball?, and the real gut-kicker, What Exactly Do You Do All Day? We've been having these discussions since I had our first child six years ago and chose not to renew my contract as a special education teacher.

Being a stay-at-home mom is a double edged sword. In exchange for a complete disregard for privacy, I get the gift of time with my children. In exchange for the loss of a guaranteed shower, I get the flexibility to set up playdates for my kids (which of course are also playdates for me). In exchange for sitting in carpool lines four times a day, I get to participate in my kids' school parties and field trips. Now in my opinion, a working parent functions on an exchange system, too. In exchange for putting in a full stressful day at the office, Jason gets the liberty of riding in a car alone with no one screaming or fighting and with the radio blasting something other than the Laurie Berkner Band.

He also gets a guaranteed shower and can put on snazzy work clothes every morning. Okay, fine. I only envy the nice clothes thing every once in a while. My jeans and T-shirt days are kind of awesome. Tonight he was ever so bold as to tell me I looked like a "mom." What?!!  "Like a pretty mom" was tagged on at the end when my face very clearly conveyed how I felt about being told I looked like a mom. I mean, my hair looked a little rough, but it's not like I was rocking Mom Jeans. But I digress...In exchange for doing something he loves and which supports our family, Jason misses out on some really good stuff with the kids. He counts on me to make up for that, but it doesn't always ease the guilt a parent feels when he wants to be there for his kids more than he is able.

We may always have discussions over which parent bears a bigger burden, especially when one or both of is stressed or not feeling well. The truth is, I know how hard Jason works, and I believe he knows how hard I work, too. We've tried being a two income family, and it just didn't really work for us. I've swallowed the last of my feminist pride and embraced the fact we're happier as a family when I'm in a traditional role as "housewife." Neither of us wants to switch places with the other, but it still seems we're always looking for that perfect division of responsibility that leaves the other feeling validated and supported. Basically, I will always envy his ability to interact with adults on a daily basis, and he will probably always envy the flexibility of my schedule a little bit. Despite this fact, I still love him in the same stupid, sappy chick flick way I have for ten years. I'd say that's a pretty big accomplishment for a married couple with four little monkeys bouncing off of us every day.

 

Come Buy Pot Roast and Croissants With Me

Have you ever noticed friends make everything easier and less mundane? This morning I needed to go to the grocery store, which I've been dreading. Solution? Call up a bestie, lure her with the promise of Starbucks, and whiz through the store in half the time and with half the bad attitude.

Until my grocery store trip, I had one of those mornings that left me feeling like a grumpy, snarly mom who started her kids off on the wrong foot with my rotten attitude. What was left of my short illness was a massive headache, and every time Camden yelled "MONSTER TRUCK!" at the top his lungs or Scout crawled after me crying for me to pick her up, I cringed inside. Scout's separation anxiety is by far the worst of my four kids, and my patience is waning daily when I have to do every task with a baby whining and pulling at my pants legs. Yes, I know this is temporary. Yes, I know she's an awesome blessing. Yes, I love my daughter to pieces. But any mom who spends two weeks trying to take care of four children with one constantly demanding an unusual amount of attention in a such an ear-piercing, teary manner is bound to reach her limits. Today after I dropped Hudson and Camden off at school, I just needed a solution to improve my attitude so that I can pick them up from school a different kind of mommy--the kind of mommy who inspires and encourages rather than nags and discourages. Friends can always offer me just the right pick-me-up.  

Whether it's walking around the neighborhood, venting your frustrations, grocery shopping, or folding laundry, friends make everything easier for women. We not only take care of our kids and our husbands, we take care of each other. I never really realized that completely until I moved away from my family--who had spent so many years taking care of me--and learned to lean on a different kind of family. A chosen family of incredible women and moms who are there to listen, to advise, to bring me ginger ale when I'm sick, to take my kids to McDonald's, to give me hand-me-downs because they know I'll use them and appreciate them, and most of all, to make me laugh when I need to the most. I can only hope I give back to these women what I receive from them--a sense of unconditional love and friendship that I thought I wouldn't have in a new city. I'm so thankful to have added these ladies to my kaleidoscope of beautiful friends and look forward to the opportunity to introduce my best Atlanta women to my best Savannah women. The awesomeness will be epic.   

Cootielicious

It's Murphy's Law when a mom brags like I recently did that I rarely catch the cooties that fate will soon set out to disprove my theory that I have become immune to most illnesses. Last night I developed sidelining nausea that sent me to bed before midnight (this almost never happens) and left me struggling to crawl out of the covers this morning and get my little ones off to school.

I did experience a moment of amusement when Jason asked me if I needed time to get myself dressed. "No," I told him plaintively. I happen to think my ratty hair and wrinkled T-shirt make the grade for venturing outside the walls of this house. To humor him I put on a baseball cap. I'm sure by now most other moms have learned to honor a two foot parameter of distance.

I'm sitting here watching Scout relish a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and waiting for the zoo crew to descend upon the house from their playdate. It's time to gather my wits and get ready for action because moms don't get to go down when there are adorably loud, endearingly dependent little guys and gals in need of our time.

Disclaimer: It occurred to me as soon as I published this post that most people would assume a mom of four kids sidelined with nausea is about to enjoy the blessing of a fifth little one. No worries--I just caught a stomach bug from my husband. Unless he's pregnant and it's contagious, our brood stands firm at four.