What if We Just Got Real?

We are down to soap chips rather than soap bars, and I was very disgruntled to find my face soap in the shower when I was finally able to jump under the spray twenty minutes before our departure for morning carpool. Hudson screamed and cried all through breakfast because I served him water instead of Capri Sun, then trashed his room with Lincoln Logs when he was sent to calm down. He and Lawson took great pleasure in punching, kicking, and pinching each other from that point on. When I rolled up to Camden's school with only seconds to spare, the teacher who opened his door was bombarded by the screams and hums of my other three children. She let an "oh, my" slip from her tongue before the van door closed behind Camden, and I could only nod my head in silent acknowledgement of her bewildered expression.

When one of my mommy partners in crime offered to walk Hudson and Lawson into preschool, I gladly accepted and raced home to try and dry my heavy, wet, tangled mop that masquerades as hair and still make it to my MOPS meeting in time. I attend these meetings because they give me a sense of belonging and sisterhood I haven't experienced since I found my best college girlfriends. These women are worth my fighting for a shower every other Wednesday (though I know they would gladly take me as I normally am with greasy hair and grubby clothes). They were pillars of support when I came to them very nearly broken with loneliness back in September, and they continue to inspire and encourage me months later in a variety of ways.

When I attended my first MOPS meeting, I felt somewhat out of my element. I'm so open and outspoken with a crass sense of humor to boot, and I was intimidated by some of the mild-mannered, godly women I encountered. I can't quote you scripture, I have a recovering potty mouth (motherhood does require censorship), and I love so big and bubbly that sometimes people aren't really sure what to think of me. MOPS is a Christian based organization, and though my faith feels more secure than it has in a long time, participation in organized religion has ebbed and flowed throughout my adult life.

The more time I spend with these women, the more masks I take off. I'm learning to love myself the way God made me rather than doubting myself for not being more demure. In taking off my own masks and accepting who I am and why I am who I am, I've come to realize all the moms at MOPS are united by the same insecurity. We all want acceptance for what one of my favorite mommies put so plainly this morning--for being real. For being someone who has endured pain and heartache and understands strife and the isolation of living in fear. For someone who has gone to the depths of self-destruction or self-loathing and fought hard to come out on the other end intact. Or for being someone who isn't perfect but struggles with the understanding that it's her idiosyncrasies that make her so special.

The women who surround me at the tables are real. Only in the last four months have I begun to form deep connections that reward me so richly with laughter and fellowship. It's easy to become so engrossed in my own insecurities and desires for love and acceptance that I forget those around me are looking for the same thing. We're united by love, by the pain and joy of our life experience, by the desire to be great moms, and by the support we have to offer each other. There is little room for judgement when you choose to be real and in doing so, allow others to hold the confidence to be real themselves. My heart has grown a little more each meeting and with each new friendship, and it grew exponentially today in watching moms lay out their struggles and let us all in to their little worlds.

My dear friend who spoke today has no idea how much less alone I feel just hearing her testimony and watching God grant her the bravery to give it. I suspect she stood up there feeling vulnerable and fearing judgement for removing a veil and exposing her private life to us. She inspired me today more than she ever has (and this is a mom who inspires me regularly), and I once again come to a place where I passionately and whole-heartedly tell God thank you for leading us to Savannah. Thank you for my beautiful husband and for the blessing of his job. Thank you for my spirited children who scream and fight. Thank you for MOPS and the sisterhood of women you've brought into my life. I truly believe it's no accident I'm here.  

We're on the Move...Again

This week I'm packing up and moving out for the fifteenth time in fifteen years. Eight of these fifteen moves have been made with my handsome attorney. Six of them have happened when we had kids in tow. Two happened while I was pregnant. You get the picture. We move A LOT. At first our moves were due to the fact that Jason was from a real estatae family, and buying and selling is just what real estate families do. Well, what we real estate families used to do before the market turned on us and bit us in our unprepared rears. I never minded the change because I get bored and restless very easily, and moving always seemed exciting for me. We moved down here out of a necessity that turned into a wonderful blessing, but I knew going into our current house it was only temporary.  It was simply the best we could find with two weeks' notice.

When we settled into our life in Savannah, I started to become keenly aware that my kids might not share the same sense of adventure I have when it comes to feeling settled. They need a home at this point--not just a house. They're in big-kid school now, so staying in the district is important for their stability and friendships they've formed. Having four kids has provided me with quite the adventure, but moving with four kids has proved to suck, for lack of a better word. Basically it's time for me to tame my restlessness and channel it into something different and healthier for my kiddos.

I hope with this latest move to put away my packing tape and take U-Haul's 1-800 number off my contact list. We're headed to a great house in a great neighborhood, so I know it's time to be a grown-up and become more "settled." I'm lucky to have fantastic friends who have come through for me during my first move without our family's help. I know Jason's gaggle of brothers-in-law are feeling they dodged a bullet now that we're too far away to enlist their brute strength. I did cheat a little and ask my dad and stepmom to come for a portion of the move, but I know my dad is ready to hang up his work boots after this relocation. For everyone's sake, I hope I can pour all of my excess energy into writing and maybe another adventurous hobby. I hear knitting is fun.

The Illusion of Balance

Balance is a simple word that manages to confound us all. It's the reason I've attended yoga sessions for the past six years and why I spend so much of my time analyzing my place in this world. I'm searching for the key to mental, physical, spiritual, and emotional balance. Sometimes it feels as if my life is dictated by the whirring spin of the washing machine or the persistent glub glub of another tubful of dirty bathwater swirling down the drain.

Today I sit at my computer with the all-too-familiar sounds in the background. Libby the Farting Dog outside growling at a squirrel, the buzz of the dryer as my fourth load of towels finishes its cycle, Hudson and Lawson turning the pages of books in their beds, and Scout's sound machine lulling her to sleep in her room. My hair is saturated with the "color in a box" I've grown accustomed to since the real estate market went belly-up, my Crocs are riddled with sand from yesterday's beach trip, and my neglected fingernails are tip-tapping across the keys as I attempt to put my jumbled thoughts and feelings into words. I'm counting down the minutes until I load up the gang to go get Camden from his long day at kindergarten and contemplating how to orchestrate the inevitably necessary chore chart for my spirited little men.

I'll get ready for bed tonight wishing I had found a way to walk on the treadmill and wondering what part-time job might be right for me next fall. But at the close of the day, I'll be lying next to a true partner who has the power to both infuriate me and inpsire me, sometimes in a single breath. A challenging, intelligent, dry-witted mess of a man and someone I love more than I ever felt was possible. The laughter, stories, and sass of my kids will still be ringing in my ears, and I'll wonder which one of them will clamber into our bed in the middle of the night. The tomorrow that awaits me will present its own set of balance beams to walk, and I'll be ready. I may never fully achieve the delicate art of balance, but at least my clumsy attempts at it are infused with joy in the midst of exquisite, life-fulfilling chaos.  

Little Boy Joy

Over the next four months, I'll be trying to prepare myself emotionally to send all three of my beautiful boys to big kid school. Camden, Hudson, and Lawson challenge me more than anyone else ever has, but I wouldn't trade one tantrum (or CT scan) for the joy they've brought me. The only Jones luckier than me or Jason is Scout because she has three brothers who love her fiercely and who will make her childhood one of the most entertaining imaginable.

Little Boy Joy

The day we discovered

A little boy we would hold

My heart filled with excitement

I saw a bright future unfold

You came into the world

So healthy and strong

All the love in my heart

To you now belonged

You grew and you grew

Learning new things each day

So much to discover

And soooo much to say

Now my house is a landfill

Of toy cars and trucks

We’ve had a few X-rays

You’ve cost us some bucks

You wrestle your dad

You throw tantrums for mom

I take many deep breaths

And try to stay calm

You break from destruction

When it’s time to refuel

Then it’s right back to mayhem

And breaking the rules   

Dirt is a preference

For paint and for play

My laundry’s a mountain

I do four loads a day

No one could prepare me

For what was in store

There’s food on the windows

There’s pee on the floor

Bath time is like torture

Brushing teeth takes a bribe

Those drawers on your head

Should be on your backside

As the mom of a boy

There are things I now know

Like gas is just funny

No matter how old you grow

A burp of great magnitude

Deserves a high five

Followed by an “excuse me”

For good manners we strive

 

In all of the madness

There’s incredible joy

No one loves Mama

Like my sweet little boy

I get the best snuggles

And all your best art

You draw me so pretty

With my name in a heart

I know I am lucky

You make me so proud

I’ll try and hide heartbreak

When you say “No girls allowed!”

You brighten my life

More and more every day

Little boy joy is awesome

What more can I say?

 

Guidelines for Mom Etiquette, Part 2

Below please find the second installment of my unprofessional guidelines for mommy etiquette. Be sure to take a look at today's earlier blog for guidelines 1-5.

6. Bring the girls out to play in appropriate settings. Extreme cleavage is for date night or open bar wedding receptions, not the neighborhood barbeque or your kid's soccer practice. It's bad enough I have to deal with my four-year-old groping my boobs at basketball practice--now you want me to field questions about why yours are spilling out of your top? Respect the girl code when it comes to husbands, too, and don't provide an open invitation for my man to ogle more of your body than you should really be exposing. Yes, it makes us a little insecure, but more than that, it makes us sad that you're so insecure.

7. While we're on the subject of boobs, give yourself a permission slip to buy a nice, mildly expensive bra to combat the laws of physics. Even if you have to roll them up and tuck them in to your $70 bra, at least you can enjoy the illusion of your pre-baby boobs. Every mom looks better in her T-shirt when her breasts aren't grazing her navel. 

8. Stop trying to win the battle of whose job is harder. Unless he's a stay-at-home dad, he doesn't get it. He really does work his tail off, too. It's just that he gets to do so while listening to what he wants to on the radio, peeing and pooping in private, and showering every morning. I envy these things--not his stress level. Do, however, request him to refrain from asking you to locate his clean underwear in the morning. It just makes you feel like a maid and mom to an adult child.

9. Tell another mom in a polite way when she: a) has a massive cliffhanger in her nose. b) has lipstick on her teeth. c) still has the spinach from her lunctime salad in her teeth two hours later (okay, fine the cheeseburger from her lunchtime Happy Meal). d) accidentally tucks her skirt or shirt into her panties on her quick trip to the bathroom. e) is calling a kid or another mom by the wrong name. Honesty tempered with tact is always the best policy in a potentially embarrassing situation for a mom.

10. Save your Mama Drama for your closest friends. Discussing your finances, the court order you recently received, or your strange and persistent rash with the other random moms at kindergarten orientation might make people feel a little uncomfortable. I'm pretty much an open book, but even I know to only divulge certain facts to my Mom Council.

Etiquette Guidelines for Moms

When you become a mom, there are certain transitions you may be slow to make or accept. Below please find my first installment of completely unprofessional guidelines for mom etiquette.

1. Stop buying your shorts at Abercrombie and American Eagle. Moms should not be wearing booty shorts. I'm not saying go walk-shorts or go home. I'm just saying you should be able to crouch or bend over to tend to your child without fear your cheek might slip out.

2. Be prepared to cross your legs quickly if you should have to cough or sneeze. Your bladder competency just ain't what it used to be, sistah, and it's not likely to ever bounce back. Wanna do kickboxing? Better wear a Poise pad. Wanna jump up and down and cheer like a crazy woman for your kid at the Little League game? Better stick to waving your arms wildly. If you resist this unfortunate side effect of motherhood, better carry an extra pair of drawers with you for life's little surprises.

3. Perfect the art of the "ninja poop." Gone are the days of making like a man and sitting on the throne reading a magazine until your feet fall asleep. Unless you want to court disaster by leaving your children unattended for too long or risk having Junior walk in on you mid-wipe, you might want to figure out how to take care of business in two minutes or less.

4. Get a phone that has texting capabilities. No one wants to talk to a mom who is stopping mid-sentence every ten seconds to break up a fight or wipe a kid's backside. A mom on the phone is a magnet for attention-seeking little ones. Texting and Facebook are beautiful things because they allow moms to stay connected without subjecting themselves or those on the other line to the chaos of corralling kids. Just don't text and drive. It's dangerous and you'll get a big fat ticket.

5. Love your mommy muffin. I'm sorry, ladies. There is likely to always be a little patch of skin (no matter how thin you are) at the base of your belly that just didn't quite get the memo to go back to normal once baby made his debut. Tucking that pooch is a fine art--learn how to perfect it so that you can work with it instead of against it.

Go rock being a mom today, my friends! Just make sure your shorts are long enough not to be considered a creepy mommy version of bloomers.

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.