Losing It

I have a confession to make...I'm one of those moms who appears to "have it all together," but, in reality, I'm LOSING IT!!! Okay, so I'm not really officially losing it...like, I'm not on any medication (that's not saying I don't need to be), I don't wander around in my pajamas all day (in public), and I don't have drool dripping from my chin (not my own drool anyway). But, I have "lost it" on occasion, and after watching Oprah yesterday...I'm not the only one...That's a reassuring and yet very scary thought.

Just the other day, I'm outside putting away car washing supplies when my 2 year old starts opening and shutting the van door with my car key remote. I tell her to stop (she doesn't). I say 'no' ( she keeps on). I physically remove the keys from her hand and tell her to listen (she goes over to the van and pulls on the handle). The heat crept up my neck. I could feel the veins in my entire body pulsate...(I'm sure I was turning green and becoming the not-so-incredible Hulk). Instead of taking a deep breath, counting to ten, or any of that other crap people tell me to do, and I know I should do...I LOST IT! I screamed my daughter's name at the top of my lungs and literally LOST IT!

The end result-she stopped. She cried. She said sorry. Whoa....really? Losing it gave me the desired results. True, my kids and my neighbors all think I've lost my marbles (I very well may have...if you see any rolling around lemme know), but it worked. I think my kids are actually a tad afraid of the crazy lady hovering just below the surface...the crazy lady that peeks out only every-once-in-a-while.

I do realize that I can't actually "lose it" and call it an effective parenting tool. It's not something I'm proud of, but let's face it. Us mothers are all actually crazy ladies just faking "sane" most of the time. I wish I had patience. I wish I had that annoying ability to speak to my children in a quiet whisper of joy and explain what I expect. Hell, I wish I could make a gingerbread house with nothing more than icing and homemade gingerbread...But less face it...I can't. My patience is worn out before breakfast is over. My whisper of joy only emerges when all the lights are out and the covers are tucked under my chin. And, I'm certain I can't make a gingerbread house without cardboard, a glue gun, and my children's imaginations (after I tell them an evil witch turned the gingerbread house into a pile of rubble after huffing and puffing).

I'm a mom, only armed with love (okay...an occasional bottle of liqueur, a gallon of ice cream, and a whole lotta chocolate).

The First Day of a New American History

For the first time in my life, I watched a presidential inauguration today. I've NEVER been so involved in politics. Usually, I just go in and vote, without much plan or forethought. This time, it was different. For some reason, I cared. I spent hours and hours of researching. I watched every debate, and I read anything and every thing I could get my hands on. Finally, voting day came and went, and I still hadn't made up my mind. That's right...I didn't vote. I wanted to...so so badly. I just couldn't make up my mind. I wanted to make a good decision, and frankly...both candidates had some really great ideas...and some really bad ones.

I consider myself a Christian. And, most people think that means I should vote republican...but I guess I'm different. I believe a true Christian should accept everyone and love everyone; leaving the judging to "the big guy upstairs"...So, while we're here on Earth...EVERYONE should have equal rights. By denying people rights, we are basically treating them like felons or illegal aliens. I believe gays and lesbians should be able to marry and adopt children (love makes the world go round people...and being straight, their actions don't effect mine). I believe women should have the right to choose. I am a mother, and I love my children...but I don't believe anyone should have the right to make up anyone's mind. I believe our schools are in turmoil, the war in Iraq is something we will never understand because it you can't win against people who don't care if they die. I believe in freedom of religion...afterall...faith comes in all different shapes and sizes and colors and books...

Today, I watched a man take the oath of office...Yes, he's half black so that's historical. But that was not what moved me. I was moved by the millions of Americans who, for the first time in history, came together under a blanket of hope. Do I think one man can really make a difference? NO...Did George Bush single handedly destroy the American economy and world outlook? NO...But, I do believe that one man can inspire millions....and millions can make a difference. That is what this election did. This election inspired millions from around the country and from around the world to create change...to believe things can be better...to want to act. Barack Obama has single handed light a fire under the American people. For that I will be grateful.

I know there are still many bitter people out there who aren't happy with the choice that was made back in November 2007. To them I say-Grow Up! The choice has been made. Don't sit around pissin and moanin....You're an American....the process of which we're so proud of worked. It's our job to stand behind the man who will lead us. United we stand, divided we fall. Pray for our leaders to make good choices. Pray for their families to be strong as they enter this unprecedented crisis. Get on your knees and pray-Thank God we are Americans!

Can't Imagine

Today I was flipping through the Sunday newspaper, as I do every Sunday. I clip coupons, read the local news, avoid the world news, check the weather, and read the entertainment column. Normally, I avoid the obituary section. It's depressing. It reminds me of my immortality. They are just death notices void of any celebration of the lives these people once lived. Well, today, on my way to turning the page to look at the weather, the pages stuck and I opened to the obituaries. For some reason, a small picture in the upper part of the second column caught my eye...A toddler. A beautiful little girl with the ends of her hair flipping just over her shoulders and under her chin. Tiny hands cupping her baby face. Sparkling eyes looking at me with curiosity and wonder. Under this tiny picture was simply her age-2 years and the funeral arrangements. What?! That's it....a beautiful 2 year old was taken off this earth and there is nothing.

Without even realizing it, my eyes are burning-hot and wet with tears. I can feel my heart start speeding up. I have a 2 year old. I have a little girl who's eyes look at me the same way. But I imagine instead of her fingers cupping her face, my 2 year old's finger would be in her mouth, and her eyes would have more of a puppy look to them. I can't imagine.

I can't imagine having to bury my child...whether she's 2 or 42....I can't imagine. But for some reason, a young child seems so inconceivable. I will never understand why a child's life is taken. Suddenly I realize why there is nothing written under her picture...How can there be? What do you say about a perfectly lovely and innocent toddler who has passed away? How can anyone write....Survived by....well everyone....even great grandparents could still be around. Enjoyed playing with dolls, running on the sand, sliding at the park, and being tickled until she could no longer breath.....No...No one could write that. It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem natural.

If I had to write something about my children, it would take up the entire newspaper. I would want everyone to know every single second of their entirely too short of a life. I could fill pages and pages just on the way my girls rub their eyes and toddle out of their rooms half asleep in the early morning hours. Or, the way they run...almost without touching the ground, to give me hugs and kisses after their bath and before bed. On the way their fingers feel on the back of my neck when they give me a hug...

My heart is breaking. . . Breaking for the family who will never hear that tiny voice speak their names. . . for the little girl who will never know what it is to kiss a boy, drive a car, have her heart broken, fall in love, have children, or even watch the sun set on a summer night after the business of the day is gone. My heart is breaking for myself and for my children....cuz I know one day we will have to say good bye to each other. I can't imagine.

My Little Girl is All Grown Up

Today I had a mommy/daughter day with my 4 year old. I am convinced that when I pre-plan and allow myself to actually look forward to something; the world turns against me to make it a miserable experience.

Okay, it wasn't actually that bad. I had been looking forward to taking my daughter with me to get pedicures. We'd done it once before, and we both enjoyed it. Today, she was excited. We talked about the color she would pick and she kept changing her mind between flowers and butterflies.

Well, 20 toe nails, 60 minutes, and 1 extended meltdown later, we left the nail salon. Apparently, sticky butterflies were not what she wanted. In very broken English, the petite woman offered to change my little ones nails to whatever she wanted. In very clear English I told my daughter that she either stops crying and lets the lady finish her nails...OR the polish will be removed, she'll sit her butt in the car, and she won't have anymore mommy/daughter days again....

After about 15 minutes of hiccuping tears and snotty sleeves...Anne decided on butterflies and flowers. She also decided that pink was much more appropriate than the street walker red she had originally wanted. Fine one minute, meltdown the next, fine again.

I was so amazed to see how incredibly grown-up my four year old can look while being suddenly so amazingly unpredictable and well...suddenly four years old. I constantly struggle with making my kids happy and teaching them they can't alway shave their way...sticking to a decision.

In the very same day, we stopped off after a hectic shopping trip at Sam's Club to get the girls' hair cuts. Well, at the last minute, we decided to let my two year old get her very first professional hair cut. My stomach was in knots as I watched her climb up into the chair. I just knew that she was going to end up with a crew cut since she has no ability to sit still....I stared in amazement as she stared straight into the mirror, and got the most perfect hair cut ever.

Now, I sit alone in my room. I think about how much pride I have for my girls. I am happy they have the ability to act mature beyond their years yet still well aware they're babies. Their personalities can turn on a dime. I'm convinced that all four year olds are bi-polar. I also convinced that when my girls start getting PMS, we need to look into boarding school.

It Won't Be Like This For Long

I was driving home after a full, yet surprisingly pleasant day, of running errands with both of my children, and a song came on the radio. Darius Rucker, former Hootie and the Blowfish singer, has a new song called "It Won't Be Like This For Long." Wow. I've heard the song before, and it does have a few...okay many....of the same characteristics of Trace Adkins " You're Gonna Miss This." Anyhow, I'm listening to this song from a dad's perspective. He's singing about how quickly the hard parts will go by...then suddenly realizes the good parts go by just as quickly.

Maybe it's because I've had the first stress-free errand day with my kids in I don't know how long, but I started crying like a baby. I'm sure my major PMS symptoms aren't helping either, but I just couldn't stop crying.

Last night we were watching The Incredibles with my girls. Both girls were hunkered down with blankets and stuffed animals on my lap on the couch. They were both still and silent. Bri sucked her finger and leaned her head against my cheek. Anne's fingers were wrapped around my hand as she stared at the super hero family save the day yet again. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of syrup from breakfast and the last hint of shampoo scent from last night's bath from my little one's hair. I concentrated on the warmth of their bodies so close to mine. I know that in just a few years, they will be too busy to wanna watch a movie with their mom. In just a few years, they won't wanna snuggle on the crowded couch. In just a few years, I'll need them more than they need me.
It won't be like this for long...they won't scream in the cart at the grocery store because they won't wanna go with me anymore. They won't fight taking a nap because they'll still be sleeping til noon. They won't sass back to me anymore cuz eventually they'll just stop talking to me all together. Nope...it won't be like this for long...one day they'll be all grown-up and gone.
Excuse me while I go cry some more!

Christmas is in the Air

This year is the first year both of my children will "get" Christmas. My oldest, who is 4, is terribly excited. Her fingers twitch whenever she gets near the presents my in-laws sent from out of state. She'll beg to please, please, pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaseee open just ONE! Um...no....we're waiting. I explain we will open one on Christmas Eve.

My youngest doesn't quite understand that there is a special day, but she does understand Santa, and she's getting really good at unwrapping presents at top speed. Every time she sees Santa on tv she starts "ho, ho, hoing." Needless to say, it happens about every 3 seconds.

As an attempt to help them understand how many days til Christmas; I made a Christmas Countdown to put on the fridge. I drew 2 Santa Clauses' and the girls each glue a cotton ball on his beard every day. This worked for a while, until Anne, my 4 year-old, suggests we just glue 4 on so that Christmas comes faster.

I hate to admit, that I too am excited. No, not about opening the two presents I have under the tree, but to watch my children open their gifts. I am excited to see the expression of belief on their faces. I'm excited to see the amazement in the eyes when something they "asked" Santa for magically appears inside a wrapped package.

I know, I know. . . Christmas has a greater meaning. We try to make sure our children understand that Christmas is actually a big birthday party for Baby Jesus; who God sent so we could all live in Heaven with Him. The thing is...I believe that my children will always believe in God. I have faith that they will always celebrate Jesus. But, I KNOW that Santa is a brief moment in time. I know that Santa eventually will be just some "lie" we told them. I dread the day the discovery is made that the man in a red suit is simply that....a man in a red suit. Until then, I'll keep getting excited for my children's magic-glazed faces to light up on Christmas morning. . . Excuse me while I go put on "The Polar Express" again just to encourage the dream. BELIEVE!

My Children or Me

I was at a Christmas party this weekend, and I made an observation. Across the room from us, an entire table was filled with one family. At first glance, they looked like any other family. Unfortunately, I never just "glance." The husband looked to be in his mid-30's and was dressed in a suit with no tie. He looked happy enough as he took turns dancing with each of his six daughters. Yes, I said SIX daughters. The poor guy was obviously out numbered, but that wasn't what I noticed the most. His wife, and mother of the six girls, was immaculate...and...hmm...endowed. It appeared that he had given her a very generous gift, a pre-child bearing body...of a playmate!

Even I couldn't stop staring at her large, perfectly perky boobs. The thing is, the woman has SIX kids...yet, every hair on her head was in place. Her make-up was perfection. Her outfit, however inappropriate, looked like it was plucked straight from a skanky teenager's closet. Looking at her, you would think...'she's got it all.' You'd think that until you looked at her kids. Each of them looked disheveled and thrown together. They looked like they sprang from their beds and threw on fancy clothes. To top it off, they all had sarcastic head tilts and eye-rolling accessories.

Now, maybe I'm the minority...but when I had kids, my looks became secondary...Just ask my husband. I spend a majority of my time making sure my girls are the definition of "adorable." Only when their hair is fixed, nails are painted, and bows tied am I free to get myself ready. So, I do what I can do in the spare 5 minutes and go on with my life. Don't get me wrong, I do alright, but I certainly don't look like the woman I sat staring at for 3 hours.

My perception of what I watched that night saddened me. I saw a woman, who probably never looked as good as she did at this point of her life. That body wasn't earned by her, but provided for her, and she was doing everything possible to flaunt it. Every time she bent over, the entire room got an eye full of cleavage. She spent a majority of her time adjusting her shirt, or flipping her hair.

I wondered if I could ever put myself first like that. I doubt it. Sure, I may ditch my kids for a night to go out on the town with my girlfriends...I may even shush them when Keith Urban comes on the radio so I can day dream. . . But I always feel guilty for wanting time to myself. I can't even watch an episode of "Lipstick Jungle" without feeling remorse that my kids are being forced to actually play together and give me an hour of "me" time.

I am not proud of my body. I wish it looked like it once had...but it doesn't. It never will. The stretchmarks will never go away. The "hail damage" on my ass will forever be there. But I am proud that the reason it looks that way. I'm proud that my girls are groomed and look like they have someone looking after them. And, if my body ever does even remotely resemble it's pre-baby form, I can be proud of that too knowing I worked hard for it. But I can promise you this...no matter how great my body looks, I can never look as great as that woman did that night...After all, I've only got 5 minutes. Thank goodness I'm not the flaunting kind.