The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

Hi. I know it’s been a while. But I’ve been having trouble finding balance in mi vida loca (my crazy life). I’ve written a few blog posts in my head over the last few months, and am eager to get at least one of them on paper.

Last month, I was standing in line at Whole Foods waiting to pay for boxed lunches for my colleagues to eat after our team building nature walk in the Baylands Nature Preserve in Palo Alto, California. I had organized this activity as part of my role as Interim Director of Operations for the nonprofit organization being incubated by my fulltime employer. As I was pulling out my credit card to hand to the cashier I looked over at the magazine stand and a headline caught my eye. It was the July/August cover of The Atlantic magazine and in bold black letters it said:  “Why Women Still Can’t Have it All”. The headline was further illustrated by a baby girl poking her head out of a briefcase being carried by a professionally dressed woman.

The first thought that came to my mind was, “But I don’t want to have it all!” My thought process was as such that I know where my priorities lie, and that is with my family. But my reality is that I have a lot of priorities (maybe too many), and there are times when the priority of my family conflicts with the myriad of other responsibilities I have outside of the home.

When I was a teenager, I remember boldly stating to my friends and family that I would not have children until I was in my 30’s, if at all. At the time, 30 seemed really old, and a long way off. When I was in my 20’s, I had embraced many of the philosophies identified with feminism. As part of this, I asserted to my then boyfriend, now husband, that if we were to get married I would not take his last name unless he was just as willing to take mine in a coin toss. I didn’t lose, but I did compromise after our marriage by legally changing my last name to be my middle name because hyphenating my long and difficult-to-pronounce Italian name seemed cumbersome in the end. In our wedding vows, we promised one another that if we were not blessed with children that we would be content with each other so long as we both shall live.

After being married for a few years, I began to think that having children was the next natural step in our lives together. And I also began to espouse that if we were to have children that I would like the option of being able to stay at home. Six years into our marriage, the reality of being able to pay our mortgage coupled with our desire to have a family began to wear on me. So, I made yet another compromise and we decided to forge ahead, knowing that I would become a “working mom”. Our son Gooby was born in 2008 and our daughter Cakes joined us (ahem, surprised us!) in 2011, when I was 31 and 33 years old respectively. At least I had not broken the promise I made to myself and others as a teenager.

After having twice enjoyed maternity leave (e.g. being a fulltime mom) and followed by enduring the inevitable return-to-work experience (e.g. being a working mom), I have come to realize a few things. First, I don’t know that I would want to be a fulltime mom. It’s really frickin hard. In fact at times, it seems a lot harder (or maybe different hard) than going to work. The 24 hour days, the isolation, the testing of my patience, the lack of cerebral stimulation, the lack of appreciation.

Second, I don’t know that I really want to be a working mom. The 5:00am rush to be awake, dressed, and ready to go before my kids start their day. The struggle to get out the door before 8:00am and the hour and a half childcare/pre-school drop off journey before reaching my final destination at work. The daily mind shift from the personal urgent/important priorities, to the professional urgent/important priorities. The excitement of seeing my kids for one hour each night when I arrive home, and the being anxious for them to go to bed because I am so very tired from my work day and I need a break. The looking forward to vegetating on the couch after bedtime, and the need to make one final push until 10:00pm because my husband and I also run a construction business and there are things that cannot wait until the morning, because I will not have time before 5:00am, when my day starts all over again.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, I reluctantly agree with The Atlantic headline. Women can’t have it all – because (for me at least) there is always compromise and internal conflict. We want our kids and family to be a priority, but we also want to make ourselves a priority (which happens less than I’d like it to). We want to stay home with our children, but we want to go to work. We want to go to work, but we want to be home.  I definitely don’t have all of the answer to this eternal dichotomy. And I, like all moms (working or stay-at-home), am most certainly exhausted. So, let me ask you: How do you find balance, peace, harmony, and acceptance in the life that you have chosen (or been blessed with)?

So, if the purpose of a blog is to serve as a personal journal, or sort of online diary – then it should always be authentic, right?

If that’s the case, then today’s post should go a little something like this:

I’m exhausted. The end.

However, I don’t think I’d draw much readership from such a brief entry, despite how true it may be.  So, for the benefit of those reading, along with the joy of looking back on my own experiences someday – I’ll elaborate.

DJ, my precious and lovely 2 1/2 year old, went through another weekend-long nap strike.  If you’re keeping track, I’m now just over 36 weeks pregnant.  This is an important fact because it 1) explains my level of fatigue, and 2) explains my hormonal craze.

As most of you already know, sleep with DJ (or lack thereof, really) has been the bane of my existence since oh, say, September of 2009 – yep, when she was born.  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t accepted that sleep isn’t her strong suit, because I have.  I’ve totally made peace with the fact that I haven’t slept more than four consecutive hours for over two years now.  And, I’ve even made peace with the reality that I might not ever again.  However, on days when I’m feeling really confident that we’ve finally landed in a groove, and the needle comes obnoxiously screeching off the track – I’ve been known to lose it.

Let’s take Saturday for example.

I woke up tired, which is pretty reasonable considering that was at 2:00am.  I couldn’t fall back to sleep, so was up and out of bed around 4:30am.  I did some writing, posted a recipe on my personal blog, cleaned the house and thought about what to make for breakfast once the troops awoke.

Needless to say, starting your morning in the middle of the night makes for a really long day.  So, by the time nap time rolled around, I was THRILLED.  No, honestly, I was giddy at the thought of crawling into bed, enjoying some silence and reclaiming some lost hours.  DJ, however, had plans of her own – which, for some reason, revolved around torturing me.  As usual.

Since my first trimester with this second pregnancy, I have taken to napping when DJ naps.  This has morphed into us napping together in “mommy daddy bed,” as she calls our king-sized oasis of cottony duvet goodness.  While we go down for our nap at the same time everyday, there’s just no telling how long it will take my little monkey to fall asleep.  Unfortunately, I’m a terrible sleeper, too – which really means that unless all of the stars are aligned perfectly, I’m left counting sheep, pigs, goats, horses, Benadryl left in my arsenal, or anything else that pops into mind.  In other words, I can’t fall asleep till she does and all in the house is settled and quiet.

So Saturday….we laid down at our usual 12:30 siesta time.  Since her daddy was home from work, DJ requested that he lay down with us.  While I was charmed by her sweetness (nothing warms my heart more than her loving on her daddy) and the intoxicating thought of cozy family time, the hair on the back of my neck stood up a little.

The hubs snores.  I can’t even sleep through a cat fart, let alone his snoring.  He has a C-PAP machine, but somehow I knew he wouldn’t consider strapping it on for a nap.  I also want to point out that he never ever agrees to napping because he hates how groggy he feels upon waking from them – so to have him commit to this “family nap” meant he was exhausted too.  Exhausted = extra loud snoring in my husband’s case.  I felt my blood pressure rising, but I didn’t say a word.

He fell asleep immediately, which makes me jealous and tempted to throw darts at him.  But, it’s not just him – I want to shoot a pellet gun at anyone who can sleep anywhere, any time.  It’s infuriating to me….the one who can’t even sleep on sleeping pills – but that’s sounding like a separate blog post altogether.  Anyhow, back to Saturday and the Snorasaurus Rex….so, hubs is off in dreamland and DJ is in between us making up songs.  It’s an awful symphony of chainsaws chasing the lyrics “butterfly, go away” on repeat.  SOMEONE CHANGE THE TRACK.

I’m laying there, and I’m getting more and more pissed.  I figure I’ll leave the duet behind and take up residency on the couch – except that when I leave the bedroom, DJ flips out and her yells are like a percussion hammer to hubs’ patellar tendon and he barks out “DJ, go to sleep!” Which, of course, escalates her distress and lulls him right back to sleep.  He always has my back, the sweetie pie.

So, I pee and then climb back into the oasis-turned-torture-chamber and try to Zen my way out of my I’ll-never-freakin-sleep-again funk.  DJ grabs onto my hair, which is how she soothes herself when she’s super sleepy.  I actually find it almost as annoying as I find people who can sleep, but I hang in there because it usually signals that she’s on the verge of a deep slumber.  I lay there, hair being twirled, while my husband’s primal purrs ring out. Love him!

I am feeling my level of stress rapidly increasing.  DJ is now fingering my outgrown bangs, which means she’s intermittently touching my face.  I hate having my face touched.  I roll over, facing the wall rather than my delightfully annoying child.  I give her full reign to the back of my mane, but no, she demands more.  “I WANT TO GO IN YOUR ARMS, MOMMY!” she wales.  Another blow to the patellar tendon, and my husband roars “You want a timeout?” Oh Lord, yes, yes, I do!!! Put me in solitary confinement, PLEASE.  Oh wait, he’s talking to DJ.  Ugh.  She cries harder, he snores louder.  My pulse is racing.

I turn to face her again, certain that she’s seconds away from falling asleep.  I can tolerate a few more bang twirls.  I can.  I can.  At least I think I can.  And then, I scream “DON’T TOUCH MY HAIR! NO MORE TOUCHING MY HAIR.  IF YOU TOUCH MY HAIR ONE MORE TIME, I WILL SCREAM!”

There’s something magical about screaming out threats of screaming.  Oh, sweet release.

I almost didn’t recognize the deep, gravely voice emerging from the depths of my sleep-deprived soul – but yeah, considering the look on my daughter’s face, I was left to believe that it did indeed come from me.  We both sat for a second, the snoring in the background our suspense-laden soundtrack, looking at one another in shock.  Finally, DJ breaks the ice – fearlessly, matter-of-factly, and sans tears.

“I no want to sleep mommy.  I ready to get up.” And just like that, after more than an hour of hoping, really, really hoping that we could all just get some flippin’ sleep – I (super dramatically) threw the blankets off myself, rolled my nearly immoveable body off the king-sized piece of crap and huffed daggers at my husband.  He sat straight up, a bit confused at what was happening.  I moaned “I give up.” I seriously couldn’t believe that I hadn’t frightened the energy right out of my toddler, thereby launching her into a sleep coma.  Had I lost my touch?

Within minutes, everyone was outta bed, because when Momma’s not happy – ain’t nobody happy.

I’m exhausted.  The end.

I’m sure you can relate. Being a mom, my life is full of things I have to do, in order to get to do the things I want to do. I have been looking forward to introducing myself to everyone as the new Working Mommy blogger and can’t wait to get down to it. But, right this moment, I have 30 minutes before I have to pump more breast milk for my 9 month old daughter, and my 3 year old son is shooting me in the face with his Star Wars “blaster”. Why didn’t I spend this lovely Saturday’s successful 2 hour naptime to begin my blogging journey uninterrupted and without boobs that are sending electric shock signals that they are ready to roll? That’s because during naptime, well, I wanted to nap.

Okay, so good news, my son has moved on to pretending he is a ninja, and my boobs can wait. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am the new Working Mommy, though to be clear, all moms are working moms – hard working at that. I also have a few other gigs that are away from my kids. I work full time as the Operations and Human Resources Manager at a nonprofit foundation in San Mateo. I’ve worked with this organization for nearly 7 years and absolutely love it. Most recently, I have had the privilege of helping to lead the start-up and transition strategy for a new nonprofit organization we’ve created to expand on the work we have already been doing to get underserved youth connected with the outdoors. So basically, I have an awesome job – which makes me lucky. At least when I have to leave my kids, it’s to do something I believe in. I also work part-time (for free), managing the business operations of my husband’s construction business. Most of this work happens at night, on the weekends, or anywhere else in between. So also, I’m ridiculously tired. But these are the things I have to do, in order to provide the life I want to give to my children.

I know I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, mother to have forged her way through the professional world. I personally come from a generation of moms who work(ed) outside the home. My grandmother, who is now 88, had to work outside the home in the 1950’s while also raising four little girls. At that time, it was essentially unheard of to have a mom with a job. And such circumstances signaled certain economic challenges to those who made judgment calls about the class of one family or another. But man, my grandma is seriously cool. In 1943, she abandoned her own dreams of graduating college to get married before my grandfather was sent off to war. Eventually, my grandparents had a family, and my grandma stepped up to help pay the bills since my grandpa was also working two or three jobs. Although my grandma spent the majority of her life being a fantastic mom, she never forgot she was also an individual. Forty years later, my grandma went back to college to follow-through on her dreams and received an undergraduate degree when she was 58 years old. My grandma rubbed off on my own mom big time. She was originally a stay-at-home mom, but eventually went back to school to earn a certificate as a paralegal and returned to work full time to, you guessed it, help pay the bills. My mom continues to work in this profession more than 20 years later, and is now the sole bread winner in her household as she cares for my father who is disabled and retired.

I do strongly believe that expectations of moms have increased exponentially with each generation. We are expected to be here, there, and everywhere. We are expected to do more, in a shorter amount of time, and with much higher quality. And still, we put expectations on ourselves to take on the brunt of the parental and household management duties, despite the fact that we are working just as hard as our partners outside the home. It’s just in our blood to do so!

As we all juggle together, I look forward to sharing my thoughts and experiences with you from the perspective of a woman, mother, and professional. Specifically, I want to relate to you all from a place of shared experiences. I have navigated my way through maternity leave and back (twice). I have pioneered the creation of a flexible work schedule for myself and other mom’s with whom I work. I have gone through the stress and anxiety of searching for a daycare provider to take care of my kids for 45 hours a week while I work. I have had to leave work in the middle of an important meeting to pick up a sick kid (too many times to count!). I have been up all night with a crying baby and then trudged my way through a board meeting the next day. I have pumped breast milk in my office conference room, office bathroom, janitor’s closet, and my co-worker’s car on the way to a meeting. And I bet you have too. So let’s do this together and support one another. Because who couldn’t use an extra hand, or three?

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.  I could literally feel the bad mood heavy upon my shoulders – and yet, it was a force that I couldn’t shake.  Sometimes, just being aware that something exists isn’t enough to chase it away.  And sometimes still, willing it to go away just isn’t enough either.  So, rather than expending energy that I didn’t have trying to chase something away that wouldn’t budge, I just decided to let it linger.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tart that I’m eating while I write this, however, is making great strides in taking me to a happier place.

I am going to begin by blaming my Grumpy Pants on raging hormones.  I just read that in the third trimester, mood swings make an ugly reappearance.  This is a legitimate fact, straight from babycenter.com.  And now, I am going to hop off the passive, I-have-no-control train, and take some responsibility.  In between bouts of wanting to rip someone’s eyes out, and wanting to pull the covers tightly over my head where no one could witness me eat an entire box of cookies (which I don’t actually have in the house, and that’s really pissing me off!) – I have been analyzing why this mood might be.

Here’s the deal.  I’m tired, and I am carrying around a boatload of guilt about being tired.  I woke up exhausted this morning. I am no longer sleeping because my hips ache, my lower back is on fire, and my groin feels as though it’s been held in tact by a fraying fiber.  Tossing and turning all night doesn’t just mean moving from one side to the other – it means rearranging a fortress of pillows around me at each wriggle.  When the 7:00 am request for cartoons came blaring out of DJ’s mouth, I felt myself slither under the silent question, “REALLY?”  Really? Already? Cartoons again?  Caillou?  Caillou whose parents make me feel inferior in every episode due to the extreme patience they exhibit?

I wanted to wake up to silence.  I wanted to pour a cup of decaf, turn on something like the Today show, and totally veg out in my PJ’s until the smell of my own coffee breath finally forced me into the shower.  I wanted to be on my own agenda.  However, anyone with a toddler knows – it’s their agenda….all the time.  So, Caillou it was.  Did I mention that I loathe Caillou’s parents?

By 8:00 am, I got a burst of motivation and decided to do some cooking. I made a batch of mini-quiches, and hadn’t realized it in the moment – but that was my attempt to get some time alone, in a creative capacity, lost in my own thoughts over a cheese grater.  It lasted only briefly, until DJ insisted on dragging a chair to the kitchen sink (naked with just her rain boots on….which, I admit, provided some much-needed comic relief) to wash her plastic animal toys.  Oh, right, there is a two-year-old reigning queen in this house.

After cooking, I decided to spend some time on the computer.  I wanted to post a few recipes to my blog, order the wall decal for our nursery, update my Paypal account so there’d be nothing standing between me and my Etsy purchases, and maybe – just maybe, if there were time….check Facebook.

Just as I settled into my chair, and DJ was seemingly distracted by who knows what, she decided that I had to find her “little mouse.” After digging through her bottomless toy bins, followed by a search through both the cats’ and the dogs’ toy collections – I realized she was referring to a tchotchke my husband picked up a Design show.  Quite literally, a tiny computer mouse.  Once I found it and handed it over, DJ crawled up into my chair, plugged in the mouse and directed me as to what she wanted next…”Videos of baby me.”  And there we sat, watching baby videos for what seemed like an hour.  I somehow managed to order the decal, and update my Paypal account – but that was in between “Can I have some chocolate milk?” “Can I have some toast?” “Can you make it louder?” “Can we see that one again?” Up and down, up and down, filling orders and pressing my groin to it’s limit.

The remainder of the day has followed suit.  I took a shower while sweet little blue eyes peered at me from behind the curtain – sporadically being hit in the shins with launched toys.  I spent my lunchtime at DJ’s preschool (where I’d normally commiserate with other moms in a separate room) sitting beside her on a teeny tiny plastic, orange chair (which did wonders for my expanding butt complex).  I spent DJ’s otherwise independent outdoor playtime pushing her around a cement track in a plastic car.  And, I have spent the greater part of her nap lying beside her as she clutches my hair because, today, she just won’t allow space between us.  Of course, on a day, when I need nothing more than an independent, deep breath.

I am grumpy because I have one child literally growing inside of me, and I have another child clinging to my every appendage. Aside from this heavy thing sitting on top of my neck, called a head, I am pretty certain every ounce of me has been overtaken by kid’s needs.  Wait, I take that back – last night DJ got a comb stuck in my hair, ripping strands from my scalp.  Lord, even my head has been sacrificed in the name of Motherhood!!!  My poor husband…..after a long day at work, all he wants is a kiss hello when he walks through the front door – and all I want is to peel one person off of me, hand her over, and reclaim (if even for a moment) my own body (in between baby kicks inside my belly, of course).

I have not been carving out enough time for myself – and it’s become very apparent today that I need to.  I need to let go of the guilt that says my job is to be a stay-at-home mom, which means making every moment of every day about my kids.   I need to release the guilt that says another baby is on the way, and I must devote every second to loving DJ up before that adjustment occurs.  However, when you leave no time for refueling, there’s no means of giving left – there’s just no way to give your kids 100% when you’re running on fumes.  I am learning this, painfully.

Needing time away from my daughter certainly doesn’t mean that I love her any less. It just means that I’m important, too.  It means that I’m not just a shell of a person, but an individual – a woman. Not just a mom.  Not just a wife.  A woman.  I think it’s important for DJ to see me take time for myself, too.  She needs to understand that separation is only temporary – and that reunions are really, really sweet and special.

So, with that said – tomorrow morning I am dropping DJ off at her Noni and Papa’s house, and I am going to (in this particular order) get my eyebrows waxed, soak in a candle-lit and lavender bath at the spa for 25 minutes, enjoy a prenatal massage and then treat myself to some indulgent lunch which will likely include a shrimp cocktail.  Or an apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.  Or a giant burger topped with mushrooms and crispy onion strings.

And then, I will pick DJ up from her grandparents house, and will likely squeeze her too tight from having missed her all morning – and Mrs. Grumpy Pants will be held at bay for another several weeks while I coast on with renewed energy and an awakened sense of self.

Is it tomorrow yet?

Lately, my life feels like a scene right out of the 1983 classic “A Christmas Story.”   You know, the one with Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun?  Anyhow, there’s a dinner scene where Ralphie’s mom gets up from the table a dozen times – serving second helpings, getting milk, remembering silverware, etc.  As she’s bustling around the kitchen while her family eats, the narrator says, “My mother had not had a hot meal FOR HERSELF in 15 years.”

I think that life with a two year old is just a composition of scenes from different movies.  Some days, it feels like a tragedy, others like a thriller – but mostly, like a classic comedy.  Sure, there are days when the developing vocabulary of my kid is enough to turn my face red – but, when it really comes down to it, it’s fun to watch her budding wit spew from her otherwise sweet lips.

Let’s take last week, for example.  We were in the craft store and DJ wiggled free from my arms and began running away from me – just far enough in front of me that I couldn’t grab her (and just fast enough that I actually had to run after her).  All the while we’re playing this game of chase, I am saying things like “STOP,” “NO,” “LISTEN TO ME,” “DO NOT MOVE.”  I am, of course, barking these orders sternly yet very, very quietly as we’re in public.  After a full lap around the aisles, I finally catch her – at the very front of the store by the registers, no less.  I pick her up, and before I can utter a single word, DJ waves her tiny index finger in my face, and says “No Mommy, people watching you.”  I died laughing, and yet another vignette was written in our book of toddler antics.

I try really hard to be a step ahead of DJ.  I try to anticipate what her mood is, what her wants and needs will be, what she might think is funny, or cool, or scary.  I try to be prepared.  And, as a result, my car looks like a looted toy store (a hodgepodge of random things thrown together in total disarray), and my energy level is close to nil.

This is true at every.single.meal time.  I will think that I am totally prepared…plate of warm food, check.  Napkin, check.  Fork, check. Sparkly cup full of water, check.  And, just like clockwork – DJ will inevitably want the lasagna cut into smaller pieces (as she now says, “teeny tiny baby pieces”), she will want a “big one,” when referring to the choose-your-own-size paper towel, she will prefer the pink fork over the red one, and will request ice cubes in her water.  Like a puppet, there I will be jumping up and down half a dozen times to keep the peace and ensure our otherwise birdish eater, actually eats.  Once I finally sit down, I will likely realize that I never brought my husband a knife, or got myself something to drink.

That’s life as a mom.  Even the movies say so.

I haven’t officially announced this through my blog yet, but I’m pregnant!  Yahoo!!!  I’m 11 weeks closer to the finish line of that 40-week marathon.  We are totally thrilled – and scared, and anxious, and excited.  In fact, I probably should dedicate an entire blog to this topic, as it’s pretty loaded!  But, for now, what I’ll say is that I am exhausted.  Like, crazy exhausted.  Oh, and I have been puking at least twice a day for the past five weeks – which is divine.  Anyhow, all that is to say that I cherish the moments when I get to put my feet up.  But, they are in fact, just moments.  As soon as I get comfy and elevate my little (sometimes swollen) piggies, without fail, DJ pulls herself up onto the couch to get in my face with some grand idea – like “Outside, Mommy!”

But sometimes, when I’m really lucky, she climbs up to my lap and plants a gentle kiss right on my shoulder and snuggles in close.  Those are the moments that make the daily aerobics of our parenting lives totally worth the sweat (and on some occasions, blood and tears).

My husband just got back into town from being away on business for a week. He was in India – so when I say he was away, he was really away. He was 12 ½ hours ahead of us, starting his new day when DJ and I were frantically trying to finish ours. And let me tell you….I have a whole new respect for single parents.

When you are the sole provider, entertainer, chef, chauffeur, story-teller, diaper changer, tantrum extinguisher, etc – life gets exhausting. I was exhausted. Wait, I mean, I am exhausted…still. It was one of those rare weeks where I thought that having a full time job outside of the home sounded utterly glamorous. As a stay-at-home mom, I am already up to my eyeballs in all-things-kid, so not having another adult to interact with on a daily basis pretty much left me puking Elmo….figuratively, of course.

Last night, after my husband had been home for just over 24 hours, DJ decided to have an epic breakdown. I am certain she was beyond tired, ridiculously hot, emotionally drained and certainly picking up on her parent’s weariness. It was, of course, at the same time my husband left the house to run some errands. Lucky me, after seven days of solo fits, my kid waited again till I was alone to unleash her fury. I tried almost everything in my arsenal to get her to stop, short of putting on clown shoes – but only because I don’t actually own clown shoes – good thing, right? At my wits end, I marched to the freezer, pulled out a grape popsicle, hoisted her up onto our bed, and let her slurp away. Yes, I said “grape popsicle” and “bed” in the same sentence. Did I also mention the solid white duvet?

In those drippy, sticky, messy moments, I realized that sometimes we take the easy way out in parenting. Sometimes the battles we choose not to fight are the holes in our consistency that our children pine for. They are the moments when they realize that Mommy might have weakness, the moments when they get one up on us and forever recall that the rules can be bent. They are the times when our children see us as human, they see us let down, give in, and devour some ill-achieved peace.and.quiet. For crying out loud….some peace and quiet.

Or, maybe they are the moments that draw our children in even closer to us. They are the memories that our children will share with their first teacher about a special time they recall spending with us. “One day when I was in a bad mood, my mommy let me eat a popsicle in her bed.”

I can’t believe I am even going to admit this – but I am reminded of something (the only intelligent thing) that Vicky of the Real Housewives of Orange County said in a finale show not too long ago…..something about how when people break down and cry, and when they become vulnerable and ditch their tough exterior that real relationships can begin and grow. I truly believe that to be true for the friendships in my life, so why wouldn’t the same be true with our children?

We don’t always have to be the “Rule Enforcenator. “ (Yes, poor taste to inert an Arnoldism here). Sometimes, we can be the burnt-out woman (or man) who will do anything to make it just a few more hours till bedtime. And, that’s OK. We forgive ourselves, we move on, and we know without a doubt that we’re doing an amazing job raising these animals….um, I mean, lovely children.

OK, I have now written and re-written this blog entry three times – and even managed a nap somewhere in between.  I am struggling for a decent topic, one that I feel even remotely passionate about.  I’ve considered sharing the conversation we had with friends over the weekend about knowing when the right time is to try for baby #2 (and just to put your curious mind at rest – we aren’t anywhere near ready!).  I’ve thought about discussing my insecurities regarding the few extra pounds that I haven’t been able to shed since DJ’s birth, almost eleven (inexcusable) months ago.  I’ve even set out on a rant about DJ’s interrupted sleep and horrific mood due to another round of teething.  But, the truth is, I don’t feel like any of these things are all that important.

So, what is important to share?  Well, I’m tired.  Really, really tired.  This motherhood thing is getting more and more challenging by the day – which is likely why the rewards are also getting steeper (DJ is now giving kisses).  As DJ grows, so does her temperament, her independence, even her opinion.  She is turning into a little KID – not so much a “baby” anymore.  She is sassy, sweet, creative and quite funny.  She is everything that I really hoped she’d be – I just didn’t know how exhausting it would be to keep up with her budding personality.

I am learning that even the best moms – even the moms who were born to be moms – have their breaking point.  I am learning that it’s OK to wave the white flag and ask for help.  Almost a year into this, I am realizing that admitting you can’t do it alone isn’t declaring that you love your child any less.  And, it certainly isn’t saying that you’re not cut out for this role after all, either.  What it is saying is that you’re human – and there’s nothing wrong with that!  It takes a village, right?

How did things get to this point?  When did I subscribe to society’s lie that moms HAVE to do it all?  I mean, sure, we ARE capable of juggling a child, a partner, a house, a few cats, etc. – but is that really the badge of honor we’re willing to risk losing our minds in an effort to achieve?  Not me.

DJ deserves my best.  I will never be at my best when I am stretched too thin.  The only way for me to keep myself in tact is to depend on others for help.  Last week, I invited my mom over to hang out with DJ while I did some work and caught up on life in general.  It was a win win for all parties…..I got to check some things off the list keeping me awake at night, my mom got some quality time with her favorite person, and DJ got someone’s undivided and well-rested attention.  At the end of the day, DJ didn’t love me any less – and believe it or not, NO ONE sent me an email or left me a message that I was any less of a mom, or woman, for having asked for help.

I’ve got to believe that somewhere along the line, even Wonder Woman removed her bullet-proof bracelets to give those wrists a rest.