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

How many of you are sick of hearing about my bedtime struggles with DJ? Trust me, no one is more over it than me….well, I’d betcha my husband is tied for first with me.  It’s the story we’ve been living for six weeks now. A three year old who basically, flat out refuses to sleep without a fight each night.  To describe it as frustrating would be a gross understatement.

I have realized that while I may publicly post about this nightly challenge, I don’t often confide in my friends about just how awful it is.  Part of me doesn’t want to burden them with the broken record of it all, and part of me is just too tired to talk about it.  Because this has become such a huge part of our lives – you might imagine there would be some anxiety, hesitation, at the thought of a weekend getaway with other families, as that would allow them full exposure into this dark corner of our parenting world.

Saying “Yes,” and sending in the $280.00 check for our portion of the weekend rental, was anxiety-provoking.  Could we get DJ on the other side of this struggle before four other families had to bear witness to it? Not likely, but we swallowed our pride nonetheless and decided that being authentic doesn’t just mean openly sharing opinions with confidence, or facing the crowd before a shower, or even losing your cool with your kid or husband in front of others – it means allowing people to see what goes on behind closed doors.  It means letting it all hang out, and trusting that people will love you anyway (or trusting that you’ll be better off without them if they don’t).

Last weekend, we ventured up to Bodega Bay with four other families.  There were 8 adults, and 8 kids under the age of 4, all staying in a 5 bedroom house (1 room per family) – with paper thin walls.  We had an absolute blast. I mean, honestly, it couldn’t have been a better time, it couldn’t have felt easier, more natural, than it did.  But – oh man, a big, big but…DJ did what she does.

On Saturday night, as I was laying in our bedroom with DJ, trying (desperately) to get her to sleep – I began getting more and more angry.  I was resentful that I was locked in a room with a crazy kid and not enjoying my vacation.  I heard muffled voices through the wall and wondered what I was missing out on.  Each thought brought me closer to the edge.  Each whine that spilled out of DJ’s little body pushed me closer and closer – and finally, I just couldn’t stop the tears.  I just laid on the floor next to DJ and her princess sleeping bag, and I sobbed.

The good news was that this rattled DJ enough to make her stop her shennanigans, and finally fall asleep.  The bad news was that I needed to go out and face my friends.  Or did I? I considered just crawling into my bed and sleeping the night away.  But, would that be authentic?  The truth was, I wanted to be with my friends – with adults.  So, I quickly wiped my face with my pillowcase, and made the long walk of shame toward the living room before I could change my mind.  Before embarrassment could set in.

I caught a glimpse of my girlfriends huddled in the kitchen, and in that very moment, I realized just how much I needed them to see me in that state of defeat – and, I needed them to be there for me.  I needed to let them in.  I burst into tears again before even saying a word.  They gathered around me, offering hugs, words of encouragement, chocolate chip cookies and hot tea.  I was finally able to say, out loud and in the moment, “This is so hard.  This is so frustrating.  It’s so awful to end every single day like this.  I feel like a failure every day.” Exhale.  It felt like a weight was lifted – a heavy, heavy weight.

We talked for hours.  We laughed. We cried.  We ate. We drank.  But, most importantly, we met each other right where we were at – each of us sharing our struggles, our fears, and our triumphs.  It was so therapeutic, and such a gift to be able to walk out of my most difficult parenting experience and into the arms of compassionate friends.  What a rare blessing.

Being a mom (or a dad), is hard work.  It’s busy work.  It’s demanding work.  When you’re in the thick of it – like I am right now, you find less and less time for phone calls, for lunch dates, for hikes, or even for returning text messages or Facebook conversations.  At the end of each day, you realize how lonely you feel, how isolated you are, and how you crave nothing more than the support of good friends.  Like, real support.  The kind that exists without judgement.

This weekend made me realize that real friends are the friends who don’t care how often you call because they’ll just keep calling you. They don’t wait for you to reach out to them.  They hear your struggle, they feel your pain, and they push their way into your life. They push lovingly and gently – and relentlessly.  They know that you’ll blow-dry your hair again one day, and that you’ll meet them for dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t have paper tablecloths again someday….but that, until that day comes, they’ll accept whatever it is that you need to do to get by.  And, they’ll cheer you on every step of the way.

We cannot go down this parenting road alone.  We need friends whom we can trust.  We need friends who see us for who we are, in our darkest hours.  They pour us a cup of tea, and they tell us how brave we are.  I call them my “forever friends.”  They are the friends who took almost 35 years to earn – and while not all pictured above, there are less than 2 handfuls of these amazing women….and I couldn’t feel more abundantly blessed.

We’ve all heard about Helicopter Moms.  Those moms who just hover about their children – watching their every move, hanging onto their every word, and anticipating their every need.  The Urban Dictionary has the best definition of Helicopter Mom ever:
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I mean, while I wouldn’t accompany DJ on a job interview 15 years from now, I might just sit with her during her school recess.  Ok, I totally would sit with her at lunch.  In fact, I did.  I totally crashed DJ’s first ever preschool “lunch bunch.” Can you hear my heli-blades humming?

You know my family well enough by now to know that DJ is sensitive, “spirited,” and pretty attached to me.  No, I’m not creating a co-dependence issue by being as equally attached to her – it’s just that I dig my kid, and I spend an awful lot of time with her.  I could, theoretically, give her a little shove outta the ol’ nest, but it’s just not in me to parent in that way.  Why force something when it’s time will come naturally?

And it has.  The time has arrived.  DJ is in her second year of a co-op Preschool and this year, while she attends two days per week, I only accompany her one of those days.  Today was my first official “drop-off” day, and I’ll admit it – I was anxious about it.  I was mostly worried about how DJ would do, and had all these fleeting thoughts about how she would be that kid who’d freak out and force the other moms to call me 5 minutes after I left.  When I decided that I couldn’t care less if she ended up being that kid, then I’d obsess about all the school shootings to make the news recently, and I’d begin praying that preschools were somehow exempt from the minds of psychotic folk.

My anxiety was compounded when DJ spent the entire morning talking about how she didn’t want to “be alone at school.” That she “didn’t like any of the other moms.” How I should keep my phone with me, and how she wouldn’t get out of the car.  I tried and tried to calm her and reason with her (while reasoning with myself at the same time!) but knew nothing I said would matter and that the true test would be her mood once we got to school.

She was at first very clingy.  She knew today was the day that I was going to leave.  In between play stations, she’d plead for me not to leave.  And then, when I felt ready, I passed her off into the arms of another mom whom we knew from last year – a sweet, compassionate, attachment parenting kind of mom.  DJ sunk into her arms, and onto her lap – and I very reluctantly forced one foot in front of the other an headed out the school door.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, awaiting the inevitable call that my daughter couldn’t function without me – but that call never came.  In fact, to the contrary – I received two separate photo text messages from thoughtful moms letting me know how great DJ was doing (they’ve all witnessed DJ’s sensitivity and apprehension about being away from me).  Phew! What great news.

School ended at 11:30, but the kids could stay for “lunch bunch” until 12:30 – where they all eat together and play outside.  I decided that DJ was likely beginning to miss me, and rather than making her eat in agony, I’d pop in and rescue her from her loneliness.

Enter Helicopter Mom.

When DJ saw me, she came running to me with open arms, and yelling “Mommy, I’ve had THE BEST time!”

I gave her a huge hug and she was off again – buzzing about the room and continuing conversations and games with new friends.  I followed her outside and joined the “lunch bunch” yard duties (fellow Helicopters).  I sat next to DJ, you know, to comfort her….but quickly realized I was completely invading her space.

While she didn’t mind my presence at all, she certainly didn’t me – and that should’ve been my cue to make myself busy in another corner of the yard.  But, I didn’t.  I guess I wasn’t ready to.  Instead, I just watched and listened.  I watched her play “Family,” with two other girls – all three comparing their bellies and the babies they each had inside of them.  I watched her play t-ball, and eagerly chase down whiffle balls.  I listened to her ask about other kids’ lunches, and excitedly eat her own.

She was like, a kid.  Like a full-blown, legit kid.  She was creating friendships and communicating and socializing all on her own.  I was watching all these little people just work it out. It was so cool.  And so apparent that I wasn’t needed.

The trend continues – as DJ grows, so do I.  This was a huge day for us.  DJ is learning that she can trust others and feel safe without me.  And, I am learning that I, too, can take some space and allow others to love on my girl and take good care of her.  This is how community is fostered.  This is how relationships are born and grow.  This is what building independence is all about.

This is what a self-proclaimed, recovering Helicopter Mom must go through in order to let go a little.  And to those moms who did get the phone call for having that kid – please, don’t apologize…it could’ve been any one of us.

This, my friends, is nothing to brag about.  1.58 miles in 35 minutes, seriously?

So, as of this morning, I am 3.5 lbs away from my pre-pregnancy weight – which means I am 8.5 lbs away from my goal weight.  While I realize that this isn’t a very difficult goal to obtain (and yes, I am super thankful for that) – there is one small problem…..one must actually exercise to reach their fitness goals.

I am learning that at this stage in my life, with a Preschooler and a baby, finding the time to work out is really challenging.  And listen, I’m not making any excuses.  Yes, I could wake up at 5:00 am and break a sweat before the girls wake up.  Yes, I could flex my muscles at 10:00 pm once everyone is asleep and the dishes are done.  Yes, I could enroll in a gym that has childcare.  Yes, yes, yes – there are solutions to accommodate this dilemma.  I get it.  But, what I also get, is my inability to successfully manage one more thing.

The thought of losing any more sleep than I already do, or the thought of packing the girls up for one more car trip, leaves me trembling.  I know it sounds totally dramatic – and, it is.  But, it’s also true.  I already feel stretched really thin, so if I’m going to make an exercise plan – it’s gotta be one that I can stick with.

Last night, I bought some new Nike cross-trainers.  I decided that I would start taking walks every morning, with the girls, before starting our day (even before finishing my first cup of coffee!). Today was Day One.  And, while I feel really good about accomplishing the goal, which was just to get out and do it, the walk itself was seriously laughable!

Let’s begin with the fact that I don’t have a “running” stroller.  I have your typical Babies R Us version of a double stroller.  This means that the wheels aren’t made for all terrains, the position of each seat leaves the stroller top-heavy, and the grips are oddly positioned.  In fact, I think the alignment may be off too, because I kept veering to the left (which really sucks when you’re climbing a steep grade!).  Anyhow, pretty sure my shoulders and hands hurt more from the steering that my bootie does….not the intended result.

Before we even got out the door though – it took 15 minutes to get the girls dressed.  Once Bitzy was in her car-seat, she decided she was famished.  So, while I was feeding her, DJ took off her shoes.  When Bitzy was done eating, we had to put DJ’s shoes back on.  By the time her feet were snug in her rain boots (all she’ll wear), Bitzy had a HUGE poopy diaper to change.  Thirty minutes later, and an unquenchable desire – we left the house.

We stopped for a red leaf, a green leaf, a green leaf that wasn’t torn, four “wishers,” one view of a creek, a dropped Princess wand, spilled Cheerios, and a tossed paci.  With each request that I tried to ignore, the demands got louder – so we’d stop.  By the time we reached “Punky” the cat, I threw in the towel and turned my Nike run-tracker app off.  We were done.  DJ was climbing out of the stroller to get to him.  We spent about 15 minutes loving on Punky.  I suppose this was my “cool-down.”

And then, we spent another 10 minutes watching the garbage-men work down our street, can by can.

So, here’s what I’m getting at…..first, thanks goodness I have the nutrition part of my health dialed in.  If I didn’t, surely I would be really, really far from my goals.  But, the bigger part of this frustrating picture is that maybe I need to accept (like many other things), that this is just a fleeting stage in my life.  It’s a stage where kids do influence the things that I can and cannot do.  It’s a stage where my schedule revolves around their needs.  Maybe, during this crucial stage of my children’s young lives – it’s also an opportunity for me to begin loving the body that I’m in, right where it’s at. Yeah, that’s it – a chance for me to grow in acceptance of myself. I will have plenty of time for washboard abs once the kids are in school

Oh, and I think it’s important to say this – tomorrow, we’ll be at it again.  Perhaps we’ll beat our time by a few seconds, and minus one cat.

About five years ago, my husband and I were at the Foster City Art & Wine Festival.  At that time, we were just dating and still having a blast trying to impress one another.  So, we made our way toward the Carnival tables and started dropping way more money on stupid games than one should ever spend.  Our last stop was the toss-the-penny-in-the-bowl-and-win-a-goldfish game.  My husband was up first.  Missed.  I was up next.  CLINK!  My penny made a solid landing right inside a glass bowl.  Yay!  We won ourselves a disease-infested goldfish!

The goldfish was given to us in a tiny little plastic tank.  My animal-loving heart started aching and I begged my then boyfriend to make a stop at Petco for a bigger “home” for the little dude (whom we named “Carney Cruiser,” or “CeCe” for short). My husband made me a deal, “If CeCe lives for a week, we can upgrade him.”

And, almost three years ago, CeCe became one of DJ’s pets.  In fact, he’d been living in her room for the past several weeks.  She spent many a night staying up late talking with him.  She always reminded us to feed him, and alerted us to when it was time to clean his tank.  She really cared for him, which is why is was pretty devastating when I found him at the bottom of his tank on Friday night.

I quietly alerted my husband and we agreed to hold off on telling DJ until the morning.  My stomach was in a knot all night because I’d never been through this as a mom before.  I’ve never been the one to have to tell my child that her pet died.  We talked through our options: Remove CeCe from his tank while DJ was sleeping and tell her that he died (leading her to believe that things disappear when they die), not tell her at all and just replace CeCe with another goldfish, or tell her the truth and allow her to help guide us in how we handle the rest.

We opted for the honest route.  After our pancakes on Saturday morning, I said, “DJ, so something kind of sad happened.  CeCe died.”  The conversation lasted much longer than we expected, as DJ had a ton of questions about why he died, where he went, why God took him, etc.  She wanted to see him, so we were really glad we hadn’t flushed him in the middle of the night.  She broke down in tears, which broke our hearts in two.  I felt her pain pierce through every fiber of my body.  My daughter had lost something she truly cherished.  CeCe wasn’t coming back.  She had to face death.

We suggested we bury CeCe so that DJ could visit him whenever she wanted.  We allowed her to choose a special place in our backyard, and we made a little box to lay him to rest in.  We invited DJ to place special objects in this box that would stay with CeCe. So, she chose a tiny apple from our backyard tree:

And, drew him a special picture, which we folded up and put in his box:

Then, we dug a hole in the special spot that DJ chose underneath our apple tree.  While it looks kind of creepy now, in the moment, it felt right – necessary, even – to have DJ help break the dirt:

We then talked a long, long time about why we were burying CeCe because suddenly the idea of parting with him and leaving him in the ground was very upsetting to her.  We told her that he had gotten so old that he couldn’t swim anymore, and that he needed a special place to rest.  We let her know that he’d be safe in the ground, and that laying him there would give us a place to visit whenever we really missed him.  After answering all of her questions to her satisfaction, she decided she was ready to let him go (Her sad face here just breaks my heart):

We then concluded CeCe’s burial by placing DJ’s special windmills on top of his site, along with some Gerber daisies from the vase on our kitchen table.  We said a prayer, and asked God to take good care of CeCe as he swam in heaven’s biggest tank. “He was a good fish.” (It was really cool, too, as we stepped back and looked at CeCe’s plot, the windmills started spinning and DJ gasped with wonder.  We told her that it was CeCe thanking her for such a comfortable resting spot, and she seemed really proud):

DJ seemed to have found some peace – or, at least, came full circle in her understanding of the event.  It was so interesting to watch her go through the process of mourning. Her questions eventually stopped, and she just made comments here and there, like, “I miss CeCe,” or “I hope the racoons won’t get CeCe.”  She even confided in a friend of ours by blurting out, “My fishy died.”

By the end of the weekend, Daddy was buying new fish:

We welcomed “Lemon,” “Grape,” and “Peach” into our home, and watched as DJ smiled from ear to ear once her dresser top again had life:

While there’s really no manual on how to explain death to children, we opted for the route that we hoped would serve DJ well as she surely faces this challenge again and again and again in her lifetime.  We wanted to give her a safe place to explore her emotions regarding loss.  It was important for us to remember that while CeCe was just a Carnival fish to us, he was a very loved pet of DJ’s – and we needed to handle his loss with love, compassion and the patience that she needed to process it all.

Now, if Lemon, Grape or Peach kick the bucket any time soon – we’ll just do the ol’ switcharoo.

Pasta.  Lotsa pasta. The photo above is about as familiar to me as my own hand.  Pasta has been a staple in my life since birth.  In fact, my first food was probably a Parmesan rind.  Well, that mixed with a dab of Brandy on the gums for teething.

I come from an Italian family who used food to celebrate, mourn, welcome, comfort and bond with one another.  We spent more time sitting around the table than anywhere else.  Honestly, I have such warm memories of hours-long meals, where the only thing louder than the conversation was the clinking of our forks on our plates.

So, you can imagine my Noni’s horror the day I held up my bowl and declared, “No pasta, only sauce.” It was blasphemous.  No pasta? No pasta? While she reluctantly respected my request, she spent the rest of the meal eyeing me with suspicion.  This was over 10 years ago – and she spent the following years looking me up and down, always saying “You’re too skinny.”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for someone to accuse me of being too skinny today!  Alas, I am still trying to shed my baby weight from having Bitzy 5 months ago. I am also struggling to find enough balance in my daily life to schedule in regular exercise.  But, what I have absolutely made time for is eating healthily.

(Once a week, I take a yoga class with both girls. This is not enough, but it’s a start that I feel really good about).

I grew up with a pretty distorted image of myself, and became aware of my food choices pretty early on.  But, like anything, education is a process.  I have refined my diet over the years, and will continue to do so as I learn.  I am now motivated by health, rather than vanity (though I’d be lying if I said my muffin top didn’t bother me! All in time….).  And, I actually really enjoy grocery shopping – another way I get my kids involved in the process of preserving our family’s commitment to health.

My hope and desire is to set a good example of health for my girls.  Several months back, my husband and I realized that we somehow fell into the ugly trap of bribing DJ with treats. “If you get into the car right now, we’ll give you a gummy bear.”  Yikes, I shudder now to think of how much sugar I poured into DJ’s system in the name of cooperation!  One day, I woke up and said “What are we doing?”  We stopped that practice, but definitely do still allow DJ to be a kid.  We do ice cream, candy, cookies, cake, etc – but all within moderation, and not as a reward for good behavior.

I don’t want to be fanatical about it, though.  I don’t want to give the impression that any kind of food is bad.  I just don’t want feelings of good or bad, to be associated with food.  Then you get into all that psyche stuff – and I just don’t wanna go there!  What I do want to do is cook delicious food, while including my girls – teaching them that really yummy stuff does come in green!  (And not that I’m patting myself on the back or anything, but DJ LOVES Swiss chard).

When I was growing up, my favorite seat in the house was on the kitchen counter.  To this day, whenever I go to my dad’s house, I hoist myself up onto the counter while he cooks.  I believe that more than what was served on the table, what sparred my love for cooking was being involved in the process.  It’s such a creative outlet for me, and I am desperate to pass the same impression onto my girls.

We spend a lot of time in the kitchen at my house, experimenting with different recipes and ingredients.  I hope that my example allows my girls to grow up with a healthy attitude toward food.  I pray that my investment in their health and awareness will save them from future body-image issues because they will feel vibrant and healthy.  I’m hopeful that they’ll do better in school, with a greater ability to concentrate and stay engaged.  And yes, I am hopeful that they’ll form more refined taste-buds and instinctively prefer whole foods to non-foods.

Have you ever draped your body precariously across your baby’s car-seat, bare-breasted and nursing, inhaling the stench of cow manure while cruising the I-5?  I have.  Last weekend, as a matter of fact.  And it was awesome.

Last Friday at 1:00 pm, I sent my husband a text that read, “Let’s go to Disneyland.”  We are not known for our spontaneity as a couple.  We’re typically very methodical in all of our decisions, but something got a hold of me and I craved a change of scenery.  I was stunned when he replied back, “I say screw it, let’s do it!”  I squealed with delight – we were being crazy!  Woot woot – we still had it!

We booked a cheap hotel, bought our park admission tickets online, arranged for my mom to come and take care of our pets, packed up our suitcases and the car and hit the road around 8:00 pm.  Several stops later, we arrived in Anaheim at 3:00 am. It had been quite a journey as we had endured kids too excited to sleep soundly, kids wanting to eat, kids needing to pee, kids objecting to our music choices, etc.  Overall though, we actually felt blessed, because in between all of the chaotic moments, we (my husband and I) got some time to catch up and talk without interruption every 2 minutes.

We decided to wait until we entered the park to tell DJ where we were.  She had only known that we were “doing something really special.” Of course, when she woke up at 6:30 am (after only 3 hours of sleep for the hubs and me), she was full of questions.  We very slowly made our way out the hotel door after some horrid in-room coffee and a laughable continental breakfast. My husband and I grew more and more excited as we approached the gates and got swept along with the anxious crowd.

“DJ, do you know where we are?” “No.” “We’re at DISNEYLAND!!!!!!!” Blank.  She went blank.  No reaction at all.  It was kind of hilarious because we had so anticipated a happy dance of epic proportions.  Um…..ok.  Maybe she’s just tired.  Oh man, could her non-reaction actually be because she didn’t quite understand what Disneyland was?

Once we got onto Main Street, DJ’s face lit up.  It clicked!  She wanted out of the stroller, and once her feet hit the ground, she began jumping up and down.  It was AWESOME.  And in that moment, my husband and I sauntered through another parenting rite of passage.  We had surprised our three year old with a trip to The Happiest Place on Earth.  We had driven all night, and woke up in the Promised Land.  We had done what our parents had done for us once upon a time.  We felt grown up, as if our sweet children somehow became more our own.  DJ would always remember this.

It was magic. Pure magic.  As DJ met Ariel, Aurora and Rapunzel, she floated with joy.  Her eyes lit with wonder, as she gained the understanding that all of her favorite characters were real.  At night, we watched Tinkerbell fly through the sky during the fireworks show and DJ watched “pixie dust” light up the darkness.  She wore her Princess dress with utter pride, and stayed awake until closing time.  Never have I loved “It’s a Small World” like I do now that I can picture my children’s faces as they took in every detail.

This is what life is all about.  Seeing the things that we’ve taken for granted through the eyes of our children.  Whether the magic of Disneyland, or the wonder of a Rollie Pollie crossing over a sidewalk – we need to slow down and see the world around us for what it is….a place riddled with newness and adventure.

So, here’s the deal. I’m just an ordinary person.

I’ve never excelled in sports. I don’t have an ounce of musical talent, and aside from my family – there’s nothing that I’m crazy passionate about.  I mean, I love writing, and I love cooking – but I certainly wouldn’t die for either of those hobbies.

I didn’t go to college, so I can’t even claim a degree separates me from anyone else.  I don’t speak any other languages. I definitely can’t dance. I have an unfounded fear of flying, so there goes feeding babies in Uganda or fostering Manatees in the Amazon.

Before becoming a stay-at-home mom, I worked at some pretty incredible companies.  From time to time, I’d get recognized by my managers, or even my manager’s manager, for stellar contributions or exemplifying company values – but that’s about as close to “extraordinary” as I’ve ever come.

By society’s contemporary definition, my life has been pretty unremarkable.

And then I had two kids.  Becoming even more ordinary with each.  I just ran out of time to save the world.  Heck, I ran out of time to shower regularly, to keep my roots colored, or to renew my contact lens prescription.

I can’t sew.  I never taught my babies sign language. We start off every morning with cartoons. Our attempt at growing our own vegetable garden failed (because I ran out of time to water). And even though every study directs me to say, “Please pet the doggie on her head, like this,” I still shout, “Don’t pull her tail!”

I’m just an ordinary person.

Sometimes, I let the world tell me that this is not enough. That ordinary isn’t enough.  That I’m not enough. I spin my wheels trying to figure out what, if anything, will make me stand out from the crowd.  Admittedly, there are moments when I blog about my latest quinoa recipe and I fantasize about becoming the recipe-blogging-mom.  I get caught up in wanting to be the best at something, sometimes – anything.  Or, maybe I get caught up in thinking that I should strive to be the best at something.

I recently read an article from the NY Times.  It is all about “redefining success and celebrating the ordinary.”  It’s about living a full and interesting, but ordinary, life – and being unapologetic for that. The article begs the question, “What about being compassionate or living a life of integrity?”  How does that measure against what we’ve come to know as success?

By the standards described above, “ordinary” becomes transformational for me. Less of a curse word. It’s actually about embracing all that I am – the often unkempt, glasses-wearing, zip-up hoodie and yoga pant clad mom. The one who’s super content with her average life.  Alas, it’s not about all of the things that I am not.

Now that I have children, the definition of success includes things like making it through a grocery store without any tantrums, or getting my three year old to eat anything besides yogurt.  Success becomes less and less about impressing anyone else, and more about living a life of contentment.  (Content doesn’t mean lazy, or uninspired, by the way).

At the end of the day, all I really want is a harmonious home. I want to know that my children are happy and fed and bathed.  I want to know that my husband loves me.  I want to know that my friends appreciate me.  I want to know that my advice is valued, my wisdom respected, and my trust earned.  It’s simple, really.

While my job is to recognize the potential of my children, and to do whatever I can to stimulate their growth in the areas where they excel – my job is not to make them the best at those things.  My job isn’t even to expect the best.  My job is to enjoy watching my children grow in a direction that fulfills them and builds their confidence. It’s not up to me to get my children into college – its up to me to ensure they have the tools to find their own way there.

My job, my purpose, is to exemplify what’s important in life. And to me, success measured by achievement is meaningless if getting there wasn’t driven by passion and an authentic desire. To me, living extraordinarily means loving indiscriminately. It means treating people, and the earth, with respect. It means telling the truth compassionately, and with conviction.  It means walking the talk, wearing your heart on your sleeve, and being an open book.  It means unabashedly sharing who you are.  It’s such a shame that the world around us would consider such things as “ordinary.”  In this day and age, the scarcity of such values makes them anything but ordinary.

So, I’m ordinary? Yep. I’m totally cool with that. As the article so eloquently says, “Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” Someday, the world will see me, though. They will see me through the strength, confidence and compassion of my girls.  They will see me through the impact that my girls will have on this world – for the how they will contribute to extraordinary causes in ordinary ways.

A few weeks ago I blogged about going clothes shopping. I belabored the point that I couldn’t find a thing that fit my post-labored body.  And while I am still trying to break free from the mom-jean shackles, I’ve been caught in yet another parenting-snare.

A conversation that I had over the weekend made me cringe as I thought back to a similar conversation that I had in the Nordstrom Ladies’ Lounge during that infamous day of shopping.

Let’s start with the more recent conversation.  I was approached by a woman, a fellow mom, whom I’d never before met.  Our parents were friends, so we were somewhat familiar with one another, which is why I wasn’t too taken aback when her opening line was, “So, how do you like being a mom?” There were a dozen ways to answer that question on the spot, but since I am trying to commit to approaching motherhood authentically, I sputtered out an abbreviated version of the truth. “I love it.  I really do. But, it’s hard (gesturing toward my Preschooler). It’s mostly hard.” She then launched into some long diatribe about how I shouldn’t have any expectations.  How I shouldn’t get uptight or anxious.  Her bottom line was, “She’s three,” and her tone clearly reprimanded me to “get over it.” I am guessing that being a mom of three (Her youngest older than my eldest) gave her that sort of expert authority.

I appreciated what she was trying to do.  She was trying to encourage me. I think. She was trying to tell me that it’s just DJ’s age that makes her so difficult, and that it will pass – and in some ways it’ll get harder, and in other ways, life will someday be void of the pin-dropping tantrums (or “hell,” as I refer to it).  She was trying to share her wisdom from having been there, survived that.  I think?

I was left feeling really conflicted about our interaction.  I knew that I wasn’t being overly sensitive, because I wasn’t offended in the least.  What I was feeling was something similar to remorse.  Oh my gosh….The Nordstrom Ladies’ Lounge.

There was a woman in the lounge nursing her new baby as I was in there nursing Bitzy. Nursing Bitzy and trying to control my overly tired, “three year old” DJ.  The other woman was clearly unshowered and wearing that new-mom uniform we can all relate to…sweats and a tank top.  She looked so lovingly, so sweetly, so contently at her baby as she fed him.  Her peace was calming.  She politely smiled at DJ, who was standing on her head at the time.  We made a bit of small talk about our babies’ ages, how this was her first, etc. And then, for some awful reason as I was exiting the lounge with my troops in tow, I said, “I think the adjustment from one to two kids was much harder than from zero to one.”

Her face dropped and she shot me an obligatory smile.  The second the lounge door shut behind me, I felt a pit in my stomach.  I literally cringed and shook a tightened fist up in the air.  Damn me!  I marched right back in and said, “I am so sorry.  I absolutely did not mean to imply that my life is any harder than yours.  It’s all relative, and I didn’t mean to discount any second of your adjustment.” I went on for a few more seconds, and felt her urge me to march on with her forced “it’s ok, it’s ok” mantra.  So, I apologized again and finally left that poor mom alone so she could resume her loving gaze at her son.

What I realized this weekend is that hindsight is 20/20.  I mean, it really is.  We can all look back at past experiences with absolute clarity.  Once we make it through the trenches, our perspective changes.  We gain wisdom, we get some thicker skin, and we learn what we hadn’t before known – because we’d never needed to know it prior to facing it.  Our confidence grows and we forget what it was like before we made it out alive.

Last week, I did a post called “I Need to Know,” in which I urged parents to ask other parents their most random questions – the ones that keep them up at night.  I wanted to encourage some truth, some honesty, some vulnerability.  And now, I want to challenge parents to be more compassionate.

I don’t think hindsight should make others feel judged.  I don’t think it should be a self-righteous tool.  I don’t think we should allow the roads we’ve traveled to morph us into self-perceived experts.  Just because we’ve accomplished some great parenting feat (like making it through the Preschool years without a full head of grey hair), we don’t need to act like the cool Senior telling the Freshman that they have so much to learn.

Instead, hindsight should elicit compassion.  Because we have been there, we should remember what it was like.  We should recall how we felt in those challenging moments, and we should do a whole lot more hugging and buying Cosmo rounds for our fellow moms (and dads).  We should say a whole lot less of “It’ll get easier,” and put our energy into empathizing, “I know it’s so hard, and you’re doing a great job.”

Parenting is a long journey.  With each lesson learned, there’s a brand new one lurking around the next corner.  I think it’s God’s way of keeping us humble.  We never stop learning.  We never stop being challenged. And, we never stop being blessed – both by our children, and by the others who come along beside us and understand us …. where we’ve been, and where we’re going.

Parenting. Sometimes it’s collaborative, sometimes it’s competitive.  There are times when we compare our children to others’, and still other times when we commiserate with other parents.  At times we feel really well supported, and times when we feel utterly alone.

Unfortunately, it seems that we feel most alone in our biggest fears, our greatest concerns.  Sometimes we obsess over one particular haunting thought – and that obsession alone convinces us that we’re kinda crazy and that no other parent could possibly have the same thought.  So, we stuff it down each time it surfaces, and incidentally, we alienate ourselves because we decide that we’re somehow in the minority. We allow those intimate “Do you ever?” conversations with other parents come to an end before we have the courage to address our “silly” obsession.

I have decided that 1) this shouldn’t happen because we’re all in this parenting thing together – and we should absolutely feel safe in the company of others trying to navigate through it all, too.  Just like anything else in life (which any therapist will agree), the sooner we say out loud the things that haunt us most, the sooner they miniaturize and begin to dissolve. And 2) I can guarantee that at least one other parent (if not, all parents) can totally relate to our “strange” feelings, thoughts, fears, etc.

I decided to post a challenge on Facebook to help me address this topic (which was originally going to be a long list of my weird obsession-confessions). I decided to give other parents a place to air their “questions.” It is my hope that these type of authentic “conversations” will continue – and that we can all finally release the thoughts that keep us awake at night, the thoughts that surely no one else can relate to, and finally hear those freeing words, “Me too!”

So, here’s how it started on my Facebook page:

Attn all parents – for my next Parenting on the Peninsula blog, I want to address the ways parenthood alters our thinking. I want to do a post called “I Need to Know,” in which I address all the weird and random thoughts/questions/feelings, etc that you need to know other parents wonder about, too. I’ll go first “I need to know that other parents worry about their kid getting kidnapped from their own bedroom at night.” “I need to know that other parents obsessively worry about their own death because they fear no one could ever take care of, or love, their children as they do.” And, on a lighter note, “I need to know that other parents feel a deep sense of satisfaction after clearing the boogers out of their kid’s nose.”

And here’s how you answered (the number of responses just further confirmed that there’s such a huge need for this kind of open sharing):

I need to know other parents feel defeated at mealtime due to the fact their kids are picky eaters? Can my kid really survive on yogurt mixed with bananas?

I need to know that its okay that I love my son and being a mom more than anything in this world, but miss a piece of “pre-mommy” me at moments.

Do other parents have certain news stories singed into their brains like I do? Stories of moms who just reach the end of it, and are truly suffering from a psychiatric condition. I think I worry that I could somehow get there or do that, even though I know in my heart that wouldn’t happen. I worry incessantly about it.

I need to know how other single parents handle the emerging consciousness of their young ones when they tell you they are sad that you and daddy don’t live together and love each other.

I need to know other moms, at the end of each day, go through in their mind the days events and how they could have done so much better or more for their kids.

I need to know that I am not a terrible mom for only being able to spend 1 hour with my kids at the end of each work day before their bedtime…yet I look forward to their bedtime so I can then have some time to myself (even though I didn’t see them all day). I mean, I only get 1 hour and I can’t wait for them to go to bed? What is that? And am I alone in feeling that way?

I need to know that it is ok that the laundry doesn’t get folded or the fridge doesn’t get cleaned, the dry cleaning doesn’t get picked up and the appointments aren’t kept. If my kid is needing attention that day, the day will be better if I cater to her needs and that’s ok.

I worry every time I go down the stairs with him in my arms that I am going to fall and hurt him somehow. Also, I obsessively count and keep track of each ounce he’s eaten and worry incessantly about it. Ugh

I need to know if other moms are total control freaks, like myself and want everything done their way.

“Am I over parenting?” when do u just step back and relax? Also do other parents worry that they are being judged about their parenting.

I need to know that other parents, while always loving their children, don’t always like them when they are acting like little demons. <—– the first time I had a moment where I realized I didn’t like my kid was horrifying! But then I realized that it happens with all other people, so why not your own biting, sand throwing progeny?

I need to know that the state of the world our children are growing up in scares the living day lights out of others.

I need to know that other people sometimes feel like they don’t know what they did for God to give them such an amazing gift.

I need to know that other parents alternate between being in awe of and so proud of their little blessing, to being mortified that they’ve raised a child that can act like THAT in public!

If I’ll be able to financially support them through college.

That they won’t appreciate things in general.

I pray he doesn’t grow up to be that bratty child that no one wants to be around.

Is my child really cute, or are people just telling me that to be nice? – lol / no joke I look at my kid and think he’s cute, but then sometimes think it might just be me and my hubby being biased.

I’m not a parent but I teach preschool and have for the last 8years….I can say that many parents come to me when they have more than one child…close in age..and they feel like they cant handle it when their husband or wife is constantly working leaving them with all the parental responsibilities…..I also find parents who are so busy that they feel guilty that they leave their child at day care all day…leaving them not wanting to enforce too many rules or restrictions on the kids when they get home….causing more damage than good in the long run….I thought I would send these thoughts your way….

What do you Need to Know?

I got dressed up for our Father’s Day brunch.  Makeup, a dress, heels, jewelry – the works.  It did wonders for my confidence.  I felt like a beautiful woman – an attractive wife, a good-lookin mom.  I wasn’t hiding behind the fear of bumping into anyone I knew for fear they’d wonder if I had gone homeless because of my greased over hair and dirty clothes.  DJ even responded differently to me – she seemed proud.  It was sweet, and  eye-opening.  I needed to start putting some effort back into my appearance.  It made me, and apparently our whole family, feel better:

So, I spent four hours at the mall yesterday.  Four hours.  With two kids. I thought I was being brave, but I now realize that such an expedition falls more accurately into the category of “stupid.”  However, desperate times call for desperate measures.  And I was desperate.  Am desperate.

My 13 weeks postpartum body is wreaking havoc on my psyche.  Father’s Day not withstanding, I am still in my maternity jeans (is that even normal at the stage in the game?), only have 2 hideous nursing bras, and a plethora of tops that no longer fit properly. There are a few cotton dresses (the black one pictured above, for one) that are seemingly flattering, but they’re literally hanging on by a thread from over-wear.  Rather than continuing on with the daily defeat of a dozen wardrobe changes only to settle on sweatpants, I decided it was time to grab a few new outfits to keep my Father’s Day self-esteem elevated.

With my husband’s (eager) blessing, and debit card in hand – I packed up the kids and felt pretty stoked about the transformation that lie ahead.  Homely stay-at-home-mom would be better known as Hot Mama in just a few hours. Or so I thought.  Things didn’t quite go that way.

When I pulled into the mall’s parking garage at exactly 9:55 am (5 minutes before the stores opened), here’s what I saw:

Mom-mobiles everywhere.  In fact, a fellow mom was lugging her double stroller out of her SUV and started chatting with me as if we were long lost friends.  And, in a sense, we were.  Both moms, with two kids, trying to do something for ourselves.  “Same idea!  Too hot to be outside, so great to let the kids run around here.  Part of the stroller brigade!” OK, we weren’t in same tribe.  This trip was so not about my kids.

My first stop was at H&M.  I’d never really shopped there before, but it seems like all the cool kids do – so, naturally, it made sense for me to begin Operation Retire Mom-Jeans there.  I was only slightly put off by the sea of fluorescent lighting, and heart-thumping beats.  With DJ in tow, and Bitzy staring at me with wide eyes from her stroller – I began grabbing.  Man, didn’t even know what size to get….which was slightly depressing.  So weird to feel so disconnected from myself. Anyhow, tried on something like these:

But, I looked like more like this in them:

My breasts just aren’t what they used to be.  This realization greatly limits my options. No spaghetti straps, no strapless tube dresses, nothing that shows cleavage – and for the love of God…NO STRIPES.  Awesome – whittled down to mom-dresses:

OK, maybe I just needed a cute pair of pants.  Maybe if I just ditched the maternity jeans and traded them in for something a little more “current,” then I could get away with the ill-fitting tops in my closet.  White pants.  White pants seem to be the thing of the season.  Trouble is – let me repeat: I just had my second baby 13 weeks ago. And um, I never really lost the weight from my first.  So, I looked less like this:

And more like this:

Alright, so not ready to give up the elastic waist.   No problem.  I get it.

Did I mention that once I had a dressing room full of clothes, Bitzy decided she was famished and started screaming at the top of her lungs?  Oh, and that DJ stripped down naked within 3 seconds of pulling the dressing room drape closed, and insisted on also trying on clothes?  So yeah, you guessed it – I had to nurse Bitzy while also ensuring DJ didn’t go streaking. It was at that moment that I realized I wasn’t brave. I was stupid.  Really stupid.

Of course I could only take 7 items into the dressing room at once.  So, after I emerged from the room 30 minutes later – the dressing room attendant looked at my pitifully and asked if I wanted the second set of 7 items.  After shooting her an “Are you kidding me?” look, she sheepishly muttered, “Maybe next time?”  Maybe not.  I think I gave her a lesson in birth control, actually.  School of hard knocks, sister.

Alright, lunch.  Which really meant watching DJ shake parmesan cheese into her mouth while (again) nursing Bitzy, all the while shoveling bites of salad into my mouth in between retrieving forkfuls of marinara stained fusilli from the table and booth. Totally relaxing.

This was followed by returning an adorable orange and white chevron-striped summer dress that I had purchased the day before (only to get home and try it on again and have that “What on earth was I thinking?” moment…remember, stripes?).  DJ took it upon herself to grab every last piece of jewelry off the racks and adorn the mannequins while I was settling my transaction.  It was past nap time, and she was totally breaking down.  Her listening skills were all but gone, and she was entering that Tasmanian Devil phase of exhaustion….tempting her fate at the top of the escalator.  And Bitzy, well, hungry again – naturally.

We ended up in the Ladies’ Lounge at Nordstrom.  As I watched beautifully groomed, impeccably clothed women saunter in and out of the restroom, I began feeling more and more sorry for myself.  The wall of mirrors opposite my chair weren’t helping the cause. Oh, and DJ?  Um yeah – she totally lost her marbles.  This is what she was doing while I was nursing Bitzy:

Notice the shoes are off?  Yeah, she made herself right at home – and I call this her “Shop Till You Drop” look.

Good times.

The intended shopping spree wasn’t a total waste, though.  I did come home with this:

Which I am certain will make my butt look smaller.

Needless to say, I didn’t morph into Hot Mama quite as easily as I had intended.  On the drive home, I reflected on the new drop waist dresses that are all the rage – and how they make me look like I am smuggling a keg on my chest (totally unflattering to the nursing mom), and I had a moment of “but these giant, saggy breasts have given life to DJ and are doing the same for Bitzy.”

While I might feel like a foreigner in my own skin, I know that this is just a temporary state-of-being, and one that is a privilege to be experiencing.  Having a stretched out body means I was blessed enough to carry and birth two healthy daughters.  The rest will come.  The halter top dresses, and the white linen pants, bras that don’t unsnap with fold-down cups…those will all be in my future.  I will be Hot Mama, likely mourning for the sweet days of wearing mom-jeans because they represent my babies being….babies.

When I got the girls home and in bed for their naps, I slipped these on and snuggled in between my girls.

Life is good.