High Hopes

A lot of scary, awful shit goes down in our mini-van. There's yelling, there's arguing, there are sippy cups being thrown, there's the complaining....Oh, the complaining - it's too hot, too cold, we're never going to get there, my seat belt's too tight, the van smells bad - the list goes on and on. 

In regards to the van smelling bad - yeah, I'd like to complain about that too...I'm not sure what in the world the kids do in there but they're gross and they make my van stink. 

However, every now and then the girls have actual conversations while we're cruising down the road, my favorite among them being "What are you going to be when you grow up?" 

These conversations are so filled with hope and promise my heart nearly bursts. They are going to be dancers and singers and doctors and teachers and fashion designers. There is nothing out of reach. Nothing they can't do. Everything is possible. These are the conversations I try to burn into my memory so when I'm old, feeble and sitting alone in my nursing home, I'll be able to recall their tiny voices - their tiny voices and big dreams. 

Was there ever a time that I felt like this? A time where I felt I could do anything? If such a time existed, I can't remember having it nor can I remember losing it - yet I miss having it - that feeling - that feeling that I could be anything - do anything.

Long gone are the days of my childhood dream where I thought I could be an Olympic gymnast. That dream was crushed by my inability to throw my ass over my head in any sort of graceful way. 

However, the girls childhood dreams are alive and well and on any given day they can be anything. 

Yesterday, however, Cameron grew anxious about her chosen profession as a fashion designer. 

"What if I change my mind," she said. "I wrote I was going to be a fashion designer on my paper at school but is it okay if I change it later?"

I assured her that she could change her mind. I told her that people evolve and their interests change and she could grow and change with them.  I told her that I, myself, was still deciding what I wanted to "be" when I grew up. This blew her little mind.

"But Mommy, you're already sooooo old," she said.

Concerned about my career path, or lack thereof, Hadley offered a suggestion.

"Mom," she said. "I think you should be a waitress. Yes, a waitress. That would be a fun job." 

Cameron said, "Oh Hadley. That is not a good job for Mommy. Mommy could not EVER handle that job."

Well, shit. I get it - being a waitress is damn hard, but she's clearly missed the part of her life where I've waited on her nonstop for 6 years, either that or she really doesn't think I'm very good at it. 

So I'm left wondering, what will I "be?" What is my dream? 

Is it possible I'm living it? I might be. Driving the smelly mini-van down the road listening to the girls dream out loud - yes, this could be it. It's quite possible I've arrived at everything I've ever dreamed of and it smells like baby poop and has automatic sliding doors. Yet, dream big girls. Mommy is counting on a super sweet nursing home.

Poppin' Fresh Dough

The biscuits were burnt. 

Disappointed, Justin and I stared at the charred, not-so-flakey, but rather crispy, carbohydrates. But we didn't stare for long because there was some blaming to be done.

ME: "Justin! I told you not to turn the temperature up!"

Justin didn't think the biscuits were cooking fast enough, so he cranked the oven up to 475 degrees.  I told him the temperature wasn't the problem and took matters into my own oven mitts as I moved them from the top to the bottom rack. 

JUSTIN: "Abbie, look at these things! I told you not to move them to the bottom rack."

Now, these biscuits were not supposed to be complicated. These were a place-and-bake Great Value variety that come popping out of the can. Justin won't open the can. He has  poppinfreshdoughaphobia - meaning that he squeals, screams and jumps up onto a chair when the dough pops free from the tube. Though he has no problem popping the finished baked product into his mouth. That is, unless they're burnt. Then we have a problem.

While we were blaming each other for our baking blunder, I recalled a sweet story I had recently read on a friend's Facebook wall. The story went something like this:

"A loving husband sat down to dinner with burned biscuits that his wife had made. Their daughter noticed that her father ate every bite of the biscuit paying no attention to the fact that they'd been charbroiled. Later the father explained that he ate the biscuits because, in life, everyone makes mistakes and that a burned biscuit isn't all that important."

Well, bullshit.

In my house, you burn a biscuit - you better have a damn good explanation.

I relayed the story to Justin and told him that we should think about the lessons we're teaching our children and that, like the loving couple in the story, we should strive for tolerance.

He grumbled and sat down to eat his drunken pork chops. Yes, drunken pork chops. Apparently, there are farmers somewhere drinking moonshine with their livestock. Sounds like a party I'd like to go to, that is, until all the slaughtering begins.

Anyways, I resolved that I would take the lead. I would teach him by example. Surely, over time, he would mimic my loving nature and patience and we would set an example that our children would someday write about.

"Abbie," Justin said, "Try these pork chops. They're really good."

I took a bite off his fork. Chewed a bit. Then let that drunken pig meat fall right out of my mouth onto the plate.

"I'm sorry but that tastes like vomit."

Yes, someday, these are the stories my children will tell.....Mommy used to make us burnt biscuits. Daddy used to get drunk with pigs and we all lived, mostly, happily ever after.

Screaming and Self-Help

I've become the mom I never thought I'd be. I've become the mom I have always judged so harshly. I've become the worst version of myself. I've become a screamer.

I scream in the morning for the kids to get out of bed. I scream for them to get their shoes on. I scream at them for fighting with each other. I scream at them to pick up their toys. I scream and scream and scream and SCREAM!

Just to be clear, I'm not psychotic nor do I have turrets. However, I clearly have kids with hearing impairments. My first, second or third set of instructions tend to fall useless on their little ears. It is only when faced with a yelling psychotic banshee do they actually take action. They do not hear or acknowledge me until I'm completely stroking out. Veins and eyeballs start bulging from my head, which spins out of control in circles. 

Can I hire someone else to be the yelling psychotic banshee? I don't want to do it. I want to be the loving, caring, cookie-baking mom. Yet I've become a beast - a beast who doesn't bake and seems more likely to eat her young.  Feeling like an ineffective bad mother sucks. It's been bringing me down, and I'm sure the kids are on the verge of nightmares. So, I've taken action. 

I did a little research and found this book: 

                            

When the package came in the mail, turns out I didn't order the physical book. I had ordered the audio CD.

I knew I'd never get around to returning the CD, so I decided to keep it and listen to it daily in the minivan after I dropped the girls off at school. If someone had told me 15 years ago while I was cruising around in my Dodge Daytona smoking Marlboro lights while listening to jam bands that my future held a minivan that smelled of sour milk and self-help audio books, I might have permanently joined up with the jam band hippies and taken off on tour to sell burritos. 

However, I really did enjoy this book. It had a lot of good, practical advice and I started to make little changes that appeared to be working. After a couple of weeks of applying my new zen mommy attitude, I could feel the tide starting to change. The entire family seemed more at peace. That is, until this:

While I was downstairs, Hadley decided that she needed her own room. So she took ALL of the toys out of the toy room, threw them in the hall, took ALL of her clothes, shoes and books and threw them into the toy room. She also pulled her mattress off the bed frame.

Justin was at work. I was on my own. 

I would not scream. I would not yell. The $12.00 I spent on the audio book for my minivan would not be in vain. I was going to hold it together and be the mom I knew I could be. 

I turned and found this in the sink:

I turned and then found this:

While I was accessing the damage, Jack put a box of tissues in the sink and then helped himself to a block of cheese. 

It was all unraveling. It was all falling apart. I was losing my mind. This was not being late for school. This was pandemonium.  I could feel my banshee beast awakening, but I reached down deep for my inner Mrs. Brady and asked to speak to Hadley in my room. 

I asked her why she decided to move her room and asked her what she was feeling. Yes, of course, the self-help book is big on feelings.

She explained and I listened. I did not lecture, offer advice or cry. I listened. When she was finished I told her that the toy room could be her room but she would have to help find new places for everything and we'd have to work on it together.

That's when she told me, "Well, I put all of my things away - so I'm finished."

Deep breathes. I told her that while that was true, she had also left a gigantic mess that she was responsible for.

That's when Hadley lost it. She proclaimed she would NOT help clean the mess and in her own way, told me to go to hell.

About this time, Justin came home. He told me not to worry about the mess, that we'd get it all put back together and that he was hoping he could squeeze a nap in in a bit.

KABOOM! 

Justin lit my fuse. My inner banshee awoke.

A NAP? The toddler had a block of cheese, there was now an entire roll of toilet paper in the toilet, Hadley had drug her mattress into the hall and my husband wanted to take a nap.  A NAP????

We were clearly not on the same page. Not even the same book. He was in a book of Nursery Rhymes, and I was in Dante's Inferno. 

I could feel my blood boiling. I felt helpless and surrounded by crazy.

I let loose. I screamed at Justin that he would not be taking a nap. I screamed at Hadley for moving her room. I would have screamed at Cameron but I couldn't find her (My smart girl was probably hiding) And just to put the exclamation point on my fit, I yanked the cheese away from baby.

There done. The mess remained but I felt better.

In the days to come, I resumed my inner-zen self-help mommy routine. In regards to the screaming fit about the big bedroom move, I resolved to not feel guilty. It was, after-all, Justin who lit my fuse. Totally his fault. Nowhere in the audio book does it say you shouldn't scream at your husband.

So much of my time as a mother is spent searching for patience. Sometimes, I find it and yet, sometimes I lose my cool and hurl words in extremely loud decibels. 

Instead of loading myself with guilt every time my patience has been lost, I'm simply going to resolve to do better - be better - to keep reminding myself that there is another way to be.  

I will also continue to remember that my children are amazing and they love me happy, sad, screaming or mad  - just as I love them. 

Cameron's Mom Has Got it Goin' On....Duh.

In our house, there is a rule that the kids may have birthday parties where their school friends are invited every other year. On "off" years, the poor babies must suffer through the celebration with only their family. 

This year, though she had suffered through the flu on her actual birthday, in the week that followed, she had a 'Glamour Party' at the local arts center with all of her friends.

The girls had a great time. They did their hair & make-up. They danced and ate cake. If cocktails were included, I would SO be having my own birthday party there.

Except, during the party, I realized that I wasn't cool enough to have my party there, I was barely cool enough to attend Cameron's party.

I didn't know a single song blasting from the KidzBop CD. When I asked one glamour girl whether the song playing was Justin Bieber, she laughed at me and said, "No! This is a One Direction song - Duh!" Oh holy shit. I just got "Duh-ed" by a six-year-old.

While they were having their hair spray-painted, my references to Rainbow-Brite were met with blank stares. They had no idea. None. Rainbow who???  

Even my snacks proved uncool. I brought baked Cheetos for a them to snack on thinking I was being a semi-heatlh conscious mom -  yet, a few girls said that their Cheetos tasted rotten.

Every other year only every other year. 

Hadley's birthday is coming up in April, so I figure I still have time to brush up on my KidzBop. She is going to think it's so awesome that her mom will not only know all the words to today's hottest hits, but will also be able to loudly sing along.