My position on positives, if you want to call it that

I've been trying to focus on the positive lately.

I'm positive the van will get stuck at least once more trying to get out of the snowy driveway this week.

I'm positive the tax bill due by the beginning of next month should have given me a coronary, especially considering the credit card bill was nearly the same amount.

I'm positive my kids think 3:30 a.m. is the most perfect time to hit/kick/slap their way to the coveted spot in my bed.

I'm positive we blew the grocery budget this week, and I'm positively not going to worry about it since we had money left over last week.

I'm positive wine is usually the answer when I get in a writing slump, because I tend to suck down several glasses and write like a beast - usually pounding out 2,000 or more words in a shortish amount of time as I pour the words from my soul desperately into a Word document that someday will resemble a paperback.

And I'm positive the book I'm penning is almost done. This one I'm almost as sure of as getting stuck in the driveway.

I'm also positive that while I'm trying to "be positive," it's hard, because there's a huge difference between being positive of something and being emotionally/psychologically positive. Most people are aware of that difference. So while I try really hard to be emotionally positive, it's not something I usually wake up thinking will happen today. There are still a lot of days I look out the window and it's not the sun I see, but the dirty snowbank and slushy roads. Instead of being proud of my daughters' inquisitiveness and ability to make a mess while learning, playing, and growing, I can't see beyond the clutter.

Connections, connections, connections

I love my Internet mom friends. I love them to the moon and back because I can post shit like this in one of our online groups:

Sometimes I want to stab my husband for completely irrational reasons, like he hung his dress shirts up facing the wrong way. Feel free to unfriend the crazy girl. o_O

And I'm met with stories so similar that I feel a little bit emotional over the connection I have with these other crazy chicks. *wipes eyes* It was my allergies. *sniff*

When my parents first got the Internet, I would greatly anticipate evenings after my homework was done when I could hear that squealing high pitched sound followed by a solid connection and the persistent blinking computer icon in the computer taskbar showing I was finally connected to the world outside of Lyndonville. It was scary standing there on the precipice of the technological revolution that was dial-up, particularly in a small town. It was scarier still that I was introducing myself to new people every day and was totally addicted to chatrooms and AIM by the time I left for college.

I'm sure all of us in my age group can recall the whole "a/s/l" and "What's your screen name?" phases of our lives. They were ... confusing. But for some, it was allowing us to find people whom we otherwise would never have met. I met some of my best friends online because of a common love for a single musician and was totally blown away when I realized last fall we've been friends for 10 years now and our lives are completely different than when we virtually met - I'm married and have kids, Christian is teaching in Korea, Kris and Xander are slowly going to achieve world domination through graduate studies and PhD programs, and Ryan is like the world's most amazing masseuse (I'm sure, though haven't had the pleasure of one of those massages).

Don't get ahead of me; this isn't going to turn into a piece on Internet safety, though I have enough experience meeting strangers from the web that I could definitely write a well informed article on the matter.

No, really, this one is purely about connecting, on some level, with others in my situation.

We desperately needed ink, really

There are times in Mommyhood that you just have to get away. I wrote all about the struggles of this *raises arms to sides to indicate my whole life* (I know you couldn't see me do that, but I totally did just to prove this point to myself) and how I knew the next time I got overwhelmed I was just going to run away for a while.

And I did. Last night.

It was one of those days where it looked beautiful outside, until I opened the door and it was just a really sunny 20 degree morning. It killed any motivation I had, and that's been the theme of winter since about mid-January. I opted not to go to the gym, and then because of that the TV was on all day, and the kids were obnoxious and whiny because we hadn't left the house. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around I was ready to escape and just needed the Boy to get home.

The "please eat your dinner" fight had happened at that point. The "I need a break" text had been sent. The "I'm just going to fling the fridge open and cry because my toddler life is ruined by your not having anything I want" was in full effect. Here, allow me to show you:

Dear Mom at Aldi ...

Dear Mom at Aldi,

I ran into you this afternoon. Actually, it's more like I purposely was put in your path and you in mine. I watched you with your little boy as he struggled to get out of the cart as you and your husband looked at the prunes and other baking supplies. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but recognized the struggle - a defiant "I want don't want to sit down" toddler-in-training desperately seeking freedom from that shopping cart while you, also desperately, tried to hold a conversation and reign him in.

I didn't pay much attention until I was standing in the same aisle glancing at the spices and saw you and your children, sans husband, at the other end of the row. I didn't pay attention until I saw that defiant little boy with the fearlessness of an independent child topple from the cart. You'll never know the panic that hit my chest or how I had to mentally grab hold of myself so I didn't rush down the aisle to help you. You won't know, because I didn't tell you and you will likely never read this. Instead, I meandered. Instead of rushing to aid another mom, I watched from the corner of my eye as you gathered your son in your arms, pulled your daughter close to you, and you sat on the floor of Aldi beside a stack of sports drinks and other beverages.

I know I didn't shock you when I asked quietly, "Is he OK?" Because that's what at least a small population of people would do when they see a small child crying inconsolably in their mother's arms. A larger population would have given you a sad smile and thought something like, "Oh that poor woman."

And then there's me.

Everyday struggles: Make yourself a priority

I have multiple posts started that remain in draft form. The topics range from society thinking parents should love all sorts of things that I just don't love all the time to how sucky my Friday was to a giant rant about the crap said about the Mets' second baseman Daniel Murphy taking three whole days of paternity leave. O.M.G. Three days!? How dare he!

And that's where those posts are going to die. Right there in the draft folder. Because I was passionate in that moment and now, even though I still care about those topics, I've simply lost steam where they are concerned. I may revisit the love/hate post, but right now it's at a standstill.

Instead, I asked my friend Kristin what she thought about the topics and what one I should go with for the next post, and aside from loving the idea of a post on Murphy's paternity leave she gave me this:

I'd love to see more on the marriage versus mommy perspective, because I feel like that all the time...the mommy versus working girl versus wife struggle is another that sends me over the edge from exhaustion and guilt, too. At the end of the day, I miss being social with friends...we haven't gone out in a long time and I wish I had a hobby I could balance with my life and hang out with people outside of work.

 Sorry to throw our conversation out there for the masses, Love, but sometimes you give me something that is way too good not to share, so I'm going to talk about the struggle.

It's the everyday struggle to not forget yourself - we're mothers/fathers, husbands/wives, coworkers and for a lot of people trying to juggle all of that there's no time to just be. Be yourself, be alone, be content. If there isn't a sport or activity going on, there's laundry and dishes needing your attention, there's another paper to grade or another page to edit or another system study to look over. Me Time is a thing of the past for a lot of us and we've lost ourselves in the hustle and bustle of married life and parenting.

Who were you before all of this?

I was adventurous and independent and fun loving. I would spend way too many hours at the office and then too many beers at the Legion. I was careless and reckless and stubborn. I'm still stubborn. But I'm in need of adventures and so co-dependent it's alarming and I still love to have fun, but instead of drinking my friends under a table, I'm ecstatic to go meet up for a play date at the mall because fun is also watching my kids have fun. I spend too many hours in front of the computer because it seems a majority of my social life lives here and I never have enough beer to dull the ache of missing all those things that have changed. I'm careful to a fault now and reckless is staying up past 10 most nights. I take less risks, unless you count totally blowing this week's grocery budget because I just couldn't leave that top round roast at Wegmans ... it was reduced price for quick sale. Man, I'm a fucking rebel to spend $25 on a cut of meat that will make four or more meals for my family. Just call me James Dean.

 I try really hard not to miss the old me. The me who was skinny and flirty and had no responsibility other than getting a paper out every night. But that's all I did. I worked. My recklessness was writing a story I was scared to death to publish because it would definitely piss someone off. My independence was because I didn't want someone to hold my hand, or hold me back.

I can look back at all of that - the pre-marriage and pre-babies me - and at the very least know I learned something about myself. I'm capable. I can do all that. I can be successful. Success like that now would come at a very steep price. I can't juggle all I used to do with all I do now. I have trouble keeping up with laundry and cleaning and I'm here most days in the thick of the suburban jungle wading through the muck and the mire of parenthood, toddler years, pre-K prep, wifery and ... I lose myself.

Me Time.

How do we find time for us? How, when so many people or things depend on us to do all that stuff too, do we take a few hours to go out to dinner with friends sans children or hit up a movie with our significant other (again, sans kids) or take time to read quietly?

The juggling is the struggling in this life, the life we're living now and when you throw so many balls up in the air at once you're bound to drop a few. Or more than a few. And if you're like me, sometimes you toss them all up in the air at once, step back and let them all fall. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, the pieces can all be glued back together, and you're stronger for it. Anyone who read my depression piece is aware of that. I fall apart and I scream and I cry and I hate and I pick up every last piece and glue me back together ... and remember myself in the process. That's what it is. A process.

Last Friday I needed a break. I needed the Me Time like I needed air and water and wine. I was pissy and moody and just plain tired of how shitty the day had been. I brushed my teeth at 7:30 p.m. along with the kids. I gave them kisses. I walked down the hall to my bedroom, walked in, shut the door and climbed into bed with a book. A real book with pages and the smell of ink and no "low battery" notification popping up in the middle of a chapter. I didn't intentionally make my husband put the kids to bed alone, but that's what happened. I'm a better mom for doing that.

I lost myself between the pages.

I needed to get lost in someone else's story.

This is the struggle in the suburban jungle. The fight to be better than everyone else isn't worth the things we lose in the process because the biggest thing we lose is who we are at the base level. We need others but we need ourselves more because once you lose that, once you forget who you are, there's nothing left to give the ones who want a piece of you and you can't be a social creature if you don't recharge your batteries once in a while.

Is this why so many women are in need of a spa day or anything other than grocery shopping alone? Is this why men want to go watch the game at a bar with their buddies or hit the links and golf a round with a close friend? I'm not even being sarcastic. I've wanted for so long to go do things like get my hair cut all by myself because I remember how I used to feel when I did that before marriage and kids. I haven't gone to get my hair cut professionally since I was pregnant with Josie (or maybe she was an infant? I might have been pregnant with Charlotte. That two years just sort of blended together in my head.). I've pretty much cut my own hair for four years now, and I don't even pamper myself leading up to the hack'n'whack - I take a shower, wash my hair, brush it, flip upside down and cut. I could at least buy myself dinner after a quickie like that, but no, I'm usually running out of the bathroom playing "What was that crashing noise!?" as I go.

My husband is an introvert, big time - in college he usually would go to the dining hall alone to eat; I couldn't leave my room for food unless I had at least one friend with me because eating alone was such a foreign concept to me - so he doesn't see why others have a need for time alone after being home all day doing the housewife/childrearer jobs or why some people want to be with someone but without responsibility (i.e. go out and have fun without worrying, or sit and watch a movie without having to get up to wipe a child's tush). He just doesn't see the problem that we face when we can't separate ourselves from the roles we're stuck in. I'm the mom and the wife, but I can't always just be the wife or just be the mom. I'm the mom and the writer, but while I've sat at the kitchen table writing this I've been interrupted to help someone brush her teeth and get dressed, make multiple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, search for a pacifier and put dinner in the slow cooker. I rarely get the chance to just be a writer. Unless the kids are in a really deep sleep, I'm never just the wife. I don't go out with friends. I'm never just someone's friend because all my other selves are part of that since my friends have kids and it's never just the adults doing something. The kids are always there. ALWAYS.

I adore my children, but there are times I want to remember who I am. That's where the guilt and exhaustion rear their ugly heads the most. When I take time for me, I feel such remorse for not taking that time with my kids because, as everyone likes to remind the parents of young children, they are only little once. Taking time for myself helps to alleviate that exhaustion, but that's the double-edged sword of it all: guilt cuts as deep as the exhaustion. It's the same when we wear our spouse hat. Then put the spouse hat on with the parent hat and the coworker hat and it's a combustible situation because of that guilt/exhaustion/who am I cycle.

Nuclear. Meltdown.

It doesn't matter which self we're trying to be, if we attempt to be one or all of them at once, we feel guilty because we aren't able to juggle it all. And then we're guilty because we've spent so much time being exhausted by trying to be too many people all at once that there is nothing left.

All the same, though, let yourself get exhausted once in a while. Step back and let the balls fall down around you. Pick up your purse, walk out the door and go get your hair done. Make plans with coworkers for a happy hour once a week to blow off steam. Give up bath time and bedtime one night a week to go grab coffee with a friend or sit in a quiet corner of a cafe to work on the novel you've started writing but never have time to work on. Remember who you are, because you're not doing your children, your husband, your wife, your coworkers any good by being too exhausted to give a shit anymore. It only makes you a liability to yourself and those around you.

Make time. Make Me Time. Make yourself a priority once in a while.

The struggle isn't going away, but figuring out how to step back once in a while and worry about yourself is the most important thing some of us can do. Last Friday it was the most important thing for me to do. And in a week I'm going to need a break like that again. It might come before then. It might take longer.

When it comes time, though, I plan to know what to do, even if it is just throwing my running shoes on and leaving the house for an hour (to hide in the car and write part of that novel using my phone as a computer).

Be kind; rewind (my life to better days)

Forgive me, Father readers, for I have sinned been in a slump.

My last confession was 13 days ago. I shared with you how disastrous I felt my house was. I even showed you a picture or two. And made some of you giggle with the "Let it Go" video. Thanks for validating me.

I don't expect to get a lot of uplifting remarks, nor is this a cry for help in any way. I am simply one of thousands who battle daily to find their place and be comfortable in it.

The other day I posted on my Facebook page asking for blog topics. A former columnist of mine popped in with the suggestion I write about "being kind to yourself." I was in the frame of mind yesterday where that post would have been completely uplifting - I'd started my morning by doing a guided meditation on a new Roku channel I found and had my half a pot of coffee and the kids were relatively calm. Yesterday was pretty decent on all fronts.

But that was yesterday. Today was a different story - I slept late, needed to grocery shop, we ran out of coffee and I thought that alone would kill me, the kids fought with each other, the kids fought with me, the dog keeps trying to dig under the back porch, the hustle and bustle of dance class during the dinner hour, realizing my kids were eating yogurt for dinner at almost 7 p.m. and then a near argument with the Boy over this very blog entry (because he doesn't understand it).

Today reminded me of all the reasons I'm not nice to myself. Why I'm bitter and pissed off a lot. Why I sometimes want to pack a bag and tell my husband it's all his responsibility for three days while I go hide in the woods somewhere. This is basically the antithesis of my friend's request for a post about "being kind to yourself." Sorry 'bout that.

Am I really gonna miss this?

There are some pretty ridiculous things that get me riled up. The kids mixing Play-Doh colors, people putting ketchup on good steak ... and then the giant population of parents who forgot just how much it sucks to have at least two headstrong little people under their care. The last one is a doozy and it's been on my mind for a while. This post has been coming for weeks. This has been milling around in my brain since before I wrote this. And this one, too.

I hear way too often how much I'm going to miss it, or some version of that statement ... and honestly? Am I going to miss the screaming and fighting? The screeching for no reason? Scolding them for sitting too close to the TV? Fighting at bedtime because they don't want to sleep?

No.

Not at all.
 
In fact, I want people to stop making parents of young children believe these are things that will be missed by making overarching statements like, "It's hard right now, but one day you'll look back and really miss these moments." I'll miss it like that migraine I had in college that landed me in my bed for 24 hours, dry heaving and unable to peek out from under the covers.

It's so Pintrest (un)worthy

Yesterday was the furthest thing from what our society deems "Pintrest Worthy," despite how awesome my ham broccoli braid looked before and after it was baked.

It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.

Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.

All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.

I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.

You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.

Finding the outlet

I've had a lot of trouble with my creativity lately. I shut it away. I've grieved and released the emotions.

But creativity still won't flow. I keep trying to tell myself the only way to work through writer's block is to write through it - work it right out of my system with some crappy posts before genius strikes again. That's what I've done in the past. It's what I should have done this time; maybe that's what I'm doing now. I have no idea, because that's how my writer's block works ... I write and write and write until the words finally make sense and the sun peeks through the clouds.

Instead of doing that for the last two weeks, I've been moody - actually, if I'm being honest with you, I've been a miserable, short tempered bitch.

Everything happens with purpose

There are times when I feel like I've failed.

This failure, though, is not a Mommy Fail or even from the "I didn't bother to vacuum and the dog is shedding" aspect of my life.

This is about failing to listen to instinct, pushing aside the nagging sixth sense and then wondering why the hell I did because it's made it harder to handle the punch to the gut reaction when the bad news filters in. It's also about knowing there's nothing I could have done, because when your time here is up and you've been called home, the only thing left to do is pray you arrive safely where you're supposed to go and are held tightly until your soul is selected to come back here again. I guess, in all, the failure to listen is also the success of accepting those things I cannot change. But it still hurts.

Let me just speak plainly, the way you all have come to know I will: It fucking sucks.

I talked quite some time ago about getting these "feelings" and my whole breakdown with hearing people talking and not seeing anyone ... or seeing people walk past the doors and windows in my house and there being no one there.

Difficult nights, fresh starts

"There are a lot of days I just want to crawl into bed and cry because nothing has gotten done, or I've gotten stressed too easily and scolded too many times, or the TV was a better parent than me ... but we'll only be given what we can handle, even if there are ups, downs and compromises along the way."

I hate when I say something and it comes back at me four-fold. I wrote the words above sometime last week in response to a conversation I was part of with other moms about having a third child and the fear of already being overwhelmed with two.

Last night I was short with the girls. Josie got a spanking. I was close to unplugging the TV and hauling it out to the side of the road. In truth, I wanted to pack a bag, get in the car and leave it all for my husband to deal with until morning. He frequently gets the easy part of parenting. I'm the enforcer, he's the playmate - that's usually how it goes, but more because I'm home with the kids and have to be the seat of discipline.

All I wanted to do last night was have a nice family evening together, make some popcorn and watch "The Little Mermaid" with the girls and I couldn't keep it together long enough to even give that to my kids.

Social experiments: The spiritual cup

After a week of whatever the heck virus kicked my 3-year-old's tush, I think Josie is finally on the way to good health.

Now Charlie has it. We're on day four of vomit, though she might have skipped a day and I just don't remember. Sleeping (if you can call it that) sitting up with a trash can next to your bed for your 2-year-old to puke into tends to blur time and days.

I'm hoping this isn't going to be the beginning of a repeat of Winter 2012-13.

I refuse to panic about this. We're back to popsicles, Pedialyte and watered down juice. Charlie refuses to eat solid food, I think more out of fear of how much it will hurt if she throws up again. At the very least, I need to try every trick in the book to get fluids into her.

But all this trying to get them healthy is exhausting, and I hate to complain about my babies because they can't help what's happening, so on Sunday the kids stayed home with the Boy and off to church I went. I had a pie fundraiser to help button up so we could start baking on Monday. And my spiritual cup needed a refill.

The magic of Christmas

It's right around the corner. I know it's coming and I'm just not ready for it yet. Not one bit. No ounce of me is prepared, with the exception of having picked up on some clearance sales.

It's Christmas.

No, I don't want to think about it yet. We haven't even gotten through Thanksgiving yet. I refuse - REFUSE, I tell you - to get the tree up or pull my Dickens village houses out before Nov. 29. I did break down and hang some jingle bells on the front door. I probably have broken my own rules just with that one smooth move.

It's hard. So, so hard.

Homeowner logic, the new oxymoron

Sometimes, as a homeowner, you just feel like an idiot.

I think that's actually part of the deed process - you need to sign over your rights to common sense and logic until you've lived at the deeded property for a while.

Heating, cooling, what light switch goes with which outlet, etc. These things can leave you in a daze of new homeowner WTFs.

For instance, today I present to you a lesson in heating your home.

The preschool (non)dilemma

It's really taking its toll on me this morning. I just need to know. Am I a shitty mom for not sending Josie to preschool?

Please tell me, I'm not the only one with a 3-year-old who's just chilling out watching Dinosaur Train while she has her morning quota of milk and after-breakfast snacks. I'm only panicking over this because I feel like most of my social network feeds are filled with pictures of kids going off to first days of preschool - they're all dressed up cute and have little backpacks and fancy shoes.

And my kid is curled up in jammies still at 10 a.m. while Dr. Scott talks about the stegosaurus and the Pteranodon family goes on another adventure.

We have our reasons for not doing preschool this year, and possibly not doing it next year either when she'll be 4, and like us everyone chooses to send a child to preschool or not for their own reasons.

Clean freak chronicles: In a Lysol haze

I've been kind of secretive about plans to move. Or at least, after some careful thought and a strategically made Facebook post, that's the way it may appear to some.

Truthfully, I just haven't turned to social media with all my joy/panic moments over the decision because we (Boy Wonder and I) never sat down and did a serious house hunt.

But here it is — after almost five years in this house, we're moving on. It's happening slowly, because if I make a big move and do it too quickly I'll fall apart, and I can't afford to do that all over again. Moving into our current home was almost too much to bear and the clutter utterly consumed me. A lot of days it still does, but that's primarily because we don't have enough space for the amount of things we have. I've been making great strides to cut back on the material things here that are just pure crap we don't need to hold onto, but I can only do so much when we only get 24 hours each day to accomplish what's on my list. And that list is long.

Weighing the problem

Weight is just a number on a scale. Isn't it?

As an obsessive compulsive weight checker, I can say that isn't always the case. Yesterday, I weighed myself seven times. Seven. It's not always that bad. Some days it's only three. And when I skip a day, I worry more about eating a sandwich with bread than any one person should. I don't, by any means, starve myself, but I do watch closely what goes in my mouth with a reward and reprimand mentality.

For a lot of women, being "fat" is in their heads. For those of us who have battled the weight monster for years, we look in the mirror and see a giant even if our clothes have become ill-fitting from weight loss and the number on the scale reflects something we're pleased with.

The scale isn't the issue, though. The body mass index charts, the skinnier than thou actresses, the weight loss supplements advertised everywhere ... those are the issues. As a society, we — women and men — have religiously opened ourselves up for criticisms where weight is concerned. For most people I know, the BMI would call them overweight; actresses who put on a few pounds because they had a bad breakup and ate a loaf of bread and some Ben & Jerry's are flaunted as baby bump suspects; directly related are the too-skinny rich and famous who are called out as bulimic or anorexic; I'm not even going to tell you what advertisements, the grocery store and pharmacy do to a chunky girl with low self esteem.

What I am going to do is get to the point. Eventually. I think there's a point to this. Maybe.