Click-y moms at the park. Write about that.
Oh, interesting new store opened. Write about that.
A new assignment from Newsday. Write about that.
Skipping Stroller Strides. Losing the last 6 pds of baby weight. Binging on crap. Write about that.
A trip home. The importance of family. Kids are growing up too fast. Write about that.
Hot cup of coffee. Check. Quiet house of napping children. Check. Brain bursting to blog faster than my purple colored finger tips can type. Check.
"With long straight black hair sweeping past their shoulders, tan swirls casted against black leggings, and yogurt granola they just found for a steal at Cosco, the moms at Magnolia playground..."
Shit, the phone.
Hang up. Regroup. Re-read. Pick up.
"..clung together tigher than the grape jelly stuck on Nugget's cheek. Prepared for more than the single child lunch, this group of four had snacks, toys and..."
Crap, someone's up.
Ah, Meatball poops more than a bear who's just confiscated a bowl of chili. Where was I....ah, okay, jump back in.
".....extra pairs of socks for each other's children. The world around them seemed invisible. Just the four of them, pushing their children insync on the swings, clapping together as they watched their children go down the slide, go up the slide, go through the tunnel, hold on to the monkey bars, let go of the money bars. They knew each others names, their husband's names, their mother-in-law's names, their dog's names. They strolled in stride, dotting along....."
Sigh. Their all up. Meatball's poop was enough to wake the room of three.
Close computer. Blog later.
Later.........
Three days later, tossing and turning over the list of to-do's that have been un-do's thanks to the sunny days that have engulfed my schedule with walks, playground trips, beachy afternoons, evening dog walks, I open the computer.
Today I'll set aside the Newsday article plans and finish my last blog.
"...hmmm..hmmm."
Click-y moms? What click-y moms? What was I even blogging about again?
Crap, the phone.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Purpose Of The Blog
On Sunday the Times ran a piece on blogs, mom's who blog, and 39,000 mom's who attended a blogging conference in California to find out how to get more revenue on their blogs. Some of these women were making an insane amount of money, and companies such as Tupperware are currently looking for other bloggers to hire for their company.
We've all heard the story of Julie&Julia and how her blog went from blog, to an article in the Times, to a book and then a movie. Then there's the mom who cooked in a crock pot for a year and sent readers pounding their computer every morning to check out her newly tested recipes, a year later it became a book. Stories like these are all over, but the amount of bloggers are ten fold. This got me to thinking, what was I hoping to get from my blog, and more importantly why was I using my half hour coffee time to type instead of read?
I had to think back to answer this. Of course when I started my blog in September of 2008 the recession hadn't exactly hit yet, or at least I hadn't realized it did. I walked from Monroe to Georgia playground and met my friend who I've refered on here as Baby Guru. After months of us both staying home, our babies now 9 months old, we'd begun walking the boardwalk and discussing what our next move would be. My maternity money was running out, and if another writing assignment didn't come through I'd have to find an out of the house job and a daycare for my son. I remember running idea after idea off my friend, "What about an article on how to get your kid on Sesamee Street or into the top notch preschool," (actually maybe I'll use that Sesame Street article after all-it's interesting don't you think?)and trust me when I tell you I contacted editor after editor pitching idea after idea. No one was biting. My friend had an idea, she was starting a day care. Mondays were going to be her busiest, five kids at once, "I'll help you," I exclaimed. "I'll walk down every Monday, as long as it isn't raining, and hang out." So on this Monday, with the kids at the park, I proposed my idea.
"You know how I said it was really hard to find a mom group here and how I searched to make mom friends when I had Nugget? What if I made a blog that would allow moms in LB to connect. We could plan meet-up dates and parties and all kind of events through it."
My friend thought it sounded great. So I got started. I figured out how to set up a blog, created a first meet-up date, a walk on the boardwalk that never happened due to a major rainstorm, and slowly began to write.
As editors slowly began to write back, "Sorry, we're not taking any out-house projects at this time," (aka, the economy was crashing and magazines were folding faster than I could keep up with), and I found out I was pregnant (Nugget only 9 months old and I was eight weeks, gulp!)the idea of a blog and meet up events grew less appealing. I was to busy puking, running after Nugget and worrying about money.
A year and a half later my husband and I managed to pull through. I've taken over one of the children from my friends day care and I've begun to use my blog as an outlet. I still wish this to be a place where LB moms can get together and connect. But, I'm now hoping for more opportunties to come from this.
I'd like to be able to pull two resources from one outlet and let the LB moms enjoy some of the spotlight. Magazines are slowly beginning to give away small assignment, my first one in over a year will be appearing in Parenting next month, and as I jump in, feet first, I'd like to bring my moms with me. Using this blog as a LB connection, I'd like to float my ideas on here, gather the opinion and turn the moms into interviews in the magazine, and possibly some photo shoots (for the magazines that hire me as their photographer too).
I'm not sure of the logistics and how well this would work, I can only use the same two moms so many times before editors complain (I giggle at how famous I've made my friend Megan, she's been my photograph ginuea pig for a yoga, surfing, speed dating, and other numerous articles), but I'm slowly going to test it out.
My first step, getting LB moms on my site to comment. I'm not sure how to go about this, besides a giveaway to lure them in, though so far that's no gaining much success, but maybe soon, through word of mouth, this will spread and a year from now my hopes of writing and connecting the moms will be concrete.
But what about my randon blogs, you ask. They're not articles. True. To that I say, I have random thoughts that I think are funny (to myself I'm very humourous), I guess I'm just vain enough to think that others will think so too and enough reading them. Hey, if I can't write for the magazines at this moment, why not blog about it. Right?
We've all heard the story of Julie&Julia and how her blog went from blog, to an article in the Times, to a book and then a movie. Then there's the mom who cooked in a crock pot for a year and sent readers pounding their computer every morning to check out her newly tested recipes, a year later it became a book. Stories like these are all over, but the amount of bloggers are ten fold. This got me to thinking, what was I hoping to get from my blog, and more importantly why was I using my half hour coffee time to type instead of read?
I had to think back to answer this. Of course when I started my blog in September of 2008 the recession hadn't exactly hit yet, or at least I hadn't realized it did. I walked from Monroe to Georgia playground and met my friend who I've refered on here as Baby Guru. After months of us both staying home, our babies now 9 months old, we'd begun walking the boardwalk and discussing what our next move would be. My maternity money was running out, and if another writing assignment didn't come through I'd have to find an out of the house job and a daycare for my son. I remember running idea after idea off my friend, "What about an article on how to get your kid on Sesamee Street or into the top notch preschool," (actually maybe I'll use that Sesame Street article after all-it's interesting don't you think?)and trust me when I tell you I contacted editor after editor pitching idea after idea. No one was biting. My friend had an idea, she was starting a day care. Mondays were going to be her busiest, five kids at once, "I'll help you," I exclaimed. "I'll walk down every Monday, as long as it isn't raining, and hang out." So on this Monday, with the kids at the park, I proposed my idea.
"You know how I said it was really hard to find a mom group here and how I searched to make mom friends when I had Nugget? What if I made a blog that would allow moms in LB to connect. We could plan meet-up dates and parties and all kind of events through it."
My friend thought it sounded great. So I got started. I figured out how to set up a blog, created a first meet-up date, a walk on the boardwalk that never happened due to a major rainstorm, and slowly began to write.
As editors slowly began to write back, "Sorry, we're not taking any out-house projects at this time," (aka, the economy was crashing and magazines were folding faster than I could keep up with), and I found out I was pregnant (Nugget only 9 months old and I was eight weeks, gulp!)the idea of a blog and meet up events grew less appealing. I was to busy puking, running after Nugget and worrying about money.
A year and a half later my husband and I managed to pull through. I've taken over one of the children from my friends day care and I've begun to use my blog as an outlet. I still wish this to be a place where LB moms can get together and connect. But, I'm now hoping for more opportunties to come from this.
I'd like to be able to pull two resources from one outlet and let the LB moms enjoy some of the spotlight. Magazines are slowly beginning to give away small assignment, my first one in over a year will be appearing in Parenting next month, and as I jump in, feet first, I'd like to bring my moms with me. Using this blog as a LB connection, I'd like to float my ideas on here, gather the opinion and turn the moms into interviews in the magazine, and possibly some photo shoots (for the magazines that hire me as their photographer too).
I'm not sure of the logistics and how well this would work, I can only use the same two moms so many times before editors complain (I giggle at how famous I've made my friend Megan, she's been my photograph ginuea pig for a yoga, surfing, speed dating, and other numerous articles), but I'm slowly going to test it out.
My first step, getting LB moms on my site to comment. I'm not sure how to go about this, besides a giveaway to lure them in, though so far that's no gaining much success, but maybe soon, through word of mouth, this will spread and a year from now my hopes of writing and connecting the moms will be concrete.
But what about my randon blogs, you ask. They're not articles. True. To that I say, I have random thoughts that I think are funny (to myself I'm very humourous), I guess I'm just vain enough to think that others will think so too and enough reading them. Hey, if I can't write for the magazines at this moment, why not blog about it. Right?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Crazy Friday Giveaway
Alright Moms, this week we're giving away something extrodinary....a free session with Elyse Pollack's Stroller Strides class. What better way to get your mom bod as cute as your kids then to try her out..for FREE. (I've crossed the Island Park bridge just to PAY her to kick my butt. She's that good!)
The catch..answer the question of the day and on Wednesday we'll announce the winner.
So, best of luck and I hope to see you in class. Who knows, there might be an interview and picture in it for you...if you desire that is =)
The question: In reflection of this weekend's upcoming typhoon like rainstorm, What's your favorite rainy day activity?
The catch..answer the question of the day and on Wednesday we'll announce the winner.
So, best of luck and I hope to see you in class. Who knows, there might be an interview and picture in it for you...if you desire that is =)
The question: In reflection of this weekend's upcoming typhoon like rainstorm, What's your favorite rainy day activity?
Should A Nap Compare With Crack
"If you were my mentor what advice would you give me today?"
This was the question I asked my husband as he scrambled off to work yesterday. Hoping for some type of inspiration, some words that would lead to a writing assignment, a completed pitch, a completed page of my play, he uttered the un-inspirational.
"Take a nap when the kids nap."
Take a nap? No, I wanted something more concrete. I wanted to be ordered, challenged, to get something done.
"You're running around like a mad woman. Take a nap."
And so, heeding my husband's advice, I helped the kids hang Easter decorations in the windows, cut colorful eggs out of construction paper that they painted and colored, brought them outside to play, made them a non-healthy lunch of macaroni and cheese (ate my salad along side them-do you even know how much I wanted to stick my face in the pot and swallow the entire serving for 4), changed pants, diapers and dirt covered clothes from outside, and finally put all three and then myself down for a nap. At first I laid there, thinking of all the things I should be doing, the dirty house that wasn't getting cleaned, the laundry that wasn't being folded and put away, the Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion that was waiting for me in the DVR, at this rate I'll never fall asleep, I told myself. But somehow I woke, two hours later, drool covering my pillow and cheek, to the sound of the boys waking up from their nap. But did I feel better? Rested?.....Hell No! If anything I felt irratated, more tired and did I say irratated? I wanted nothing more than to crawl back in that bed and be done for the day, and what was worse, I had no desire to wash the dirty dishes that were piled in the sink from breakfast and lunch, to start preparing dinner, or to fold the laundry that was still sitting in the dryer, so I didn't. Everything went on hold as I sat on the floor watching Sesamee Street with the kids.
Needless to say left over chili was served for dinner, the kids went to bed without a bath (I never had a chance to clean the tub that still had pieces of mud in it from their afternoon excursion outside)and my husband was on my nerves so bad that I retired to the bedroom at 7 o'clock to watch tv and read my magazine in peace.
So, was the afternoon nap worth it? In my opinion...hell no!
But, before my 6:30 alarm rang this morning I found myself up, and in the shower. By 7:30 the kids had breakfast, were dressed, and ready for the day. By 8:00 my bed was stripped, the dishes in the sink were half way finished (there were so many that I have to wait for the others to dry so I can put them away and start another load-the next apartment I have WILL have a dishwasher), there was a load a laundry going in the machine and my bills were laid out and organized on the bed.
I felt, feel, fantastic, as if I've had three cups of espresso, when I've only had one cup of coffee so far.
"Are you going to ask my advice again this morning," my husband asked as he returned from his walk with the dog.
"Bring it on," I said.
"Take another nap."
"Another nap?"
"Just like yesterday, go down when the kids go down. Catch up."
"What's the face for," he laughed.
"I was really hoping to watch the Real Housewives Reunion. I have both the reunions and the next episode of the NYC Housewives waiting for me!"
He smiled, shaking his head back and forth, and walked out the door.
"Take a nap," he echoed in the hallway.
This was the question I asked my husband as he scrambled off to work yesterday. Hoping for some type of inspiration, some words that would lead to a writing assignment, a completed pitch, a completed page of my play, he uttered the un-inspirational.
"Take a nap when the kids nap."
Take a nap? No, I wanted something more concrete. I wanted to be ordered, challenged, to get something done.
"You're running around like a mad woman. Take a nap."
And so, heeding my husband's advice, I helped the kids hang Easter decorations in the windows, cut colorful eggs out of construction paper that they painted and colored, brought them outside to play, made them a non-healthy lunch of macaroni and cheese (ate my salad along side them-do you even know how much I wanted to stick my face in the pot and swallow the entire serving for 4), changed pants, diapers and dirt covered clothes from outside, and finally put all three and then myself down for a nap. At first I laid there, thinking of all the things I should be doing, the dirty house that wasn't getting cleaned, the laundry that wasn't being folded and put away, the Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion that was waiting for me in the DVR, at this rate I'll never fall asleep, I told myself. But somehow I woke, two hours later, drool covering my pillow and cheek, to the sound of the boys waking up from their nap. But did I feel better? Rested?.....Hell No! If anything I felt irratated, more tired and did I say irratated? I wanted nothing more than to crawl back in that bed and be done for the day, and what was worse, I had no desire to wash the dirty dishes that were piled in the sink from breakfast and lunch, to start preparing dinner, or to fold the laundry that was still sitting in the dryer, so I didn't. Everything went on hold as I sat on the floor watching Sesamee Street with the kids.
Needless to say left over chili was served for dinner, the kids went to bed without a bath (I never had a chance to clean the tub that still had pieces of mud in it from their afternoon excursion outside)and my husband was on my nerves so bad that I retired to the bedroom at 7 o'clock to watch tv and read my magazine in peace.
So, was the afternoon nap worth it? In my opinion...hell no!
But, before my 6:30 alarm rang this morning I found myself up, and in the shower. By 7:30 the kids had breakfast, were dressed, and ready for the day. By 8:00 my bed was stripped, the dishes in the sink were half way finished (there were so many that I have to wait for the others to dry so I can put them away and start another load-the next apartment I have WILL have a dishwasher), there was a load a laundry going in the machine and my bills were laid out and organized on the bed.
I felt, feel, fantastic, as if I've had three cups of espresso, when I've only had one cup of coffee so far.
"Are you going to ask my advice again this morning," my husband asked as he returned from his walk with the dog.
"Bring it on," I said.
"Take another nap."
"Another nap?"
"Just like yesterday, go down when the kids go down. Catch up."
"What's the face for," he laughed.
"I was really hoping to watch the Real Housewives Reunion. I have both the reunions and the next episode of the NYC Housewives waiting for me!"
He smiled, shaking his head back and forth, and walked out the door.
"Take a nap," he echoed in the hallway.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Shhhh...It's A Secret
Yesterday myself and two other moms crashed a toddler class at the Island Park Library. Though we weren't the only ones, the class was literally over flowing with moms and toddlers, and though we may have never signed up, one of the other moms and I have been attending on an every other week basis, aka, when the class is held, so we knew the regulars from the non. Any how, five minutes into the class the head librarian walked in and scolded all the unregistered moms for attending, of course the three of us looked around like we weren't one of the unregistered. She did let everyone stay, but encouraged us to fill out forms suggesting more toddler classes.
But I'm getting off course. Though I want to tell you about the anxiety I experienced, still experiencing, as we pushed our strollers over the drawbridge from LB to IP, (if this opens and we go down my children are strapped in to their strollers, there's no way I'll be able to unbuckle them, I'll swim to the top, the stroller will sink to the bottom and my kids will drown), let me tell you when I say I pushed that triple stroller as hard as I could over that see through bridge I'm not kidding, my lungs were heaving by the time I reached McDonald's and waited for the two other moms who were far behind me. But again, I'm getting off track.
What I want to tell you will probably now seem boring in comparison. As I walked into the library, waiting amongst the line of moms in from of the elevator, another mom caught my attention. Standing behind me with her double stroller, suspiciously peering into my triple stroller, I ignited the conversation.
"He's not mine," I told her, pointing to my daycare boy.
"I was about to say," she giggled.
Her double held two girls.
"How far apart," I gestured.
"Fifteen months."
"Seventeen," I said, pointed to Nugget and Meatball.
"It's not as hard as everyone thinks is it," she whispered.
"Shhh," I smiled, placing my fingers in front of my lips. "Don't give it away."
"I know," she laughed as we shoved ourselves into the elevator together.
We peered at each other across the room, exchanging eye glances towards other moms who seemed frazzled with one child and smiled. Another mom knew the secret. I wasn't the only one thinking this was easier than it once sounded, nor was I the only one not regretting the closeness of the children, and liked it.
But in all my secret sharing I do have to admit one more. This morning, as I fed, dressed and got my boys ready for the day I remembered....THIS is what's hard. Timing two boys together, dressing one while the other escapes or screams or gets into something he's not supposed to, getting their food ready and on the table at the same time..and the stroller (or car, though I'm rarely in that)getting them all in, strapped in, snacks, and pushing. I guess hard isn't the right term, because is it HARD, no, but is it a struggle, yes. Having the patience and balance and repetition to do it all together, day after day, is definitely not the bee's knee's, it's somewhere in between.
But I'm getting off course. Though I want to tell you about the anxiety I experienced, still experiencing, as we pushed our strollers over the drawbridge from LB to IP, (if this opens and we go down my children are strapped in to their strollers, there's no way I'll be able to unbuckle them, I'll swim to the top, the stroller will sink to the bottom and my kids will drown), let me tell you when I say I pushed that triple stroller as hard as I could over that see through bridge I'm not kidding, my lungs were heaving by the time I reached McDonald's and waited for the two other moms who were far behind me. But again, I'm getting off track.
What I want to tell you will probably now seem boring in comparison. As I walked into the library, waiting amongst the line of moms in from of the elevator, another mom caught my attention. Standing behind me with her double stroller, suspiciously peering into my triple stroller, I ignited the conversation.
"He's not mine," I told her, pointing to my daycare boy.
"I was about to say," she giggled.
Her double held two girls.
"How far apart," I gestured.
"Fifteen months."
"Seventeen," I said, pointed to Nugget and Meatball.
"It's not as hard as everyone thinks is it," she whispered.
"Shhh," I smiled, placing my fingers in front of my lips. "Don't give it away."
"I know," she laughed as we shoved ourselves into the elevator together.
We peered at each other across the room, exchanging eye glances towards other moms who seemed frazzled with one child and smiled. Another mom knew the secret. I wasn't the only one thinking this was easier than it once sounded, nor was I the only one not regretting the closeness of the children, and liked it.
But in all my secret sharing I do have to admit one more. This morning, as I fed, dressed and got my boys ready for the day I remembered....THIS is what's hard. Timing two boys together, dressing one while the other escapes or screams or gets into something he's not supposed to, getting their food ready and on the table at the same time..and the stroller (or car, though I'm rarely in that)getting them all in, strapped in, snacks, and pushing. I guess hard isn't the right term, because is it HARD, no, but is it a struggle, yes. Having the patience and balance and repetition to do it all together, day after day, is definitely not the bee's knee's, it's somewhere in between.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
His Two Words Made Me Run
After a weekend in Philadelphia, celebrating my father-in-law's 60th, it felt good to come home. So good in fact, that I pulled out my double stroller, plopped the kids in and headed for the boardwalk.
"You're going for a walk," my husband exclaimed. "Aren't you exhausted?"
"Do you see that sun out there? I'm not sitting in the house when it's that nice."
And off I went, rehashing the weekend in my head, the laughs, the stories, the look of surprise on my f.i.l's face when he walked through the door, as my husband crawled into our bed to rehash via a nap.
Like any LB knows, a burst of sunshine gets the Boardwalk packed, and boy was it ever. As I strolled up the ramp, breathing in the ocean air, realize now how much I missed that smell, I had to dodge a quick right. Runners pounded the boards, bikers peddled them, and walkers weren't leaving much room between. But I found my grove and began trekking amongst them.
One ramp later I ran into my old boss from C&R. Big embraces lead to big talk about the old days, what we and everyone else were up to, and our up coming plans. Forty minutes into the non-stop chatter, my kids restless and his cell phone beeping with messages from unanswered calls, we said our good-bye's.
I walked away, and just as I was about to put my ipod on, he called back out to me. I quickly turned, hand shielding my eyes from the sun.
"Nice ass," he said.
I smiled. In honestly it was more than a smile, it was an ear to ear glow that has yet to leave.
"You made my week," I yelled back, wondering if other people were now checking out my ass too.
Walking away, I felt good. In my twenties, when my ass was nice, tight and high, I wouldn't have thought twice about someone talking about it. I would have taken that statement for granted. Now, as a mother of two kids, who's recently joined a kickboxing class, begun to eat healthy, and fit a stroller strides class in at least once a week, 'Nice Ass' means more than 'Nice Ass.' It's a recognition to the fact that I still exist. Though I've forgotten about me, other people haven't. I'm still relevant in this world, other than as a mom. And some people might even find me hot!
Hot.
The thought alone got me going. Nice Ass, my mind repeated, and I began to strut. Nice Ass, and I swayed my hips more. Nice Ass, and I walked faster. Nice Ass, and I picked up my feet and I ran. Nice Ass, and I sprinted from one building, stop, breath, strut, to the next building, run, stop, strut.
Two words. Two words took me from a woman who, four weeks ago, made a commitment to herself to eat right and join an exercise class, to a woman who lifted her feet high off the boardwalk and ran, something I haven't done in two years.
And by the end of the boardwalk, my accomplishment felt even better than the two words still repeating in my head.
Though I will repeat them again and again.
Nice Ass!
"You're going for a walk," my husband exclaimed. "Aren't you exhausted?"
"Do you see that sun out there? I'm not sitting in the house when it's that nice."
And off I went, rehashing the weekend in my head, the laughs, the stories, the look of surprise on my f.i.l's face when he walked through the door, as my husband crawled into our bed to rehash via a nap.
Like any LB knows, a burst of sunshine gets the Boardwalk packed, and boy was it ever. As I strolled up the ramp, breathing in the ocean air, realize now how much I missed that smell, I had to dodge a quick right. Runners pounded the boards, bikers peddled them, and walkers weren't leaving much room between. But I found my grove and began trekking amongst them.
One ramp later I ran into my old boss from C&R. Big embraces lead to big talk about the old days, what we and everyone else were up to, and our up coming plans. Forty minutes into the non-stop chatter, my kids restless and his cell phone beeping with messages from unanswered calls, we said our good-bye's.
I walked away, and just as I was about to put my ipod on, he called back out to me. I quickly turned, hand shielding my eyes from the sun.
"Nice ass," he said.
I smiled. In honestly it was more than a smile, it was an ear to ear glow that has yet to leave.
"You made my week," I yelled back, wondering if other people were now checking out my ass too.
Walking away, I felt good. In my twenties, when my ass was nice, tight and high, I wouldn't have thought twice about someone talking about it. I would have taken that statement for granted. Now, as a mother of two kids, who's recently joined a kickboxing class, begun to eat healthy, and fit a stroller strides class in at least once a week, 'Nice Ass' means more than 'Nice Ass.' It's a recognition to the fact that I still exist. Though I've forgotten about me, other people haven't. I'm still relevant in this world, other than as a mom. And some people might even find me hot!
Hot.
The thought alone got me going. Nice Ass, my mind repeated, and I began to strut. Nice Ass, and I swayed my hips more. Nice Ass, and I walked faster. Nice Ass, and I picked up my feet and I ran. Nice Ass, and I sprinted from one building, stop, breath, strut, to the next building, run, stop, strut.
Two words. Two words took me from a woman who, four weeks ago, made a commitment to herself to eat right and join an exercise class, to a woman who lifted her feet high off the boardwalk and ran, something I haven't done in two years.
And by the end of the boardwalk, my accomplishment felt even better than the two words still repeating in my head.
Though I will repeat them again and again.
Nice Ass!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Everyone Thinks I'm A Bad Mom
Somedays are good days. I push my triple stroller to the library, bring the boys to as class, and have a mom approach me at the end.
"Three boys, wow! And they're so well behaved. I don't know how you do it."
A statement to which I quickly respond that Nugget and Meatball are mine, but the three year old I watch.
"Still, I couldn't do that. And they're just so good!"
And then there are the bad days. Meatball screams his head off, not letting anything I do appease him, Nugget and daycare boy get into a fight over a toy yelling "MINE" in the library, and no matter what I do I can't get a balance and end up a frenzied mess.
It is days like these that leave me doing the stroll of shame. The stroll of shame is the long walk home from our destination where I replay all the events in my head and imagine all the bad things onlookers and other mothers said, or were currently saying, about me.
That's why you don't have three kids.
Did you see her, she doesn't even pay attention to them. Her baby was eating crayons while she was reading a book to the older one and it took her a few minutes before she even noticed.
Such a terrible mother. I'd never let her watch my kids.
These are the statements that swarm my head. I go to bed at night, analyzing what I did with the kids, was it enough, should I have planned another craft, should I have read to them more during the day, is Meatball lacking for attention, is Nugget, am I on top of them as much as I should be, do others think I push them to much, should Nugget know his colors yet, should I be teaching them words, how to spell, how to read, how........
"Go to bed," my husband will usually yell after I've tossed and turned for the fifth time. I've learned not to talk to him about these concerns. It always results in a fight. He tells me I'm doing a great job and that my thought and worries are ludicrous and that I just need to let the kids be kids. I read into that statement to much, "What do you mean they don't need structure? Do you think that they are so well behaved because it comes natural? That's me. That's my hard work. When people give you a compliment about your children, you should stop and tell them that you don't believe in structure, you believe in letting them be, so the compliment actually belongs to your wife and you will pass it along." At this point he ends the conversation, I'm heated up and he's walked away leaving me to stew in my ridiculous thoughts.
Last night was filled with those thoughts. I woke up tired, wondering how I was even going to pull through. It was beautiful outside. The kids would want to go out, I should want them to get out, but my heart and body wanted to sit on the living room floor catching up on my weekend newspaper, not cleaning a thing or lifting a finger besides to change a diaper and make lunch, and even that sounded exhausting. But twenty minutes into my morning my friend and Stroller Strides instructor badgered me into coming to her class. Swearing at her with every step there I half hearted walked into class, only to find out that she was planning on punishing everyone for the warm weather.
"Bathing suit season is coming, lets run five million laps around the building moms!"
If that wasn't bad enough, Nugget and daycare boy were itching to get out of the stroller.
Beaten up, and ready for the class to end, I let the boys out of the stroller when we stopped running and began our floor exercises. Nugget and daycare boy ran around the room like a bunch of uncaged hyenas and Meatball sat next to me laughing and crawling all over me. Seconds later there were screams. Loud, horrific screams. Nugget had ran straight into a table. His eye was immediately red, swollen and forming a larger lump by the minute. The other moms looked on in horror. Though they had followed my lead and released their children from the strollers, there's were quietly sitting beside them playing with appropriate toys, not running around the room. Nugget was fine. His crying lasted less than two minutes, and was more the result of tiredness, and I was back on the floor, Meatball crawling next to me, the two boys running around again. Hey, I've been to the Emergency Room, twice with Nugget for stitches already, a bump on the head was nothing. (But as I write this statement I again wonder if that makes me a bad mother, should I be more nurturing and soothing to him? Is letting him go play after he gets hurt, instead of holding him and rubbing his back, though he wouldn't let me do that if I wanted, snuggling only happens when there is no playing to be done, the wrong thing?)
I watch the boys run around, knowing that other eyes are on me, and my head is spinning with the words that other moms are saying in their head. I could only imagine what would be said as I left. And just as my mind spins, Meatball crawls by my side, and the instructor tells us to bring down our right foot and bring out our left foot, injury, aka bad mother incident, number two begins. Without thinking about the left leg stretch and the woman beside me, Meatball's coos turn to wails as the left-sided woman stretches her leg straight into his head.
I packed up the kids as fast as I could and got out of there, and in case your thinking I'm exaggerating about the thoughts and looks from moms like my friend Carney, "No one thinks your a bad mom, will you stop," she always laughs as I tell her one of my 'I think people think I'm a bad mom' story, I have to end the exercise story by telling you that no one, NO ONE, said good-bye to me as I waved and said "Good-bye Moms."
They hate me. They think I'm terrible. I know they do.
That night I repeated the story to my mother. Her horrified gasps were enough to reinforce the morning feelings.
"Did you ice his eye?"
"It's not that bad mom."
"Oh my god, go put some ice on his eye right now and give him some Tylenol."
"Mom it was hours ago."
The conversation went on. I appeased her by promising to ice his eye and give him medicine as soon as I hung up, and yes, to keep my eye on Meatball more. And the mom guilt was back. Not only were fellow LB moms probably home talking to their husbands or fellow mom friends about me, my mom was now hanging up, shaking her head and stressing out about what I'd just told her.
"Maybe I should come down there and watch the kids for you. Maybe I should take care of them so you can go to exercise class without them."
These words ran over and over in my mind last night. Not only did my mom think I was a bad mom, she was considering taking time off of work and driving five and a half hours to take care of my children for me. It's officially I apparently suck.
"Three boys, wow! And they're so well behaved. I don't know how you do it."
A statement to which I quickly respond that Nugget and Meatball are mine, but the three year old I watch.
"Still, I couldn't do that. And they're just so good!"
And then there are the bad days. Meatball screams his head off, not letting anything I do appease him, Nugget and daycare boy get into a fight over a toy yelling "MINE" in the library, and no matter what I do I can't get a balance and end up a frenzied mess.
It is days like these that leave me doing the stroll of shame. The stroll of shame is the long walk home from our destination where I replay all the events in my head and imagine all the bad things onlookers and other mothers said, or were currently saying, about me.
That's why you don't have three kids.
Did you see her, she doesn't even pay attention to them. Her baby was eating crayons while she was reading a book to the older one and it took her a few minutes before she even noticed.
Such a terrible mother. I'd never let her watch my kids.
These are the statements that swarm my head. I go to bed at night, analyzing what I did with the kids, was it enough, should I have planned another craft, should I have read to them more during the day, is Meatball lacking for attention, is Nugget, am I on top of them as much as I should be, do others think I push them to much, should Nugget know his colors yet, should I be teaching them words, how to spell, how to read, how........
"Go to bed," my husband will usually yell after I've tossed and turned for the fifth time. I've learned not to talk to him about these concerns. It always results in a fight. He tells me I'm doing a great job and that my thought and worries are ludicrous and that I just need to let the kids be kids. I read into that statement to much, "What do you mean they don't need structure? Do you think that they are so well behaved because it comes natural? That's me. That's my hard work. When people give you a compliment about your children, you should stop and tell them that you don't believe in structure, you believe in letting them be, so the compliment actually belongs to your wife and you will pass it along." At this point he ends the conversation, I'm heated up and he's walked away leaving me to stew in my ridiculous thoughts.
Last night was filled with those thoughts. I woke up tired, wondering how I was even going to pull through. It was beautiful outside. The kids would want to go out, I should want them to get out, but my heart and body wanted to sit on the living room floor catching up on my weekend newspaper, not cleaning a thing or lifting a finger besides to change a diaper and make lunch, and even that sounded exhausting. But twenty minutes into my morning my friend and Stroller Strides instructor badgered me into coming to her class. Swearing at her with every step there I half hearted walked into class, only to find out that she was planning on punishing everyone for the warm weather.
"Bathing suit season is coming, lets run five million laps around the building moms!"
If that wasn't bad enough, Nugget and daycare boy were itching to get out of the stroller.
Beaten up, and ready for the class to end, I let the boys out of the stroller when we stopped running and began our floor exercises. Nugget and daycare boy ran around the room like a bunch of uncaged hyenas and Meatball sat next to me laughing and crawling all over me. Seconds later there were screams. Loud, horrific screams. Nugget had ran straight into a table. His eye was immediately red, swollen and forming a larger lump by the minute. The other moms looked on in horror. Though they had followed my lead and released their children from the strollers, there's were quietly sitting beside them playing with appropriate toys, not running around the room. Nugget was fine. His crying lasted less than two minutes, and was more the result of tiredness, and I was back on the floor, Meatball crawling next to me, the two boys running around again. Hey, I've been to the Emergency Room, twice with Nugget for stitches already, a bump on the head was nothing. (But as I write this statement I again wonder if that makes me a bad mother, should I be more nurturing and soothing to him? Is letting him go play after he gets hurt, instead of holding him and rubbing his back, though he wouldn't let me do that if I wanted, snuggling only happens when there is no playing to be done, the wrong thing?)
I watch the boys run around, knowing that other eyes are on me, and my head is spinning with the words that other moms are saying in their head. I could only imagine what would be said as I left. And just as my mind spins, Meatball crawls by my side, and the instructor tells us to bring down our right foot and bring out our left foot, injury, aka bad mother incident, number two begins. Without thinking about the left leg stretch and the woman beside me, Meatball's coos turn to wails as the left-sided woman stretches her leg straight into his head.
I packed up the kids as fast as I could and got out of there, and in case your thinking I'm exaggerating about the thoughts and looks from moms like my friend Carney, "No one thinks your a bad mom, will you stop," she always laughs as I tell her one of my 'I think people think I'm a bad mom' story, I have to end the exercise story by telling you that no one, NO ONE, said good-bye to me as I waved and said "Good-bye Moms."
They hate me. They think I'm terrible. I know they do.
That night I repeated the story to my mother. Her horrified gasps were enough to reinforce the morning feelings.
"Did you ice his eye?"
"It's not that bad mom."
"Oh my god, go put some ice on his eye right now and give him some Tylenol."
"Mom it was hours ago."
The conversation went on. I appeased her by promising to ice his eye and give him medicine as soon as I hung up, and yes, to keep my eye on Meatball more. And the mom guilt was back. Not only were fellow LB moms probably home talking to their husbands or fellow mom friends about me, my mom was now hanging up, shaking her head and stressing out about what I'd just told her.
"Maybe I should come down there and watch the kids for you. Maybe I should take care of them so you can go to exercise class without them."
These words ran over and over in my mind last night. Not only did my mom think I was a bad mom, she was considering taking time off of work and driving five and a half hours to take care of my children for me. It's officially I apparently suck.
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