Cravings {a story about new motherhood}

The Honest Co. asked me to write about my experience with baby formula. I was happy to oblige, but it felt like ancient history. Funny, when it came to writing it, I didn't have to dig to deep. Some experiences never leave you. This is my personal account, and I was not compensated in any way. My opinions do not reflect those of The Honest Co. That said, while this is my story, and my opinion, what you feed your baby is your choice. Breastfeeding didn't work out for me, and I'm okay with that now. If it works for you, bless. Now, on to the good stuff. 


All those years ago, as I was sleepwalking through my new life as a mother, I would have never imagined that I would long for middle of the night feedings. Those quiet pockets of time, where it was just me and my baby, and I was meeting her most pressing need so simply. When I was in the thick of it, the very trenches of newly anointed motherhood I didn't understand just how precious and fleeting those moments were. It didn't occur to me how quickly they would end. At the time, it felt that I would be stuck in that chaotic place forever.

Motherhood didn't begin that way, there was nothing simple about it. Feeding my first born didn't come with ease. Even in her first few hours, trying to find her latch was proving impossible. Steeled by kind words from friends, books and articles, I pressed on as we went from hospital to home. Still the latch was elusive. I tried every trick, every hack, nipple shield, and breast pump. When my milk finally came in, pumping felt like a tortuous consolation prize to motherhood, and those measly four ounces did nothing for myself esteem. We, my daughter and I, went two weeks in a constant loop of nipple shield, screaming, crying, pumping, and finally a bottle of whatever came out in the pump. I was exhausted. I was devastated. More than that, I just knew I was failing as a mother.

Today, I can look back on that period and see that this was just my first hurdle in my journey as a new mom. As devastated as I was, this was the first big decision I had to make. Not the choice or crib or car seat, not the decision to swaddle or not swaddle, it was this very simple in theory, but very difficult in reality choice that I had to make.

What to feed this child? My child.

Back then I was too worried about that the "books" said. About what my friends said. Why was the most natural thing in the world, not the most natural thing for me? Listening to remarks about formula made it feel like a dirty word. This was supposed to be a joyous time, a simple time, when feeding my child was as easy as a bottle or breast. But this decision felt loaded, one wrong move and lives would be ruined... Or would they?

I was wrong about formula, and I was wrong about breastfeeding. In a time before "mom shaming" on social media platforms, I was internally shaming myself. It took me a minute to realize that this choice was all my own. A choice I had to make for my daughter, but also a rather importance choice for me.

I didn't realize we were starving. Her sharp cries at all hours were obvious evidence. My vacant stare as I tried to get her to eat, were silent screams of my own. New motherhood is both seductive and abusive. It entices with it's simple joys, breaks you with it's monotony. What had started as a small battle in my hospital bed hours after my first born's birth, forged into an all out war at home. Why couldn't I feed this tiny person? I was so unsure and self conscious for the first time since junior high. In the back of my mind I knew the answer, but the defeat I'd have to deal with paralyzed me. How was I going to fold on this first test of motherhood? I was scared I was doing everything wrong. My daughter was starving. And we both craved something bigger than both of us. We craved peace. We craved contentment. We craved ease.

Choosing to feed my daughter formula was the first big decision I made as a mother. It wasn't an easy one to make, and I still had miles to go to find my footing as a mother. Still, it was the first step in finding confidence and the first real step in finding that peace, my daughter and I both craved. I had wasted so much time worrying about what to feed my baby, and not enough time enjoying the miracle that was my baby. It was time to enjoy and embrace this new life as a mother. It was time to discover what kind of mother I was going to be, what kind of mother I wanted to be. So breastfeeding didn't work for me. The only person who noticed was me, my daughter was too busy eating to pay any mind to where we got her food. Scoop by precious scoop, we found the peace and ease we were craving. And to my surprise it didn't feel a bit like losing or giving up, it felt exactly right in my corner of motherhood.

I catch myself these days, longing for those middle of the night feedings. Usually when I wake up to go to the gym way before the sun comes up, I feel a little tug on my heart. In those quiet moments, where the entire house is asleep, I think back to those days when it was just the two of us in a rocker. The glare of the television, the sharp burp of contentment from a perfect tiny human. Those days when a bottle and the sunrise were our only company. I miss that simple pleasure of being able to meet that one and only craving, that most important need. Meeting her needs these day is rarely simple, as she is almost ten, and everything is of dire importance.

Some mornings, when I go into her room to wake her, I find myself crawling into bed with her. Reminiscent of those days long gone, it's just the two of us, and the tiny bit of morning seeping through her mini blinds. It's quiet, just her and I, no Dad, no little sister, no distractions. I indulge that craving of a simpler time for me, and her constant craving of having mom all to herself for her. We find that peace and ease that we are still always craving from each other.

One ounce at a time.

What Have I Learned as a Mother?

The end of June will mark nine years of being a mother. I'll be totally cliche and tell you that the years flew by so fast, that I blinked and suddenly I was here almost ten years later, I will go all out and tell you that time is fleeting. Sadly, when you have children, every last cliche rings true.

Motherhood did not come easily to me. Before my own children I had never changed a diaper, I had never prepared a bottle. I wasn't the teen in the neighborhood that everyone asked to babysit. Honestly I never really liked kids, hadn't even really thought about having any of my own. Still, maturity and matrimony brought on baby fever, and by my second wedding anniversary I was seven months pregnant. I read What To Expect religiously, I wrote list after list of products that I would need for baby, I listened to "wise mothers" in line at the grocery check out as they spouted off their sage advice. As my due date approached, I was ready, if only in my naive brain. The nursery was painted, the crib assembled, the bottles sterilized. I had this in the bag.

Then my daughter was born. All six pounds of her, and she scared me more than anything. She was the tiniest human I had ever seen, and she was mine. What was I going to do with her? I kept looking at her and then looking around for her actual mother to come and take her from my arms. Except I was her mother and I was totally out of my element. That first night in the hospital was rough, she cried all night, she never latched on, and in turn I was convinced that this was a bad idea. Before I knew it we were on our way home, my life forever changed.

I'd like to say that I was a quick study once I got home but I wasn't. My daughter never latched on, and after two weeks of nipple shields and supplemental feeding with a tube and a syringe, I surrendered and gave her a bottle. I counted that as failure number one. After a month of her sleeping in a swing most nights, we tried to transition her to her crib and endured three sleepless nights of screaming. Failure number two. Then as the months gave way to other milestones and experiences, I numbly went through the motions. Counting my imperfections as a mother at every turn. Nothing about motherhood was going the way I had planned. By my daughter's first birthday, I was sleeping in her full sized mattress on the floor, she still relied on a bottle for naps and bedtime, and I was still on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I missed a lot of life in that first year of motherhood. Blinded by my imperfections, I soothed myself by getting by. I made excuses on why we couldn't make play dates and mommy gym. Declined invitations to dinners out with friends. I ignored phone calls from friends and relatives, never wanting to get caught in a conversation where I would have to admit that this was not going right. That motherhood felt wrong and foreign. That I had to be the worst, most disastrous mother on the planet. All the while I missed so many important moments. I spent night feedings angry and resentful of the sleep I wasn't getting. I spent bath time counting down the minutes until I could give her a bottle and sleep myself. At the time I was never able to find the joy in any of the chaotic moments that mothers claim bring them joy. I was just angry and sad, dumbfounded that I couldn't get a grip on the life that is being a mother.

Around the time my daughter turned two, I found my happy place. I threw out my previous expectations and settled into the comfort of our imperfect life. My daughter slept in her own bed, but only after I'd lay with her while she fell asleep. We weaned her from her bottle just weeks before her second birthday. We established a bath, book, bed routine which was the only routine in her life. I accepted that she would never nap again, ever. Once I was able to accept this not so perfect life, I found the joy in the little things. I was able to laugh at our mishaps. I was able to let go of the mother I thought I would be and accept the mother that I was: messy, imperfect, but always trying her best. Then a few months after my daughter turned two, I got pregnant again.

My second daughter brought my rare second chance, the opportunity to do motherhood my way. This time I had experience under my belt. I knew what worked for me and what didn't. I knew that I didn't have to listen to any sage advice, I didn't have to read any book, I didn't have to follow any list or directive. Here was my chance to follow my own rules... And I did. By doing so I finally found the joy in those night time feedings. I was able to laugh at the blowouts and the missed naps. I was able to submit to those days when all the baby wanted was to be held without the overwhelming guilt of not doing the laundry or the dishes. The second time around I found myself. I found that person who was undeniably, Mom.

No one ever tells you about the ugly stuff. When you announce that you are expecting, you are showered with congratulations and peppered with advice. Everyone will tell you about the best breast pumps and which diapers are most absorbent. No one will tell you that sleep deprivation and night time feedings will bring you to the absolute edge of everything. Everyone is quick to share sleep tricks and recipes on how to make your own baby food. No one will ever admit to those few short moments when they contemplate packing a bag and driving their car to the next state without their new baby. I think it's because motherhood is one of the most revered titles on the planet. Mothers, by definition are supposed to be perfect and infallible. We are supposed to know how to get our babies to latch on the first try. We are supposed to know how to make baby sleep through the night before two weeks of age. We are supposed to know how to soothe and nurture and love. When I was pregnant with my first a woman I know told me, "Motherhood is the most natural thing in the world". Three weeks into be a mother I thought, "Natural for who?". I'll admit that after nine years, that although I'm not a natural, I am a mother, faults and all.

Motherhood is the ultimate learning experience. It's like never ending on the job training. What have I learned as a mother? The list is endless, but here are a few lessons that have stuck.

Write your own rules. If you want to breast feed, do it. If you want to bottle feed, do it. You are the mother and it's your choice. Don't let friends or colleges write your rules. Don't let books or blog posts write your rules. Write the rules yourself. This is your child, you get to make the decisions. I wish I would have known this so many years ago. It would have made motherhood so much easier. I second guessed every decision I made because it didn't line up with this parenting book or that friends advice. Who cares. Your kid. Your rules.

Savor every minute. You won't realize that you will miss night feedings, until your kid is in kindergarten and doesn't need you to rock their tiny body to sleep anymore. You won't ever again get those short moments when they are milk drunk and woozy, their impossibly small head on your shoulder, grunting as they fight sleep. You don't realize that when you are in the thick of it, so just know that you should enjoy it a few times. You don't realize that your toddler will never be that same chunky and demanding person with sticking hands and ill pronounced words again. That chubby cheeked face will thin, they will learn how to pronounce their "r"s or "t"s, and they will find their own way three weeks into preschool. It will most definitely break your heart, but it will also overwhelm you with gratitude. Savor the moments that you are in right now, no matter the mess or the chaos. I promise, you will miss them when they are gone.

Know your limits. Don't let obligations and expectations break you. Three birthday parties for three different friends in one weekend may kill you, or at the very least turn your child into a goblin. It's okay to say no, it's okay to quit. When my oldest daughter was three I signed her up for a ballet class that didn't allow the parents to watch. I didn't realize that when I signed her up, because my oldest has class A separation anxiety. After two classes where she cried the entire time, we quit. I asked the studio to transfer the money to their gym class where I could watch from the sideline. I heard it all from they naysayers, "How will she ever learn", "She has to get used to being away from you", and so on. Still, I knew that she was three and one day she would learn how to separate from mom. I also knew that I didn't have the emotional or mental stability to shuttle a crying three year old with a newborn in tow to a class once a week. I knew my limits and everyone was happier in the long run.

Speak up. Talk to someone. If you feel lost or numb or on the edge. Tell someone. I was so afraid that I'd be labeled a bad mother if I admitted that motherhood just wasn't my thing. I was scared that I'd be judged, and cast out of my group of mommy friends. The surprising thing was that once I admitted it, I was a better mother. Once I admitted that I hated the night time feedings and the breast pump, I felt better. Once I stopped lying about how awesome motherhood was going for me, I was a better mother. I'm not sure why, but maybe the secret is in the surrender. Just talk, to friends, to your husband (remember him? see below), to those "perfect" gals at mommy gym. I bet they have a struggle or two of their own, and they are just dying to let it out. You never know who you will help just by speaking up.

Don't forget your husband. I know this sounds silly, but it's sound advice. I got so wrapped up in being a mother that I totally forgot I was also a wife. No, I'm not talking about housework and hot dinners, I'm talking about that person you married because they are your partner. When my oldest daughter was born I never asked my husband for help, I never told him I needed help, I didn't share a single thing with him. Why? I have no idea. I guess I just figured since I was a mother I was on my own. Crazy, I know. Not only did this divide us, but it also made us roommates. Husbands or Partners are important. They married you and took vows and they are capable humans. I promise that just because they do things backwards or not "your way", they are still very capable of being parents. My husband is a great father, but in the beginning I never gave him the chance. One I relaxed a little, he took a lot of the stress off this whole child rearing business. Then I remembered that I really liked him and that I really missed him too. Don't forget your husband or partner. Lean on them. Ask them for help. Invited them to eat the left over pizza with you at four in the morning after the baby wakes for the twelfth time. They miss you too, and maybe they won't eat that pizza with you, but they will remember that you asked.

 Motherhood is the one thing that brings you overwhelming joy and earth shattering heartbreak at the same time. Which can blind you when you are in the thick of it. Each year of motherhood will bring new challenges that will make you wonder what was so hard about those two in the morning feedings. Still motherhood will be the most exciting thing you will ever do in your life. Even if you aren't a natural, even if it took a few years to find your groove. I try to remind myself  every day that my children don't need perfection, they only need me. Which is so very reassuring when you are in the middle of chaos and catastrophe. More commonly known as motherhood.

Wife, Mother, Blogger, Writer. I like Starbucks, Instagram, anything by Shonda Rhimes, and the "F" word. 

If you like to laugh and lament over motherhood, Absolute Mommy is the place for you. 

Join me on my quest to be the "Okayest Mommy" in the world.

Nothing lasts forever {co-sleeping, motherhood, and time}

Most mornings I wake up with children in my bed. Of course they are mine, because otherwise that would be weird. Still, with an almost nine year old and an almost six year old many of you may, in fact, think it's weird.

To me, this is normal. In fact it's become somewhat of a comfort. After all those years of worrying about sleep training and bed times and routines, I find I no longer mind waking up with a hand on my face or a small fry snuggled into my back. My kids do sleep the majority of the night in their beds. We start out there, I promise, but somewhere around three or four I have a little person climb in. Sometimes I feel it and know, other times I wake up with an extra body in the bed.

I kind of like that. I like waking up to find a smiling face next to me. Or waking up to a really serene face, absent of tears or anger that will most certainly pop up during the day. I have yet to find a better greeting than a smiling face on the pillow next to me.

You all must think I'm nuts. Musical beds is a horrible thing to experience in the middle of the night. Night waking, sleep walking, trips to the potty, I must be a crazy person. When Caitlin was a baby, I would have already stopped reading this blog post and called my best friend to complain about that dumb bitch blogger who things co-sleeping is magical.

But co-sleeping is magical if it's what you want.

I didn't always want co-sleeping. Not even a little when I began my journey as a mother. Co-sleeping was the absolute worst thing you could do to your child and your marriage. Co-sleeping was for those crunchy granola moms who lived on communes. Babies, I was told, sleep in cribs, then toddler beds, then in real beds. If they don't sleep on their own, then the answer was to let them cry, show them whos boss, and if you don't, then they will most definitely end up a serial killer or a college drop out.

True story. In my early days of parenting this was almost biblical law.

I fought that battle. I cried it out while we collectively cried it out. I argued with the Hubbs for weeks and months. I spent months trying to sleep train a child who hated her crib, who couldn't abide by a swing, who to this day never sleeps in the car. Never. I spent months feeling like the worlds worst mother, lying to people who asked about my child's sleep schedule and bed time routines.

Why? For what?

I was embarrassed. I was afraid of judgment. I was afraid I had failed.

Today, waking up to my sleeping child in my bed does not feel like failure.

If I'm honest, it feels like love.

A few Saturdays ago, I woke to Miss Mac playing with my hair. She was in my bed, on my side, after crawling in overnight. When I opened my eyes, she smiled that crazy, missing one tooth, up to no good smile. I loved it. It was an amazing way to wake up, and it was a moment I just wanted to bottle for future reference, because this won't last forever. One day, before I know it, she will be a teenager. A teenager that sleeps over at her friends. Our little moments, the magical ones, they will happen less and less. I get that. I get that while I was fighting so hard for my girls to sleep in their own beds, I was kind of missing the point. The point that all those moments, the good and the bad are fleeting. The point that giving in is sometimes the best thing for everyone. Even if it feels a little like failure in the beginning, it just may have a perfectly rational and equally wonderful silver lining.

Nothing in motherhood lasts forever. NOTHING. Your co-sleeping thing, if you are doing it, will vanish eventually. If you are having trouble with breastfeeding, soon that won't matter either, you'll be on to some other struggle like solids or teething. That baby that wants you to hold her so much and for so long, she'll be walking soon. It sucks. All of it, because time is a bitch, motherhood is her BFF, and one day, all that hard shit will end, and you'll cry. You'll have a big fat ugly cry, because you made it, and because you you know you can never go back.

You can't go back to the hard stuff thank God, but you can't go back to the great stuff either.

Co-sleeping isn't for everyone. You may be reading this now and wondering how my husband and I have alone time. I promise we have plenty. Also we use the lock on our bedroom door, duh. Feelings of guilt, inadequacy, and failure aren't for everyone either. In fact they are not for me. Not if I'm going to be a good mother. I can't be worried about judgment and guilt if I'm going to "mother" today. It's just not possible. At the end of the day, I am a good mother. I'm not perfect. I'm not entirely sane. I'm just good. As good as I can be, and probably better than I was yesterday.

I wake up with my kids in my bed, and hit the snooze button.

And if I could hit the snooze button on this moment in motherhood right now, I most certainly would.

Sometimes I'm a fraud on Instagram

I read a quote the other day that said something like "Instagram is just some one's highlight reel". Wow. That gave me pause. Is my Instagram my highlight reel? Some days yes. Some days no. I have been known to complain or bitch on Instagram about what are most likely first world problems. I have been known to post selfies without make up or dirty hair on Instagram. I've bragged or been shameless about boasting about my kids, my new bag, my Starbucks red cup on Instagram. Does that make Instagram my highlight reel?

My first inclination is to say no. No. Like a hard NO.

Because I made a promise to myself years ago when I started this blog that I was going to be real. In life and on social media. I couldn't be part of that "perfect mothers" club. I couldn't fight that war anymore. I decided all those years ago that I would put myself out there, even when it hurt, even when it was embarrassing. Sometimes I share too much, but, and here is the issue at hand, sometimes I share too little. Sometimes I hide. Sometimes I don't want to be that one person on Instagram that has nothing nice to say. That doesn't happen often, but it still happens. Does that make Instagram my highlight reel?

Yes. Because sometimes I'm a fraud. Most days I feel like a fraud.

I'm never going to be the perfect mother. Never. I've let that one go. It's okay. I'm okay with that now. Do I want to be a good mother? Yes. Good feels real. Good feels attainable. Good feels right. Does that mean that I still yell in the morning? Yes. I'm a good mother if you overlook the fact that sometimes I get real grouchy about making lunches. The same sandwiches with the crusts cut off after I swore to the Almighty that I would never ever cut off the damn crusts. I'm a good mother if you overlook the fact that my kids wear leggings that have stained knees and that sometimes their shirts have little holes in the stitching. I'm a good mother if you forget that sometimes dinner is McDonald's or Fro-Yo because it's school fundraiser night and dinner and fundraisers can't ever happen on the same night. It's just not possible, in fact I think it's a scientific fact. I'm a good mother if you never ask what time my kids go to bed at night, what kind of vitamins they take, or how much milk we go through in a week. Other than that I'm a good mother.

I'd bet that you are a pretty good mother too. As long as I don't look too closely at your base boards and ignore that one chair in your bedroom covered in laundry that never gets folded. And let's be honest with each other, if you are interested in my base boards, then this will never work.

So sometimes I'm a fraud on Instagram. Those selfies when my hair is done and I'm rocking sunglasses mean that I skipped the make up. If you ever see me with make up, my hair probably looks tore up. If you see me ready for work, outfit of the day rocking, kids dropped off, and taking selfies,: chances are my house is a disaster, my legs haven't been shaved in weeks, and both kids cried this morning when I lost my shit about toaster waffles. Because I'm smiling and taking that selfie through the self doubt, the guilt, and the terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'll never be as good as I want to be. And that the kids will notice. That you will notice. That everyone will notice.

Thank God you can't see that in a selfie. Thank God that Instagram hides the anxiety your daughter has about school performances. That it hides the fact that your five year old will only eat chicken nuggets, bagels with cream cheese, or hamburger buns with Kraft singles in rotation on the daily. Thank you God, that Instagram hides that fight you had with your husband last night about the damn trash being stacked higher than you, that he put your cup away on the highest shelf, that I was snippy about making lunches that I said I would make though he offered. Thank God for that.

So yeah. Sometimes Instagram is my highlight reel. Sometimes I need a damn highlight reel to get through the day. I need to focus on those little faces covered in chocolate, ruining their dinner with Target Icees. Some days I need to take a selfie with no make up, dirty hair, and a great pair of sunnies to remember that I'm a good mother. I'm a damn good mother, regardless of the yelling. Regardless of the piles of unfolded laundry. Regardless of the pit in my stomach that tells me otherwise.

Some days you have to own it. All of it. Even the fake and fraudulent. Even the highlight reel.

Especially the highlight reel.

Always own the highlight reel.

This isn't going to get easier, is it? {Raising Daughters}

Girls, this is a uterus. It looks happy, but... source pinterest

Motherhood is never going to get any easier. This week I received two texts from two different friends. The first friend's daughter started her period. Her period. First of all, we are not old enough to have daughters who menstruate. Also, this friend's daughter is only eleven years old. What in the world? My second friend text to say that her daughter asked to shave her legs. Shave her legs? Let me repeat, we are not old enough to have daughters who have periods or shave their legs. Or maybe we are. The leg shaving daughter is just four months older that my oldest. Lord help us all.

How am I going to explain this to my daughter? source tumbler via buzzfeed

It suddenly occurs to me that motherhood will not get any easier. I was naive to ever think it would. Just about everyone I know has casually said that motherhood just continually gets easier as the kids get older. Just wait until they can go potty by themselves (I'm still waiting on this in some form or another), just wait until they sleep through the night (kids do this? in this life?), just wait until they "insert whatever big kids do that makes life easier'. The truth is, once your daughter can wipe her own butt, it's just a matter of time before you will have to show her how to shave her legs or how to put on a pad properly. A good friend of mine at work has a teenage daughter and she told me a hilarious and horrifying story of how she tried to show her daughter how to insert a tampon. Horrifying, if I'm to let myself think about my future in just a few short years when pads and tampons will be a discussion topic. My husband literally can't even these days with the cute boy shorts at Justice. Imagine when he realizes that those tampons are not mine. Insert nervous his breakdown here.

It's not just the fact that my daughters will one day get their periods. Its the fact that with the discussion about "becoming a woman", we also have to talk about the ramifications of being a woman. I'm not just talking about equal pay and affordable birth control. I'm talking about sex. Let's be real, if you can bleed for three to seven days, that uterus can also house a baby. Babies having babies. This shit just got real. Talking about sex is not something I'm even remotely ready for, and either is the husband. At this point, all under carriage issues and care default to me. And while I know my vagina pretty well, it's up to them to know there own. Have I mentioned that being a woman is the best thing and sometimes the worst thing?

This struggle is so real for girls! source tumbler via buzzfeed

As far as motherhood goes, you'd think we'd get a layover at some point in parenting land. Just enough time to allow us to relax, drink a latte, take a nap, but sadly no. As cliche as it sounds, motherhood is a marathon. The longest damn marathon of our lives, and so we do what mothers do, we keep running for our lives. Will eventually buy pads and chocolate and chips, and talk about how being a woman is so amazing and kind of fucking awful at the same time. We teach our daughters to always carry an arsenal that includes pads, tampons, extra panties, and a sweatshirt for around the waist. We buy an bottles of Nair or an electric razor because our eight year olds are still a little sketchy with scissors, and good Lord there is no way we are going to hand her a razor.

Is it really the time to start discussing  lessons in hair removal and hygiene. Sadly it is, I recently bought some "natural" deodorant from Trader Joe's because there is no way my beautiful daughter is the one who smells like a fraternity boy at a flag football game. These are just a few of the problems that fell mothers of daughters, and for that I consider myself lucky. My neighbor has three boys and, in casual conversation, said that her sons tell her about their morning wood. Oh Lawd have mercy. This must be why I don't have boys. Mothers of boys will be my own personal heroes around puberty. Like that scene in bridesmaids where Rita talks about all the stiff and sticky sheets. I don't think I'd have the strength for boys. The worst I will ever have to explain is the inter workings of the vagina, and in that event I can refer them to this blog. Yes, my darling daughters, your mother has been talking about her vagina for years. Cue the years of therapy they will need when they realize their mother overshared their life!

I literally can't even with this! source pinterest

Parenting children is hard no matter the age. How do I know this? I've already realized that I would trade early morning fights about clothes and shoes for middle of the night diaper changes and feedings. I didn't know that then, but damn if I don't know that now. One day I'll look back and wish it was a simple fight about wearing too many layers in the Fresno heat, instead of trying to leave the house dressed like Miley Cyrus on the first day of freshman year. Those days are on my horizon, and I'm not saying I'm dreading them, but I'm a little fearful of my future mothering life.Teenage girls are a unique brand of crazy, and since I'm almost certifiable on my best days, I guess I should start praying now.

Let these words sink in dear friends. Periods. Leg shaving. Nair. Deodorant. Stiff and sticky sheets. Morning wood. Watch out moms, these phenomenons are coming for us. Ready or not. How will we prepare for the land of pubescent children? Wine, we are all going to need more wine, and possibly Xanax.

Raising Good Humans {It's what Jesus would fricken do!}

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I've done really well with my temper this summer. I guess I can thank slow mornings, an entirely different work schedule, and no school for that. I'm more relaxed, and my children have noticed. Sure I'm still a "yeller", and sometimes I do have to use my outside voice, especially when my girls are fighting over "Shopkins" or "Barbie" shoes. Aside from that, it's been a pretty drama free summer...

Until last week.

The back story is that my oldest daughter has a mouth like her mother (poor kid) and the attitude of a fifteen year old. She's eight going on teenager most days. Recently she has been picking on the little guy who lives next door. He's four and she's eight and she is bossy as all get out and the combo rarely works. I've noticed from time to time that she singles him out, takes things out on him, and leaves him out of games and play time. When I catch it, I speak to her about it, explaining that she is the oldest and needs to set the example. In our neighborhood all the kids play together, and nine times out of ten she is usually the leader because for the most part she is the oldest. I've told her more than once that if she can't play something that includes everyone, then that game/toy/whatever can't be played when we are all outside. Period.

Last week as the adults were all huddled in one of our yards, talking, scrolling our phones, and making jokes, the little guy next door's mom, picked up on some interactions with Caitlin. She just shook her head and made the comment that Caitlin is always mean to him. This bites my ass in a way nothing else does. I can't stand when someone else catches the shortcomings. I hate when another parent has to show or tell me about my kids behavior. Maybe it's because I want perfect kids, or maybe it's because I'm mad I didn't catch it myself. Either way, I used my outside voice a little too aggressively. I asked her at least three times what happened, and when she wouldn't answer me I told her she was to go to her room. She refused. I repeated myself. She refused. I repeated myself. And after about the fourth time...

I used my scary mommy voice and demanded she go into the house NOW. Thus breaking up the neighbor party, embarrassing my husband, scaring my youngest, breaking the heart of my eight year old, and pissing myself off to no end. Yeah. That was me. The asshole.

Here is the thing. I'm trying to raise nice, kind, compassionate humans. I'm trying to raise humans that aren't going to go into the world and be complete assholes. I'm trying to raise good humans for the next generation.

I'm not trying to raise a kid who is mean to the little guy.

Once we got into the house I sat on her floor while she cried on her bed in Scarlett O'Hara fashion. I talked to her about why she was bullying the little guy next door. Why was she constantly picking on him? Why did he push her buttons? She gave me a few reasons that the Hubbs and I listened to, but seriously, she didn't have many. All I could gather was that she wanted to be the "boss" and he didn't always follow her instructions. To which I replied, "Well honey, that's life".

We had a really long conversation about how there will be people in life who will not always follow our lead. Just as there will be people in life who we won't want to follow either. I explained that there will be people in her life that she may not like the best, who won't necessarily be her best friend, but that doesn't mean that she shouldn't be kind to those people. No matter who we come in contact with, our default and reception should always be kindness. Even when it's hard and that person may be mean, that person probably needs kindness more than the rest of us.

At eight years old, she kind of understood this. We used examples of boys in her class last year that had been disruptive or may have said mean things, and we talked about how we were kind anyway. We talked about how sometimes we had to walk away when they were throwing mud or sand or whatever they were doing that wasn't in line with the rules. I told her it was okay to walk away from someone who was mean, to take herself out of that situation if she felt like she couldn't be kind. Walking away is better than being mean.

In her defense, she kept repeating that she was treating the little guy next door the way he was treating her. Using a louder voice, not wanting to play the things he wanted to play. She said, "Mom isn't that what you do? You treat people the way they treat you?". I stifled a laugh and told her she was half right. The actual rule is to always treat people they way you want to be treated. She cried a little harder and said, "But what about them? Why do they get to do it the other way?". This was just the beginning of a conversation that went in circles for about twenty minutes. Why should she be kind if the other guy wasn't? Why should she always treat people the way she wanted to be treated if they wouldn't do the same? Why did she have to be the kinder and bigger person? It went on and on with me explaining that it was just the way of the world. I was almost to the end of my patience again when I just ended by saying, Because I'm your mother.

I said, "I'm your mother and raising you as a good and kind human is my job. I'm not their mother. I'm not raising them. But you, you are mine and I want to raise you to be kind and loving. And when you are anything but kind, I feel like I'm not doing my job". What I wanted to do was to quote Izzy Stevens (Grey's Anatomy) and say, "Because it's what Jesus would fricken do!". It's the first time in this phase of my parenting life that I really feel like we needed some Jesus around here. I mentioned that to the Hubbs. He said that was another conversation for another time (another blog post too). But isn't it. Isn't it what Jesus wants us to do? He wants us to be kind. To embrace others for all their faults even when they are mean. Even when they are the little guy next door who would rather have the My Little Ponies crash into each other like monster trucks than have them host a tea party? The answer is yes.

By this time, Caitlin and I were both exhausted. Mac was crying because sissy was crying, and the Hubbs was giving me serious side eye about where the conversation was going to go at this point. I repeated the golden rule a few more times. We talked about being kind even when it's hard. Then I asked her to help me out a little when it came to my job as her mom. I asked her to help me raise her to be a good human. Because at eight, she is old enough to know better. She is old enough to make good choices and set a good example. And she is old enough to understand that I'm doing my best. That we are all doing our best, and that we are far, so far from perfect. It didn't seem too much to ask for her to follow the golden rule and just be kind. It's something that we can do together.

Can you imagine if we all offered each other just a little more kindness every day? What would that world look like? Sure, there will always be people who aren't exactly the nicest or our favorites, but maybe they deserve it more. I'm no expert, but I'm on a mission to raise good humans. Kind and loving humans. I don't want to be the parent with the kids that are total and complete assholes. Sure they need to have a backbone, but kindness isn't about being passive. Kindness is about being strong. Strong enough to know when to fight and when to walk away. Kindness is something that is free, but more valuable than diamonds. We could all benefit from a little more kindness in our lives.

Plus it's exactly what "Jesus would fricken do".

What would the Jolie-Pitts Do?

A few months ago my best friend called me while she cleaned out her closets in preparation for her big move to Montana. She was going through her kid's clothes and was at the point where she wanted to trash it all, but then again, didn't want to trash it all. Before she lost her mind all together she called me to ask some very important questions. Like what I was doing? If she really needed to keep baby onesies sized three months? And the most important: Could her daughter wear her son's Where the Wild Things are t-shirt?

My answer was of course, because faded grey boy t-shirts make little cherubic blonde girls look like riot girls in training. Also why the hell not? But then I reminded her that my parenting role models swear by recycling their children's clothes no matter the gender. I told her that the Jolie-Pitts would definitely let Zahara wear Maddox's old Where the Wild Things Are shirt.

Because the Jolie-Pitts are the coolest parents on the planet.

Sure they are mega super stars, and most of what I see of their parenting is published in the pages of People Magazine or US Weekly. I'm sure that they are just living their lives, doing what they think is best for their kids. But in a world filled with Kardashians and Vanderpumps, I can't help but notice their quiet crusade to parent their own way. Obviously they are always under public scrutiny, and there are still people who hate Jolie because she did steal someone's husband, but I have to make a case for them being very modern and very awesome parenting role models.

A few years ago, I read an article about Ms. Jolie where they asked her about what it's like to be a Hollywood mom. They asked her all the usual questions about balance, about child care, about their educations, and then they asked about her favorite Sunday morning ritutals. Because Sunday mornings tend to carve a life of their own after you settle down and have kids. Jolie mentioned that her favorite thing about being home with her kids versus a movie set was waking up with them. Then she proceeded to tell the interviewer that she and Mr. Pitt had a custom bed built for their family. A bed that is seven feet by seven feet, because at the time the Jolie-Pitts were co-sleepers. This my friends changed my life. Here were two of Hollywood's biggest stars, with more money than the average person could imagine, with the means to hire the best Nanny/Sleep Trainer in the world, but they said nah. They said to hell with all that jazz, and just got a bigger bed, because why fight it? Also at the time they were outnumbered anyway. I decided right then and there, if co-sleeping was good enough for the Jolie-Pitts, well then it was just fine for me.

As their family grew, and the paparrazi made more money for photos of famous people, I got a better look at what their family looked like. I noticed that the kids wore clothes that were very basic. With the exception of a dress here and there for Zahara, I saw that they mostly wore things like jeans and cargo pants, t-shirts and hoodies. Then in a parenting magazine, they did an article on "Celebrity Kids" style and pointed out all the times that Zahara and Shilo had worn hand me downs from Maddox and Pax. I mean why should this family be any different from another? Oh, wait, because they were being photographed in the south of France with their mother looking flawless in a black maxi dress and flip flops. But there they were, walking the streets of France like they were just these jet setters eating Cheetos.

Yes. The twins were in their strollers eating Cheetos. I remember this because I was so surprised that they were able to get Cheetos in France, but since Cheetos are delicious, I guess they are universal. Again, here is a family that you would think would be eating things like baguettes and croisonts and macaroons, but instead Cheetos and Snickers. Ok, I haven't seen proof of the Snickers, but if they eat Cheetos, my money is on Snickers as well. I've also seen those Jolie-Pitt kids drinking soda, eating other varieties of chips, and any kind of junk they can get their hands on... Why? Because they have real parents. Which is easy to forget because they are famous and so incredibly good looking. But seriously, when I think about letting my kids eat Flaming Hot Cheetos in public, I think, What would the Jolie-Pitts do?

So what would the Jolie-Pitts do? They would let their kids have a hand in planning their wedding. They would let Pax bake their wedding cake. Angelina would have a dress designed featuring drawings by her children. The Jolie-Pitts have let their kids sleep in their huge bed with them until they decided they were ready to sleep in their own beds. They have let their kids eat Cheetos in the South of France. What would the Jolie-Pitts do? Whatever they want. Whatever is best for their kids. Whatever is best for their family. Which is not only inspirational, but also pretty effing cool.

My favorite thing the Jolie-Pitts have done as parents? Call their daughter Shilo, John. Now this is tabloid fodder, (and its been going around the internet for the last few months), but it has been said by both Pitt and Jolie that Shilo has said that she would like to be called John. She also likes to dress like her brothers, and act like her brothers. So what? Maybe she is a tomboy. Maybe she is identifying as male as the tabloids like to speculate. Whatever the reason, the Jolie-Pitts have decided to comply with her wishes. This is why I think that the Jolie-Pitts know a thing or two about parenting. They also know a thing or two about not caring what the rest of us think. Which after years of parenting, I feel is the most important lesson to learn.

So if you find yourself wondering if letting your kids Cheetos at Whole Foods is a good idea, or if letting your son wear his big sister's old (and pink) Dora the Explorer t-shirt, ask yourself:

What would the Jolie-Pitts do?

Growing Up

I think I have outgrown Parents Magazine.

I don't think I've read a copy of it cover to cover in over a year. It's a great magazine, don't get me wrong, but I just haven't really been interested. Maybe it's because my kids are older, and I don't need so much baby/toddler advice. Maybe it's because we can't use the recipes as much anymore since one kid is gluten free and the other eats a steady diet of chips and string cheese. Or maybe, I've just outgrown it.

Let me say that I don't think I know everything there is to know about parenting. I still have a lot to learn and I'm learning it everyday. I guess I just feel like I have experts in my life. When you blog, you have Parents Magazine at your fingertips, in some cases just a text or a Facebook post away. And I know this sounds like social media is going to kill off print media, and in some instances it may, but reading about toy recalls and Tylenol dosing and how to get your kid to use his manners in ten steps isn't doing it anymore.

In January's issue there was a story on how to train your baby to be a good sleeper. My entire mothering life this will always be a hot button issue for me, because I didn't have a good sleeper the first time around. I also have broken and continue to break every "good sleeper" rule in the book. But I was curious so I read the finer points of the article which included: stop rocking your baby, stop giving your baby a bottle before bed, don't pick up your baby when they are crying, and so on.. I'm sure you've heard these before. And it's all really good advice if a sleeping baby is important to you. If your baby isn't a super sleeper by nature this may be some much needed advice, but it also made me sad. I wanted the other side of the story too. The one from the mom like me who tried all those things and failed at every one of them. The one who surrendered to rocking and bouncing and bottles at all hours of the night. The one who could not for life of them stand to hear their child "cry it out", and had to hide in her master bath with the fan on while listening to music on her iPod. Where was that story?

I wish I could write that article for them and say that a sleeping baby is a wonderful thing, but so is a baby who won't. A baby who will watch the sunrise with you. A baby who will look into your eyes as you rock them and hold handfuls of your shirt in their tiny fists until all their fight is finally gone. I'd tell those mamas with sleepless babies to embrace the night owl, the night feeder, the two hour stretcher, and enjoy every singe minute with them. Because yes you are tired, and yes you are angry that your kid will not for the love of Pete sleep, but the flip side is that this time will not last forever. Even though it feels like it. This time, these countless hours while the rest of the family sleeps and the world sleeps and the only thing on is CNN, is so damn short. And while it pains you now, one day down the road you will be up, way past every one's bed time and think, "What was I so worried about?". One day the kids will sleep, mostly in your bed, but they will sleep. They will go to school and not hold your shirt in their ever growing fists. And when they wake at night it's for things like water, which now you are happy to get them and if you try to start a conversation with them they will grumble and walk themselves back to bed. Because one day everyone will sleep, and you'll wonder where your baby went.

I guess we all grow up. Babies that won't sleep. Mothers who think they need articles about healthy sleep habits. I guess it's the circle of life. Do expectant mothers even buy What to Expect these days? I can't even imagine. I don't think I'm an expert, but I'm pretty confident I know my own way. The way that feels right for my kids and my family. Parenting is so dynamic that there is never one right answer, just the answer that is right for you.

In my case, I told The Hubbs not to renew my subscription. He looked at me like I was crazy, since it's been in our house for seven years... I told him it was fine. Everything is going to be just fine. We are growing up.

Not enough Mommy {The Shit Show}

My daughter broke her toe. You probably already knew that since I posted it to Instagram. Not only did she break her toe, but she also chipped a bone in her foot. Kids, am I right? The Hubbs and I were pretty much convinced that it was just a stubbed toe, but the next day she still couldn't put weight on it and x-rays confirmed a "fracture". That's what The Hubbs told me over the phone, "a fracture". Over the phone, because I was at work. I was working and couldn't take her to the hospital, and I automatically defaulted to guilty.

It didn't really get any better from there. I was also going to miss her follow up with the orthopedist two days later. Yes, I had to work again. And my schedule was so out of whack, that I felt like I had missed days of being home with both girls. So the Thursday before school was going to start, I left work well after five, and headed home to sit and enjoy the last moments before we were back to reality. Summer had come and gone and I had spent many moments at work or at home, too tired from work to really enjoy anything. It's sad but true.

I'd like to say that Thursday night delivered for us. That we were able to enjoy each other's company, and enjoy one of our last nights without homework or projects or even some sort of thrown together schedule. But it didn't. Thursday didn't deliver. Thursday was a disaster. Thursday was a shit show.

Caitlin was understandably tired and freaked out at the air cast and wrap up to her knee. She was having trouble getting comfortable, and after a day spent on and off crutches, she was exhausted. She started to whine and fuss about eight thirty and so I decided that the three of us, Caitlin, Mac, and me would pile into my bed and watch really horrible but entertaining cartoons provided by Cartoon Network. It seemed to work for awhile until Caitlin couldn't take the restraint on her leg and lost it. Like one hundred and ten percent lost it. She started crying and nothing, not even chocolate could make her stop. I tried to breathe. I tried to remind myself that she was probably in pain. I tried to remind myself that she probably just needed her mom. So I laid in the middle of the two girls and listened to the tears and the whining. It wasn't fun, but I was doing my best to power through.

Then Mackenzie started in. She was tired too, and now we were approaching nine thirty and her sister was still crying. Now Mac was crying too, because as she put it, "she missed me", she "never gets to see me", and that "you are always at work mommy". OUCH. Again, I took some deep breaths. I explained that Mommy just had one more day of work and then I would be off all day Saturday. I apologized for not being home, and I told her I missed her too. And then I did some more breathing, and then Caitlin said she missed me too, and then it was a fight to the finish to see who could cry more.

In that moment I realized that there was not enough mommy to go around. It was one of my biggest fears when I was pregnant with Mackenzie. Would there be times when I just couldn't be in two places at once? Would I have enough love for both? Let me tell you, love is not the problem. The problem is physical. I cannot cut myself in half, although, after almost two hours of crying, I was almost willing to try. So I did what most mothers would do in this situation.

I lost it. I gave in to the shit show. And I put on an even better one.

I sobbed. Right in the middle of those two crying girls, who looked at me in the dark, with only the light of the TV to guide them. There is not enough Amazing World of Gumball to shield you from your mothers breakdown. Sorry kids, but sometimes mommies have to let go too. So I let go with those sobs that only come from your gut.

I'm sure the Hubbs thought we were all headed for the loony bin.

The worst part about losing it all together? The girls apologized to me. As if they had reason to be sorry for breaking their mother in such a way that she sounded like a wounded animal and had mascara running down her face like some death metal band. The apologies only made it worse, only made my gut hurt more, only made me sob harder. But when I was able to pull it together I told them:
Mommy tries really hard to be here; Mommy loves you both very much; Mommy is really sorry that you both need me right now, and you have to share; Mommy tries.

There will never be enough Mommy to go around. Try as I might, I can't just cut my self into two pieces when they both need me at the same time. What I can do is remind them and me that there will always be enough love to go around. Even when it's hard, even when it hurts, there will always be enough love.

So yeah, Caitlin broke her toe, the week before school started. I worked the entire week before summer. And it was kind of a shit show. Then I woke up the next morning and did it all over again. Well, not the shit show part, but the work and broken toe, and the let's get ready for back to school part. Because just like there is never enough mommy, there is also never enough time to have multiple shit shows in a row.

Third Party Parenting

The last five months since returning to a part time work schedule have been a total blur. It seems like I just started rearranging my schedule to get child care in order and to make sure someone could drop Caitlin off at dance. Maybe it's because I'm forever rearranging my schedule. A life working retail is anything but consistent, and even with the best laid plans, it takes one domino to make the others fall. Sure the closing shifts are hard on all of us. Working on the weekends has taken some real adjusting. And while we continue to do it, while we continue to change and adapt to whatever this week's schedule brings there is one part of this whole working mom thing that I hate...

Third Party Parenting.

That's what I call the fact that it is taking an entire village to raise my girls these days. Both Grandmas, Auntie and Uncle, even our neighbors. We are all in this together. We are all working to make sure the kids are getting from point A to point Z on some days, and for the most part it works. And for the most part I'm thankful. But it bugs me that on some days, I have no idea what is going on.

In the last five months I have missed note after note home about awards ceremonies, class events, yearbook sales, and carnival donations. I missed teacher appreciation week entirely, and that's pretty sad because I was the room mom last year. It was a very fly by the seat of your pants second half of the year, with me running around last minute trying to put together teacher gifts and carnival donations. I had to rearrange schedules to make award ceremonies, and had to ask the Grandma's to fill in for me at the year end talent show. Thankfully my neighbor recorded it on her phone, and I cried big ugly tears, because I missed it. By the last day of school I felt like I had missed it all.

Now it's summer and I just know there will be more cases of Third Party Parenting. I'll be working and someone else will be in charge of my girls. Be in charge of separating them when they argue, and makings sure they don't always eat ice cream for breakfast. Someone else will make sure they don't wear pajamas all day, and make sure they share the Barbie Dream House. Sometimes the girls will enjoy that their Grandmas bend the rules, and that Daddy will resort to ordering pizza. Most nights they won't even think about me at work, while they are playing in the sprinklers with ice cream cones and cans of Pepsi. 

But I mind.

A few weeks ago when the Hubbs and I were discussing my work schedule and who would do what, and how many things I could accomplish before having to be at work at one thirty, I told him I was so tired of the third party bullshit. He laughed. He was like, "What's third party?", so I told him. I told him I was tired of someone besides me being in charge of the girls. Being in charge of the rules. I was tired of not knowing what was going on because I forgot to check the backpacks for notes. I was tired of forgetting to pay the dance dues and forgetting to buy sandwich baggies, again. I told him that parenting from afar, parenting with a third party was total and complete bullshit. 

He told me I just don't like being in control. He told me I have to relax. He told me that I have to "Let it go". He told me to have faith in the system.

I won't say that he's right. I'll just say, it's still total bullshit. As much as I once complained about the monotony and complexities of being a stay at home mom, I really felt I had a better handle on my life. I felt like I was being the best person I could be, for me and for my family. Before going back to work, missing a note or forgetting a date on my calendar was a hiccup. Today it's a derailment. I know there are women who do this everyday, full time. They are successful working mothers, but I just wasn't built that way. I'm not a super hero, I'm not a saint. I'm a mother, who had finally accepted her flaws, only to discover that she has a brand new set of them. 

Some would say to embrace this third party. To take comfort in the fact that my girls are surrounded by this amazing group of people who love them. And I'm trying, I do feel lucky that they are love and cared for. I'm hoping that I can let go of some of the additional anxiety this summer. That maybe without two schedules to follow, I can find balance in my work schedule alone. That we can find some balance as a family. Or maybe we will just fly by our seats, which has become our normal.

I guess I should embrace Third Party Parenting. Because for what it's worth, my kids are happy and healthy and loved. Their third party parents buy McDonald's and Subway. Their third party parents have swimming pools and fudgesicles. Their third party parents let them stay up late and watch Ghostbusters. My girls have no idea that third party parenting just about kills their mother with guilt, because they are too busy having fun.

No air

Friday night capped off a very emotional week.  My grandfather was hospitalized again after having suffered two seizures, then returned to the hospital less than twenty four hours later after suffering another.  My entire family has been pushed and pulled emotionally.  We have prayed around the clock, had to ask questions we never thought we'd have to ask, and answer questions we didn't want to answer.  It was intense, but that was only what most could see.  That's what I shared on Instagram and what my mom shared on Facebook.  It wasn't the entire story.
While we were on standby waiting for news on Grandpa, I was on the battle field again with my six year old.  Here we are again, less than twenty four hours after our biggest fight to date.  It was ugly.  I screamed and yelled so loudly and with such force that I have a scratchy throat. She growled and screamed like an animal.  I had to hold her door shut so that she would stay in her room, and she in turn almost kicked the door in.  Then realizing I had another child in the house as witness, found a cowering and crying Mac in her room.  I'm not even kidding, I wish I were.  
The result was two very traumatized children and a shaking and emotional mother who sobbed on and off until one in the morning.  It also resulted in me realizing that we did nothing to resolve our original argument that sent me over the edge of motherhood.  We were originally fighting over a mini Christmas tree.  A two foot, scraggly, would put Charles Brown to shame tree.  Because little sister requested a tree and since there are two mini trees in the house, I took it upon myself, since I'm the mother and all, to let Mackenzie have last years "decor" tree in her room.  This doesn't mean that my older child is left out of the tree extravaganza, she has a tree, one that I went great lengths to procure four years ago. What it meant was that Mommy makes changes that Caitlin doesn't agree with and that she wanted both trees herself.
There was no reasoning with this child.  Which is no surprise because there has never been any reasoning with this child since she was born.  This is the child that hated her crib, her swing, her pack and play, her car seat, and sleep or contentedness in general.  This is the child who upon being weened from a bottle was told she could only drink milk out of a cup, and gave up milk all together.  Some days she will request chocolate milk, but she cannot abide by milk.  No way, no how.  This is also the child that was "bagged" for a urine sample and held her pee for six hours, even after a 32 ounce Dr. Pepper.  As soon as I removed the bag, she peed.  Everywhere.
So last night, I sat on my couch and counted all the ways I have spoiled this dear child.  All of the ways that I have failed her since day one.  Because when you scream so loudly you are pretty sure you busted a tonsil, you feel so much guilt and remorse that there is no air.  But crying over a mini Christmas tree, wasn't the only thing I was crying over.  It was the culmination of mornings filled with tears and yelling.  Mornings spent interrogating my six year old on the reasons she doesn't want to go to school, or to music class, or to dance class. Mornings spent waiting until the last bell so I can walk her on the playground to her teacher so that I can leave her, crying hysterically, with someone she trusts, instead of coldly leaving her in line on the playground alone.  Ask me how I do this, ask me how it feels to walk away and hear the sobs of your daughter.
I can't breathe.  There is no air in here.
The last few weeks of school have been a wreck.  Our mornings begin with tears that increase with every minute that passes.  We cry about clothes, hair styles, breakfast choices. And there aren't too many choices.  I know about that situation.  I know that too many choices make it impossible for kids to make a choice.  This my friends is on an entirely different level. We are paralysed by our choices.  We can never make a choice between two outfits, or two pairs of shoes.  We can never make a choice on how we want to wear our hair of if we want a bagel in our lunch.  I ask, and ask, and ask again, and I am always met with an "I don't know", or and "I can't choose".  Which as you can imagine, sends me into a tailspin at seven fifty-five in the morning when we have to leave for school by eight ten.  
We thought it started with music class.  A class that she loved at the beginning of the year.  A class that has never been a problem.  Now she is sick every Thursday, the day they have music class.  She doesn't want to sing in the Christmas program, claiming the Chinese New Year song is too sad.  She has even had crying outbursts in music class that I didn't even know about until I asked.  
I've asked about bullies, problems with friends, issues with teachers and teachers helpers.  I've asked if she is scared.  Is she nervous?  Is she worried?  All of my questions are met with an "I don't know". And so I'm afraid that we truly don't know.  Except that we have found out through a series of conversations that she doesn't like the new lights we put in over the kitchen sink.  She doesn't like where Daddy relocated our family picture, and she really doesn't like the idea of new hard wood floors.  She told the Hubbs and I both that she doesn't want our house to change.  She wants it to stay the same.  Perhaps we are afraid of change. I know I am, and I'm 35, but is this really the heart of the issue?
Anytime we call Caitlin's behavior into question, I always feel like this is just a matter of brattyness.  A matter of being spoiled rotten by everyone in her life.  I always wonder if it's something I did. Something I'm doing.  Surely losing my temper, flying off the handle, and letting go of any sanity I may have isn't helping.  But at the core, every time I lose it big time, I'm afraid that my past is coming back to haunt me.  My past of dark days spent checked out in front of the TV, going through the motions of motherhood just to get me the next day.  All those days, could she remember those.  Could she be this discontent because I was so discontent?  Could that happen?  Is it happening?
I sit here, at the keyboard that serves as the only form of therapy at my disposal on a Saturday afternoon, heartbroken and deflated.  If I told you that I wake up every morning vowing not to yell or lose my temper would you believe me?  If I told you that I DO NOT want to be the mother that yells and screams would you believe me?  If I told you that I try, I try so incredibly hard to be better every day, to hold my tongue, and count to ten, and not go into a parenting tirade, would you believe me?  Because some days I don't even believe myself.
This morning I vowed to seek help.  Professionally.  That isn't really hard to type.  What's hard to type is that even after these six years, I'm still so flawed.  I'm still a novice.  I'm still left wondering how to care for this child.  There are no longer night feedings and diapers, hours spent trying to get her to nap, days spent trying to be perfect.  Those are not my biggest mothering challenges anymore, and yet, I really wish they were.  Those are easy.  Those were doable, even when I felt like I was failing at every single one of them.  Today, my mothering challenges are emotional and behavioral.  They call into question every bit of my parenting style, every single bit of what I knew to be "our way".  My mothering challenges today, require no band aids or stitches, no chicken noodle soup or cough syrup. There is no single answer to my questions, and that is so very scary.  That is what keeps me up at night, that is what keeps my eyes filled with tears about to tumble.  I am at a loss as to what to do, but I know I can't have another night like last night.  Last night I'm pretty sure I left my body for a minute. I'm not proud of that, in fact I'm embarrassed.
Last night I thought about every challenge I have faced with this child.  Every mountain I had to climb. It has never been easy, not once in these six years has there been a day without challenge.  But I feel as if something is changing.  Unexplainable tears, uncontrollable outburst, growing defiance.  Are we suffering because we are afraid of change or are we just bratty?  Is this a situation of my own design, or are The Hubbs and I totally missing something?  In the words of my daughter, "I don't know".  
What I do know is that I can't breathe.  There is no air in this place that I am in, no matter how many deep breathes I take.  I need air.