Pick an Answer: The Struggle, Parenthood, or Love.

What is REAL?     

 “Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.' 

     'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.  

     'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'  

     'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'  

     'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”  

― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

I have always loved The Velveteen Rabbit, to the point where I decorated my baby's nursery with illustrations from a paperback version I bought expressly for tearing it apart. 

Since I was in high school I've been particularly drawn to this passage. The idea that you must be "broken-in" before you could be accepted, or even truly seen, it appealed to my brand of teenage angst. 

Since becoming a mom, however, I have found find new meaning in it. 

Yes, I'd say our children make us Real in very much the same way they do their toys. By the time they really see us as real people, our stuffing is lumpy and the joints are loose. We are not the young, beautiful, new parents who had unreal expectations of our tiny babies. 

And that's ok. That is how it should be. We grow into parenthood, we grow by being loved by the special little humans we guide through the world. We become... more. 

This is important, I believe, for all parents to fully embrace. 

Because every person who has ever raised a child knows that parenthood is often a struggle. A struggle that is hard, and totally worth it. 

Because as parents we should understand at least this one truth about each another, and see the beauty in the way we are all the same, and celebrate how we are Real in our own unique ways. 

What is Real? 
Love. Love is Real. 
Parenthood is Real. 

I originally shared this meme on my FB page. This is the Skin Horse's answer to the Rabbit's question, "What is Real?"

Practical Magic: Conjuring More Beautiful Bedtimes with my Daughter

Saying goodnight to my daughter is always, um, an adventure.

Some nights she is sugar and spice, sweetness and light; while fairy dust floats in the air, her pudgy little hands pull me down for more kisses!

Smooch, smooch, kiss, kiss, peck, peck...

"100 kisses, Mommy!"

Rapid fire kisses, machine style.

"That's 99 kisses, Mama..."

"So one more, huh?"

"Yep. 99 is next to 100. So one more kisses."

One more kiss to end her day with smiles and love.

Feeling that warm glow? I try and hold onto those gauzy golden memories...

Because the reality is most nights end with so much screaming and so many tears you'd think this child was being beaten instead of being put into a nightgown.

One night, a bad mix of overtired and distraught, my girl was in full-on tantrum mode, screaming, crying, flailing.

Finally, when nothing else was working, I blew in her face. Not sharply, mind you, more like a gentle breeze.

And she stopped crying just long enough to crack a smile.

Suddenly we were back to our very early days. My girl, who never wanted to sleep in her crib alone, and me, who just needed her to sleep so I could sleep too.

"You know," I told her, "you used to cry when you were a baby. Nothing I did would help. One night I was so tired - I cried too! Then, with noting left to do, I blew softly on your face and you smiled. 

Just like this... 

And even if you start up again - in that moment your smile gives us both hope.

Your brief smile reminds you that you CAN smile again.

But it reminds me that I can find a way to help you smile.

As long as we know that we can be sure we can get through the tough times...

That is what hope is."

Rejoice! For on the Seventh Day, She Rested

Monday, it's another Monday. And Mondays are hard, aren't they?

But this is not just any ol' Monday. There's a whole host of things that are different about this day, including, but not limited too:

• This is the Monday following the time shift here in the United States (well, most of them). Always a wonky day. 

• This is the Monday before US Election Day - which is a whole ball of angst-producing wax alone. 

• As it happens, my little Rebels have school today, and are off tomorrow, back for 2 days and off for Veterans Day on Friday. Add this to the time shift, and I'm in for a long week in the parenthood department. 

• This is the Monday after the NYC Marathon, which I am proud to say my husband not only ran, but crushed. First marathon for a 47 year old dude, and he did it with an average mile of just under 10 minutes. 

• My husband and I happen to have a date tonight, to go see Lee Child be interviewed by someone from Vogue at Random House. There'll be yummies to nosh and wine, and all very lovely. I'm excited, I am... but... 

• I have an emotional hangover. Why? Well, partially because of all the stuff I just listed. Mostly because as long as my husband's day was yesterday, by the time he came home I felt like I'd run a marathon. 

So what is an "emotional hangover?" I don't even know if it's a thing other people say, but for me, it's the feeling of having been through the wringer, and just feeling worn out from all the feelings. Does that even make sense? I don't know. 

See, yesterday I had a plan, an expectation of how I could let kids do their thing in the morning while I did some work. Then we would go have frozen yogurt for lunch, watch their dad pass by and cheer for him in the marathon, and then we'd scoot back home, and frolic or something. Ok, I didn't plan what we'd do, but I really did plan this fun "outing." It would only take us around the block, but it was so much winning for all of us. 

Needless to say, things didn't go as planned. Lots of reasons, mostly irrelevant. 

The relevant bit is that I found myself standing on the sideline, 3 people back from the fence, knowing my husband would never see my 5'2" shortness where I was. My kids were trying to stay excited, but they couldn't see any of the runners. My son started asking to go get fro-yo every 90 seconds. My daughter decided she didn't want to sit in the stroller she insisted she needed, but she did want to stand ON it. I was getting the side-eye from some of the other spectators, and one woman decided to be outright confrontational. 

I just wanted to see my husband. I wanted to hug him over the sideline fence, kiss him, maybe take a silly selfie, and send him on his way. 

As my daughter teetered on the stroller that I held balanced with one hand, while trying to track his position on the race app, and my son whining and complaining and knocking the phone to the ground... My anxiety went through the roof. 

I was shaking. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab the kids and leave, but I didn't want to miss seeing my husband. I wanted my kids to see their daddy doing this amazing thing. I didn't want anyone to be disappointed. Which included me. 

So I hung on. I got angry. Because not having control and having to fake it pisses me off. Because the only way I can get back in control is to fight through the fight or flight response. 

Once you've climbed on that roller coaster, it's hard to make it stop. 

I'm fighting for my life, I'm fighting to find my calm, I'm fighting mad, I'm fighting sleep, I'm fighting the need to crawl back into a hole. I'm fighting to find normal again. 

For me, that's the worst part of my anxiety. It makes me... mean. Which makes it worse, because I despise who I am when I'm freaking out. Even if I look perfectly normal. 

It so fucking exhausting. 

So today, I'm spent. Today, I cannot think clearly. I cannot focus. I cannot... I just can't. 

And you know what? I'm not gonna. 

Today I will rejoice in feeding myself. I will revel in a quick shower. I will take care of the physical, and let the brain (try to) rest. 

Plus 2 Surprise Babies Makes Us A Lucky Seven

Families are complex. At least mine always has been. 

Do you remember the Newhart tv series in the 80s with a character called Larry and his brothers, Daryl and Daryl? Well, thanks to my blended family, I actually have three brothers, and two are named James. Although neither went by "James," as a kid I loved introducing us in just the way Larry did on the show. 

Maybe that's why I always imagined I'd grow up to have a classic sit-com nuclear family: Me and my spouse, our 3 children, 2 cats and 1 dog. 

Reality? We had two babies 18 months apart, then moved into a small 2 bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Not only did that nix the fur babies, but pretty much my dreams of a third child. 

Which is why I was wistfully bemused a few weeks ago, as we neared the end of an excruciatingly long day in the car, when my two delightful little rebels started talking about how they wanted more siblings.

4 kids & only 1 me? Oh hell, no. 

I thought they were kidding. 

Nope. According to them I need to deliver a baby post-haste.  

Naturally, my Girl wants a sister, my Boy wants a brother. So I'll need to produce fraternal twins. 

Check out the kid-logic sales pitch: 

• BOTH insist a new baby can sleep in their beds with them. 
• They will share ALL their toys. 
• There will be no crying, no fighting, and rainbows will fill the baby's diapers, which my 4 and 6 year olds will obviously change themselves. 

When I reminded them of their unwillingness to even share my fecking lap when I try to read to them, they suggested the solution was I needed a second husband.  

Seriously?!

Oh yeah, they did. For the rest of the drive they spun an elaborate tale of our 2 dads, 4 kids, 1 mom life in a 2 bedroom apartment in New York City. 

Slumping in the passenger seat, I couldn't help but feel exhausted by the mere conjecture. 

What do you fear you could endure?

What is your biggest fear? There's an interesting question for someone who struggles with anxiety. My mind immediately jumps to Franklin D. Roosevelt's first inaugural address: 

"...let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts..." 

It turns out, however, there is one thing I fear more than my own fear. A few summers ago I came face-to-face with my fear. I'd love to say I overcame it, but... 

This was nothing like meeting a tarantula, although my whole life I have been petrified by spiders. Literally, if confronted by one, even the itsy-bitsiest of arachnids can send me into heart-pounding, frozen in place, panic. Unlike my friend Lola, I'm not concerned about them laying eggs in my mouth, or accidentally eating them, or even being bitten. The entirety of them being just freaks me the hell out. 

Logically, I know they serve a greater good, so I do my best to live and let live. If a spider is in my space, I can break through my panic to capture it and set it "free." Sure, there'll be a tremendous amount of squealing and running in circles shouting "ewwwww," but I'm a mom. Mom's get shite done. 

Now, if you ask others what their biggest fears are, I'd wager many will admit they fear death on some level. Particularly as we embrace the realities of parenthood, the idea of a premature death can be terrifying. 

While I get that, personally I've reached an age where my own bodily harm and questions about my mortality are frightening only because I am afraid what my loss would mean to my children and my husband. 

My husband, on the other hand, now we've come round to where my deepest fear comes from: his death. Even writing about this creeps me out, in a superstitious way. 

Because, the thing is, I saw it happen. One day, 16 months ago, I watched in horror as my tall, strong, stoic husband slowly collapsed to the floor of a toy store. For reasons that are still a medical mystery, he had a full body grand mal seizure. 

During those long minutes I held on to his hand as he convulsed, soothing him and begging him to stay with me. His eyes rolled back, blood eventually ran out of his mouth, and as his body relaxed in it's unconsciousness, I had a just enough time to imagine what life would be like for me, for my children, if we lost this man. 

I have never been so terrified in all my days. 

Would we endure? Of course, I know we would. As I know my loved ones would go on should a dire fate befall me. 

But if you're asking what I fear more than anything? 

To endure a life without my husband. 

Join me all November long for new posts as part of National Blog Posting Month. 

Hope for the Best, Prepare for the Worst...

Thanks to this self-portrait he drew a few weeks back, my husband and I learned our son wants to be a police officer when he grows up. 

When asked why, he launched excitedly into an elaborate answer involving how he wants to catch bad guys using his excellent karate moves, how he will protect those he loves, and will also blow things up (for the greater good). 




Short version: He likes the idea of making the world safer. 

Of course, he's only six, so our brave hero is also prone to dramatic tears when asked to try on new pants, move his LEGOs off the dining table, or just (for once) flush the toilet.

He's my oldest, but I presume most of this is fairly typical. 




After all, when attempting to carry on even the simplest of conversations with any young kid they will ask the most outrageous questions, develop insanely illogical reasoning, wild theories of the universe, and generally keep you on your toes or send you into the depths of madness.




But hey, I'm no newbie at this parenthood gig. So often as a moment of humor or sudden thoughtfulness might surprise me, I thought nothing could really catch me off guard anymore. 




Then, as our children so often do, my sweet boy proved me wrong. With one simple question, in fact, he knocked the wind right out me.

"Mama? Do you know what a lockdown is?" 

If life were a movie, this would be the moment when I realize there is no background noise. In a vacuum of sound, every breath painfully loud, I would see these words, drop casually, almost playfully from my son's lips into the bath's bubbles.    

"I sure do, bud. Do you?"   

"Yeah. It's when the teachers have us all pile up in the back of our class. Not where the kitchen is, though. Back behind their desk."   

"Oh, yeah? And when do you do this?"  

"When they shut the lights and call out Lockdown,” his is eyes wide to mimic the importance of the command.  

Whispering now, he squeezes his shoulder up to his ears, and continues, "then we are supposed to be really really super quiet. So no one would guess we are still hiding in the room."   

"So, did you practice a lockdown today? Is that why you're asking about it?" 

Yep. They said we did a good job. But we need to work on being even quieter, and not moving at all." 

"Ok, um... Well, I bet you'll practice again..." 

Those last words are still stuck in my throat. I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to my 6 year old about having lockdown drills at school. I'm in no way prepared for this disturbingly innocent conversation.

Perhaps because there was such lightness to it, I'm still struggling to wrap my brain around this. 

My children are still so young, and we try to shield them from much of the ugliness and hatred in the world. I wouldn't think to begin a conversation about school shootings. 

So when my kid busted out the word lockdown it exposed my naiveté. When it comes to their safety, age is not a shield. Just as it would not protect them from a fire, their lack of years won't protect our children should someone decide to attack their school. 

Unlike the days when our parents learned to "duck and cover" (that wholly illogical method to protect yourself nuclear fallout), the sad truth is lockdown drills are teaching our children strategies that actually could save their lives if the unthinkable happens.

I hope they never have a reason to use this knowledge, and yet... How insane is it that I find myself relieved? Grateful, even. 

Maybe I should be feeling something different: Anger, sadness, I don't know. Instead, I find myself oddly reassured knowing the administrators and teachers at my kids' school are doing just what my mother always told me growing up: 

When you don't know what to expect, hope for the best, then prepare for the worst. 

The Most Important Thing About Raising a Fashion Butterfly

Carefree, style to spare:

match Betsey Johnson's fun frills

to Marc Jacobs' street.

Plaids need stripes, prints too. 

Always rock your leopard spots!

With Love, all things match. 

Inspired by this fearless beauty, who has been making bold style choices since she was (just barely) able to vocalize her strong opinions about the clothes she would certainly would NOT be wearing. As well as this week's prompt from Haiku Horizons. 

Does a Clock Worry When it's Time to Unwind?

Motherhood clockworks:
the balanced pendulum swings 
in constant motion. 

Tug the weights too much
- pendulum energy shifts - 
wrecking ball mood swings. 

Inspired by all the mothers we celebrate this month, the amazing women of Mommitment, as well as this week's prompt from Haiku Horizons. 

What Doctor Who taught me about Thanksgiving.

"The soufflé isn't the soufflé, the soufflé is the recipe." - Clara, Doctor Who


Today was Turkey Day!! I love Thanksgiving!! Genuinely my favorite holiday.

The traditions always made this holiday so special for me. Watching the parade with my folks. Setting the table; pulling out all the good china, silver & serving dishes. Cooking the same things every year - my mother always cooked them from her notes from years past. Tricks that worked, the order that dishes needed to be prepared.

In the years before she died, my mother had begun grooming me to take over much of the Turkey Day responsibilities. Using my mom's  recipes, yes, but drawing on all those years as a child hanging about the kitchen.

Mom died rather suddenly the summer I turned 30, and since then in my head "honoring tradition" has meant that I do ALL the cooking. With the exception of my Irish husband's suggestion that we substitute roasted potatoes for mashed, I've maintained the exact same menu my mother fixed.

The soufflé isn't the soufflé, the soufflé is the recipe.

Except this year... well, this year I broke with tradition left right and center.

Stuffing in the bird? Nope (sorry Dad)
Pumpkin pie? No. My husband isn't a fan, and frankly neither am I. Made a batch of pumpkin muffins this morning tho, so the gourd was covered.
Pecan Pie - well, yeah. But this year I made a batch of spicy spiced pecans to use in the pie instead of plain.
The mashed sweet potatoes were not, for the first time in my life, Bruce's Yams (fresh veg!) & there are no marshmallows in my house. Spiced pecans here too.
Corn? Nope. I made corn bread muffins, because my boy always scarfs one down. I think that counts.
My FAVORITE drunken cherry jello? Not this year. I did miss it - Maybe a reassignment to Christmas?
Finally, much to my disbelief, we added Brussel Sprouts to the menu. WTF?! I literally ate this veg for the first time - IN MY LIFE - 4 days ago when I ran a taste test for hubs.
The cranberries! I almost forgot! I made cranberry sauce from scratch, rather than go with the ol' can stuff.

The soufflé isn't the soufflé, the soufflé is the recipe.

So what gives? Well, I'll tell ya... I was watching Doctor Who with my son the other day, and Clara aka Soufflé Girl says her bit, & it finally hit me - I'm not my mother.

No really. I'm. Not. My. Mother.

So why am I trying to be her on this one day of the year? No matter how much I try, my mother isn't going to rise out of the perfect batch of jello. And frankly I don't think she's rolling over in her grave because I used spiced pecans in the pie.

Because Mom's recipe for Thanksgiving is so much more than how much sage I should use, or what veggies I serve. Her recipe calls for one part parade, one part dog show, on part football, one part Alice's Restaurant, one part fellowship, one part squabbles, and a double helping of delicious food.

Cuz it's Thanksgiving, for pity's sake - It's still all about the food!

**Originally published on November 28, 2013**

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How to say No More #MomFail & Yes to #Mommitment

"In truth this morning I feel like you’d see #MomFail in my eyes. Lots of reasons, not the least is bribing the Boy to go to school with the very lollipop I took away & expressly told him he couldn't have for breakfast.  *sigh* But at least he went to school, right? #PostiveThoughts" -March 11, 2015

When I first heard about the #Mommitment movement, it was a no-brainer. I have long tried to be a positive force, to see the bright side & offer kindness. I am always ready & truly happy to support another mom. Stop the judgements - Stop the MomWars - Sign me up! 

Then I went one further and volunteered to write about and share the message of #Mommitment.

Just one little problem. Over the last few months I’ve realized that while I don’t often feel the need to explain myself to those who would judge me, in my head I'm brutal when critiquing my own skills in the parenting department. So much that I've been unable to carry a flag for this movement because I feel like a fraud. On one hand, I claim to embrace my mistakes in favor of no regrets, then on the other I publicly shame myself for being a failure.

The truth is, when it comes to motherhood I've felt like a failure from the outset. 

After all, we had a plan - natural delivery - hypnobirthing - no drugs. But when the day came I caved on each point in succession, finally giving into delivery by cesarean. 

I remember sobbing; desperately disappointed that I couldn't deliver my baby vaginally. I apologized repeatedly to my husband. I had failed my first test of motherhood. 

After I went back to work & I just couldn't keep up my milk production, I was glad to supplement with formula. Even as I weaned my son, I kept pumping & stocked my freezer with a supply. Outwardly I spoke of being proud I could find a way to give him breast milk until he was a year old. Inside, I felt guilty each time we replaced a nursing feed with a bottle. I was torn between being relieved (I wanted my body back!), and clearly seeing my failure to reach my goal: nursing my son for his first year. 

And so it went. Time after time I set the bar high on the motherhood scoreboard, then chastised myself when I missed that mark. 

As with all things I've ever been insecure about, I covered my shame with self-deprecating jokes. "Oh yeah, mother of the year here! Chalk up another #MomFail for Serendipity!” 

#MomFail: We use the term so casually, throwing it about on social media, in conversations at the park and on those rare & cherished moms' nights out. We use it to describe all the ways (big and small) we aren't living up to the perfect vision of motherhood. 

Not that it's a big deal, right? Exactly whose vision are we failing? Whose judgement are we trying to dodge when we stamp #MomFail on our own foreheads?

As one who made a habit of making such jokes at my own expense, I'll admit often they were intended to thwart anyone who would attack my parenting. Yet, another part of me screamed out for someone to tell me how ridiculous I was being each time I claimed a #MomFail.  

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? As parents we all want that support. We all want someone - a partner, a friend, a doctor, a member of our community - to reach out in our moments of doubt. We crave, no, we need a little validation. We need someone to tell us we are doing it right. Whatever it is & however we are getting it done, if we are stepping up & showing up for our kids, then chalk up a #ParentingWin. Sometimes we need someone to remind us our children will survive, and thrive, simply because we are there for them. 

This is precisely what #Mommitment is about. Reaching out to those you know won't jump to judge, and lifting each other up. Doing what you can, with as little as smile & nod or a kind word, to let our fellow mommies (and daddies) know they are not alone and they are not failures. 

I came to #Mommitment thinking I had a lot to offer, if very little to learn. Once again, my expectation is blown away by reality. It is most certainly a win; the women I've met have demonstrated such acceptance, and forgiveness, and kindness. 

With new perspective I'm ready to make an additional pledge. I vow to wipe the stamp of #MomFail off my brow.
I vow to treat myself with the same kindness I would show another woman, and reserve my self-judgement in favor of embracing the best I am able to do today. 

I encourage you to join me.

Yes, this is easier said than done. We are our own worst critics, but not all criticism is constructive. Ultimately, calling out failure, most especially my own, isn't worth my energy. My new rule: If I wouldn't say it to someone else, or let someone talk that trash about my friend, I shouldn't be saying it to myself. 

From now on if I see that #MomFail stamp headed my way, I'm just going to brush it back with a hearty #Fuhgeddaboudit! 

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How to Win the Morning Game in 33 Moves

What can I say? Once in a blue moon I have my shite together enough to have a "Good Morning."
How do I do it? Let me break it down:

• 1   9 o’clock: Say ‘bye to Hubs & start searching the apartment for coffee mug. 
• 2   Stumble across last night's To Do lists of calls to make, projects to finish, etc. Add notes about half tackled chores and projects in every room. 
• 4   Find mug in kitchen next to coffee maker. Take sip & start to empty dishwasher. Get called to help kid to potty. 
• 5   After cleaning up messy kid & toilet, wash hands & go back to kitchen & much needed coffee.
• 6   Get a few more pieces out of dishwasher,  discard them next to the fridge when frantically called to check out emergency. Take selfie with Boy and very important newly designed robot.  
• 7   Realize girl is not wearing unders after poop accident on toilet; head into kids room & discover it is shockingly tidy. 
• 8   Have idea for silly blog post, go in search of phone to make notes. 
• 9   Look up from making list & ponder how the hell coffee mug ended up on top of living room bookcase. 
• 10   Upon hearing sounds of dishwasher being started, rush to kitchen and cancel it. Send Boy back to the robots. 
• 11   Take another sip of cold coffee, note the pot is empty. Remember to pull out teabags for a  pitcher of iced tea for afternoon caffeination. 
• 12   Get called to another bathroom, wipe another booty, wash hands for the hundredth time. 
• 13   Adding items to blog list, Note you skipped step 3 & decide you’ve come too far to fix it. Set up iced tea pitcher. 
• 14   Giggle because you typed “fart" instead of “far." 
• 15   Become suddenly & urgently aware you need to pee. Then panic as you remember Girl is in unders (not diaper) & wonder how long it’s been since she was on potty. 
• 16   Discover her splashing in her own puddle and curse self for not paying attention to time. 
• 17   Sift through all the laundry to find other things to throw in washer with wet towels and unders. Give up and start the stupidly small load. 
• 18   Discover Boy swiping a roll from the breadbox & check clock before taking it away. Confirm it is indeed lunchtime. Grab each kid a cheesestick to go with their rolls. 
• 19   Wonder how the hell it got to be lunchtime, anyway, as you finally finish emptying the diswasher. 
• 20   When reminder alarm goes off on phone wonder where the hell did the phone go? And then what alarm is for… 
• 21   Several minutes after alarm stops curse out loud because you finally remember that everyone might still be in PJs, but you all need to be dressed and out the door in 20 minutes if you’re going to make it to the Boy’s doctor appointment.
• 22   Start getting Boy dressed & realize all his clean shorts are in the dryer. Stop on your way back to pack a bag of snacks & drop it by the door. 
• 23   Walk into kids room to discover Girl in another puddle just outside bathroom. Note she was in no way rushing to reach the toilet 3 feet away from her. 
• 24   Put Girl in DIAPER and pluck a combo of semi-clean clothes from the top of her dresser while simultaneously using bath towel to mop floor with one foot. 
• 25   Congratulate self on multi-tasking. 
• 26   Cramming the new wet stuff into laundry, switch to cursing that half load of laundry that is just finishing it’s cycle. 
• 27   Note how shrill you sound as you shout to kids to put on their shoes. Decide to apologize after you’ve gathered ALL THE THINGS and get them in the stroller. 

• 28   After a moment's hesitation decide there is no need to change out of the yoga pants and tank you’ve been rocking for the last 48 hours. Grab a button-up to wear as an “over” shirt.
• 29   Beg children to just grab their shoes and get into the stroller.
• 30   Buckle down the kids; shove in all 3 bags, the snack pack & the ice waters. 
• 31   Take opportunity of locked down kids to dash to the bathroom & pee without fear of catastrophe. 
• 32   12:10pm: Hit the elevator button and prepare for one or both of the kids to start screaming about who’s turn it was, and who gets to push the lobby button inside. 
• 33   With spiteful satisfaction, push the lobby button your own damn self. 
• 34    Exit the elevator and glide through the building lobby, smiling sweetly, while softly apologizing to kids for turning into psycho mommy. 

Explain you were frantic because you simply don’t know where the time went this morning. 

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Mommy Said Yes!!

It was a morning like so many others. 

My son woke up before sunrise. His heavy footfalls on the bunk bed steps would probably wake me anyway, but amplified by the monitor that still sits by my bedside, he sounds like a small elephant crashing through any dream world I might be in. True to form, he barrels into our bedroom, bounding onto my side of the bed, bouncing on his knees, exclaiming, “Look Mom! It’s the sunrise! The Sun is rising! So NOW we can make cupcakes, right?! Now we can make the chocolate cupcakes with the sprinkles?!”

Just the day before, Friday, we had played out this scene: word for word and bounce for sleep crushing bounce. Except, of course, then I had said no. Or more precisely, “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me, dude! No. Way."

Seriously, on a school day?! I liked his teachers, why would I send them a spastic kiddo high on a breakfast of cupcakes? 

As a way to stem the whining that started at the exact moment I uttered the dreaded N-O, I allowed as how we didn’t have the ingredients anyway. It was a half day, so maybe we would go after school and pick them up. 

While Boy continued to bop on and off the bed, my uncaffinated brains sifted through the promises from Friday afternoon: made & then broken. 

A good report from school meant we had gone to the store, he had picked the cake & frosting, but no cupcakes had been made. Chaos had erupted, then time-outs that turned into very late & long naps nixed those Funtime Friday cupcakes plans. New promises of cupcakes for breakfast were made to stem the flow of tears when he woke up and learned we would not have sweets for dinner. 

Times like this I question my choices as a parent. Specifically why am I not a bait and switch parent? Why am I not like my husband who says “if you behave now maybe we can go for ice cream later” knowing damn well he will never do it. Because there are times he simply wants some fecking peace, so he will say, “Yeah, we can do that,” rather than dealing with the WhyNotButPleaseLetMe meltdowns. 

Nope, not me. At some point I found it easier for me to do what I tell the Rebels I will do. Which sometimes bites me in booty. Like, say, at the crack of dawn on a Saturday when I should be dreaming about baked goods, not debating baking them. 

Now of course shite happens, plans change, or (like with the FridayFunday cupcake chaos) behavior warrants punishment or loss of special treats, etc. But if I say yes, I intend to follow through. Which boils down to me saying a lot of NOs. No, you cannot have that toy/sweet/movie/sparkly-cool-object-of-desire right NOW. 

As one does, I try to frame the answers as possibilities. We cannot go the zoo today, but we should be able to go next week.

Still I know what my kiddos hear sound an awful lot like the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons: Whaawaa. Whaaawaaa? No, no, nonononono…

So if I was silly enough to say yes last night, you bet your fudge-flavored frosting we are having chocolate fecking cupcakes for breakfast!

Grabbing a hold of my TiggerBoy I exclaimed, "Yes. Yes, that’s what I said last night, right? Of course we will make them this morning!” 

I might not have had coffee in me, but I did have my wits enough to follow up to get a bit of wiggle room, “But, I need to take care of a few things first.”

Coffee made, kitchen tidied, laundry rotated, bakeware (unused since our recent move) found, washed, and set up. And then…

There were CUPCAKES!! 

Cupcakes for Saturday breakfast. 

Yeah, it was sweet. Even if there was still the moment when I had to cut the Boy off from eating the 5th (or was it 6th?) cupcake. 

However I hope when my Rebels are no longer little kiddos they remember that sometimes we had cupcakes for breakfast, for no reason at all. 

None, that is, except that they asked, and Mommy said “Yes!" 

*Fanfare trumpets may or may not have been blown. But silly selfies were most certainly taken*

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