I will say I’m very self conscious about this whole “mom with a camera” thing, though.  It’s on my mind every time I go anywhere with my camera. I assume that’s what people are thinking of me when I’m carrying around my big, professional camera.  “Look at her,” I imagine them saying.  “How cute that she thinks she’s a photographer.”

I know that I’m messed up in the head about this.  Photography is something that I love, but I struggle so much with my confidence when it comes to the quality of the images I produce. It’s easy for me to look at the photographers I admire and see how much better their photos are than mine. I mean, I’m just a mom with a camera, right?

So obviously I was totally not at all freaked out about photographing my cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago!  I’m not sure if I prepared as much for my graduate school finals as I did for this wedding.  I read, I studied, I practiced, I bought equipment, I practiced some more, I drew stick figure pictures of poses I wanted to get.

The wedding?  It really went well.  None of my greatest fears happened, my camera worked the whole time, I didn’t accidentally erase any of the memory cards, I didn’t miss any of the big moments.  The only hitch in the day was that my battery did die right after the last bridesmaid and groomsman started to walk back down the aisle after the ceremony and my battery charger wouldn’t work, but luckily that didn’t affect any of the pictures!

I’m really, really proud of these photos.  I’m so honored that my cousin trusted me enough to photograph such an important day for her and her new husband.

I guess I really am a photographer.

Now only 900 more photos to sort through and edit!  This photography thing is easy peasy. (That easy peasy part was meant to be a joke, just for the record.)

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Every few weeks when I get my national orgazination‘s newspaper, I suddenly remember those incomplete hours, panic, then get distracted by the dishwasher or screaming children and promptly forget all about it until a few weeks later when I get the mail, and there sits my national organization’s newspaper.

Before the kids were born, I always said I’d go back to work once the kids were in school.  I’d work in a school and be gone the same hours they would be gone, it would be easy!  There are two more years before Carson and Ella will be in school five days a week and I’m not really sure I even want to work as an SLP again.  I’m not really sure I want to work at a traditional job, away from home, having to take sick days and do laundry in the evenings.

I can’t decide if I should get those continuing education hours completed just in case.  What if I make the wrong decision and regret not maintaining my certification?   I would feel guilty for the potential waste of my hard-earned and expensive (thanks Mom and Dad!) Master’s Degree.

Last February I attended Blissdom in Nashville and left there completely inspired to start my own business.  I told everyone who would listen that I was starting a business.  As soon as I got home, I bought the domain name for my business, set up a twitter account, made lists, and spoke with a few contacts.   I started doing some research regarding business set-up, legal issues, and business accounting procedures.  Reality set in that my really great idea would take work, it would take money, and I became overwhelmed and scared.

I have done nothing to see my business come to fruition since those few weeks after Blissdom.  Voices of self-doubt have filled my head.  “You could never really do this, you know.  You have no business sense.  You’ll fail.”

I don’t know what it is that I want to do, other than I know that I want to do something with my future.  Even when my kids are in school, I’ll always be a mother and have those responsibilities to fulfill, but I know that I want to do more.   It’s just that knowing all the work that will go into getting those 30 hours to maintain my certification or starting my business has left me paralyzed and unable to even get started.

Blog Nosh Magazine is currently hosting a carnival, Celebrate the Heart and Art of Motherhood.  The carnival was inspired by the founder of Pepperidge Farm, Margaret Rudkin, who faced her son’s food allergies and started a business as a result.  I’ve read every post submitted and I’ve been inspired all over again that I really could start a business or maybe even think out of the box in terms of continuing as an SLP.   Maybe I could even overcome my fears enough and do something with my love of photography.  There are so many things that I could do, because like all the carnival writers, I’m creative and industrious, determined and bright.

I need your help and inspiration.  I hope you’ll consider writing your own post for Blog Nosh Magazine’s carnival and tell me what lit your fire and inspired you.  So many of you out there reading, I know that you’ve somehow managed to weave motherhood and work together, some of you have started businesses, donated your time.   I know you have done wonderful things.  Come on people, light my fire.  (Please excuse the cheesy Doors reference, I couldn’t resist.)

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Another mom added, “Well we finally got Hunter and Taylor registered for swim lessons with that private instructor you told me about,”  she pointed at the mom sitting next to me who nodded with fervent agreement.  “It was hard to work around their soccer and t-ball practices.”

I sat and listened, trying not to let the panic stricken look show on my face that I’d strategically concealed with a Stepword wife smile and glazed look.  Silently I interrogated myself.  “Why haven’t I gotten Carson and Ella involved in anything!  Have I totally crippled them as potential athletes because they are going to be way behind all of their peers in sports and dance and swimming???  How was I even supposed to know this stuff??”

My mind suddenly relived every sports related horror of my childhood.

…the time I fell in a hole on the soccer field my first day of practice when I was seven years old and the only kid who had never played before.  (I never played soccer again.)

…when I was about nine, I decided I wanted to try gymnastics and learn how to do back handsprings and was placed in a beginner’s class with preschoolers.  “MOM!  I’m with the BABIES, learning how to do somersaults!!”  (I didn’t go back, but it was the first time I was the tallest kid in class.  So there was that.)

…I was always one of the last picked for teams in kickball, softball, basketball, volleyball, and EVERY OTHER PLAYGROUND SPORT IMAGINABLE during elementary school.  (Please note I was ONE of the last, not THE last.  This is an important distinction.)

…I didn’t make cheerleading in 7th grade because I was awful.  I couldn’t do herkies or pikes or toe touches, or even remember two lines of a cheer, but whatever.

…For one season I was on my high school’s swim team, but the stress of the competition resulted in my wishing the school bus would break down on the way to the meets and/or praying for raging diarrhea so I wouldn’t have to compete.

The discussion amongst the moms continued.  “We started Chloe in soccer when she was about two and a half up at that indoor sports complex off Water Road.  It was a daddy-daughter thing and she LOVED it!”

“It’s so funny to hear you all talk about your little ones!  I remember when Chase was that young and starting to play!  It was so cute to watch all the kids chase after the balls.  Now that he’s fifteen, it’s so competitive and I have to spend nearly every waking moment on the baseball field once spring comes.”

PANIC!  My children are going to be behind and they aren’t even in elementary school!

Tate was always involved in sports, but I’m not particularly athletic.  Coordination and game rules don’t come naturally to me.  I don’t know if I would have started playing sports earlier if it would have made a difference or helped my confidence, but I do know that I don’t want my kids to be like me when it comes to sports.  Even if they aren’t the best athletes, I want them to enjoy some sort of athletic activity and I don’t want them to give up without ever giving it a chance.

My fear is that if I don’t get off my non-athletic butt and start getting them involved, they are going to be very behind their peers in sports and dance.   If most kids are starting soccer/dance/gymnastics/t-ball at two or three years old, then if I wait any longer to get them involved, they are going to be the worst players, the ones always picked almost last (or God forbid, LAST), or they are going to be the nine year olds put in the beginner groups with BABIES.

I guess now the thing I need to do is get over my phone phobia and actually call around to some places to try and register each of them for whatever it is you register kids for in the spring.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

That quote has squatted in every crevice of my brain, filled every pore, and hung like a weighted vest on my shoulders ever since I read it.  It’s been several weeks since I finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven, the book has been returned to the library, other books have been read in an effort to white out that quote, but there it sits!  I see the quote, running over and over across my closed eyelids, like my own personal closed captioning narrating my life.

*****

Carson, for the fiftieth time, has pushed Ella or maybe he’s just touched her with his index finger, the exact offense is unimportant.  But it’s the fiftieth time that he’s done whatever he’s done and the forty-ninth time that I’ve told him to stop pestering his sister.

*****

I’ve spent all day cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, washing and folding laundry.  The children have begged to go outside for most of the day.  I finally agree even after looking in defeat outside at the mud, those brown, menacing patches, enemies among the blades of green grass.  I make the children swear that they won’t play in the mud, they won’t even look at the mud.   Carson and Ella do more than look at the mud, they wallow in it, somehow they’re completely painted in brown in the two seconds that I look away.

*****

After I completely lose my shit, I wonder if this is the outburst that will leave prints on my pristine children, leaving them as broken adults in a therapist’s office retelling the time I screamed at them for getting mud everywhere.  When they grow up, are they going to say that they don’t want to be the type of parent their mother had been, because I couldn’t handle that.  I just want to be the type of parent my children say they want to be themselves.  I imagine Carson and Ella as adults, lying on their pillows facing their spouses in the dark of night talking quietly after their own children have long been asleep.  Are they going to describe me as impatient, annoyed, burdened, yelling, or worse?

In a world where nothing is absolute, how can I possibly teach Carson and Ella what they need to know?  Watch out for strangers!  Strangers are dangerous!  But not all strangers, some strangers are nice.  Don’t let anyone touch you in your private areas!  Except sometimes it’s okay, like when Mommy and Daddy are giving you a bath.   Don’t yell at Mommy!  Except that you’ve learned yelling from Mommy.

I’m so paranoid about doing it all wrong.   I don’t want Carson and Ella to grow up and say that I was too lenient, that they wished I’d pushed them more, or that I was too strict and that they felt like rebelling against me was their only way out.  I just want to do it right without leaving them as the casualties of my novice parenting skills.

*****

Carson and I constantly butt heads, not literally, but the figurative is just as bothersome.  I don’t want it to be this way.  I want to be the type of parent who is patient and usually smiling, less irritated and more amused at his three-year-old antics.  I don’t want the majority of what I say to him be weighted, heavily, with the word “no.”  My tone of voice  when I talk to him is always so stern.  Where is the gentle mom that I always imagined myself to be?

*****

Instead of getting angry or yelling, sometimes I’m able to catch myself in those frustrating parenting moments and use humor to diffuse the situation.  Both of my children love being tickled, it can be the perfect deterrent.

“If you do that again,”  I’ll say in my most serious mom voice, my arms crossed over my chest and my eyebrows raised in stern indignation, “I guess I’ll just have to tickle you.  That’s right.  You heard me.  Better watch out because here come my tickle fingers!!!”   The children run screaming and laughing, taunting me to chase them.

“More, Mommy!  MORE!” Ella squeals in delight.

“No!  Don’t tickle me,” Carson pleads as he inches ever closer to my wiggling fingers.  I honor his request and don’t tickle him until he finally breaks and begs for my fingers to dance across his belly.

These are the prints, the dancing fingerprints, that I want to leave as an always learning, always changing, always striving to do better parent.  These are the prints that I pray will cover more of my children than the marred prints left by impatience and yelling.  These are the prints I can only hope will keep their little lives from becoming shattered, in pieces, and unrepairable.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I’m guessing that if you’re going to BlogHer in Chicago this summer, especially if it’s your first time, you’re probably nervous.

1.  What if nobody knows who I am?
2.  What if nobody talks to me?
3.  What am I going to wear?
4. What if I don’t get invited to any of the parties?

This will be my second time attending BlogHer and #1-3 all apply to ME, but I know, logically, that mostly my fears are just my little demon insecurities creeping in and attempting to sabotage me.   Fear number 4, though, you’re covered because you’re already invited to a party, a party that I’m helping to host.

The People’s Party 2009
open-invite pre-BlogHer party
Thursday, July 23, 2009
8:30-11pm
Sheraton Chicago X (“Ten”)

~~~

Hosted by:

The Bloggess
Green Mom Review/ IzzyMom
Motherbumper
Mrs. Fussypants
Playgroups Are No Place For Children
Velveteen Mind

A private performance by Chris Mann, Share the love on his Fan Page!

The People’s Party is aptly named because it is for EVERYONE.  I hope that when you read “everyone” you realize that “everyone” includes YOU.  And you.  And YoU.  And yOU.  It’s the perfect place to meet people, so that you’re not just sitting in your room, alone, watching p()rn in your PJ’s, scratching your butt, and eating an overpriced hamburger you ordered from room service.

What I need for you to do now, is go over to Megan’s place, and RSVP that you ARE coming to the Party, when you get back, we can chat about insecurities #1-3 (listed above.)  Hurry back!

Did you RSVP??

Okay!  {clap, clap}  Let’s talk about our feeeeeeelings.

1.  What if nobody knows who I am?

I’m SWEAR I’m not trying to scare you, but many of the people you’ll meet will have never heard of you, or your blog, or your Twitter name.  That’s okay, though.  I’d never heard of Amy in Ohio or Mommy Bits and they hadn’t heard of me until last BlogHer and now this year, I’m driving from Tennessee to Cincinnati and driving with them the rest of the way to Chicago.    It’s like, we all became friends or something.  Weird.  I know.

If someone hasn’t heard of you, it doesn’t mean you’re not worth knowing. Introduce yourself to people and don’t be offended when they have no idea who you are.

2.  What if nobody talks to me?

Okay, I swear AGAIN that I’m not trying to scare you, but you *might* have to talk to people first.  I know it’s scary and all your insecurities start bubbling up in your throat and choking you at the mere thought of walking up to someone, sticking out your hand, and saying, “Hi.  I’m Jennifer from Playgroups are no Place for Children.”  The thing is, though, if you’re standing alone in the corner, it’s not very likely that someone is going to just come up and talk to you out of the goodness of their heart.  That’s just not how it works.

Every year after BlogHer, there is a backlash against the “cliques.”  With THAT many women (especially women), who rarely get to see one another, there are bound to be groups that form.   Many of the so-called cliques are groups of women who’ve known each other for years, send one another Christmas and birthday cards, call one another on the phone.  In other words, they have a HISTORY together.  It’s natural for people to hang out with the people they already know, and usually they aren’t purposely leaving anyone out.

I promise you, though, that if you go up to people, introduce yourself, ask them questions about their blog and where they’re from, most people will AMAZINGLY talk to you.  If you’re with a group who decides to go to dinner, say, “hey, mind if I come, too?”  If they are not complete a-holes, they’ll say, “Of course you can!”

Something that I did last year with a group of people was to form a sort of support group and exchange cell numbers before leaving for the conference.  That way I ALWAYS had someone to call if I was suddenly feeling like I had nobody to eat lunch with or to go to the free swag suites.

Remember that if you don’t make an effort, you will SO regret it when you get home.  Take the chance, it will be worth it.

3.  What am I going to wear?

Go read this post by OHMommy.

During the conference, I’ll probably be wearing simple tanks, t-shirts, jeans, and possibly a casual, flowy skirt.  In the evenings, I’ll probably go fancier with a dress and some cute wedges.  Last year, I felt TOTALLY underdressed at all the cocktail parties.  I won’t be making the same mistake this year.

Anymore fears that I didn’t cover?  Any questions??  I hope that you have RSVP’d by now for the People’s Party!!   See you in Chicago.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t know if they bought my house or if they are renters, really, it shouldn’t matter.  I mean if they bought my house, hopefully they’ll care for it and love it as much as I did.  But if they’re renters they might not love it as much if they don’t own it.

I feel like I need to whisper this next part.  It’s embarrassing to admit.  And sad.

As long as my house was still for sale, still uninhabited, I had this hope that maybe, maybe circumstances would work such that we’d get to move back to Indiana and slip right back into our old life, have our old friends, and just forget this whole move to Tennessee.

Those people, living in my house, I don’t even know them, but oh how I resent them.  I feel so angry at them, for taking MY house, for taking my friends, for getting to live the life I want to live.  They will be able to walk across the street for a cup of sugar only to end up staying for dinner.  I probably won’t get to even see my neighbors again, likely ever, but they will.  They will get to vacuum my frise carpet and bake in my double ovens and wash their vegetables in the vegetable sink in the island.

I don’t want to know if they have children.  I don’t want to think of THEIR children sleeping my in MY children’s bedrooms, I don’t want to think of them taking my children’s place at the neighborhood get togethers.

This is so ridiculous, I know, but what I don’t know is how to get past all this anger about the move.  It’s been months and it still feels as unfair as it did in September.  Why did this have to happen?  WHY??  I don’t want to be angry at those people who are living in my house, because I KNOW that it’s not MY house and hasn’t been since we sold it to the relocation company in November.

I guess it’s just that those people took the maybe away.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t know if I can do this again today.

“Mommy!” he screams.  “Please don’t leave.  Sit right here on the floor, beside me,” he pleads after I tell him that it’s not 7:00 yet and that Mommy is very, very tired and want to go back to bed.

I sit down wearily beside his crib, cursing inside.  I wonder if he’s truly scared or if he’s just manipulating me.  Also, I have to pee.

I promise him that I’m just leaving for a moment so that I can pee.  “I’ll leave your door open.  I’m just going right across the hall to the bathroom.”  He starts to scream as I leave.

I turn to him and in my angriest voice, which surprises even me, I tell him to shut up and that I’ll be right back.

I only feel slightly bad that I told him to shut up.  I hope he didn’t notice.

After he’s finally settled I go back to sleep for what seems like ten seconds, but rather it’s about 40 minutes.  6:58 is what I see on the clock as I hear Carson screaming for me again.  Just to spite him, I want to let him scream for two more minutes until 7:00.  Or to spite him, I want to go up to his room and scream at him to please just shut up and wait for f*cking 7:00.

I go in, scoop him out of his crib, saying nothing.  The day begins.

*******

I look around the kitchen and notice the crumbs and fruit flies.  My floor looks as if I haven’t swept or mopped since ever, despite having done both just two days prior.

There is a pile of dirty dish towels, in desperate need of washing and smelling like spoiled milk.

My washing machine is broken, full of water and wet towels.

*******

“Uh oh!” Ella squeals as she tosses her sippy cup, full of milk over the edge of her chair.

The cup is no longer full of milk.

It’s empty, the white milk in a puddle on the floor.  Splashes of white milk dot the cupboards.

It doesn’t matter.  The floor is already dirty.

*******

“You don’t even like me anymore.  I can’t even joke around with you anymore.”  In one respect, I hear Tate’s words and I feel badly that he could even think this.  Of COURSE I like him.  Of COURSE he can joke around with me, but after days of little sleep and constant battles, I need adult interaction.  I need HIM to listen to ME.

Immediately his words make my heart harden and I feel my face redden with anger.  “How dare he,” I think silently to myself.  “All I do every minute of everyday is GIVE.  What about me?  What about thinking of MY feelings.”  I say nothing.

*******

Ella is almost walking.  She takes two or three hesitant steps, her arms out in front of her body for balance before she falls on her bottom.  Over and over she stands up and tries again.

I smile at her and want nothing more than to swoop her up and feel her soft skin against my face and smother her sweet little neck with kisses.

In an instant I can go from feeling such rage to giggling in spite of myself.

*******

He asks if I need a break, just to get away.  “Go for a walk,” he tells me.  I can hear the annoyance in his voice and I want to shout back at him, “you have NO idea what it’s like to be home everyday with these kids.  I do EVERYTHING for them.  You have NO idea.”

I do need a break.  I do want to get away.

NO.  I want to RUN away.

“It’s too hot to go for a walk,” I say instead.

********

I consider not hitting publish.

But I do it anyway.

(Haven’t I written this post about a hundred times before?)

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

So tell me, what would you do if, say, you were on a walk with your (two) kids in an adjoining neighborhood and you suddenly had the most terrible, all-consuming itch.

The itch is in the upper crotch region, not to be confused with the lower crotch region-which obviously if you’re itching “down there” you might want to see a DOCTOR.

Anyway, this upper crotch region itch is a really, really itchy itch.  It itches so much you can barely walk.  It itches so much you feel like if you don’t scratch it, you’ll lose your mind.

Keep this in mind, you’re not in your neighborhood.  It’s highly unlikely that you’ll see anyone you know.  Even if you did see someone, most likely you’d never see them again.  Also, it’s early in the morning, but not so early that there are lots of people driving by heading for work, kids have already left for school.  Basically, it looks as if nobody even knows you’re there.

But also keep in mind the fact that it’s your CROTCH that itches and to scratch it looks incredibly nasty to the average Joe who happens to witness such an act.

Do you get in there and scratch away, right there on the street, trying to act like nothing’s amiss as you attempt to continue pushing your double stroller while getting after that itch?

Or do you suck it up and continue walking while thinking non-itchy and non-scratchy thoughts?

WHAT do you DO????

I’m just curious in case this ever happens to me.  Also, I’m just collecting this information for a book I’m writing on survival skills in the suburbs.  Um.  Yeah.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I KNOW that the “experts” say we shouldn’t reward our children with food.  They’ll end up with messed up ways of thinking about food and eventually be morbidly obese and probably prematurely bald or something.

So in the interest of following the advice of “experts” and not royally screwing him up, I didn’t actually reward Carson’s surprisingly AWESOME school behavior with pudding.  Rather, I rewarded him with MAKING pudding.  That’s totally different.

Any kids that sits in circle time AND sings AND likes it, totally deserves some pudding.  I mean, they deserve to MAKE some pudding.

Poor Carson with the cheap Mommy. Maybe someday I’ll make enough off my ads to by real Nilla Wafers.

Now if I can just get him to wait until after dinner to eat it…then the pudding would be dessert and NOT a reward!  TOTALLY.  DIFFERENT.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Since getting back from San Francisco, or maybe since the beginning of summer, I just don’t have my shit together.  The longer days should mean MORE time to get things done but NOTHING is getting done.  I have so many unfinished projects and tasks and lists that I am in a perpetual state of playing catch up.

Also, my brain is swimming with random worries because why NOT think of EVERY possible BAD thing that MIGHT happen!

I haven’t reconciled my checkbook since May. 

My kitchen floor is a never ending battle of crumbs and smears.  Why bother getting on my hands and knees to mop when it’s just going to look like hell after the next meal?  Maybe I should just start feeding the children dry, easily swept foods for every meal. 

Speaking of meals, Ella has become the pickiest eater ever, preferring to eat yogurt, slightly green bananas (others get thrown on the already filthy kitchen floor), Club crackers, and raisins.  She rarely eats meat or cheese and loves chucking her cup on the floor that inevitably spills ON THAT DAMNED KITCHEN FLOOR.

We have spiders and crickets and, OH MY FREAKING HELL, FLIES.  I keep forgetting to call a bug man (hellooooo phone anxiety) and to buy a fly swatter.

I’m always exhausted.

My email inbox has about 25 unread items, all of which I should be answering right now instead of blogging about them.  DUMB.

I went out with friends twice this weekend getting home very late both Friday and Saturday, leaving Tate at home to care for the kids.  On Sunday I was so exhausted that I took an afternoon nap when the kids went down and had to reject Tate’s wagging eyebrows.  I haven’t had time for my OWN HUSBAND.

We need to start recycling.  I fear that I alone am contributing to the demise of our planet.

I am so tired of cleaning mud off of Carson’s shoes.

The toys.   Oh the toys.  They are everywhere.  I want to box them all up and ship them AWAY.

I’ve never had any sort of stranger, nobody-should-touch-your-privates talk with Carson.  He’s OVER two and a half, I suck.  But if I do say something, what do I say to him? 

I feel guilty that I got THE CAMERA.

I feel guilty that Tate misses Alabama and I just…don’t.

Taking Ella anywhere is like wrassling a wild monkey.  Not fun.  Actually Ella IS a wild monkey.  Only sometimes fun, mostly into everything and trashing my BLEEPING KITCHEN FLOOR.

How do you clean tiled showers?   Am I supposed to scrub the tiled walls all the way up to the ceiling? 

I’m sitting here, griping on the computer.  Rewording and deleting and spellchecking when I should be tackling SOMETHING on my to-do list.

Mamma Mia made my ears bleed and I thought I might have to claw out my eyeballs.  (I really should write a post about that and not THIS).  I will never look at Pierce Brosnan, 007 James Bond, Pierce Brosnan the same way again.  *shudder*

I’ve gained 10 motherflacking pounds this summer. 

My towels smell musty even after washing them in hot water.  My dishwasher is possessed and doesn’t always start when you push the START BUTTON.   User error?  I DON’T THINK SO FRIGIDAIRE.

Okay, I’m done writing my list, though, this doesn’t nearly encompass the lazy, overwhelmed, stuck in limbo-ness that is my brain. 

Am I really going to post this?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.