playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

Carson and Ella will both be in preschool two days a week this school year. They start Thursday.

I am BEYOND EXCITED.

Tate doesn’t understand my excitement at all. “You’ll miss them when they’re gone all day, you know that, right?” He’s said this to me on more than one occasion.

The truth is, I’m not going to miss them while they are at school. They’ll only be gone for a total of twelve hours each week. Out of the approximately 72+ awake hours a week I will continue to spend with them, I think those twelve hours while they are at school will be a long awaited blessing.

My excitement is so much less about being away from them, but instead it’s about being able to accomplish things without strategic, long term planning. It’s been almost five years since I’ve been able to make plans completely on my own. Every thing that I’ve done since having kids has either been when Tate is available to watch the kids, or I’ve had to plan errands and exercise around the kid’s meal and nap times.

I’m going to make hair, dentist, doctor, and eye appointments without having to clear the appointment time with Tate or find a babysitter.

I’m going to go to the grocery store without packing my purse full of snacks, Capri Suns, toys, and a change of underwear for Ella.

I can run errands at lunch time, instead of between the hours of 9:30 and 11:00.

I’m going to browse shops with fragile items.

I’m going to eat my lunch in peace, sitting down for the whole meal instead of getting up to refill someone’s milk cup or clean up spills.

I’ll be able to hop out of the car and just run in (to the grocery store, the liquor store!!!, the convenience store, anywhere I want!) I won’t have to unbuckle one kid from his carseat, then run around to the other side of the car and unbuckle the other kid from her carseat, then hold little hands, and slowly make our way.

I’m going to go for a run without pushing Ella in a stroller and keeping Carson from falling off his bike as he follows me.

I’m going to take a shower without an audience.

I’m going to do it on my time.

I’m going to putter.

I’m going to breathe.

I can be independent again, even if it’s only for twelve hours per week.

And in my independence, I think I can become me again. And when I’m me again, I’m going to love my children even more and be the very best mom I can be.

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Speaking of the kids going to school, check out their new back to school duds courtesy of TJ Maxx/Marshalls over here!

I was just thinking recently how parenting is getting so much BETTER as they get older are farther away from babyhood.  In the past few weeks, I’ve actually been able to reason with Ella.

“Ella if you behave, I’ll give you a cookie.”

“Okay!  I be good, Mama.”

And guess what?  She WAS good.

I walked around feeling like I had finally gotten this parenting thing down pat.  “I’m pretty good at this parenting thing!” I thought to myself and out loud to Tate.

“You know, Tate, I feel like our kids have gotten so easy.  They REALLY listen to me!  It’s been like, a whole week and neither child has been in time out!”

He looked at me like I was an alien with a palm tree growing out of my chin.  “What about that time you called me last week when they were wreaking havoc?  Or this morning when you told me that you had to put them in their rooms for their own safety?”

So maybe it had only been about six hours, but SIX WHOLE HOURS of my children behaving feels like a week.

It seems like we get on a roll where the kids are behaving, or at least their misbehavior isn’t that damaging to my psyche that I’m left scarred for months afterwards.  Right now, though, we’re on the Deluxe Triple Salchow of OUT OF CONTROL BEHAVIOR roll.  Damaged psyche ahead!

It’s awesome, as I’m sure you can imagine.

The mall and it’s germ-infested play area is where the downward spiral first began.  Ella, being Ella and very much three-years-old, threw the tantrum to end all tantrums.  It was the type of tantrum that had all the perfect parents judging me with their evil looks and perfectly behaved children.  She was screaming and thrashing and I was sweating and silently screaming the f-word in my head.

I wanted to ask the perfect moms, “How do you propose I get her to stop screaming?  Seriously!!  I’m politely asking her, I’m threatening to take away everything that was or ever will be meaningful to her, I’m kicking myself for failing to pack duct tape.  What can I doooooooo?!?”

Carson, who is four and who I was certain had passed the fall on the floor tantrum stage, threw his own mega tantrum within a few hours of Ella’s.  Luckily it was in the privacy of our home, not in front of other’s prying eyes.  BUT STILL, it was a tantrum that no amount of reasoning, ignoring, redirecting, or any other textbook behavior management technique worked to just make him stop.

It’s been like this for about two weeks now, with only a few hours respite and sunshine in between their outbursts.  I’m starting to believe there is something really wrong with my children.  Surely it’s not just my kids that act this way???  Please?

They are thisclose to getting shipped off to a far away land that’s FAR AWAY.

And I vow to never verbalize or even think any thoughts where I extol the virtues of my parenting skills ever again.

We just returned from a whirlwind trip visiting family, family, and more family.

I’m kind of family-ed out.  I’m particularly in need of a break from two small humans named Carson and Ella.  For a better part of the week we were gone, they drove me insane with their whining and crying and generally unruly, albeit typical, three and four year old behavior.

Now that we’re back home, I’m working on getting back to that mellow, grateful place where I don’t feel like locking them in a closet for a few hours.   As they kept acting like jerks last week and I grasped at the the tiniest thread of patience that remained, I kept thinking to myself, “I’m a much better parent when…”

I’m a much better parent when they aren’t sleep deprived.

I’m a much better parent when I’m not sleep deprived.

I’m a much better parent during the day than I am at bedtime, particularly when very tired children refuse to go to sleep.

I’m a much better parent when my children aren’t hopped up on fast food.

I’m a much better parent when the kids aren’t fighting.

I’m a much better parent when it’s not 1000 degrees outside.

I’m a much better parent when my children aren’t whining.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t been in a car for nine hours.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t listened to the same Thomas & Friends video for seven hours straight.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t slept in the same bed with one of my children for six out of seven nights.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t taken a foot to the face in the middle of the night.

I’m a much better parent when I’ve had a few hours to myself.

Well, enough of this whining.  I have 27 loads of laundry to wash.  I also have 42,354 photos to edit, you know, to remind me of how happy and great my life is.  Ahem.

I just got home from the grocery store with my two children.   I know this is a blog and that I’m supposed to write about the minute details of taking small children grocery shopping because, oh the hilarity!  But really?  You already know, don’t you?  You know that it was an experience that bordered on miserable, involved a race-car cart that the children decided they didn’t want to ride in seven minutes into the trip, and included lots of terse commands.  No newsflashes here, let’s move along.

One of the tricks I pull out of my child wrangling bag of skills is to tell Carson and Ella that they have to stay behind me while I push the cart.  Trust me when I say that when this works, it’s genius.  The kids aren’t “helping” me push the cart, they aren’t standing beside or in front of the cart, I’m not running over them.  Of course, I have to turn around every 3 seconds to be sure they haven’t been abducted, run away, or broken a jar of pickles, but otherwise, GENIUS.

“Stay behind me!” I said/chirped/yelled/blurted out/spoke through clenched teeth….about eleventy billion times.

There was one particular woman that I kept running into (not literally, but almost) in nearly every aisle I tried to navigate.  We both happened to be shopping for the exact same items in the exact same aisles.  I admit that I felt a tiny seed of irritation because she just always seemed to be where I wanted to be and I was already on edge (my children! were with me!  while I was trying to grocery shop!).  As I waited for her to choose her oatmeal so that I could choose my oatmeal, I didn’t huff or clear my throat or seem impatient at all.  No, really!  I was as kind and patient as one who was in my predicament could have been (my children! were with me! while I was trying to grocery shop!)  I didn’t even let her beady, I’m-just-out-to-annoy you eyes affect me.  Or maybe I just imagined her eyes to be mocking me, I tend to imagine that everyone is out to get me when I’m on heightened alert.

“Stay behind me!” I said for the eleventy billionth and one time, as I attempted to reign in the children.  My eyebrows furrowed, my I mean business face firmly set, I made ever so slight eye contact with the woman.

“I’ll stay right here,” she said, looking slightly frightened.

It took me several minutes and aisles, free of my shopping buddy, to realize that she thought I was yelling at her to, “STAY BEHIND ME.”   (In my defense, I’m not sure how she missed me saying this over and over to my kids.)

I panicked out of embarrassment.   I raced the children up and down the aisles, looking for the woman just so I could yell at my children in front of her to “STAY BEHIND ME!” with an added, “I keep telling you two children (KEY WORDS right there, folks) to STAY BEHIND ME.”

Or I guess I could have just found her and explained the misunderstanding, but I’m only just now realizing that was even a possibility.

Please enjoy this completely unrelated photo!

I’ve committed two of the worst sins that a mommyblogger could commit.

Firstly, I failed at wishing those of you who are mothers a Happy Mother’s Day yesterday.  Please forgive me, I’ve been busy being a MOTHER, so certainly you understand.  I want you to know that _I_ know just how hard you work as a mom and just how little recognition that you get.  I know all about the doctor’s appointment that you remembered to make for your kiddo (an appointment you made while you stirred dinner on the stove, broke up a fight, and changed a load of laundry).  I also know that you can find almost any lost toy/lovey/umbrella/lunch box/shoe.  I know that you remembered to pick up another gallon of milk and that you know that the macaroni and cheese most certainly cannot touch the strawberries OR ELSE.  I know that you lose it sometimes and that sometimes you feel like you’re overwhelmed.

I’m really just trying to say that I KNOW about all the things you do and I’m totally impressed with your awesomeness.

Sin, the second, is a crime so heinous, I pray the mommyblogging police don’t come after me.

Three years ago yesterday, I gave birth to a five pound, seven ounce baby girl, which means that I didn’t write the obligatory birthday post yesterday for my baby, who ISN’T A BABY ANYMORE.

She’s my little girl, without whom, the world wouldn’t be as bright, my sides wouldn’t be so sore from laughing, and my family would be woefully incomplete.  I cannot find the words to type in a single blog post that could even come close to conveying how much I adore my beautiful girl.

Twice a year, my husband leaves his family to venture into the great outdoors to hunt for wild game.  As he loads the truck with all his gear, I tell him how much I’ll miss him and implore him to drive safely.  With Ella in my arms and Carson wrapped around my legs, we stand by the door, waving as he drives away.  I wipe away the children’s tears and reassure them that Daddy will come home soon.  Then we shut the door and I do a happy dance.

I love my husband, but I really love when he goes on his hunting and gathering missions.   There was a time that I resented his trips, leaving me ALL ALONE with two small babies!  I’d stew the whole week he was gone in anger and bitterness, and when he finally returned I’d practically knock him over as I grabbed my purse and keys as I rushed out the door to my getaway vehicle.

Now that the kids are older and decidedly EASIER, it’s really not so bad for Tate to be gone for a week.

While he was gone, we ate Bagel Bites and Mac n’ Cheese for dinner.  (The Mac n’ Cheese was at least ORGANIC processed food.)  The dryer became my closet because I never bothered to put any laundry away.  Toys were strewn about the house.  We watched movies and ate popcorn almost every night.  After the kids went to bed I indulged in complete unadulterated laptop devotion.

Tate doesn’t expect that dinner should be served piping hot as soon as he walks in the door from work.  He doesn’t care if beds are made, if the house is tidy, or if the laundry is neatly folded and put away.  That’s just how we typically live.  It’s what I DO on a day to day basis.  Tate’s vacations are also my vacations.

By the final day, though, the wrinkled clothes, mess, and diet of processed foods have worn me thin.   Tate typically calls throughout the day as he drives the ten hours home, and I find myself actually excited about his return.   Also?  Slightly panicked.

“Carson!  Help!  We have to get this house cleaned up before your daddy returns!  It looks like a fraternity party gone bad in here!”  I yelp as I look around at all of the granola bar packages and empty soda cans.

“Mommy, what’s a fraternity party?”

“Never mind!  Just help me clean!”

All the toys somehow find their way back into the toyroom and their respective bins.  I turn on the dryer and pray for the wrinkles to be released, then quickly fold the laundry and put it in drawers.  The evidence of poor food choices are hidden at the bottom of the trash bin.  My legs are de-furred (*wink, wink*).

We stand at the door and wave as Daddy pulls into the driveway.  The children practically knock him over as they rush out the door to greet him.  Then we come inside and we all do a happy dance for his safe return.

In my recent organizing madness, I tackled my medicine cabinet.  Alongside expired Benadryl and An*lpram (what?  don’t pretend like you don’t have An*lpram in your medicine cabinet, especially if you’ve ever given birth), I found the pregnancy tests from both Carson and Ella.

I suspect some of you just barfed in your mouth a little because, “OMG THOSE STICKS HAD PEE ON THEM AND I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’D SAVE THEM!”  Well, yes.  Yes they did have pee on them, but they also were the first bearers of the best news I ever received.   Finding these sticks was such a surprise, even though I knew they were in the medicine cabinet.  These three peed-on sticks reminded me of what it was like, finding out that Tate and I would be welcoming a tiny, real, live HUMAN BEING into our family.

The first test I took when I “suspected” I was pregnant with Carson was only barely positive.  Actually, I didn’t really suspect I was pregnant, it was more like hopeful, and I took the test earlier than they recommended.  The line was so faint that I thought it was possible that there could have been a malfunction with the test.   I waited a few (BRUTALLY LONG) days and took a second test that was positive immediately.  Tate and I sat on our bed looking at each other and laughing and crying.  We could AND we couldn’t believe it.

Then just 10 months later, another gift, another positive pregnancy test.  Tate was in the shower while I paced back and forth, the stick in hand.  I was almost skipping with delight, but every few seconds I would have a nagging feeling of WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, but mostly there was elation.   It makes me sad that I don’t remember exactly how I told Tate, maybe I blurted it out as soon as he got out of the shower…or maybe I showed him the positive stick.

These already fading memories is exactly why I still have these peed-on, semi icky sticks.  They are a tangible reminder of those two moments that announced the most amazing, frightening, best things that have or will ever happen to us.

I’m going to put them back in the medicine cabinet so that I can find them and remember all over again.