The 21st Century SAHM

On the Eve of the 2-year Old Turning 3

February 15, 2016

Dear Child #3,

I’ve realized lately, as we navigate the choppy waters of your toddler years, how spoiled you are. But I’ve also realized that I am okay with that. I think it is okay that you get your way now and then, because so much of your life has not been your way. You weren’t scooped up every time you cried as a baby. You’ve never had a nap schedule. You’ve sat through endless basketball and baseball games and gymnastics practices and school performances, being shushed and told to sit still. You skipped right over Sesame Street and were plopped down in front of Star Wars instead. I think a lot of times we forget that you’re 2, and we make you do big kids things. So yeah, the other day when you were having your 11th meltdown of the morning, I let you have fruit snacks at 9 a.m. Because I could tell you were tired. And I could tell your molars hurt. And because, well, I think it is okay that you are sometimes spoiled.

You see, your whole life (even your time in my big old belly) has been rushed by me. As you and I neared the 40-week mark, I couldn’t wait to not be pregnant anymore. You were just lounging around with your enormous fetus-self, on top of my poor bladder. There was one day at Costco that I would have bet anything and everything that you were about to fall out. Right there in the bulk toilet paper aisle. Continue Reading

The Joy and Peace of Motherhood (Maybe Tomorrow?)

The 21st Century SAHM

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February 11, 2016

There are days on this motherhood journey that end with a feeling of joy and peace in your heart. You know you did well. Your kids are loved and feel loved. You are proud of yourself as a mother.

Today was not one of those days for me.

I know you’ve had days like this. Days when you wake up with a screaming headache. Wake up with it. Yeah, so the day is going to suck and you know it by 7 a.m.

You’ve organized a play date for the 1st grader because there’s no school today. And having an extra kid in the house is a good idea…

And of course the 2-year old still lives with you. And while you keep saying things like, “He’s really turning a corner!” you realize, on days like this, just how much he is nowhere any corner other than the the one you want to bang your head into.

So you spend your morning trying to keep #2 and #3 away from #1 and his friend, as he’s allowed a play date in peace. But damn your head freaking hurts. So when the 2-year old insists on also “building Legos” with his older brother, of course he’s going to knock over his sister’s princess castle. And you know what comes next—sheer hysteria. Which feels so good on the backs of your eyes today. The screaming, “Anna and Elsa fell off! He broke it! It’s ruined!” Like tiny men are stabbing your eyeballs with miniature pitchforks each time she wails.

Once the catastrophe of the ice castle is remedied, everyone is hungry (because they haven’t eaten in 13 minutes). And your choices are shit, clearly. Bananas, apples, raisins, cheese, cereal, granola bars… Ugh. Mommy. There’s nothing else?

After the play date is over, Santa arrives in the form of Grandma and Grandpa, who whisk the remaining children (the other mom would only take her kid home—WTF?) off for lunch and a movie. You’ve never been so thankful for anything in your entire life.

You spend the few hours of peace on the couch, feeling like you’re nursing a hangover, yet you did nothing nearly as fun as getting drunk the night before. Upon their return, the searing headache remains.

You can see the exhaustion in Grandma and Grandpa’s faces, and you know. You know how much work your kids are. So you send them home to recover from the insanity and look at the clock. 4:00. For hours to go. You can do this.

By 4:11, the 2-year old is melting down because you’ve said no to his 87th request for fruit snacks. You are sitting at the table, trying with every fiber of your being to practice letters with your 5-year old, the poor middle child who is perpetually lost in the shuffle of the circus that is your household. She’s not willing to sit and do “school work” very often, so you want desperately to capitalize on her cooperation right now. But you need the 2-year old to calm the fuck down for a minute and Lord God if you take this headache away I promise I’ll do anything. I’ll give up my new expensive jeans I got for Christmas. I’ll give up alcohol for a week. A month! No, a week. But I will! Please God, throw Mama a bone.

Around 5:00, husband calls to remind you to get the tax stuff together—something you’ve been saying you’ll do for a week and haven’t. On your way upstairs to find the paperwork, you pass a pile of laundry so tall it is toppling over and will undoubtedly take 2-3 trips to carry downstairs. You remember the 7-year old’s basketball uniform is still in there, dirty, and needs to be washed by Saturday’s game. You had intended on doing laundry today. Why didn’t that happen again?

6:00. Dinner. What are we having? They ask in not-very-excited-nor-appreciative-for-Mommy’s cooking-voices.

4 minutes into the mundane dinner that they are forcing down, the 2-year old declares he’s done and takes off into the playroom, making a beeline for sister’s crafts, which he is NOT allowed to touch. More hysteria.

Oh. My. Gosh. Can this day end.

Despite skipping nap, it takes the 2-year old over an hour to settle into bed. This hour is spent demanding more songs, stories, water, and his blanket fixed 893 times.

You rush through stories with the other two, because quite honestly, you’re barely hanging on. Which sucks. You know it. They know it.

They’ve grown tired of hearing Mommy has a headache.

Finally, the day is done. Not a day that ends in joy and peace in your heart. Not a day to feel immensely proud of your motherhood skills. But a day you survived. Everyone is still here. Everyone is safe. Everyone has a full belly. Go to sleep now, Mommy. Tomorrow when you wake up, your headache will be gone. And it will be a new day. A day that very well could end in peace, and joy.

Ha! That 2-year still lives there. Are you kidding?

Self-Doubt: Shake, Shake it Off

The 21st Century SAHM

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February 2, 2016

I walked in the door, after a trip away from my husband a few years ago, and saw a framed copy of my first in-print article. It was published in our local parenting magazine—the first time I saw my name in print in a mass publication. He had found it at the grocery store (where the free parenting magazines tend to be) and grabbed 20 copies. This was somewhat problematic as there were likely 30 copies there… so I ended up taking quite a few back.

The point is, he was proud of me. I was excited, but I wouldn’t say proud. I thanked him for framing the article and started heading upstairs with it, at which point he stopped me. “No, we are hanging it down here. In the kitchen, where everyone can see it,” he said.

“What? That is ridiculous. No way.” I felt embarrassed. It was only a local magazine. It was only a short article. It was only…

And that self-doubt, that talking myself down from any sort of pride or achievement and saying “but it’s only…”, continues to plague me to this day. I have been featured on major sites such as Scary Mommy and The Good Men Project, I’ve landed an assistant editor position at Sammiches and Psych Meds, and I have achieved my life-long goal of seeing my name in real books, with pages—as a contributor in Lose the Cape: Never Will I Ever (and then I had kids!) and in What Does It Mean to Be White in America?

Yet, I still struggle to call myself a writer. I still hesitate with self-promotion. Even after a piece is accepted, I often assume it won’t do well on a site because it is probably not nearly as good as others. My piece will never be the one that goes viral, I think.

Promoting the books I have contributed to is incredibly awkward. I have friends ask me to buy a copy, and when I hand it to them, I try to refuse their payment. Because accepting money for my work seems wrong, and I feel like a fraud. Especially since my piece is probably the worst one, I say to myself.

I often post on my blog, but don’t continue to share it on Pinterest or Stumble Upon, because I think it probably isn’t good enough.

Fortunately, these issues of self-doubt, although still prevalent, are waning. I have been influenced and inspired by many other writers who proudly self-promote their work—their good work. And my work is good too, right? Or else it wouldn’t be featured along theirs. (I have to keep saying that part to myself.)

One such source of inspiration has been BonBonBreak. I had a piece featured there in December, and their promotion of it is unlike anything I have seen on any other site. My article “A Missed Opportunity to Show Compassion” has been shared on Twitter over and over and over. And they are still sharing it. They are tirelessly promoting my work; why can’t I?

Another example of proud self-promotion is SassyPieHole. She was one of the first “big bloggers” I started following when I joined this world last year, which is around the time It’s Really 10 Months came out. As a contributor, she shared the book’s image and title all over her Facebook page and blog. “I’m in this book!” she proudly declared everywhere, and I loved it. It made me love her, admire her, and want to read the book even more.

Yet, when it came to be my turn recently, to brag about a book I was in, I hesitated. I didn’t broadcast it all over my Facebook profile picture and cover photo. It took me weeks to add it to my blog sidebar. Why? How was I any different? Is it because I only had a few hundred followers and she has 8,000? Is it because I still am not sure I belong in the book, and think maybe it is a fluke?

Then another anthology accepted my work. So now there are two. The self-doubt is getting weaker. The ability to share my successes is becoming easier. If Scary Mommy and Bon Bon Break and Mamalode take my work, it must be worth something right? If the head editor at Sammiches and Psych Meds thinks my editing skills are good enough to put me behind the wheel at her very successful site, I must not be too bad—I am realizing. Slowly.

When my husband hung that article up in our kitchen, despite my protest, he said, “I believe in you. I know you don’t believe in yourself yet. But you better start. Because you can’t expect anyone else to if you don’t.”

So 2016 is the year I am going to shake off some self-doubt. 2016 is the year I am going to start calling myself a writer when people ask what I do. 2016 is the year I am going to say, with pride, “I’m in this book!”