Mommyhood: Striving For Sanity

We Have Moved!

2015-06-19T11:03:00.000-04:00

This is my change of address card!

From this point forward, all new blog posts, pictures, and updates will be posted on my new website!

Yes, it is OK to scream in delight.

I did.

"But why are you doing this to me," some may ask!

If you find yourself frustrated with the change, let me explain...

I have outgrown Blogger. I wanted to be in charge of personalizing my page and making it all that I've dreamed it should be and more. And I want to be able to interact with readers like you with more ease than my current site allows. You'll be able to leave comments without a google account, receive emails, and interact with other readers, as well.

You're gonna love it, trust me!

I have yet to figure out how to redirect this site to the new one, although I'm told that it can be done... but until then, I will leave Blogger open with all the current posts and information.

HOWEVER, it is extremely important to me that we stay connected.

And that is why I am cordially inviting you to stop by my new site:

http://www.mommyhood-shivonne-costa.squarespace.com/

Here, you will find some old stuff, along with some new stuff!

Make good use of the prayer request option in the Contact section of the site, and also reconnect with my original blog A Day In The Life Of A Brand New Wife.... it's listed in the section entitled

The Beginning.

Now, want to make sure you don't miss any future posts?

Then SUBSCRIBE!!

This is the best way to get posts emailed directly to your account without having to find them in your Facebook, Twitter, or Google+ feeds.

To do this, simply go into The Blog section OR the Archive Search section, click View More at the top (or whichever title you're wishing to read). Once you're in a blog post, scroll to the bottom of the post to where the comments are. Here, you can comment, share my post (PLEASE!!), and subscribe by email. Click the Subscribe button and enter your address.

Simple!

Thank you so much for the support you all have given to me and my family. This website is for you :)

10 Reasons You Should Take Your Kids to an Amusement Park This Summer

2015-06-15T14:35:00.002-04:00

When weighing the pros and cons of yet another costly summer activity, we as adults tend to focus on the mature things. How much is this gonna cost? Can I get the time off work? Is it educational for the kids? Will this provide too much structure, not enough structure, build relationships, promote independence, increase physical exercise, allow for creativity, encourage teamwork, stimulate without over-stimulating, etc., etc., etc.

But, what if we were to take a minute and allow ourselves to be immature…. Just for a moment. If we were to look deep down into the darkest crevices of our souls, we’d all come to the same conclusion.

Amusement parks are for adults, not kids.

Don’t believe me? Take a look at my top 10 reasons why YOU should go to an amusement park this summer and tell me this doesn’t sound like perfection?

10) Mandated weight loss-

Over this past weekend, my husband and I took our family to Kennywood, our local Pittsburgh amusement park. After realizing it would be nuts to wrangle 4 kids alone, we invited two more. And then we recruited husband’s mother and brother for help so that we returned home with the same number of kids that we left with. Not only did we sweat profusely in the 95 degree weather, but we walked a total of 9 miles each throughout the course of our 8-hour day.

We know this because 1) or clothes were drenched well before we ever hit the first water ride, and 2) my husband kept track of our steps with the handy-dandy step tracker on his iphone. Add in pushing two strollers loaded up with supplies, diaper bags, water bottles, umbrellas, towels, snacks, and two large toddlers, and I’m pretty sure we burned at least 73,000 calories each. Pretty sure.

9) Delayed gratification-

We all want our kids to let go of the “Microwave Mentality”, don’t we? Many of the best things in life require time, energy, diligence. Very few things of worth are just granted to us with a simple push of a button on a tablet or by sending a text. What better way to teach our kids the importance of delayed gratification than having them stand in an amusement park line?

Want to buy a ticket? Get in line. Need a frozen lemonade? Take a number. Have to ride the fastest roller coaster in the park? That’ll be an hour… at least. Your child will walk away from this experience far more patient than they came. Either that or they will realize that some things are worth the wait while other things can be skipped without the world coming to a crashing halt. Either way, you win.

8) The Law of Natural Consequences-

Another fantastic lesson that an amusement park will teach your children for you is to listen to their mother. How many times, Moms, do we say the same things over and over ad nauseum, only to be ignored? Let your local thrill joint take the pressure off. Say it once and let the Law of Natural Consequences take over. Wear comfortable shoes, not pretty ones. Pee now because we won’t be hiking to another bathroom in 10 minutes for you. Carry your water bottle with you at all times. Space out the spinny rides!

Any of these sound familiar? If you’re anything like me, you’ve said these things a million times on a million different trips and your children continue to think you’re joking or something. But amusement parks are a great place to (pardon the overused phrase) let it go. Say it once and move on, Mamas. Blisters? Exploding bladders? Thirsty? Going to puke? Tell it to the Ticketmaster, kiddos, because Mama can’t hear you over the noise of the coasters, music, and the joy of natural consequences screaming “I told you so!”

7) You will feel better about your parenting-

This will happen, not because you’ve done such a remarkable job throughout those long winter months, but because of probablity. Statistically speaking, the odds of your child being the worst kid at the park are far less than when you make your usual Walmart run. In a sea of thousands of children, there’s even a decent chance that your kid will come out looking like an honorary saint, even after he races from his seat on the ride and pushes the big, red start button with his chubby little hand. Sure, the staff will scream and parents will run to save their children from impending doom….

But in 10 minutes, some other knuckleheaded child will do something even dumber, leaving you to look like an amazing parent. (Despite the 5 minute tantrum your child threw after being removed from the ride for his unsavory actions…. True story.)

6) Your children will grow closer to God-

Want your son or daughter to be more God-fearing? Let them face the possibility of death as they mount that first roller coaster hill. The “I’m gonna die!” and “Oh, dear GOD!!” phrases will pour forth like wild fire from their little lips. Prayers and promises to never lie again should all be recorded, so keep your phones handy on all rides.

5) Positive peer pressure-

Do you have a particularly wussy kid? Yeah, me too. Amusement parks allow a parent to let peer pressure work in their favor for once. Naturally there will always be those thrill-seekers that want to ride the biggest coaster- no screaming, eyes open, arms in the air. Will they poke fun at your weakling for peeing their pants a little while waiting in line? May they throw out names like “Sissy” and “Nancy Pants” to your kid? Is there a possibility that your child will ride the scariest coaster on the planet (or the Tilt-o-Whirl, whatever) and still come off hating coasters? Yep.

But there’s also the possibility that your wimpy child may face his fears and find that they actually like the ride! Even more possible is that they will enjoy telling everyone for the next 3 years about the time that they rode the biggest coaster in the world and how they lived to tell about it. War stories aren’t just for veterans, people.

4) Your kids will finally understand what your pregnancy was like-

When your precious little monster acts like a colossal brat, the first thing you want to tell them is just how long you carried them in your womb, what they did to your body, how you never ever slept again, and that you brought them into this world and have no problem taking them right back out! Mamas, let me introduce you to the world of Spinny Rides. Send your little nugget of joy on three spinnies in a row. (Just three now, no need to hospitalize the kid or anything.) And as they begin to turn green, ask them to remember this moment.

Remember the nausea, remember the dizziness, remember the need to lie down and close your eyes to stop the world from spinning. Feel like you’re going to die, sweetheart? Well, THAT is what I went through for 9 month!. Remember THAT the next time you want to throw a tantrum in the middle of Applebees, darling. They will have a new appreciation for the sacrifice that you made for them. They may even rise up and call you blessed.

3) Teach them the value of money-

How many times do you walk through the store and get pestered incessantly about making extra purchases? You’ve heard how they neeeeeed Twinkies for their lunch boxes and how they have to have the Timberlands just like everyone else in their class. I can solve this problem for you within the first 20 minutes of being at the park. Tell your children that all of their meals and drinks have been packed for them because you are, in fact, a loving and organized mother.

And then tell them that you’ve brought their weekly allowance for them to use in the park if they feel they have to have extras. And then lay the final blow. Repeat these words verbatim to your children. I have left my wallet and all monetary devices in the car.

There will definitely be gasps. There will probably be fainting. Some may require use of their inhalers. Do not panic. The over-priced snacks and ridiculously expensive arcades will be all your child needs to remind them that no one has ever, in fact, neeeeded a Twinky.

2) You’re allowed to laugh at your kids-

Oh, but I could never! Yes. Yes you can. When your child is rubber-necking and taking it all in, causing him to walk straight into a large woman with bountiful cleavage, you most certainly are allowed to laugh. When your daughter death grips your arm on a KiddieLand roller coaster, you will and must laugh. When your toddler is rendered immobile as Dumbo flies from 1 foot off the ground to 2, you will giggle as tears stream down your face. Hey, you may even find yourself rocking the Ferris wheel cage a little, just to give yourself one more chuckle at your child’s expense before calling it a day.

1) They will sleep like logs-

There is literally nothing like a day of terror and over-stimulation to knock out even the biggest insomniac. After crashing from sugar rushes, coming off of coaster highs, and walking half a marathon, it is likely that your son or daughter will sleep the following morning away. You may feel the urge to check on them, just to make sure they’re fine. But trust me, Mama…. They’re good. They’re more than good. Because they got to spend an entire day with you – laughing, learning valuable lessons, and getting in some quality family time. Let this peaceful moment wash over you before they wake up and find something to complain about.

Why should you go to an amusement park this summer? Because You need to. There’s gonna be screaming and laughing and messes and lost sunglasses/hats/keys/phones. There will be junk food and incorrect head counts, chaos and missed naptimes. And it will be the best memory you have for years to come.

My Kids.... Answering Questions.... About Me

2015-06-08T15:30:00.000-04:00

I tend not to jump on the Mommy bandwagon for things.... but for every thing there is a season. And it's my turn to jump. There is a Facebook post that's gone viral that has you ask your child/children questions about you as their Mom while you record their answers. Naturally, these answers are chocked full of adorableness and grossly inaccurate information. So it only made sense that I interviewed my own children (the ones that can talk, that is), because they are both adorable and grossly inaccurate on most days as it is. I asked them the questions separately and was amazed by some of their answers!

Here is the post that left me giggling, complete with my kiddos' answers:

Without any prompting, ask your child these questions and write down EXACTLY what they say. It's a great way to find out what they really think.

1) What is something mom always says to you?

Cameron (9-years-old)- "I love you."

Taylor- (7-years-old)- "I love you."

Isaac- (2 1/2-years-old)- "Keys."

2) What makes mom happy?

C- "Not lying."

T- "When we don't lie."

I- "Wyatt (the 1-year-old) and kisses!"

3) What makes mom sad?

C- "When I lie."

T- "When someone dies."

I- "Singing 'Jesus loves me'"

(huh.)

4) How does your mom make you laugh?

C- "She tickles my armpits."

T- "She tickles me!"

I- "Music."

5) What was your mom like as a child?

C- "Good?"

T- "A good girl."

I- "Little."

6) How old is your mom?

C- "23"

T- "32"

I- "2"

(The correct answer is 33 for anyone interested!)

7) How tall is your mom?

C- "5 feet."

T- "7 inches."

I- "1."

(Well, 5'6".... if you add Cam's and Tay's answers and then subtract Isaac's, they didn't do half bad!)

8) What is her favorite thing to do?

C- "Work with people."

T- "Play with us."

I- "Grass."

9) What does your mom do when you're not around?

C- "Pray."

T- "Work."

I- "Wear make-up."

10) If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?

C- "Singing."

T- "Singing."

I- "Swim fast in a pool."

11) What is your mom really good at?

C- "Singing."

T- "Painting nails."

I- "Making a mess."

12) What is your mom not very good at?

C- "Building a swing set."

T- "Cutting wood."

I- "I dunno."

13) What does your mom do for a job?

C- "Sings at church."

T- "Therapy."

I- "The store."

(Hmmm.)

14) What is your mom's favorite food?

C- "Veggie pizza."

T- "Salad."

I- "All of it."

(And Isaac wins this round!)

15) What makes you proud of your mom?

C- "That she adopted us." (oh. my. gosh.... the sweetness!!)

T- "That she takes me to the doctor."

I- "Proud."

16). If your mom were a character, who would she be?

C- "Dr. Seuss."

T- "Anna from Frozen."

I- "I want to go outside."

17) What do you and your mom do together?

C- "Clean my room."

T- "Take walks."

I- "Trains."

18) How are you and your mom the same?

C- "We live together."

T- "We have the same color eyes."

I- "Trains."

19) How are you and your mom different?

C- "She has long hair and I have short hair."

T- "She has curly hair and mine is straight."

I- "I wanna go outside!!"

20) How do you know your mom loves you?

C- "Because she adopted me!"

T- "She hugs me."

I- "Kisses."

21) What does your mom like most about your dad?

C- "He's handsome."

T- "His smooches!"

I- "His computer."

22) Where is your mom's favorite place to go?

C- "Church."

T- "Tosha's house."

I- "In a tree."

23) How old was your Mom when you were born?

C- "26"

T- "27"

I- "2"

Ok, now tell me that wasn't adorable?? Please, please, do this with your children! It's so sweet and they loved answering the questions, even the toddler! This Mommy bandwagon was officially worth the jump.

The Liebster Award

2015-06-07T22:29:00.000-04:00

So, there are these blogging awards that I’m always seeing on people’s web pages. I have to admit, I’ve been quite jealous that my blog is so naked and unadorned with beautiful symbols. But then, this lovely thing happened…. I got my first nomination! Thanks to (un)Balanced Mom, I was nominated for the Liebster Award and now have a lovely symbol to attach to my page. I know, it’s vanity, but I’m a girl and I like pretty decorations. Shoot me.

How does the Liebster Award work, you may ask? Well, it’s something that is passed around the blogging community to help us find out more about other bloggers and get our names out there a bit more. The nominator gives the nominee 11 questions to answer and then the nominee must nominate 11 more nominees and give them 11 questions to answer as well. Make sense? Or did I use too many versions of the work nominate in one sentence? (This award is obviously not being granted to me in honor of my perfected sentence structure.) So, thank you (un)Balanced Mom for this nomination!!

Questions from (un)Balanced Mom:

1) What got you started blogging? The week that I got married, I started a blog for myself to log the oddities of each day for the first full year of marriage. It turned out to be an excellent way to relieve stress and let the little things go under the veil of humor…. All in all, I’m pretty sure it kept my husband alive for the first year.

2) Do you have a secret for finding balance? Yes. But if it’s a secret, I’ve not been doing my job well enough. My secret is Christ’s grace. It goes before me and behind me, covering my flaws and screw ups from the past and the ones I’ve not even made yet. I can’t balance myself…. There are too many emotions and struggles – to many crises that arise from day to day. Grace is the only thing that keeps me from floating out of my earthly orbit.

3) How old are your little ones? Cameron is 9, Taylor is 7, Isaac is 2, and Wyatt is 1…. And Pat is 38 (my biggest child of all).

4) What is your favorite time of day? I love the time of day when it’s early evening and the sun is glowing orange… when you’re driving and the light is in your eyes no matter which way you put your visor. There’s something so beautiful and sacred about the glow during that time of day, as if the whole world is being reflected by stained glass.

5) Are you a dog or a cat person? Dog, all the way! We have three of our own (our other kids). But that’s not to say that I don’t like cats, because I do. I just prefer when they’re not being chased by my dogs, you see.

6) What are your views on screen time? Look, there are lots of people that have very specific views on the hot-button parenting topics…. Screen time, breastfeeding, baby wearing, organic foods, etc. But to be quite honest, I view that all things in moderation are fine. I have 4 kiddos and 3 dogs…. If Mickey Mouse wants to help my kids practice their colors and numbers for 27 minutes while I stare into space and mumble along to the hot dog song, then let it be! Because sometimes a woman needs 27 minutes to stare at absolutely nothing.

7) What would your dream vacation be? An all-inclusive resort to Fiji. Five-star food, endless beaches, crystal-clear water, room service, spa amenities, the scent of lavender and suntan lotion…. Oh my gosh, why do I live in Western, PA?

8) What part of the world do you live in? And would you choose somewhere else to live if you could? Um, see question 7 and make my address 101 Fiji St., Fiji Island.

9) Do you eat out or cook at home more? We definitely cook more at home than anything else. For one, I love to cook. Two, we can’t afford eating out with 6 of us. Even the dollar menu requires a trip to the ATM. Buuuut, if someone were to take me out and relieve me of my cooking duties for a while, I wouldn’t complain!

10) What is your favorite book? This one has me stumped, because honestly, there are so many books! I love me a good murder-mystery thriller, but then there are the biographies…. And the true crime stories… and the chick-lit that is a true guilty pleasure… and all things by my favorites (Jen Hatmaker and Glennon Doyle Melton)…. And my devotionals and my Bible…. Ok, just let me take my library with me to Fiji, OK?

11) Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Older. Other than that, I don’t even know how to see that far ahead! Sometimes I get overwhelmed when I try to look at my schedule for the following week. So, I’m doing myself a favor on this one and just stating the obvious!

Liebster Award Rules:

1) Acknowledge and thank the blog who nominated you.

2) Look for an award image that you like and post it on your blog.

3) Answer the 11 questions asked by the person/blog who nominated you.

4) Nominate 11 blogs.

5) Let the bloggers know that you nominated them.

6) Give them 11 questions to answer.

My Nominees:

1) Jen Hatmaker… because I love her – Jenhatmaker.com

2) Harmony Hobbs - Modernmommymadness.com

3) Drama Queens Momma – lifeofadramaqueensmomma.blogspot.com

4) A Mothership Down - Amothershipdown.com

5) Full Metal Mommy – fullmetalmommy.com

6) Stacia – driedonmilk.com

7) Mary Widdicks – outmannedmommy.com

8) Cristi Comes – motherhoodunadorned.com

9) Stevie Couch – acornishmum.com

10) The Making of a Mom – themakingofamom.com

11) Amber – mommysmetime.com

Questions For My Nominees:

1) Who/What inspires you to write?

2) If this was college and writing was your major, what would be your minor?

3) What three words best describe you?

4) What’s your favorite quote?

5) If you have a family, they push your buttons….period. What’s your secret coping skill?

6) If you could interview one person (past or present), who would it be?

7) What’s your favorite place to write and why?

8) Name your top two guilty pleasure foods.

9) How do you best show others you love them?

10) Coffee or tea? Iced or hot?

11) What’s your number one feel-good movie of all time?

Guys, I love this award! I think it’s such a great way to learn more about the wonderful writers who tell me their stories each week. Don’t forget to check out their pages, show them some love by subscribing or sharing a blog you enjoy, and (nominees) remember to let me know that you’ve responded so I can check out your answers!

When Your Sweet Baby Turns Into a German Tyrant

2015-06-03T19:56:00.003-04:00

Something happens to your baby when he turns one. It may be chemical, it may be hormonal, it may be possession…. But whatever it is, it has the power to change your once precious little lamb into a general from the Third Reich.

How do I know this devastation to be true? Simple. I have a one-year-old. And for 364 days he was my shining joy, my prize, my little baby love. At day 365, the sweetness melted away and it was replaced by ear-piercing screams and aggression to the fullest degree. He punches, he pinches, he kicks, jabs, slaps, bites, and claws. It’s as if my baby has taken on the soul of a wild jaguar and he’s circling his prey (ME) before finally going in for the kill.

When I go to the store, I see the stares. I see other people eyeing my bruises and noticing my scratched skin. They can’t ignore the drops of blood crusted around my previously bleeding nose nor the lump already forming on my skull where I was head-butted just minutes before. I know they wonder as they eye my husband with disdain. Little do they know that the real culprit is the angelic little cherub in the cart, chattering away and waving “bye-bye” at passersby, smiling a toothy grin and soaking up all the “Awww”s he can get. Yes. My abuser is 32” tall, has 6 teeth, and cannot walk independently.

It’s the perfect cover.

Prior to turning one, little man followed me from room to room, cooing at my feet as he investigated the floor, contents of cupboards, and whatever else happened to be within reach. His gentle exploration was always accompanied by sing-song tones and baby gurgles… the sounds that could make your ovaries ache with the sheer cuteness of it all.

And then there was his first birthday… it was the single moment, the terrifying fulcrum of change. Now, I live on pins and needles as I wrangle my little terror from room to room, him flailing and throwing himself back from my arms, me desperately trying to keep my child from requiring a cranial operation before he turns 2. If he wants up, it’s only until I pick him up and he realizes that he actually wants down. If he wants in a cupboard, it’s only to chuck its entire content across the room, followed by finger pinches in the drawer, climbing into the dishwasher, putting toy cars in the toilet, unrolling all of the toilet paper, growling at the vacuum cleaner, chewing on the computer cable, putting Cheerios down his diaper, biting the dog, pulling all things off the table via the corner of the table cloth, eating the puppy food, screaming because he’s angry, screaming because he’s tired, screaming because he’s hungry, because he’s teething, because he’s happy, or he’s itchy, or sick, or because the dog won’t play with him, or because he’s trying to make me lose my mind!

Gone are the days of watching my baby sleep peacefully in my arms. Gone are the cuddles and the precious baby coos. My child’s soothing baby chatter has taken on a harsh sound as he tries his tongue at new consonants. Now he just sounds German. Like a short, mean German baby, raising his hand to smite me down like a true tyrant. So I flinch. I flinch and I shudder when he raises his hand. I’ve learned that a finger to the eye hurts for hours, and a slap to the nose will bring me to my knees. But when I tell him “No!” in my firmest of tones, he replies with shrieks of laughter, finding my attempt at control simply hilarious.

One years old feels too young to start a disciplinary regime, but apparently my life depends on it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But let me tell you, ladies, this little man is gooood. After he smacks me repeatedly, I put him down and give him a light tap on the hand as I muster a firm “No, no!” And then he produces the lip. That bottom portion of his mouth that causes him to look like the saddest most misunderstood baby ever to have lived. And it’s only seconds before the gut-wrenching tears stream from his horrified eyes and I’m forced to blow in his face to help him catch his breath.

How could I? Worst Mama of the Year awards flash through my mind. So, like any mother wanting to comfort her sweet little angel, I pick him up and pull him to my chest, whispering gentle shushes in his ear.

At which point he immediately stops crying and begins to giggle as he pinches my neck skin. It’s turned into some sort of twisted game and I’m forced to play because I’m the mama and the trainer of the children. It’s up to me to show him that there is a gentler way. A peaceful way. A way that doesn’t end in bloodshed (quite specifically, MINE!).

Yes. My sweet baby has turned into a German tyrant. And I love him to pieces. Here’s hoping that the Terrible Twos are a step up in the right direction.

The Disillusionment of Spanx

2015-05-27T20:23:00.003-04:00

I nearly lost my life getting into a pair of Spanx the other day. It’s true. I’d like to say it was a solitary trauma, but unfortunately there was a rematch during the removal process that I just can’t go into. As I laid there on my bed, trying to catch my breath and hold onto consciousness, I thought to myself, I cannot be the only one who thinks this is the stupidest thing ever invented by anyone… Ever.

Honest to God, try as I may, I cannot think of a more ridiculous garment ever invented. And before everyone jumps on the corset band-wagon, let’s take just a moment to realize that women who wore corsets had an instant boob lift and tummy tuck, all in one piece of underwear. Yes, I recognize that they also had bruised/broken ribs and that they couldn’t eat or breathe, but there was a definite visual benefit to be had when wearing a corset.

Now let’s look at Spanx. Even the word itself is moronic. I envision the makers of Spanx (all men, of course) sitting in their office, chairs arranged in a circle with a pair of the silly things on a table in the center of the group. All the men staring and staring until one particularly doofy gentleman called out, “Spanx! We’ll name them Spanx!” The other men spitting coffee out of their noses as they place bets on how many women would actually purchase something named Spanx.

Well, as it turns out, the doofy gentleman won the bet. Not only does every woman from here to Timbuktu own a pair, but we actually risk life and limb to wear something that sounds like a dominatrix tool. Unlike the corset-wearers of old, with their defined waists and ample bosoms, Spanx-wearers end up looking like overstuffed, vertical uni-boobs from knee to neck. (I can hear the skinny girls now. All the Trish’s and the Bambi’s and the Lexi’s of the world are tweeting each other selfies as we speak – displaying their perfect measurements and contemplating whether or not pants come in sizes smaller than 0….. P.S. Bambi, they don’t.)

However, for the rest of the ladies (the normal sized ladies on up), this is probably what you’re feeling after you’ve wrestled yourself into a pair of these suckers.

And this is on a good day. Congratulations, you look like a stuffed sausage.

And do we know why this is? Because when we look at ourselves in the mirror and see rolls of flab given to us by babies and too many nachos, we think to ourselves, I wonder if there’s some kind of crazy contraption that will squish all of my insides into a long tube so that I can zip my pants instead of having to use a hair tie to secure them?? (Women who don’t understand that last comment can keep on moving ‘cause they just don’t even know how real the struggle is.) Then, not only do we actually purchase (with real, hard-earned money) a pair of these “miracle” undies, but we do a jig that can only be likened to the rain dance of the fat people as we try to get into them. We squirm, jump, suck in, pull up, tuck in, lay down, and twist ourselves into a sweaty mess, made even sweatier by the oh-so-breathable Spanx material.

Again, the men sitting in a circle around the Spanx, calling out material options willy-nilly. “Syran wrap,” one says. “Fleece,” says another. Finally, Mr. Doofy comes to the rescue. “I know!! Nylon! Ha, these women will be so drenched after just one hour in their Spanx that they’ll lose 10 pounds and have to buy a smaller size! Ca-ching!!”

And it’s not enough that you finally manage to get yourself into the crazy things. No, that’s just when the depression kicks in. Because, whereas you once had vivid dreams of magically turning into Marilyn Monroe when you finally weaseled your way into your garment, you now realize that you look more like this.

Great. Now your butt has moved to your upper back, and I’m guessing that your thighs have moved to your knees. Why? Because Spanx won’t make us skinny, ladies!!! They just move our fat to NEW LOCATIONS! So you can button your favorite pair of jeans, only now you need to wear a bra on your shoulder blades and go up at least two shirt sizes. Problem. Solved.

If you’re crazy enough to leave the house like this (and don’t worry, we’ve all been this crazy once or twice in our lives…. No judgment here), you’re probably wearing your nice jeans (with the hem let out to allow for your newly acquired double knees), big shirt, and two bras so that you can sweat your butt off as you paint the town red. What’s that, you say? Feeling dizzy are you? Oh, that’s just your organs encroaching on your lungs, slowly collapsing them with each inhale you take. You’ll be fine. You’ve got another three hours at least before you’ll need medical attention. Oh wait, what’s that now? You have to pee?

Once you’re finally back home, dehydrated and in need of an aspirator, you can finally get those dang Spanx off! Or can you? Because short of the Jaws of Life, those puppies aren’t coming off without taking some flesh with them. But at that point, you won’t even care. You just need to pee and breathe and eat and take your back-bra off, for the love of Moses!

So, you do what every panicked woman does in a moment like this. You reach for the scissors and literally cut yourself out of the precious Spanx that you’d dreamed would change your life.

But they did, didn’t they? You are walking away from this experience wiser than you once were. You are more accepting of your body. You are more willing to reconsider your exercise plan that perhaps was growing dusty next to the ab-roller you’d purchased that night you housed the entire gallon of ice cream before realizing it was gone. You do this so you never, ever have to go through the disillusionment of Spanx again. EVER.

Why My Kids Can't Listen To The Radio

2015-05-20T22:07:00.000-04:00

I fear that this topic may cause some…conflict. My words may reflect “preachy” when very little is further from my style of writing. I try to keep all things on a real level because we, as parents, are all just trying to do our best and survive each day, am I right? You do your parenting and I’ll do mine, and maybe we can swap war stories every now and again when we see the other dragging and falling apart at the seams.

So I want you to know, need you to know, that my heart is to share something that is so very important to me without causing anyone else to feel “less than”, judged, or ridiculed by my far-from-perfect opinions and perspectives. In my capacities as a mother, therapist, Christian, and simply as a person, I’ve had a passion to share my feelings on this topic for quite some time. Many people will not understand me, and several may tell me I’m naïve and sheltering my children too much. You may tell me exactly where I can shove this article.

And to those people, I say this: I still love you. And I love your children and my own enough to post this.

Here it goes.

I don’t let my kids listen to non-Christian radio. (I know, I can hear the groans now, but please stay with me.) I don’t let my kids listen to non-Christian radio, not because I’m against secular music. Personally, I enjoy and appreciate almost every genre of music. (Although I still think that heavy-metal is sung by people who weren’t hugged enough as children…. Just saying!) God hand-picked and delivered gifts and talents to so many people for the mere purpose of bringing pleasure to the world, meeting people where they’re at, and giving the voiceless words they can really get behind. Words they can move to as well as words that will move them. This is true whether the musicians themselves hold the same beliefs as I do or not. Music is music and I love it at its core. It makes us feel things and express things and cry and soar and yell at the tops of our lungs as we drive down the road with our windows open!

I don’t let my kids listen to non-Christian radio simply because my kids are kids. They aren’t teenagers, they aren’t young adults, they aren’t even pre-teens, for that matter. And if radio channels had ratings, Christian radio would be the only kind of station consistently rating above the PG-13 category. I am quite aware that there are occasional songs played on every station that are perfectly lovely and that my kids may either benefit from or perhaps just not “get” because they’re too young to be influenced by the words being sung. But as many of you other parents are, I am busy. I am tired. I don’t need another hat to wear, another role to play, another task to complete. Simply put, to be the radio police? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I don’t want to see one more child bopping to Justin Beiber or hear one more child singing “Baby” anything! These are children, folks. They don’t need to be calling anyone their Baby because they are still babies themselves. In a society filled with parentified children, shows about teen moms, and those who have suffered abuses of all kinds, we need to run with abandon towards innocence and purity for our little ones. I want to stray so far from the middle line on this one because I want the small people that I protect to enjoy the few years of their lives unmoved and unshaken by all things that are “gray”.

But, even in our diligence to watch what our children are exposed to, we’ve all had those moments where our beautiful, wide-eyed, sweet little ones unsuspectingly belt out words to a song that makes our hair stand on end and our tummies roll. And honestly, nothing saddens my heart more than hearing my grade school kiddos belt out lyrics about booty-shaking or drinking a cold beer. My kids are not 21 and the only time they should be shaking anything is if they’re doing the hokey-pokey!

Even my two-year-old knows when something is inappropriate. There we were, watching the American Idol finale. On comes a song that featured a group of half-dressed female dancers. Naturally, they began to shake what the good Lord gave them. My baby looked at me and said, “Mama, they’re shaking their weenies!” And he was right. Maybe it makes me a prude, but I don’t care. I’m sticking to my guns that toddlers shouldn’t learn about pelvic thrusting, butt clapping, or twerking…. At least until they’re 6.

Something that I think we as parents can all agree on is that there are lots of inappropriate songs in the world. There is literally a song entitled, “Rape Me”….seriously. None of us are going to ever play this song for our children because of a little thing called common sense! Miley Cyrus naked on a wrecking ball? Yeah, probably not going to find that in too many 10-year-olds’ CD collections. However, there are so many gray areas with music, aren’t there?

Look at Taylor Swift. Sweet girl, beautiful voice, pleasant songs about love (or falling out of it)…. No cursing or outright references to sexual content. But I just can’t let my kids go there. Why not? Because my kids are 9, 7, 2, and 1. They are in desperate need of learning concepts of pure love, compassion, friendship, justice, generosity, sharing, truth-telling, and faith. They need to hear their role models sing songs about peace and kindness, treating others how they themselves want to be treated, humility, and giving to the poor. I want my children to learn about the kind of love that extends to all people, not the kind of love that leaves a girl’s heart-broken in two after she was cheated on by the supposed love of her life. I like Taylor Swift. But I don’t trust her with my daughter’s heart, her identify, or her little girl view of relationships. No one should be in charge of those things except her Mama, her Daddy, and her God. (When that first boy breaks her heart, then she may listen to Taylor Swift!)

And please don’t misunderstand. Many of these songs are amazing….for adults. Even some for teens. And if you find yourself reading this and wanting to scream at me because your small person knows all the words to most of these songs by heart, please know that I am not looking down a righteous nose at anyone. You’re the Mom. You’re the Queen of your house. You’re the rule-maker and the enforcer of all things in your child’s world. My only hope is that we can all be diligent together - to really pay attention. To listen to what’s blaring from the speakers. To evaluate the concepts being taught under the veil of beautiful or fun music.

Because, Mamas, it takes a village. There are days that I need you to be there for my children. And there are days that you need me to be there for yours. If we can come together and agree to uplift innocence instead of cleavage, think about how far our daughters will go in this world? And if we preach chivalry instead of booty calls to our boys, how the dating world will change for our young men (and, in turn, our young ladies)!

Therefore, I say No to lyrics about stalking the object of one’s affection (Lady Gaga). No to words about partying (Shop Boyz). No to hooking up with strangers (Carly Rae Jepsen). No to craving sex (Jennifer Lopez). No to wanting a “bad boy” (Brittany Spears). No to having swagger. No to staying out all night. No to falling apart over a break-up. NO to grinding and swearing. NO to being like the “cool kids”. NO to obsessing over one’s looks and the opposite sex. NO NO NO NO NO, A MILLION TIMES NO!!!!

Let’s keep them young. Just for a little while longer. We won’t always be able to protect their hearts, so let’s do our best while we still have the chance.

Birthday Eve

2015-05-12T07:13:00.000-04:00

May 12, 2014…. There I was, 216 months pregnant. Big and hormonal, sweaty and not giving any craps about anything, holding one baby on my hip and another in my gut, looking like the red-neck woman’s pregnant best friend. Even my toddler couldn’t believe I was still pregnant. He was supposed to have been here days ago, months really, if you take into account the size of my watermelon-esque mid-section. He wasn’t supposed to wait this long, get this big! How in the world is this even going to happen tomorrow? I mean, he has to be the size of an NFL linebacker by now. And, I don’t know much about labor and all, but I’m pretty sure linebackers don’t come out all that gracefully.

I’m 100% terrified, to be honest. I’m one half terrified of him coming out, and the other half terrified that he’ll stay in…. Scratch that. Maybe it’s more like 40/60. Either way, there’s some serious fear going on. I keep crying. And then I puke a little. And then I double over for 45 -90 seconds, and then I cry some more. I haven’t slept in days. Literally. I mean, I have not slept. Here’s hoping the fourth night’s a charm? Although, I don’t see that happening with all cramping and puking and contracting and crying going on.

But the doctor said we’re headed towards a c-section if this baby refuses to come on his own. For some reason, he just won’t drop. She’s worried about the cord. I’m worried about the cord. But the only thing I know to do is to walk. Well, waddle. I’m going to waddle a trench down my driveway if it’s the last thing I do. And since I think I’m dying, it very well may be the last thing I do.

Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Quick pee break while near the house.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Another pee break. Rest ankles for a minute while I contract.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Pee. I almost made it to the toilet, too. Wipe every sweaty inch of my body with a paper towel.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle half-way up the drive. Collapse in the drive. Contract for a minute. Roll around for a while because I’ve fallen and cannot get up. Cry. Decide I will deliver the baby at home, in the drive. Decide I don’t want the neighbors to see my vagina. Roll some more. A gust of wind and fairies help me up. Waddle up the drive. (Pee….dang. Not even close.) Decide to stay indoors where it’s safe.

It was finally time to sleep. I was amazed that my husband could snore so loudly on a night like tonight. Didn’t he know that I was expecting any second? Wasn’t he worried at all? I laid awake, gripping my stop watch, fearing that if I let the contractions get too close together, we’d never make it to Pittsburgh in time. What if something went wrong on the drive down? Oh, no…. (this is where things started getting gross, so I’ll spare you the details, but apparently a woman’s body “rids itself of all things when baby is on his way”). I finished ridding and then took a shower to rid myself of the ridding remnants. And there was husband, still sawing logs with his chainsaw snout. But 3:30 a.m. was go time, and go we did.

May 13, 2014…..I continued to rid myself the entire way to the hospital and throughout the endless hours of labor that followed. Since I had already been in labor for the three previous days, complete with regular contractions and all, I was basically a pro. I did my breaths, I spread my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry wearing a doctor’s coat, and I prayed for him to drop. But that’s when his heartbeat went away. And everything seemed to fade a bit. The pain grew small and the doctor’s grew quieter as the heartbeat in my ears thudded louder and louder.

“I need you to flip, now,” said the nurse to a woman who hasn’t been able to roll over independently for at least two months. My husband, my nurse, and my momentous girth got me flipped in a colossal team effort. An effort we exerted every 15 minutes or so, each time we lost the heartbeat. We did this for hours. I couldn’t see straight anymore. Baby wouldn’t drop anymore. And the doctor’s couldn’t wait anymore. It was time.

Thirty-minutes later, despite my horrible experience in the OR (something I don’t even want to allow myself to re-tell, just in case there are any pregnant mamas-to-be out there), he was here. Wyatt Patrick Costa had finally arrived. The poor little man had been twisted inside of me to the point that his head was stuck and unable to move down. I would still be pregnant to this day had my doctor not made that hard call for me.

He was so big….so long! He looked like he needed a good steak. But since all I had to offer was milk, he settled for a liquid diet.

I was so sick afterwards that I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t experience his skin on mine or take in his tiny little features or plant kisses on his long fingers. I’ve always felt sad - cheated that I missed out on the best moment of my life.

But today, on the eve of my son’s first birthday, I realize that I didn’t miss out on the best moment of my life. Because every day with him is my new best moment. I constantly caress his soft skin as he’s cuddled up against my chest. And I admire those big, beautiful, brown eyes and memorize the heartwarming tone of his laughter day in and day out. And I have planted no less than a million kisses on those long fingers, tiny toes, and every other kissable inch of his perfect little frame. His conception was a miracle, his delivery was a miracle, and his smile reminds me that today is a miracle.

I love you, Wyatt, with all my heart. Thank you for giving me a new best moment each and every day.

Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout The Birds And The Bees

2015-05-05T11:23:00.000-04:00

"Mommy, what is sex?"

I don't know about you, but when I envisioned this question making it's way to our house, I didn't anticipate the words Mommy and sex to be in the same question! Seven years old has to be too early for this, right? Although, it's not like I live with my head in the sand. I knew the time was drawing near when someone in my house would pop the inevitable sex question.... I had just hoped it would be once they were done with bed wetting and all.
But ready or not, the question was out there with nary a warning or hint of its coming. There I stood, innocently pushing the baby in his swing - Taylor on the swing next to us and Cameron playing in the dirt at our feet. And there it was. "Mommy, what is sex?" Taylor's Minnie Mouse voice echoed out. I think that even the baby choked on his thumb at that moment. Cameron's head popped up and he immediately stood to attention, quickly forgetting whatever muddy contraption he'd been constructing just moments before.
I gasped out a few Ums and Hmmms and Wells.... enough to write a book on How NOT to answer the sex question to your children. Finally, I created a sentence.

"So, where did you hear that word, Taylor?"
"All the kids at school say it."
Stupid public school with its stupid sex-talking first graders....
"And..... um, what do they kids at school say about it?"
"They say that people do sex all the time."
Phew.... if she's still calling it "doing sex", she can't know that much, right?
"And what else do they say about it?"
"Um.... they say that you have to take your clothes off."
Sweet Jesus.

This is where Cameron, in all of his third grade knowledge, piped in.

"Nah-uh, Taylor. You don't have to take all your clothes off, just your pants."
Taylor looked at him with annoyance and back to me, the Queen of great answers.
"Mom, you don't really have to take your pants off to do sex, do you?"
Ok. Moment of truth. Tell my young children the anatomically-correct version of sex or.... make up a crazy story about people doing sex with their pants on and babies magically appearing in cribs 9 months later.
"So here's the thing.... people.... adults.... when they're married.... they want to have babies, you see? And when they want to have babies, they do a thing called sex."

I looked at them to see if this was enough to answer their questions, to see if I really had to go on or not. They stared back at me with confused eyes, eager for clarification.
Rats.

"Um, ok. And when the mom and dad have sex, that's how the mom gets pregnant and can have a baby. Do you get it?"
"Mom," Taylor interjected. "Do they take their pants off?"
Good grief.
"Yes. They do take their pants off."
"But not their underwear, right, Mom?" Cameron added with utter certainty that he was correct.
"Actually, they do have to take their underwear off.... it's just how it has to work."
Both kids stared at me with mouths hanging open, disgust creeping into their eyes.
"But Mom.... you had a baby," Taylor said in shock.
Oh no. Ooohhhh no.
She literally whispered the next question, I kid you not.
"Mom, did you take your underwear off with Daddy???"

I could see now that our relationship was forever going to be changed. No matter which way I played this, she was right. I DID have a baby. Her beloved Daddy and I had done sex... pantless... in the very house where she rests her head at night. And every single time our bedroom door will close from this point forward, she will assume we are doing sex all over again.
I started to feel very warm. And uncomfortable. Warm and uncomfortable.

"Um, that's how it works. If you want to have a baby, you have to take your underwear off. I don't make the rules, it's just how it has to happen."
"Do you have to take your shirts off, too?" I felt like Cameron was staring at me like I was no longer the Mother he'd grown to know and love.
"Well.... sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes people do take their shirts off."

Taylor literally laughed out loud. She offered no explanation, just cracked up for a good 30 seconds.

"What's so funny?" Cameron asked.
Choking back hysterics, Taylor responded, "I was just thinking how funny Mom would look with a shirt on but no pants!"
Cameron joined the laughter instantly.
Hey, now! Am I seriously getting body-shamed by my 7- and 9-year-olds??
"Guys, come on. Be serious here, would ya?"

They took a moment to compose themselves while I continued to push Wyatt in his swing. I watched him with envy as he enjoyed the spring breeze without a care in the world - no one demanding answers from him or picturing him half-naked. He's a lucky little guy.

"Is sex the same thing as humping?" Cameron asked.
Oh my GOSH, it's hot out here! What are we doing, breaking the heat record for the month of May already??
"Uh, yeah.... same basic concept. But please never say that word again. Ever. It's inappropriate and... just.... don't."
"Do you get a baby every time you do sex?" Taylor questioned.
"No. Then we would be China."
"Then why do people do sex, since they won't always get a baby?"
I can't even do this....
"Um.... practice. They practice making babies."
"Does it feel good?"
And it just got 10% hotter. She is just on a roll today, isn't she?!? Deep breath, Mama, deep breath.
"Sometimes...."
"Does it feel like when you have to sneeze and it finally comes out? Because that feels good, but when I can't sneeze, it doesn't feel good and I hate that."
"YES! That's exactly right! Good way to think about it."
Yes. I did allow my child to compare sex to sneezing.... I had had enough truth-telling for one day!

A silence settled over us. My panic started to subside, the May weather seemed to take on a more refreshing temperature, and I no longer felt the need to pop a Xanax.

"So, will I do sex someday, Mommy?"
OH MY GOSH! HEART ATTACK!!! Someone please call for a medic.... I thought we were dooonnne!
"One day you will get married and you and your husband will want to have babies.... then and only then will you.... do sex. OK??"
Taylor looked at me with big eyes. I think she realized she'd hit a nerve. So she nodded her agreement and then went back to swinging.
Cameron, who had remained silent (probably fearful of giving more wrong answers) ended the conversation with this beautiful gem....

"Mom, I don't want to have kids when I grow up. So that means I don't have to do sex, right?"
"Cameron, that's exactly right."
He beamed happily at the praise.
"Good... because I look really stupid without my pants on."

Bless these children..... Bless them.

Bricks Of Love

2015-04-29T19:46:00.000-04:00

As an adoptive parent, I have to ask.... Is it OK to make my child wear a t-shirt that says, "I'm adopted. My parents apologize for your inconvenience"? If so, I will order them like underwear - one for every day of the week.
I needed a shirt today as I looked at my ringing telephone. I always dread seeing the school's phone number on my caller ID. It's with hesitant breath that I ask the all-too familiar questions: "what did he do this time", "who do we need to apologize to now", and "do we need to have a conference". We've written all the "I'm sorry"s there are to write. There is not enough lead in all the world to fill the pencils to write on the pages the amount of sorry's that have needed to be said. We are, in fact, sorry'ed out.

I'm sorry that he doesn't follow the rules.
I'm sorry that he acts impulsively, despite the medicine, despite the therapy.
I'm sorry that he lies to your face.
I'm sorry that he manipulates.
I'm sorry that he bullies your children.
I'm sorry that he threatens to harm your students.
I'm sorry that he pulls hair and pinches arms and trips passers-by for no apparent reason.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'm sorry.

This is why I wish I had a shirt for him to wear. It would save me so many words and spare me so many disgusted looks. You know the looks. I know the looks. We've all given them to the parents of the screaming Walmart children and to the ones running amok through the library. The looks that say, Why can't you control your child? What are you doing wrong?

P.S. I ask myself those same questions every day. And I have no answers.

I'm truly sorry for his behaviors, but I didn't create this. His genes are chocked full of dysfunction and his past overflowing with abuse. In the 6 short years that he lived B.A. (Before Adoption), he witnessed more violence than most of us ever see in our entire lives. Not only did he experience Failure To Thrive due to gross neglect as an infant, he was shuffled from home to home and told repeatedly that he was not wanted. And when he wasn't being told outright that he was unwanted and unloved, he was shown through the actions of those who couldn't be bothered to care for him or train him. You don't have to be a genius to realize that you're not worth much to someone who can't even take a few moments to show you how to bathe or brush your teeth or how to count or say the ABCs.

And anyone who is willing to use a belt on a kid's legs should be shot. Plain and simple.

So when my kid shows happiness at your sadness, I'm sorry. And when he sends your child home from school in tears, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I know how terribly you must feel, because I feel it each and every day that I see that dreaded number on my phone. I want to hold your child and tell him/her that he doesn't mean it.... even though I fear that he might. I want to say that he'll never do it again.... even though I'm fairly certain that he will. And then I want to hold my child (after I scream and consequence and make him write the I'm Sorry's for the millionth time) and tell him that there's a better way.... even though it seems to do no good.
Parents, teachers, peers - I need you to understand my child. But I don't need you to excuse his behavior. He was dealt a crappy hand for 6 years, but he cannot and will not become a victim of these circumstances. I don't need you to affirm him - he has parents for this. I don't need you to fix him - he has a therapist for that. Understand him, yes, and then hold him accountable for his actions. The last thing I want is to create a child/teen/adult that has grown to learn that he can play the "Adoption Card" with a few tears in order to avoid getting a detention or suspension or community service.
But I don't want to break his spirit.... Listen. You have my permission to break whatever you need to break in order to show him that bad behavior will not be tolerated. Sometimes a will or a spirit need to be broken in order for a new one, an improved one, to be re-built.
And re-build we will. Bricks of tears and prayers and love, mortar of therapy and meds, brick-layers of parents, grandparents, teachers, and forgiving classmates. And each time he self-destructs and crashes our efforts, we will build again. And when he finds himself in trouble for his actions and things look their worst, we will build again. And when I screw up as a parent and lash out because I just can't figure out what to do with him next, we will build again. We will keep building until the structure stands.
In the meantime, accept our sincerest apologies and our grateful thank yous. We are trying. (T-shirts will be available shortly.)

What I Wouldn't Give

2015-04-22T17:37:00.002-04:00

What I wouldn't give.....

How often do you find yourself saying those exact words, followed by some far-fetched dream or wish that, if answered, would literally make your life?
I say these words often. Some call this discontentment. I call this sanity. I am sorry, but doing dishes and wiping butts all day just isn't glamorous enough for this lady! I mean, honestly, as much as I love taking care of my super-old house and running my kids to their appointments and nagging everyone in my life to death about everything, I allow myself to have dreams of What I Wouldn't Gives. And sometimes those dreams get me through the monotonous days of motherhood. Here's a list of my Top 20. Shall we see how many we have in common?

What I wouldn't give.....

1) To be thin. (Ding Ding!! Thank you, and goodnight.) There's obviously no one else who has ever uttered these words. Never after Thanksgiving. Never in the changing room as you stared down that swim suit on it's itty bitty hanger. Never as you held your breath while standing on the scale, hoping that the air in your lungs would somehow help you float and give you a smaller number.

2) To be able to read an entire book in a week. I used to love to read. The sad thing is, I probably still do. But I'll never be certain of this, because I live with small people. They are the holders of the time cards. They are the keepers of the books. And there is literally no time to test this theory.

3) To shower. I mean really shower. Shave, exfoliate, deep condition, soak, face mask. The Works. At this point, I'd settle for a quick Febreeze and a head-band.

4) To not be tired. Seriously. There are so many hours in a day and yet they seem to slip through my fumbling fingers week after week after week. I don't know where these hours go, especially the ones that happen while I'm "sleeping".... but I think the Sand Man and Father Time are in cahoots on this one.

5) To go on vacation. Who's with me? (I'm taking legitimate offers, here!) I will fly first class, business class, coach, or with the luggage.... I'll go by plane, train, car, or camel.... just get me to the beach, please!

6) To not have chin hairs. (Oooo, it's getting real up in here.) Yes. I'm starting my own beard collection. To date, my beard hairs come in black, red, blonde, and gray. Congratulations to me. I'm considering pulling a Hilary Duff and dying them aqua or lavender, help me and my beard fit in with today's youth. But the best part is, I can pluck until the cows come home and STILL get into my car, look in the flip mirror, and see at least 20 more little rascals that were waiting until they were in natural sunlight to show their ugly little faces. Next step? Hedge trimmers. Final step? Circus.

7) To have 7 brand new seasons of the Gilmore Girls. When I'm knee deep in piles of laundry, I fantasize about Luke and Lorelai pro-creating, Rory finding the man of her dreams, and Sookie having 30 more kids. I long for quick-witted, small-town characters to sweep me into their world, far away from my piles of socks and underwear. Someone get on that, would ya? Thanks.

8) To have a normal poop life. Yes. You read that correctly. After years of IBS, I would give anything to poop like a girl instead of like a trucker who's just eaten at Muffy's Burrito Stand.

9) To be allergy-free. Sneezy, Runny, Itchy, Coughy, Rashy, Wheezy, and Plugged. I am the new and worse-for-wear 7 Dwarfs, all rolled into one. Bring on the hay fever and pollen, Mother Nature! Come get me, dust mites and mold! Allergy shots to the rescue!

10) To be able to teleport myself away from my children when they fight. As fun as it is to hear the whining and the crying and the screaming, I think I'd rather just leave. Immediately. Until they're 20 and living independently.

11) To eat ice cream at the end of every meal. I don't think this is all that unreasonable. Especially if I could have my first wish come true in conjunction with this one. I would eat far less ice cream if I knew that I would get it again in a few short hours. In fact, this would probably help me lose weight, right?

12) To have someone clean my house. Now, I like cleaning. This is not the problem. I simply no longer have time for such nonsense as dusting, let alone washing base boards and moving the fridge to scrub the spilled orange juice. I want someone to wipe out my cupboards and flip my mattress and to wash the outsides of my windows -- to do the kind of cleaning that would make Monica Gellar proud.

13) To hire a personal shopper. I would love, love, love someone to take my measurements and magically know what would look amazing on me. This person could spend my pretend money going to any store she wanted and get me full outfits that are functional yet trendy, slimming yet breathable. And this person would become my best friend and I would share my mealtime ice cream with her.

14) To be a real writer. Like, a for real- I get paid for it- someone wants to publish me sort of writer. That way I could do what I love and be able to support my family all at the same time. (And this, folks, is the stuff that dreams are made of.)

15) To move to the beach. This would take care of my need for a vacation and many of my allergy-dwarf selves! Give me a shack, a shed, or a tent.... as long as I have warm breezes and constant sunshine, I'm a happy camper!!

16) To not be pooped on ever again. Today, my pastor and I went to meet with another pastor at his church. The baby came with us. He seemed to be playing nicely with his car, until I saw what looked like orange cement splashing onto the carpet around him. It took me a moment to realize that the ceiling wasn't leaking pureed carrots. My baby was crapping so ferociously that it was shooting out the top of his diaper, torpedo style, and then landing in heaps around him. I used all the wipes. I used all the spare clothes. I used all the plastic baggies. And it was not enough. There was a 6-foot radius of poop and no amount of scrubbing was getting that stuff out of the carpet, my clothes, or his hair. Yes. I would give anything to not have to do this ever again.

17) To go to the movies. Similar to my desire to read a book, there's just no time to go to the movies. Or money. Money and time.... maybe this list would be shorter if those were my only two items?

18) To have all of my family and friends live close to me. Sadly, many of the people that I love the most live all over the country. And there are times that I just want them (need them) to pack their things and move to my small little town and be near me. It's not like it's that hard to call a realtor, right?

19) To have more fun with my husband. (Get your minds out of the gutter, people!) When we weren't ships passing in the night, we used to laugh. There was time to unwind to the point that you could notice the funny things instead of bustling past them to get to the next chore or appointment. It was uninhibited, flirty, carefree laughter. What I wouldn't give.

20) To be a perfect parent raising perfect children. I want so badly to do everything right. However, this literally never happens. I do an awful lot of yelling and I make threats that I don't follow through with (mainly because they're outrageous and ridiculous threats in the first place, i.e. "I will quite literally BUY a bulldozer so that I can dig a hole deep enough to put all the crap you've hidden under your bed in.... and then I will bury it and build a 6-foot monument of my face to place on top of the pile to forever remind you that it's best to clean your room the first 30 times I say it!!!"). And I often focus on the little things, easily forgetting the big picture moments. But since my children are maniacal, dirty, pooping, weirdos (whom I love with every fiber of my being), our imperfections are often the highlights of our neighbor's dinner parties.... especially when they look out their dining room windows to see a muttering woman digging holes in the back yard with a large shovel (because obviously I could never afford a bulldozer).

Those are my Top 20 What I Wouldn't Gives. What are some of yours?

Jelly Beans And The Cross

2015-04-03T13:37:00.002-04:00

The Easter season is upon us, and whereas I normally don't dedicate posts to current events or specific holidays (I like to be one-note like that), I found that this particular holiday has collided quite dramatically with my Mommyhood experience. Perhaps some of you out there will even be able to relate.

When Cameron and Taylor came to live with us (we just celebrated out 3-year mark last week, can you believe it?), they knew very little about God, Jesus, church, or even what a Bible is. Needless to say, Sundays were just another day to sleep in, Christmas was about Santa, and Easter was about the cavity-inducing Easter Bunny. It's been a slow process, but my family and I have done our best to incorporate the meaning of Christ not just into our holidays, but into our daily lives.

Despite our best efforts, we often find that the children have developed some sort of holiday-related amnesia causing them to lose sight of the reasons we celebrate religious holidays throughout the year. This week it became very clear that my children as still suffering from this tragic disease.

On Monday, Taylor and Cameron were both sitting at the kitchen table. Taylor was coloring and Cameron was criticizing her coloring. I told him to find a better hobby, but he seemed to be enjoying his current activity a bit too much. Taylor looked up from the page she was on and said to me, "Mom? I'm trying to make an Easter drawing and I can't think of anything to put on the page.."

"Well, what do you have already?" I answered.

"I drew a bunny and some eggs and a lot of candy, but I just can't think of anything else to draw...."

"Those things are great, Tay, but why don't you draw a cross and a picture of Jesus?"

She wrinkled her nose at me and shrugged her shoulders. "Why would I draw those things?"

My mind flashed back to the previous year when I took the children to a Good Friday dramatization of Jesus' trial and crucifixion. Both kids had been moved to tears and Taylor especially found the event to be very personal. She spent months talking about what she had seen and would often express gratitude to God for sending Jesus to die for our sins.

So, I tried to prompt the conversation a bit more. "Taylor, do you remember why we celebrate Easter?"

"Yeah, because of the Easter Bunny."

For the record, I am not slamming the rabbit in any way, but he/she has literally never been part of our Easter celebration! I decided to push a little farther.

"Taylor, what's the real reason that we celebrate Easter? It's the day that Jesus..... what?"

"Was born?"

"No, that's Christmas. It's the day that Jesus rose from the dead. Remember? He died on Good Friday for our sins and then He rose from the dead on Easter Sunday. We celebrate salvation this holiday, not just the excitement of baskets and candy."

She all of a sudden looked very concerned. "Oh yeah. I forgot. I hate this holiday."

Cameron took this moment to chime in. "Yeah, I hate it, too.... except for the egg hunt."

Thoughts began smacking me in the brain at full speed. I'm a terrible mother for not reminding my children of the true meaning of Easter all year long. My kids just said they hate Easter, what the heck do I do now? Who HATES Easter?? Me and this bunny are gonna have some words....

"Ok, guys. Seriously. I have to know. Why do you both hate Easter??"

Taylor was the one to respond. "Mom, it's just too sad. I don't like to think about Jesus dying all the time. Especially because it's my fault that he had to die anyway. I just want to think about the happy bunny instead."

An all-too-familiar ping went off in my heart just then. Because how often do we do the same thing? When something painful occurs in life, isn't it just easier to ignore it and focus on a fluffy, shallow, insignificant replacement instead? Why watch a documentary on martyrdom when you can rent a Will Ferrell movie? Why work on self-improvement when you can ignore your flaws and go play? Why remember Christ's sacrifice for your sins and your need for a Savior when you can eat candy and pretend that his death didn't happen?

Don't get me wrong.... I love Will Ferrell. And playing. And jelly beans, for crying out loud! I believe that God gave us so many ways to enjoy life that he wants us to laugh and have fun and not walk around carrying our own crosses, per say, day in and day out. But there is such truth in facing the reality that we are sinful. Even at an early age, recognizing that we have not, will not, and CANNOT save ourselves is so powerful. We don't celebrate Easter to be sad about Christ's death or the fact that He came to such a painful end on this earth because of our wrong-doings....

We celebrate Easter to remember that our salvation wasn't cheap, it wasn't easy. Our salvation was bought with blood and tears and most importantly, with love. To leave out the tragedy of Christ's death is to ignore the beauty of His resurrection and the amazing grace that he washed us with.

In my own life, I sometimes like to look for the Easter Bunny. There are moments when there is just too much sadness. Too much pain. It's nice to be distracted by the less significant things of life. But in the end, I only know joy because I have allowed myself to face the pain. Without acknowledging the lows of this life, I would never fully appreciate the blessings and the love and the precious things that have been given to an undeserving Me.

It's a fine line to walk. But I do hope that as you spend this holiday season with your children, that you don't try to water-down or sugar-coat the Gospel for them. Use wisdom, of course! (The last thing I want are angry posts of children with nightmares or developing PTSD due to my recommendations!!) However, remind your little ones that we are all the reason that Christ died. That we are all the reason that He rose. And that we can offer this precious story of redemptive love to all those that we meet.

And give them jelly beans. Lots and lots of jelly beans.

Sing On

2015-03-24T11:53:00.000-04:00

In the book of Genesis, chapter 1, the Bible says that God created the Heavens and the Earth and that the Earth was covered with seas and oceans and that theses seas and oceans were formed by the collection of tears harvested by all the babies that were still to come. The tears of needed naptimes, the tears of naptimes being fought. The tears of hunger, and the tears of still being hungry due to having thrown your grapes on the floor for the 12th time in 2 minutes. The tears of needing a clean diaper,and the tears of that new diaper being put on. The tears of missing Mommy and then, upon getting Mommy, realizing that it was, in fact, Daddy who was the one being missed, adding to the seas and oceans of tears that were spoken of in The Beginning. **
Today, and the entire last week, my child has been adding to the seas and oceans with flood-worthy tears. We are ALL losing our minds. Captain Cranky-Pants is unleashing his emotional fury during homework time and meal time and bed time and all the times in between, making it impossible to focus on another task and creating a great deal of tension as we attempt to talk over the wailing.
Honest Moment approaching: Yes. I have screamed this week. Into my pillow, out of my pillow, and directly at my baby. Shut up! Just..... oh my gosh, SHUT UP!!! Thankfully, my little man thinks this is hysterical and doesn't seem to be scarred too deeply by my momentary disdain. Nevertheless, my screaming because of his screaming leaves me feeling deflated and weak and tearful myself.
On the flip side, I have found that singing through his tears puts me and my other children in a much more pleasant state of mind. Not that it changes the screaming being done by the wee one (of course not), but it does improve my own demeanor considerably. For example, this morning, Wyatt took the opportunity to ferociously wail and attempt to climb my legs the entire time I was getting ready for our afternoon of running errands. After jabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand and burning myself with the curling iron, I kinda wanted to exile him to his crib (and then exile his crib to Antarctica!). Instead, I chose to sing a song, more for myself than for him, in an attempt to fend off the crazed panic that was threatening to overtake me. To the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat, I sang:
Drive, Drive, Drive your car, to the grocery store. Buy some ice cream, eat it all, and then go back for more.
I sang it at least 10 times before I supplemented a few variations of what I would buy at the store, adding some musical runs and vibrato to the mix, and trying my vocal chords at Twinkle Twinkle. Keep in mind, the baby was still screaming, but I was not. The singing did nothing to change my circumstance but did everything to change my ability to deal with it.
A similar occurrence happened yesterday on our way to swim lessons. Wyatt was exhausted and ready for a short nap, but he just did not want to give it up and rest in the car. My normally travel-happy camper had a whiney case of the "Hold Me's" and was unwilling to sleep until he got his cuddles in. The kids were in the back and grumbling with one another, not that I could hear the specifics over the crying baby. I was almost to my breaking point and ready to holler when I chose to turn on the radio to K-Love. Fighting the tears that threatened to spill down my own cheeks, I let the music wash over me. My voice sang even when my heart didn't want to as I began to focus my attention less on what was going on behind me and more on what was going on inside of me. At some point during our journey, the baby gave in to rest and the bigger kids had traded in their bickering for unison as they sang along with the tunes echoing through the van.
This reminded me of an actual Scripture verse in Psalms 59. Verses 16 and 17 read like this:
But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble. O my Strength, I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.
Singing through the tears has been a tried and true theme throughout centuries of crying babies, lost jobs, devastating diagnoses, and failed relationships. There are definitive moments in life that scream for our attention and wail to be picked up. They tug and pull and distract and cause us to stab ourselves in the eye with a proverbial mascara wand.
Sometimes, these moments warrant our attention. And sometimes these moments are nothing more than weighted neck-ties trying to pull us down into a sea of tears as we fight and scream and forget that we have a Strength and a Fortress that has called us to sing through our current circumstance.
There is a popular phrase among Christians that says, "If He brings you to it, He'll bring you through it". Another Honest Moment approaching: I'm just not a huge fan of that phrase. Now, before you scream blasphemy and call for a lynching, let's remember that this common phrase is found no where in the actual Bible (nor is it in the good book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind). In fact, I believe that God brings us to situations, not for us to sit there white-knuckling our faith with clenched teeth and closed eyes, wishing and praying and hoping for the moment to come when God will rush in and chase away the clouds, restoring our previously sunny life.
I believe that God calls us to a much more active role in times of tears. Just as the slaves chose to write songs to tell their stories and lift their spirits in the midst of great suffering, God also calls us to sing through the tears. Each battle is an opportunity to tell your story through song. Each tear is filled with words and feelings and melodies just waiting to be unleashed. God brings us to these moments not to passively wait for a savior to come but, instead, to sing your heart out in the midst of it all. Maybe God isn't looking for us to beg and plead for a change in our circumstances as much as He's challenging us to find a way to praise Him for the opportunity to tell our story in the middle of the circumstance.
When Wyatt cries incessantly, I sing nonsensical songs to silly tunes. He continues to cry, but my mood improves exponentially. I am able to smile while I pull my hair out, in a sense! When Cameron and Taylor are flipping their lids at one another and battling their own demons that they came to us with, I can put on K-Love. They may continue to squawk, but a silent story is being told as they see me praising through it instead of screaming the infamous Shut up!!! at them. And when another Mama comes to me in tears because she's lost a child and is facing heartache of the worst kind, I can sing along with her a mournful, holy roar of solidarity because I, too, have felt that very heartache.
Our stories are in our songs and our songs are in the tears. It is your song that will be the story to heal hearts and elicit praise in the middle of it all. Even if the tears continue and the circumstances don't change, Sing On, Sisters.

**The book of Genesis, paraphrased in the book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind

Scrub-A-Tub-Dub

2015-03-19T12:22:00.002-04:00

Earlier this week I posted a very, very serious question regarding bathtubs. I wanted answers. Legitimate answers from honest moms willing to make me feel less guilty about my own flaws. The question was this: Exactly how long is it socially and hygenically acceptable to go without scrubbing your bathtub?
I was secretly hoping and praying with fervent pleas that at least 100 ladies would tell me that it was OK to never wash my tub. Ever. These ladies would become my people and I would become theirs. We would be one against the world of anal-retentive tub-scrubbers we've heard tell of. And following up those faithful hundred, maybe there would be a handful (a large handful) of people who would've told me that yearly tub-scrubs would suffice. Those people would receive an affectionate Christmas card from me and my ladies, along with a condolence card to help them through their Dark Day of scrubbing. And then there would hopefully be even another handful (small.... Very small) of women willing to put me in my place and tell me that I have to clean at least twice yearly.
People, I wasn't thrilled with the response. SOMEONE made me realize that I am failing and that it can no longer be ignored. I am a dirty, dirty woman and probably destined to an eternity cleaning Heaven's bathtubs. But then I realized something.... I think that, A) my ladies have yet to find the courage to out themselves as unclean, or B) it's because I didn't set the stage adequately enough in my original Facebook post. So allow me to digress....
I originally failed to mention that I have chronic back pain (whine) and that I have a 10-month-old baby who lets me accomplish literally NOTHING during my day (sob). But most importantly, cleaning the bathtub is the worst. The absolute pits! It's stupid and gross and I'll hate it always and forever. After all, if it were just my germs, I probably wouldn't even bother washing it ever... until I saw mold. Then maybe I'd put on my big girl panties and bite the bullet... but only for mold. As for soap scum, I find this oxymoron to be utterly ridiculous. Soap's job is literally to wash away scum. So the utter idea that the two could marry and form an evil film around my shower is nonsense. I choose to ignore said film and pretend that it's just a line of memories from dirty days gone by.
As for the rest of my family:
My husband and all his manly dirtiness bathes in our downstairs shower. All wood chips, mud, and fireplace smoke have been banned from the rest of the house entirely, so the amount of grime build-up for our family has been reduced by at least 50% right there.
Then there is Cameron. Honestly, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even bathe. I mean, I send him up to the bathroom and all, and he comes back wet most of the time, but because he still has mud coating his skin, I don't think he actually does anything other than stand in the water. He may even just shove his head under the faucet for a few seconds before he resumes playing with his toy cars on the bathroom floor until the appropriate amount of shower time has passed.
Taylor is the size of a watermelon. How much soap scum could possibly be created by a watermelon??
And Isaac, well, his version of taking a bath includes swishing and flopping and shimmying all over the tub... kind of like a human sponge, some may say. So in essence, the very nature of him bathing is the equivalent of me using a midget-sized sponge covered in Johnson & Johnson all over my shower. That should at least buy me a month of tub scrubs right there!
Wyatt pooped once in the bath. I blame all tub grime on his teeny-tiny bottom.
And finally, there's myself. In the off-chance that I get the time to shower, I spend equal time washing myself and scrubbing questionable looking patches off the tiles. I use Cameron's wash cloth (because I know he isn't using it anyway). After all, the tub's already wet, there's soap suds floating around, and I can rinse off quickly when the scrubbing-exertion makes me sweaty.
So now you have all the facts. And knowing these facts, I ask the question again. Just how long can I go without officially scrubbing my tub? Come on, ladies, I'm looking for my faithful hundred!! ;)

Birthday Week

2015-03-09T20:33:00.001-04:00

It is Birthday Week in the Costa household!!! Note the exclamation points? That's because we are not celebrating any holidays nor are we hosting any children's parties. It is Birthday Week for just us big people, therefore we don't have to do ANYTHING we don't want to do (uh-hem baking cakes, cleaning the house "guest-style", blowing up balloons until we're dizzy, wrapping presents, or dealing with fall outs from disappointments and emotional "it's over"s). We will eat the good food and watch the good T.V. and NOT clean ANYTHING because we won't be inviting over the people who care if our house is guest-style clean, our-style clean, or just plain dirty! The benefit of adult birthdays is that we can do virtually nothing and it feel like all the somethings that we longed for as kids. It's wonderful and fabulous and perfect. This, my friends, is how we celebrate Birthday Week.
But not this year. Apparently we've grown tired of celebrating the in wonderful, fabulous, perfect sort of way of which we are accustomed. Because this year, we are going away.
I know. Hold the phone, right?
We are actually leaving our dogs and leaving our kids and leaving our dirty house to go away. Could it be that perfect just got more perfect?? Folks, not only do I not have to clean for my Birthday Week, but I don't have to stay here and look at the filth either! It's so exciting that there may even be some tears shed as we walk out the door and prepare to spend 36 hours away from it all.
However, as with most things, there is a catch. And it's name is Packing. You know what I never have to do for Birthday Week when we stay home? Pack. Even the word itself just sounds to harsh. Pack. P-ack. Ugh, why can't there be people in my life that will know what to pack for me and just come over and do it while I'm asleep? People that will plan for the unexpected, know which pants will cover my muffin top, and anticipate just which top will make me feel sensational and yet sexily understated at the same time. People that will drag the suitcase from the back of my closet and fold all the things so neatly and wrap my leakables in leak-proof containers and load my heavily-laden suitcase into the back of the car for me..... I need better friends, that's all I'm sayin'.
My husband fails to see p-acking as an issue. Probably because his list includes these three things:
Phone charger, clean underwear, contact solution.
Anytime we go ANYWHERE he acts like packing is just no big deal, and he proceeds to grab his few items and then make a sandwich while I run around like a mad woman, scrambling to get all the "what if" items accounted for, make the list of all things needed for my in-laws to care for our dogs and kids, make sure we've got enough money in the correct account for any unexpected purchases, etc., etc., etc.
So, to make my life so much easier, I made a list of things that I absolutely must bring and I will simply wing the rest, just like the husband. Here is my list so far:

1) Breast pump- even if I leave everything else, this is a must! There will be no relaxing or fun times to be had if I'm engorged and drenching the front of my shirt while in public. No one will know if I forget clean underwear, but everyone will know if I forget my pump!
2) Mini cooler- to store the pumped milk. Wyatt has grown used to milk sans chunks.
3) Extra breast pads- no sense risking it. They weigh like half an ounce and are worth their weight in gold.
4) Condoms- oh my gosh, and birth control! I'm pretty sure Husband has birthday wishes that involve more than making good use of the hotel's gym accommodations, and we need another munchkin running around like we need a kick in the head.
5) Caffeine- While the kids are away, the parents will play. But only until 8 p.m. if we forget to pack the caffeinated things.
6) The real bra- no one wants the nursing bra uni-boob on date night. No one. It's time to suffer through and put on something with an underwire and some support. Hike 'em up, tie 'em up, whatever gets 'em UP and where they should be instead of keeping my abs warm where they usually reside. (Well, keeping the place where there used to be abs warm, anyway.)
7) And while we're at it, let's pack some good underwear- (but also throw in a secret pair of granny panties for the actual sleeping part of the trip.... no one wants to sleep in the pretty stuff because it shifts around and creeps up and up and up and, well, it really ain't pretty any more at that point).
8) Shoes with a heel- gasp!
9) Skinny jeans- (or at least skinnier jeans) basically anything that makes me look like I did before all these little people is acceptable, skinny or not.
10) Earrings- I haven't worn them for 2 1/2 years due to grabby hands and a few torn ear lobes. But for Birthday Week I will make an exception.
11) Toiletries- all the things that it takes to make me look human.
12) Medicines- all the things that it takes to make me feel human.
13) And finally, The List......

You couples know The List. Every time you manage to leave the house kid-free, what's the first thing you talk about? The kids. But not us! We are NOT talking about the kids at all during our time away, and to make sure we stick to our plan, I am creating a list of go-to topics that are sure to spark meaningful conversations, flirtations, and emotional intimacy. Things like......
The Holocaust....
Gas Prices.....
Favorite Colors.....
The Weather.
Well, hopefully I'll win him over with my skinnier jeans and flashy earrings. If all else fails, we'll just make out in the corner booth and hope my breast pads hold out. Happy Birthday, Baby.

Working Mama: Superhero In Disguise

2015-03-04T15:43:00.000-05:00

Dear sweet Jesus, help me.

This week was the week. It was inevitable and I'd put it off as long as I could, but after 10 months, it was time to return to the "working" world. (Let the record show that the "working" world is the one in which I will get paid for my efforts, as opposed to the world I've been living in that has consisted of 24/7 labor-intensive and mind-numbing tasks for which I have yet to be compensated.... and no, hugs do not count as compensation when you've changed 5 sets of urine-soaked sheets in a week.)

Pre-pregnancy job outlook: I have the skills needed to do my job, not only adequately, but remarkably. My documentation is near flawless, my people skills are superb, I spend countless hours outside of the workforce practicing new skills and researching updated theories and techniques, and I am organized to a fault. Working keeps me sane and sanity keeps me working.

During pregnancy job outlook: I have some skills, but I sometimes puke in front of my clients and have to use toilets that I would otherwise slit my wrist before using. I can do my job pretty well, when I'm not cringing with Braxton-Hicks contractions or fumbling in my purse for a much-needed snack.... how old are those Tic Tac's, I wonder? I spend some time thinking about my clients before I crash for the night, but I usually fall asleep before I can get through the newest psychology articles. I sometimes can't tie my shoes and my socks don't have to match, but I'm managing to keep my cases organized.... I think. Working keeps me sanish and the need for money keeps me working.

Post-pregnancy with a 9-month-old, a toddler, and two nutty big kids job outlook: I have the skills to.... Wait, where the crap is my briefcase?!?! I can't even tell is that's dog poop, baby poop, or spit up on my one and only pair of fitting dress pants.... it kind of smells like all three.... I don't have time to wash them so I guess I'll Febreeze them and move on. Anyways, what was I saying again? Skills. Yes! Ok. I have some skills.... somewhere. They're either in the diaper bag or the lunch box.... Skills, not Skittles.... shoot. Um, I think I still know how to talk to people, but I've been told I lose my train of thought, but who knows, I can't remember. I spend countless hours trying to get everyone ready and out of the house for me to complete a two hour training, some of which I even retained. (Pat on back.) I have no idea where anything is or how I could ever possibly help another human being.... Ever again. Working causes insanity and money is working for nothing and sanity and....um.... crap.

DO YOU SEE MY PROBLEM??? How in the world am I going to DO this, people? It took me longer to get me and munchkin ready to leave the house than it did to attend my first training, you guys. And then I had to go grocery shopping, pick the baby up, get the kids off the bus, help them with homework (another Dear sweet Jesus moment brought to you by the letter T and the word TAYLOR), get dinner made, lunches packed, the house kinda "cleaned", online paperwork completed for the new job, laundry put away, kids readied and put to bed, baby fed, dogs taken care of ,and finally, at 10:45 pm I was allowed to go to sleep. I was so busy I didn't even have time to cry over the panic I experienced leaving my little man for the first day! (Two hours... that's how long I worked... two. freaking. hours.)
I remember a time when going to work was seriously my only obligation. And I loved it. Now it seems like work is that crappy errand I have to run that interrupts the real things I'm supposed to get done, like taking care of EVERYONE. Never did I feel that I encountered something in my career that was impossible to overcome.... I was certain that there was a solution and that my 100% effort would payoff.
But as a mother, I rarely feel that kind of confidence, and that's with giving it 1,000,000% effort!! It seems that no matter how hard I try, I'll probably not succeed, but that it won't matter too much because there's not enough time in a day to focus on each little failure before the next one is there to present itself with a new way to screw up. Who knows, maybe going to work will reboost my confidence, reminding me that I.Can.Do.Some.Things! But in a schedule that already felt overwhelming between therapy sessions, swim lessons, gymnastics classes, and church or school obligations, where is a gal supposed to allow time to go to work? I suppose my luxurious 3-5 hours of sleep per night could be cut back.... but I don't know that I should drive under those circumstances.
I, for one, am looking forward to seeing how all this unfolds. (Well, looking forward to it or not, it's gonna unfold, people... be sure to stand at least 6 feet from me at all times, just in case my brain explodes from all the "unfolding".) After all, there are all these other heroic women out there, earning the bacon and cooking it too, so why can't I? (Because my brain is mushy? Because I only have one pair of pants? Because I never did find that brief case? Because I found crusty boogers in my hair upon returning home from the first day of training.... and I don't know how long they had been there???)
So, what do I need from you, Mamas? TIPS! Help me, please! Tell me what you have found that works for you. How do you manage time? Family? A changing schedule? Homework? How do you just not drop all the balls and sit on the floor and cry??? Okay.... Go!

Perspective - Feeling The Hard Feelings

2015-02-24T18:03:00.002-05:00

Tonight my husband took the kids. I think he knew that I needed a break. I think he knew this because when he came home last night, I handed him the crying baby and yelled, "I NEED A BREAK!" A clever man, my husband.
In the first thirty minutes of my freedom, I ran around and flitted from chore to chore. I washed the lid to the garbage can. I cleaned a spot on the carpet. I dusted the stairs. Feeling rather unfulfilled, I quickly gave up on my "cleaning spree". I had put off the sad things long enough. It was time to work on the music for my grandpa's memorial service. Rather, it was time to finally take the quiet moments alone I've needed for over a week to grieve his passing. That's the thing with having children. There's usually not time to do the healthy things, like grieve. Or exercise. Or sleep.
It struck me as odd that I had to schedule in my tears. But then again, I have to schedule in bathroom breaks and boom boom time with Hubby, so I suppose scheduling in tears is inevitable. So, I sat at my piano, staring blankly at the words I'm supposed to sing, the notes I'm supposed to play. I allowed sadness to sit next to me as we sang a mournful duet. I felt the hard feelings and then left them on the piano keys.
Allowing myself to feel things for more than a few minutes always brings my heart back to Isaac. Sometimes it seems that all things bring my heart back to my little boy. And when I look at my wall of pictures, I feel all the hard feelings all over again. Every day. And it makes me think to myself, Will there ever be a day when I don't have to be so brave, when loss isn't part of my every breath?
I was talking to my mom on the phone earlier this afternoon. We were talking about the memorial service and how my aunt was traveling all the way from Florida to be there to remember her father. My mom was telling me how excited my aunt is to see her daughter. In fact, my aunt said that she missed her daughter so much that she actually craved the times her daughter woke her up in the middle of the night, just to talk.
At this, I guffawed out loud. Because in my life right now, sleep is more precious than food, and it's darn near close to water! If someone wakes me up, there better be severed limbs and blood. In fact, my big kids know better than to knock on my door in the middle of the night unless things are coming out of them. That's why I go straight for the bucket and mop each time I hear the faint tap! tap! on my door. If it's not puke, pee, or blood, it'll wait until the sun is up above the trees. Sure, I'll listen to your dream.... if you can remember it 6 hours from now. And feel free to tell me that the train woke you up last night. As long as you're not waking me up to tell me. And God help the child that shuts the bathroom door too loudly at 2 a.m. and wakes up a baby! (Or if your husband farts a fart that feels like an earthquake and wakes the baby through two closed doors..... Seriously, change your diet or move out. I don't care which, but ain't nobody got time for that!)
After hearing my hearty laughter, my mom went on to explain that it was all about perspective. She said that as children grow and get closer to leaving the nest, a mother's perspective changes. She's long past the days of midnight feedings and changing wet sheets. She's almost hoping that her babies still need her enough, want her enough, to knock on her door in the dark hours. Sleep is no longer the biggest need, as it is replaced by the need to still be needed.
I thought about this perspective change long after our conversation had ended. I thought about it as I stared at my wall of pictures and as I snuggled my sad self up against Isaac's pillow. Will there ever be a day when I don't feel this pain in my heart? Probably not. I can't imagine ever going a day without missing the loved ones I've lost. But perhaps, in this too, there will be a change in perspective some day. Maybe just as a mother's need for sleep changes, perhaps my need to have my little boy in my arms will change. Not go away. Never go away. But change. Somehow.
In losing my grandpa, I'm able to see the end. He needed to pass on, to leave his illness behind and to meet up with his true love in heaven. It's a loss that I can feel painfully, but one that I can understand. However, Isaac's loss is still a mystery and is, therefore, still so hard to accept. I don't see the end. I don't know the whys and the why nots. My perspective is still so limited - so circumstantial.
One day.... one day I'll know the answers and see the end. It'll all make sense and I'll be able to breathe a big breath that doesn't require an ounce of courage. Until then, I plan to keep feeling the hard feelings. After all, I'm not the only one. God feels them, Hubby feels them, my family feels them, my friends feel them, and you other Mamas and Dads out there feel them. We all have loss and need to be brave. Thank you for feeling with me and reminding me that I'm not alone.

Murphy's Law

2015-02-11T20:56:00.003-05:00

It's been a Murphy's Law kind of day. Quite literally, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. I should've recognized the day for what it was early on when I awoke with a twitch above my eye and a pounding headache. That should have tipped me off. Maybe it's my eternally optimistic outlook that kept me holding out hope that the day was still salvagable (giggling with sarcastic derision over here).
Senor Cranky-Pants began his pitiful whimpers early this morning. Although fine while I was holding him or giving him my undivided attention, the little bugger felt it best to use his independent time devoted to the fine art of screeching. He did this all morning, all afternoon, and all evening... that is, until my husband came home. Then the mischievous diaper-wearer put on his sweetest face and cutest grin to lure Daddy in, making him think that Mommy had made it all up. And that's fine.... just fine. I'll give him peas for dinner. That'll show him.
For those of you that follow me on Facebook, you got the gist of my day (again, I apologize for my rantings). But for the rest of you, allow me to elaborate. It was a day of errands. My son is having a sleep-over on Friday.... that means I will have starving 8-10 year-old-boys running around my house, scavenging for chips and pop and birthday cake.... birthday cake that is John Deere themed.... that I have to figure out how to make in my non-pinterest fashion. Therefore, I needed supplies and lots of them! I was also in desperate need of an oil change (or so the screen on my van kept screaming at me each time I put the vehicle into park), and I have been using old make-up that was giving me an orange glow (foretelling of the afternoon's hair drama, to be sure) so I wanted to make a quick stop at Rite Aid to get new foundation. Easy peasy.
Because I am sleep-deprived and utterly brainless, naturally, I locked my keys in the van during our very first stop. The sweet elderly woman watched patiently as I went through the phases of panic and realization while I stood in line at the cash register, ripping my purse apart in search of the missing keys. In the meantime, my baby sat on the rug in front of me, trying to shop-lift every candy bar in arm's reach. I put his lootings back and we sprinted to the van. Sure enough, there were my keys, sitting neatly in my cup holder. I had obviously taken the time to remove them from the ignition and then must have decided that they were too heavy? Too jingly? Too bulky? Why I placed them in the cup holder, I will never know. But there they sat.
I snuggled my little one against the cold as we made our way back into Rite Aid to formulate a plan. Thankfully, my father-in-law was able to save us by bringing me Pat's spare keys from our home. That left us stranded for less than an hour and without having to pay a hefty locksmith's fee. So, we took the opportunity to browse the over-priced shelves of the store (and spend more money than we'd intended). Luckily, we ran into one of my old clients. Not only was I able to expose my small child to the poor man's halitosis, he was also given the opportunity to be fondled by tobacco-stained hands. Wyatt didn't seem to mind, though. (I think he was just excited to see someone with even fewer teeth than himself.)
It was after this rather germy encounter that I decided a bathroom break was in order. I pushed little Wyatt in the cart to the restroom, only to find that the cart wouldn't fit through the doorway. Hmmmm. I assessed the Ladie's room and found no baby seat, nor was there a changing table to strap him to. Crap. (Literally, there was crap on the floor.) The only thing left to do was to hold him while I peed. Shoving my scarf, purse, and purchases into basin of the pedestal sink, I proceeded to single-handedly line the toilet with paper and undo my pants. Feeling proud of my accomplishments thus far, I did my deed and went to reach for the paper. It then hit me that the rest of what needed to take place was darn near impossible with just one hand. Wyatt, deciding to take some time practicing another fine art known as smacking me in the face, made this balancing act all the more precarious. I wiped (sort of) and pulled up my pants (mostly). But the button proved to be too much for me. I was just gonna have to leave my pants undone until I got back to the shopping cart outside. I was also going to have to douse me and the little one with hand-sanitizer because I wasn't even about to drench us both with a hand-washing fiasco.
Luckily, there was another woman outside the door waiting to use the restroom, so my undone pants didn't have to go unnoticed.
My father-in-law arrived and the day was saved (except you and I both know that's not true of a Murphy's Law kind of day). Nevertheless, we were off to the dealership. Baby and I were nestled into a comfy waiting room chair, just getting engrossed in a rousing game of Candy Crush, a much-needed break from this hectic day. And that's when I heard the familiar grunts and smelled the familiar aroma. I looked at Wyatt and he looked at me. He grunted again. I felt suddenly warm.
Sweet Jesus. The diaper bag!
Obviously, I had left the bag in the van because who knew that my baby was going to explode in the 20 minutes it was going to take to change my oil?? I ran quickly through the garage, frantically looking for my van. Of course, it was the one up in the air on the lift. I explained the situation to the young kid backing away from my smelly baby and he more than readily agreed to fetch my bag for us. I hustled back to the service lounge and straight to the bathroom.... where there was no changing table to be found.
Seriously?!?
The warm, wetness was creeping up my little guy's back as he cooed happily, seeming to enjoy my frantic dilemma. As I barged back into the lounge, an employee asked if there was something he could do to help me. Was there? I don't even know.... did he have a shower or a washing machine, perhaps? No. But he did offer to clear out the employee lounge so that I could change Wyatt's diaper on their couch instead of on the dirty bathroom floor.
What a sweet man. Although, I fear he now regrets his offer, as Wyatt has recently found his penis. And, as all boys do, they can't resist the urge to give it a lil squeeze and tug each time it's exposed.... even if it's covered in green poo. I tried to grab his poop-glazed fingers, I really did. But I just couldn't get them in time. He had already finger-painted the back of the couch a lovely shade of olive.
Crap.
I changed his clothes, his diaper, and scrubbed the couch as best I could. All I kept thinking was that I was skipping the rest of the errands and going home. This baby needed his nap and this mama needed some alone time! And that's what we did.
Upon our arrival, I put a sleepy Wyatt into his crib. I needed to unwind and prepare for my job interview the next day. So, noticing my ever-graying temples, I decided that some much-needed primping was in order. I opened up my box of Warm Chocolate colored hair dye and began methodically applying it to my head. And that's just about the time that the screaming began. I carefully removed my stained gloves and clipped my hair back before retrieving Sir ScreamsALot from his crib, plunking him on the bathroom floor with some of his best friends (Alligator, Singing Dog, and Froggy). I reapplied my gloves and got back to the task at hand. That's when I noticed that Wyatt had made a few new friends... he had his hand and face in the potty chair, played with a dead ladybug, and full-on licked the base of the toilet all while I was trying to get those dang gloves back off.
For the love!!!!
Knowing that part of my hair had already had dye on it for at least ten minutes, I recognized the urgent need to quickly apply the dye to the rest of my hair before there was a serious problem! I flushed the bug and removed all movable toilets from Wyatt's reach before reapplying the now sticky gloves to my hands. I had lost track of where I was on my hair-dying journey so just started straight up dumping dye onto my head and massaging it all around, silently cursing the fact that Wyatt learned how to army crawl this week and was currently wriggling around between my feet and pulling himself up on my legs as he screeched.
I didn't mean to step on his fingers, but there was seriously no where to move and hair dye was dripping everywhere! My baby looked at me with large eyes before he took one huge breath and screamed with all his might. I had to blow in his face to get him to breathe while I removed those dang gloves yet again and scooped him up. I sang some songs, ticked some toes, and kissed some fingers. Finally, all was right with the world.
But only for the baby. Because in all the chaos, I realized that I had forgotten to look at the clock. How long had the dye been on my head? Shoot! I had no idea. We rushed back to the bathroom and I hurriedly shoved my head under the bathtub faucet. Wyatt chewed on my big toe and attempted to pull off my sock as I scrubbed my head clean and prayed that I didn't develop any chemical burns. Dripping and exhausted, I surveyed the damage. Hair dye had stained the counter and the sink. My shirt was basically ruined. Wyatt had ingested more foreign germs today than I ever thought possible. And my hair..... oh, my hair.
Even before I dried it, I just knew. Ten minutes later, my fears were confirmed. My scalp was orange... even more orange than my old make-up. But that wasn't the only problem. I had apparently missed an entire section of hair during baby commotion, because what I now have is an orange scalp, followed by very dark brown layers on the right side, light brown layers on the left side, and light brown tips all around the bottom. It's as if Helen Keller herself had done my hair.
I tried moving my part over to the other side, hoping no one would notice. Just then, the kids arrived home from school. Taylor took one look at me and said, "Hey, Mom? Why is your hair really light on that side and really dark black on the other side?"
If the 7-year-old notices it, surely the woman interviewing me tomorrow will, too.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? The directions say that it is imperative to refrain from re-dying one's hair for 24-48 hours. I would just have to smile and wear a fancy hat tomorrow. Or hope that my interviewer is Ray Charles.
So, we did homework, ate dinner, and managed to all stay alive until the husband arrived home. Despite Wyatt's previous chucking of his juice and flinging of his food, he greeted his Daddy with an innocent smile. Husband, seeing my crazy hair and even crazier expression, took the kids away from the house for several hours to let me finish my errands in peace.
I put on my pajamas and then went to the store to get the rest of the birthday party supplies. Why, you may ask, did I put my pajamas on before going to the store? Because I have an orange head, that's why. I can't think of a better day to shop in my pajamas than a day when I have an orange head. Graciously, the kind people of Giant Eagle didn't seem to judge me for my appearance. They must have children, too, I decided.
And you know what else I decided? I decided that I needed to press my face against the cool glass of the bakery window, that's what. Each delectable item seemed to be begging me for a home, so how could I, as an adoptive mother, resist giving a lost creation a home? I just couldn't do it. So, I chose a beautiful little thing to be mine. Picture it.... creamy chocolate fudge, topped with chocolate mousse, topped with whipped cream, topped with shaved chocolate and a cherry, all sweetly tucked into a dark chocolate bowl that was shaped like a large, delicious egg. It was breathtaking. A little piece of Heaven to save me from this Hellish day.
The bakery boy knew it had been a Murphy's Law kind of day. That's why he gave me the spoon. He knew I wasn't going to be able to wait until I got home to eat my special treat. He knew I was going to run through the parking lot like a woman on speed and sit in my cold car in the dimness of the parking lot lights, eating my chocolate egg. And he was right.
I carefully removed the egg from it's to-go tub and savored the first bite. And Friends, I just can't even tell you how amazing it was. There are no words. It was the only way to end this day. The only thing that could possibly right all the wrongs that had happened. With each bite, I could feel myself giving in to the idea that orange is actually an awesome color. I could also feel the chocolate egg shell start melting on my hands......
I tried to savor less and shovel more, attempting to beat the melting-chocolate-clock. I don't know if I squeezed too hard in my attempts to switch hands, but my egg shell cracked. Shattered, is a better word for it. And the remainder of my gooey, creamy, fudgey goodness dumped all over the front of me.
It's not like I was surprised. I should've seen it coming, just like the eye-twitch from that morning warned. So, I did the only thing left to do.
I licked my shirt clean in the parking lot of Giant Eagle.
I could tell you about falling with my groceries in our mudslide of a driveway, and then dropping the bag with my eggs once I finally made it inside. But what's the point? I have an orange head, my baby licked a toilet, and I sucked on my shirt today. Really, what else could go wrong?

A Pinterest Mom, I Am Not

2015-02-06T12:35:00.001-05:00

A Pinterist Mom, I am not. Sometimes this bothers me. When I see pictures of children that have combed hair, for instance, I wish that maybe, just maybe, I put a little more effort into my mothering. My kids notice, too. Just yesterday, my soon-to-be 9-year-old came home elated (yes, elated) and raving over the lunch that I'd packed him. "Mom! Seriously, that stuff you made me was sooo much better than what you usually pack for us!" Oh, you mean when I mixed a can of fish product with mayo and mixed it (haphazardly) then slapped it between two slices of your $0.88 white bread? I didn't even cut these sandwiches in half (nevermind the fancy diagonal way, but I didn't even cut it down the center, THAT'S how little effort I put into this "fantastic" lunch). A kid who likes this sandwich is a kid that's tired of the orange marmalade that was on sale and is still sitting in our fridge.
And Facebook is the absolute worst place to peruse when feeling like a non-crafty, PB and J-packing, patched-clothing parent. This morning, I saw a picture of a stunning solar system created by a girl in Cameron's grade.... hand-crafted and complete with all the planets in their rightful places around the sun. It was beautiful. You wanna know what we turned in this morning? A blue ball. We found it in our yard. We named it Neptune. We taped a string on it so it could be hung up in all it's blue glory. And it was less than stunning... that is why I'm not a Pinterest Mom.
I like to blame my lack of creativity on the 9-month-old that insists on being held, and on the dogs that need to be taken care of, and on the dishes (oh, the never-ending pile of dishes) and laundry (oh, oh, OH the never-ending pile of laundry), and even on the bigger kids' regular homework that takes some children 20 minutes to complete but seems to take mine 10 times that long. (This time is usually filled with tears and tantrums and missing assignments and flashcards and arguing.) I also like to think that the great Unpredictables of life play a HUGE role in my lack of ingenuity.
Like lice. Yes, lice. When your daughter gets lice, even tuna sandwiches get put on the back burner. Or when your dog (or dogs) need to go to the vet repeatedly (and for lots and lots of the dollars you should be using to buy stock in canned fish products). And when your toilets stop flushing because your septic tank is inevitably full when it's -15 degrees outside and you have a house full of guests coming in two days. These Unpredictables get in the way! They stifle my ability to Pinterest in such a real and annoying way!! But in all honesty, even before all these silly excuses (you know, pets and children and husbands and such), I knew deep down that I was never going to be a Pinterest Mom.... I just don't have it in me.
That's why I make cookies from a package. And they're super delicious! (Why do you creative people even bother with homemade baked goods when there are literally bags and bags of deliciousness being sold at your local grocer for $1.59 and all you have to do is add water and an egg? I mean, think of the number of bird houses that could be built and dresses that could be sewn if you stopped baking all these crazy cookies from scratch?) That's also why my kid's birthday present looks like it was wrapped by a 6-year-old. A Pinterest Mom would've known how to gingerly wrap a soccer ball without tearing the paper or going for the obvious gift bag cop out. This is also why half of his presents are wrapped in Happy Birthday paper, whereas the other half are donned with left over Christmas wrap. And why my children have hat hair, even when they haven't worn any hats that day. And why my son saves his shower gel for "special occasions" instead of deciding that every day is a day to be clean.
So, with one final nod of admiration to all of you Pinterest Moms out there, I relinquish my maternal merit badges. You are the rightful wearers of the badges, the amazing beings that deserve the trophies, the impeccably-dressed, hair and make-up ready women that I wish I could be but know I will never become. Thank you for showing my children that there is another way... that they can be more and do more, if they so choose. But for the time being, I'm going to put on my yoga pants, enjoy me some pre-packaged cookies, and hope that Neptune's string stays attached.

Only God Can Fix A Broken Heart

2015-01-26T16:37:00.001-05:00

I think that my heart is broken. It's impossible to know for sure, because I'm finding it hard to feel anything at all. There is probably worry lodged in my aortic crevices somewhere. And fear. Definitely sadness. Presumably anger. But when you can't actually feel, you can only guess what's truly happening inside based on the clues your body gives. While watching t.v., I notice that my face is wet and that my eye make-up has smeared. Apparently I'm able to cry without making a sound or feeling a thing. While driving to the store, I succumb to the sudden urge to scream at the top of my lungs. The urge passes as quickly as it came, leaving me very, very tired. My already short nails are red-lined and scraggly. Smiling seems.... well, what's the point? All my clues point towards a broken heart.
Part of me doesn't want to write any of this at all. A very large part of me, actually. Right now, words are not my friends and I hate the thought of verbalizing things that are so painful. In fact, I would rather write about anything else on the planet.... anything at all. Except there is nothing else in me to write. I can't make it funny and I can't make it happy. My words would fall flat if I tried. And, whereas I would bet that some are tired of my never-ending parenting saga, it is all that I have. My heart hurts and I have to write it. I have to.
For no reason other than he can, Isaac's biological dad decided that our weekend arrangement is too much. He decided that we will now have bi-weekly visits with our little man. Logic, reason, and understanding have yet to change this outcome. I just don't even know what to say.
Friends, how will my heart stand this?? How will I face Saturday mornings without seeing my beaming two-year-old scramble through my front door and into my arms? I just don't know how to do this.... how to do life without getting those coveted 36 hours each week. I still cry when he goes back each Sunday as it is! I still ache when I look back at pictures from our last full week with him in our custody. I crave that little boy day in and day out and now.... now, my happiness is once again being shaken by someone else. And we did absolutely nothing to deserve it. My husband, whose heart breaks even more for this baby than mine (a thought that is difficult to even imagine), does not deserve this. My children, who turn down plans with friends on the weekends in order to be with their little brother, do not deserve this. And most importantly, the little boy that we leave frantic, screaming, and clinging to us each Sunday night..... he doesn't deserve this.
Whatever is going on behind the scenes, and whoever is involved in aiding this negative situation, we may never know. But we are the ones left in the wake of the storm, waiting for the next wave to hit... the final wave that will wash us out to sea, ending our visits for good.
But in my numbness I still have to say this: it was my happiness that was shaken, not my hope. At every turn there has been plan in place, one that I cannot see and cannot predict. Each time a wave hits, we choke and we flounder and we cry (oh, do we ever cry), but we do not drown. We WILL not drown. I will scream it if I have to, but WE WILL NOT DROWN! I have no aces up my sleeve nor magic ball to turn to. But I do have a hope in a God that has brought me through so so very much. And He has never left me to die. He has allowed pain and more crap than I thought I could handle, but He always saves the day. That's why He's the Savior and I'm not.
Tonight I am going to try to feel. I am going to go through those stages of grief for the hundredth time, praying that it will be the last but knowing that the answer to that prayer won't change the fact that I have to do it anyway. I am going to lift up all of my children before the Lord, even when remembering Isaac causes me more pain than I can express. And I am going to try to love on my other three as we prepare them for the news. Finally, I am going to remind myself that Isaac's dad is not the enemy, nor are any of the others involved. That one's really hard for me to remember sometimes.
For those of you that still can stomach all my parenting drama and continue to read these posts of mine, I ask again that you pray for my babies (and the big one I'm married to, as well). Please pray for their hearts to not hurt quite so much tonight. And please pray for Isaac and his dad. I know you may not want to, believe me I know... but when it's all said and done, only God can fix a heart. And what we need right now is a whole lot of hearts that are doing better than they currently are. Big hugs to you all.

4 Ways to Help Manage Grief on the Bumpiest Road of All

2015-01-22T10:33:00.001-05:00

4 Ways to Help Manage Grief on the Bumpiest Road of All

Stupid Idiot

2015-01-21T12:22:00.004-05:00

Everyone has an angry catch-phrase. Everyone. And you know what I’m talking about, too. That string of words that inadvertently flies from your mouth in a fit of panic or rage… the go-to mumblings that pour out of your mouth with no warning whatsoever. It’s the set of words you yell and then instantly look around, hoping to God that no one else other than the Almighty himself was around to witness your less than holy spewings. If you’re reading this and you’re feeling your cheeks burn with shame, then you know what your angry catch-phrase is! But if you’re sitting there feeling angelic, patting yourself on the back for not being a slave to the evil tongue that afflicts everyone else around you, I challenge you to complete this one task: Ask your children what your angry catch-phrase is. Because if anyone will know, they will. Trust me. If they haven’t pointed out your flaw yet, it’s because they’re too busy parroting your words at their siblings (only to get scolded by you for using unkind words…. Come on, you know it’s true.).

Stupid Idiot. That’s mine. There are others I know, husbands even, (whom shall remain nameless) that require some bleeping out every time they get upset. You know who you are and I’m not here to judge. (Just remember that I’m a better person than you.) But never once did I realize just how much I say these words together until my children brought it to my attention. For one, I’m a bit ashamed of myself - partially because I shouldn’t be yelling this constantly (how old am I, anyway?), but largely because stupid idiot is just redundant and not a good use of the English language. The writer in me would’ve hoped I could come up with a wittier retort to my momentary distresses, but alas, I have fallen prey to impulsivity and reactionary behavior yet again!

When I’ve spent 20 minutes searching for the car keys? Stupid Idiot. When I’ve lumbered to the top of two flights of stairs with an arm full of laundry, only to realize that the one article of clothing I need must still be in the dryer? Stupid Idiot. When the food scorches to the bottom of the pan, filling the kitchen with smoke, because I was too wrapped up in quizzing a little person on this week’s spelling words? Stupid Idiot. Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you if I’m meaning that the inanimate objects such as the keys, laundry, or pan are the recipients of my tongue-lashing (because once again, that would just be silliness) or if I’m reaching deeper and aiming the words towards myself for not being able to find the keys, the shirt, or for scorching the pan. The two words, in and of themselves, are not all that terrible. However, when put together – and then directed at my adopted, emotionally-challenged, self-loathing, anxiety-ridden children – my “go-to” becomes a “gone-too-far” pretty quickly.

Two weeks ago we had an incident. It was a frigid morning, too cold for the kids to stand at the bus stop. The big kids took off in a sprint across the icy sidewalk, racing to see who would get the coveted front seat for the short trip down the driveway. Cameron won the race (despite being about as sure-footed as a duck – seriously, he runs like his thighs have been sewn together or something). With a big flourish, my oldest child flung the door open, hip-checked his sister to the side as he lunged into the van, and then slammed the car door in victory. Sadly, he didn’t check to make sure that his sister’s fingers were cleared before doing so.

I watched as the look of horror changed to horrific pain on Taylor’s face. Her eyes were wide as saucers. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. She tugged her arm, but her hand remained stuck in the door. I swallowed my gag as I ran to her as quickly as my slippers on the ice would allow, ripping open the van door and frantically removing her winter layers until I could get to her hand. It was then, while I was inches from her face, that she found her voice. She let loose a scream that would’ve scared a ghost. After a few seconds, I was half-tempted to put her hand back in the door, just so it was quiet enough to think!

Once I was sure that her fingers were all still attached, I looked at Cameron. He immediately began to jabber…. “It was my turn for the front! I didn’t know she was there (despite hip-checking her seconds before slamming her tiny nuggets in the door)! She should’ve moved!” And then it happened.

“Stupid Idiot!” And no, this wasn’t directed at the van door, nor was it directed at myself. This was a full-fledged insult toward my 8-year-old. Other things followed (all the while, Taylor is wailing in the background) like “Why can’t you ever just think? Why do you always have to put yourself first? Can’t you ever just pay attention to your surroundings???”

Ok, so now there are two crying children, I’m in pajamas with no coat and it’s like -25 degrees outside, the baby isn’t strapped into his seat, the school bus is coming, I don’t know if Taylor needs to go to the ER or not, and, oh yeah, my mother-in-law had the pleasure of witnessing the entire thing. Having an audience for your screw ups is fantastic, is it not? If Children’s Services could see me now…..

Fast-forwarding a few hours….. Taylor lived, as did her fingers. Cameron made it to school. The baby got buckled in. I didn’t get frostbite.

I spent some time talking with my son that night. “Cam, I am so sorry I called you a stupid idiot.” He began to cry. “That’s ok,” he sobbed. “I was stupid.”

“Well….. ok, yeah, that was really stupid. But it doesn’t make you a stupid idiot. We all do stupid things. Take me, for example. I yell stupid idiot every time I get upset, even if it’s at my kids. Now THAT’S stupid.”

He smiled as snot ran down his face. “Yeah, that is pretty stupid,” he said.

Two days later, Cameron and Taylor were running for the van….. Cameron won….. the door began to close while Taylor was still in the way….. “CAMERON!!!!!!!” I wailed.

The door halted.

“Sorry, Mom! I’m not trying to be a stupid idiot,” he hollered.

“Yes he is, Mom!” Taylor hollered back. “I saw him!”

I’m a fantastic mother. Stupid Idiot.

Co-Sleeping: Why the Experts may not Know Best

2015-01-16T03:00:00.001-05:00

Click the link to see the most recent bump bliss article by Shivonne! Co-Sleeping: Why the Experts may not Know Best

The Son Punching Prayer

2015-01-06T22:19:00.001-05:00

Lord, help me not to punch my son.

It's been a long, long couple of weeks. We survived numerous Christmas parties, breakfast with Santa, a trip to Michigan, a Christmas pageant, two birthday parties for the now 7-year-old (complete with little girl sleep-over), a teething and not sleeping baby, a potty-training toddler, and a sinus infection/bronchitis/pneumonia mix. We made the cookies, we sang the carols, we bought the batteries for the toys. We did it all....
We did it all and I didn't punch him, not even once. And this is how I know the grace of God is a real and functioning part of my faith, because without it, there would've been swinging and literal gnashing of teeth. So, this is my new prayer. I've decided that I have succeeded in my job as a mother as long as I can make it through the day without socking him directly in the nose. Feeding them, bathing them, tutoring them... these things all fall by the wayside in the light of simply not wailing on them from sun-up to sun-down. And you know, it really takes the pressure off when you only have one goal to focus on!
When he was caught in a lie this week: "Mom, YOU'RE the liar, not me! You're going to the devil and I don't even care! So is Dad!"

Lord, help me not to punch my son.

When he told his aunt that he didn't like the gift she gave him and that he wanted money instead, then proceeded to look at my beautiful meal and say that I made all gross food....

Lord, help me not to punch my son.

When he tore his room apart and threw all of his brand new toys into the wall because he got grounded for acting like a complete moron all week....

Lord, help me not to punch my son.

When he almost tore his closet door off and spent 15 minutes blaming ME for losing his swim towel....

Lord, help me not to punch my son.

When he magically lost the ability to read so that I would be forced to do his math homework for him and I called him out on it.... and he proceeded to stick his tongue out and make rude gestures behind my back even though I could see his reflection in the kitchen window the entire time.... and he lied about doing these ridiculous things and then blamed his sister for them.....

Lord, help me not to shove my foot so far up my son's backside that it comes out of his lying little throat.......!

I know.... my son has problems. He has diagnoses and takes medication and needs a great deal of understanding. But then again, the same could be said about Pol Pot or Hitler, and I'm betting that their mothers wanted to punch them, too. Along with a large number of other people they encountered.... and, honestly, there are some people that just need a good knock in the head to set them straight. Maybe there would've been less genocide going on if more people would've just punched these crazed tyrants when they were acting like snot-nosed-imbeciles. Now I'm not going to go as far as to say that my son will turn into a ruthless dictator if he's not set straight, but it's just a chance I'm not willing to take.
Therefore, my prayer is that the Lord help me not to punch my son.... but if someone else were to punch him, say, a sister or a ticked off classmate, I wouldn't exactly hate them for giving him a taste of his own medicine. Especially since every consequence I've given him in the last few weeks has been met with a nasty "I don't care" or "So what?". I don't care?? So what??? These may just be the lines I feed back to him when he comes to me crying about a black eye that he received on the school bus....
Except you and I both know I can't really say that (can I?). I'll have to come up with something wise and motherly and mature.... something that points him in the right direction with just the perfect amount of compassion and I-told-you-so-edness. I have to make myself do the Christian thing and pray for him and all his nastiness.... God knows I've had my own share of it that I've dealt out in my own life at times. And I bet there were people (or parents) that wanted to punch me at times, too. I'm feeling rather grateful that they didn't.
And so tomorrow I will pray my prayer again. And I will purchase a heavy bag to hang in the basement. And I will hit the bag many times every day. And I will remind myself that my son is not a jerk. And I might believe it sometimes, too. And it will be okay. Everything will eventually be okay.

Oh, The Puzzles We Face

2014-12-18T11:19:00.002-05:00

Have you ever had one of those eye-opening moments where you take a step back, look around you, and say to yourself, "How did my life come to this?"

Oh good, you do this everyday, too? At least it's not just me!

I mean, I love my life... seriously, I do. But during my days of Peppa Pig and peak-a-boo, I find myself contemplating earlier times. It wasn't that long ago that I was agonizing over which college to go to - which major to choose - which jobs to apply for - which man to marry - how many kids to have. I don't know that I realized it then, but my life would actually continue to exist once those big choices were made. Graduating, getting a job, and acquiring a family didn't, in fact, end my existence. However, the big choices in life have now boiled down to Gerber's chicken and apples or banana-mango-carrot - signing up for swim lessons on Tuesdays or keeping them on Thursdays - name brand face wash or settling for the DG brand.

For so long it seemed that my entire life was moving with such momentum, such intensity, in a direction that was still unknown.... and that was exhilarating! The highs and the lows of waiting for acceptance letters, final grades to be posted, promotions to be announced, proposals to be made - those feelings made me feel so alive, so anxious, and so ridiculously real all at the same time. I almost wish I could go back in time and whisper in my 18-year-old ear, "Don't fret about those extra-curriculars toooo much, girl. They won't help you budget the grocery money or plan a 7-year-old's Frozen-themed birthday party."

And it isn't just the major life choices that seem to have fallen to the wayside. As a working woman, a therapist, I found great joy and accomplishment in helping others - in figuring out how to work with each client to move the puzzle pieces of their lives around in a way that would allow them make sense of it all. Sometimes... sometimes I find it a little less than satisfying to work my current puzzles, puzzles like how to rearrange my entire to-do list around a baby's napping schedule (a schedule that seems to change daily), how to get a household fed, all the kids to pee, the dogs to pee, and the baby's diaper changed in a 15 minute time span before gymnastics, how to spend as little money as possible on Christmas without forgetting to show appreciation to my kids' teachers (God knows they deserve it for all my kids put them through!) and our mail woman (who blessedly allows extra time for me to come to the door, knowing that I have a baby and three dogs to manhandle with each knock, while she hand-delivers the Christmas gifts that I was too busy to go to the stores to actually purchase - and on the rare occasion that I'm not home, she clears away the muddy boots and left out toys to leave my packages on the dryest part of the porch), or how to sew the continuous holes and popped-off-buttons that my oldest son accumulates with each outfit he wears (this puzzle is particularly challenging because I am no seamstress!!).

Wyatt is now 7 months old and our bank account is sadly dwindling with having gone the past 8 months on one salary. The time is drawing nigh for me to return to work. I will once again get to experience the joy of solving real puzzles - fixing real problems - experiencing real dilemmas.

So, why am I so crushed to be handing off my diaper bag for my briefcase? Why do tears run down my cheeks at the thought of not doing hours of spelling words and subtraction problems each night?

Could it be possible that I've grown rather fond of the mundane? You'd think that after this week of cleaning up the big kid's throw up, the baby's throw up, the dog's throw up, the toddler's diaper blow outs, the baby's blow outs, and slipping in the dog's blow outs, I'd be ready to throw in the towel (that very dirty towel) and be hitting the pavement running to find a life that doesn't involve wiping anyone else's butt. Except I'd clean a million little dimply bottoms for the chance to hear my little man's first words - to be there to see him crawl after spending weeks on the floor next to him, showing him how to get up on his hands and knees instead of just power-humping the floor with all his might.

Could it be possible that I'm still working out my own puzzles? Like, how to feel remotely sexy for my husband when my brain is screaming how shlubby and gross I am. Or how to get enough sleep to get through the day when the little people in my life need me so much in the nighttime hours. Or how to not lose my crap on the big kids when they daily test every patient fiber in my body. Or how to manage my fear that I will go to back work and no longer be good enough... for anyone.

I want to go back to that 18-year-old girl and hug her with all my might. I want to tell her that I DO understand her stress and the dilemmas she's facing - that despite our change of scenes, our decisions to choose one thing and leave the other behind is still very much real... and painful. I want to tell her that it may not seem like it, but bedtime prayers and first kisses actually trump A+s and raises. And that one day she will find herself missing her college days and single life less and less. And that our puzzles will continually evolve as we move through life, but that we aren't defined so much by our ability to solve them as much as our courage to face them.

This Christmas season, whatever it is you're facing, be it poopy diapers or company cutbacks or preparing for first-time parenthood or answering the time-honored question of "When will you finally settle down?", my prayer is that you will remember to love one another.

Love each other well.

While passing out good cheer, remember that the person beside you may have a puzzle that looks different than yours, but their puzzle, great of small, still requires a great deal of courage and probably a hug from a fellow puzzle-facer. So give the hugs freely this holiday. (And for God's sake, if you're the one with the dirty burp cloth on your shoulder, try to remember to take it off before the hugs this year, would ya?)