Confession: I’m a recovering mom-judger.
I used to roll my eyes when one more exasperated first time mom would ask, “How do I get my two-month old to sleep through the night?” I would be hard pressed to hide my surprise if another mom admitted the cornerstones of her kid’s diet for the last week was string cheese and chicken nuggets. I’d go home and tell my husband, “So and so lets her kids do x, y, and z. Can you believe it?” followed by the quintessential line, “I would NEVER let that happen.”
Yep. That was me. Judgey McJudgerson at your service.
A few nights ago when I was spinning around in my chair singing, “I’m not funny, la la la…” instead of writing, I started to wonder why I judged so much. I’m not a mean-spirited person. I genuinely like most of the people I found myself judging. I didn’t like judging them nor the guilt that came with it. So what was my issue?
And in a flash of insight not unlike Big Bird realizing he didn’t want a new habitat if it meant leaving his friends on Sesame Street, it hit me.
I judge because I’m insecure.
That’s it. Continue reading
If you’ve liked my Facebook page, you know that Monday night I got pooped on. The silver lining to this tragedy is that I was given blog fodder for today’s post.
But then… last night happened.
Neither kiddo got a good nap in which made me giddy because generally this means an early bedtime. Woohoo! More time to spin around in my chair and sing “I’m not funny, I can’t write, lalalala…” because that’s what professional writers do.
Around 6:45 (bedtime is normally 7:30) I laid Levi down. Then it was Lillian’s turn. I did the normal routine:
“Lils, it’s time for night night. Yep, I got your baby. Yes you’ll get a suck (pacifier.) Yep, grab your water. Let’s go.”
She toddled into her room and I lifted her into bed. After she laid down I itemized each of the 47 toys in her crib, gave her the pacifier, her water, turned her Glo-Worm on, prayed, and kissed her on the forehead.
Until about 7:30 when I glanced at the baby monitor and noticed she was still awake. She wasn’t screaming or throwing a fit. She was just standing at attention in her crib. I did something I don’t normally do and went in. Continue reading
Dear Lillian and Levi,
I never wanted kids. The idea of sleepless nights and wiping butts, mashed potatoes smeared on the walls and toddler tantrums just wasn’t something I felt called to do. Don’t get me wrong; I like kids. Other people’s kids. For a short amount of time. When I was a teenager, I would babysit because kids seemed to like me. I guess I liked them when I was younger. But as I got older the idea of being a mother didn’t resonate with me. It wasn’t even that I wanted to be some high-powered career woman.
I just didn’t want to be a mom.
Then one afternoon, after throwing up for the last half of mine and Daddy’s vacation, I took a pregnancy test “just to rule out” the possibility that I was pregnant.
Those two pink lines changed my life forever. Continue reading
The other night I was immensely blessed when my in-laws offered to take both of my children overnight.
Know what that means?
I cleaned my house top to bottom, prepped all the meals for the week, did the monthly budget, organized the pantry, and learned Mandarin.
In reality I obsessively checked Twitter (follow me!) and Facebook (like me!) and wrote some things. Then I did about four minutes of yoga.
I love yoga. It’s the only exercise I’ve ever done which I genuinely enjoyed. Maybe it’s because it’s not cardio. I hate cardio. The only time I want to be huffing and puffing and sweating like I do when I’m doing cardio is if I’m either being chased by a knife-wielding vulture-bear-whale hybrid, or if someone is offering me a lifetime supply of nachos.
But yoga… I can get behind that. The stretching, soothing music, and breathing is my kind of exercise.
It’s the breathing thing that struck me the other night. When I first began the routine (I know “routine” sounds impressive but remember I only did it for the length of a long commercial break) I began inhaling deeply as you’re supposed to do but…
They weren’t actual deep breaths. They were short. Shallow. Continue reading
I love my daughter. She is smart, sweet, funny and she loves to help.
Or rather… “help.”
Some things she’s better at helping with than others. Like putting clothes in the washing machine or the dryer. Or taking clothes out of the dryer. Or trying to put her brother in the dryer. She excels at these things.
Vacuuming? Not so much.
She tries though. She really does.
Lillian first started “helping” with the vacuuming when she saw me going to town underneath the dining room table with the vacuum hose after dinner one night. Instead of scolding her when she tried to grab the hose from my hands, I seized the opportunity to instill in my daughter a love for doing chores (especially those I loathe) and handed her the extender hose attachment. It wasn’t attached to the vacuum and therefore was just a useless piece of plastic, but she didn’t know that. She got a huge smile on her face and sidled up next to me under the table, whipping the attachment back and forth just like Mommy.
It was adorable. Continue reading