IT'S GOTTA BE THE POLKA-DOTS
So last week was my birthday and I was given this card by Tierney and Parker via Casey. The words were sweet but after I read the card aloud and showed the picture to the girls, Casey-- apparently not knowing any better-- asked, "Who does that look like?" To my horrific surprise, both Tierney and Parker responded (in unison . . . with much confidence and enthusiasm): "M-O-M-M-Y!"

Shall I just make the Ambush Makeover call myself?

I'VE GOT STASH
alert level raised from "orange" to "red.
no m&m's in the house.
mom desperate.
mom resourceful and remembers that she saved half-eaten cadbury chocolate bunny given to the girls for easter this year.
good thing the easter bunny has been living in its own ziploc bag for the last couple of weeks.
mom does some quick math-- the bunny is barely over a month old-- still in the safe zone.
mom realizing that self-control really does come with rewards.
and that desperation really does call for desperate measures.
no time for feeling guilty because mom comes to the conclusion that stealing candy from the kids isn't really stealing anyway (even if it was an easter gift from uncle andy), and especially since they've already forgotten about it (mostly because it's been hidden from them).
just a few slivers of heaven is all mom needs to bring the alert level back down to yellow.

mom recognizing that "the stash" lives . . . even sans m&m's.

SNOT FOR SALE
Day 13. Ear infection. Upper respiratory infection. Bronchitis. Stay-at-home mom. Snot good.

As I sit here typing, unable to breath out of my nose, I can't help but wish I had my office job back. As a stay-at-home mom there are good days and bad days. But nothing compares to being a SICK stay-at-home mom. In fact, I've determined that it should be outlawed. Since I've been sick I've been having daydreams of being at my old job. My office is quiet. My computer is on. The overhead lights are off. I have an entire box of Kleenex at my disposal for blowing my nose (and not just toilet paper on a roll, but one of those cute designer Kleenex boxes). I glance down and witness the tall, white tower growing out of my personal wastebasket and I am impressed with myself. I work diligently on my projects, uninterrupted with an occasional trip to the restroom, coffee pot or for an hour-long lunch break-- in solitude. My boss trusts that I'm getting the job done. The phone rings and it's a client wanting to follow up with me on their project. They hear my congested voice and wonder why I'm not at home. They feel sorry for me yet appreciate the fact that I keep plugging away on their project, miserable or not. I feel valuable for a minute. I hang up the phone and continue with my day. All in silence. All for a little sugar-sugar that I could use to purchase that new Orla Kiely purse at Nordstrom.

At home? Turns out not so Laura Ingalls-ish prancing in the fields. When you're a sick stay-at-mom home nothing really changes with the routine. It's just that the routine gets harder. Much harder. The challenge is you just don't have the energy or the patience to keep up with it. The day is non-stop. The day is noisy. The day crawls. You're looking at your watch at 10:00 in the morning hoping that your husband comes home straight from work . . . take the inside lane, run the red light and skip the gas station sweet cheeks because the baton is ready. You tell yourself over and over that you should really change your clothes for the first time in days and get the kids out of the house but you can't make it to that first step because you're not 100% sure you can handle the challenge. At least not in public anyway. So as a result, the kids are climbing the walls-- and you. The TV is on all day. They've lost interest. You're somewhat relieved at the thought that they might not be addicted to the tube after all . . . but now what? The couch has become their playground. The living room their closet. The interaction between you and your kids is short, unpleasant and minimal. It's bad enough that you feel sick but you also feel guilty. Because you really don't like your kids at the moment. All you really want to do is go into your room, shut the door and sleep the snot away. But you can't do that because you have to stay in the game. You have to play referee, wipe tears, feed, clean, wipe noses, wipe the sofa, find a pacifier, set up the paint, clean up the paint, wipe more tears, feed, clean, wipe noses, wipe the sofa, find another pacifier, set up the paint, clean up the paint. . . . try hard to remember when--IF--you took your last round of antibiotics and pray that the phone rings with the hope that it's someone checking in on you.
Because sometimes that's all it takes to make you feel better-- even for just a moment.

That's what moms are for. And it's certainly times like these when I miss mine the most. I find myself daydreaming again . . . my mom calls and instantly knows that I'm miserable. Because she knows. She wants to know the color of my mucus, the names of my medication, and what kind of soup she should make (yet she already knows it's the one with the super big noodles). She wants to look in my ears. She worries that I'm taking 3 different kinds of medication yet her curiosity is comforting and anything but stifling. I can tell her how badly I feel without her suggesting or thinking that I'm feeling sorry for myself. I hear my dad in the background making some kind of reference to "medicine." It's the chocolate-covered kind. My mom offers to watch the kids while I shower, nap, leave the house for 10 minutes and I can say yes to her and not worry about what the house looks like. She shows up at the door, takes one look at me and says, "Oh honey." I feel better instantly because she knows. I ask her how she survived times like these . . . with 3 young kids (2 boys, one hyperactive . . . God luv ya, Matt). She tells me it's okay to do nothing all day. She convinces me that the girls are going to be okay even though they've been eating nothing but chicken nuggets and ketchup for the past 5 days. She's not fazed by the amount of time the TV is on. Or by the vertical nature of my hair. Or by the amount of Double-Bubble I've managed to stuff in my mouth amidst the chaos. (She's a little curious about the "vampire" book she spots on the table but she knows that the timing is all wrong, so she skips by it and saves the discussion for another time). But she's really not fazed by anything at all. She's really not fazed because she's been there. She knows what it's like to be in full-blown survival mode. And she remembers that it's exhausting. And that it's hard. And that it's lonely, especially without your mom. And so there is no judgement and there is no criticism. Just pure unconditional love.

And that is medicine in itself.

NOT AFRAID TO LEARN NEW TRICKS
So the other day I learned a new trick that I'm pretty excited about (in a sheepish kind of way). The girls had been needier than usual all afternoon. It was 6:00, "dinner" was almost done, and I just needed five minutes of silence before the start of the third period. My husband called to say that he was on his way home from work (more on that later), so I prepared the girls and told them that they should find a really good hiding place and surprise Daddy when he came home. I suggested a few key spots in the house, supplied jackets, blankets and other ideal camouflage gear, and told them that I'd let them know when Daddy pulled into the driveway (which is a much easier maneuver now that "Black Betty" has joined the family). Turns out, the girls cooperated fabulously. Five minutes passed by-- silence. Ten minutes passed by-- silence. Fifteen minutes passed by and I heard only one peep . . . "Is he here yet?" It was magical. Probably twenty minutes passed by when the troops became restless and gave up, which was fine. Because it was twenty minutes of silence that gave me the strength to charge into overtime (because "on his way home" really meant "on his way home after a quick beer)."

JUST BEING A MOM?
At a recent gathering with a group of women we discussed the issue of guilt. More specifically, we talked about how (and why) moms feel guilty when they leave their children in the sole care of their husbands (ie: when they walk out the door to meet up with some girlfriends to catch up over a half dozen bottles of wine and not enough food). There was one woman who said that she truly feels no guilt when she walks out the door (God love ya, Michelle), but most of us agreed that we all felt a little guilty "imposing" on our husbands when we pass the baton to them. My question is, does this type of guilt come hand-in-hand with being a mom, or is it a personality trait? Either way, I wish I could break free from it. At least every once and a while.

My most recent experience with this occurred just this past week. My disclaimer to what I'm about to say is that it had been one of the longest weeks with the kids. We've got croup, snotty noses, dry coughs, fevers, no appetite (mom aside . . .of course), grumps, lack of sleep, no pre-school (I've gotten good at wall climbing), pneumonia, cling-to-my-leg-all-day-like-a shin-guard behavior, strawberries to dip, Dr. appointments to make, ear infections, medicine to pick up, milk to get, and valentines for school to make. I chose to delegate the last task to my husband the other night. It was just a quick trip to the store (with toddler in tow) to purchase white card stock and valentine treats for goody bags. I delegated-- partly because I was exhausted, but mostly because I was still wearing the same thing I wore to bed the previous night (what, that's not charming?). The second that I asked him to do this for me I started to feel guilty. I then started to wonder how long it was going to take him to get Tierney out of her princess dress, shoes, pearls and hat and into something presentable. Should I help if it meant they'd get out the door faster? Because I'm pretty sure Simon and Garfunkel had already started singing "The Sound of Silence" in my ear. Move, move, move! I felt guilty because I was sending my husband off to the store on an empty stomach. I felt guilty because it was almost 7:00 at night and this task was probably the last thing he felt like doing. I felt guilty because I knew how much energy it would take to charge through this Valentines day adventure. I felt guilty because I know what it's like to take a toddler to the grocery store. I feel guilty because the entire time he was away I was doing everything but scrubbing the floors (and my armpits).

But once the troops were out the door and on their way to complete the mission, I was just fine. I was going to be okay. And so I poured myself a glass of wine and enjoyed my guilt-free moment. Because I knew it wouldn't last long.