Sitting in Judgement

My sister-in-law wrote a really great blog about how we judge other moms. She's totally right. We tend to think that our way of parenting is the best and when we encounter a different style of parenting, we are incredulous -- if not downright snotty about it.

I'll admit it. I've got pretty strong ideas. For example, I'm a Happiest Baby on the Block mom. Swear by it. And if other tactics work for other parents, that's fine. But they don't work for me. I believe in holding your child as much as possible, co-sleeping, breastfeeding, and limiting screen-time. I vaccinate my kids.

I've changed a lot with having a second child too. And I'll tell anyone who asks that I think it takes a second child to put the first child in perspective.

For example, when Elliott was 4.5 months old, you wouldn't find me very far from him at any time. The first night away was after he was a year old and even though I had a good time, I felt horrifically guilty that he was going to wake up that night and I wouldn't be there to feed him. I worried about permanent scarring on his fragile personality.

But next week Matt and I are leaving for Vegas for three nights.

I'm leaving my 2 and a half year-old and my 4 month old baby behind to take a vacation with my husband and our friends. We're playing in a poker tournament, seeing The Beatles Love show at The Mirage, betting on the Giants and watching the game at The Emeril Lagasse Stadium at the Palazzo, lounging poolside, and enjoying roughly 72 hours of kid free time. And, yes, after Matt surprised me with the trip back in May, I told him I needed a week to process if I'd be up for leaving the baby -- who's still breastfeeding and sleeps cuddled up in the crook of my arm every single night.

My answer: Yes. I'm going. And I'm going to take a few minutes of every day to miss my kids and then I'm going to enjoy my time away from them. (And I'll be pumping up and down the strip...which, as a friend said to me, "Isn't the worst thing to happen in a Vegas bathroom.")

However, our decision to leave our infant behind (no one seems overly concerned about Elliott, even though he is the more cognizant child and knows he is staying with his grandmas/grandpa and so thinks that we are going on a "honeymoon" per the Berenstain Bears book where brother and sister bear stay with their grandparents because Mama and Papa go on a second honeymoon) has been met with a variety of responses.

Most people are supportive. And only a small handful have said things that could be taken as discouraging. But I know that once the Facebook posts start popping up and the world realizes that Matt and I are off on vacation without the kiddos, those that think we're crazy and clearly not very loving parents since we so callously abandon our babies, probably won't say the disparaging remarks to our face. No, no. They'll turn to a spouse or a friend and say, "They left the boys? How can she do that?" And I'll never really know who sits in judgement of that decision.

That's the fun thing about social networking -- everyone will get a superficial glimpse into my life. Enough of a window to know what I'm doing and where I am; but never really close enough to understand motives or the heart behind the matter. It's the perfect place to breed constant evaluations of people's actions. AND we allow family members, friends from elementary school, colleagues, and onetime friends from summer camp to comment too. Not real comments. No one is going to say on my pictures next week: "You're a bad mom! Isaac misses you!"or "Right on! Free yourself from those littles!! I admire you!" They'll say my hair looks cute and my mojito looks yummy. Which, in advance: Yes and Yes!

So, for everyone who is tempted to make a decision one way or the other about my choice to leave a young baby behind so I can have FUN...I feel compelled to say:

It is a daily mental exercise to analyze my role as mom. I became a mom in my late 20s...if I live a normal lifespan then I will have spent 62.5% of my life on this earth as someone's mom. Right now, I'm in the trenches -- it's dirty, it's messy, it's loud. It involves a lot of calming tones and teaching how to share. I'm still giving up hours of sleep to deal with crying, diapers. Two nights ago Elliott was jumping on the bed and just leaned over and vomited on my head. No joke.

Everything about my day revolves around these two kids. And I take my job as their mother very seriously. Kids are not an accessory -- when I decided to have kids, I accepted the responsibility of parenting them too. I love them more than anything on this entire earth -- my heart is so full from the privilege of having them in my life. And I want nothing more than to raise them to be awesome humans. Kind, courteous, generous. So, it's a serious job.

But it is not my identity.

Yeah. I said it.

I own it.

These are not just my kids. Not just my sons. They are real people. I remember thinking as a kid and as a teenager that my parents didn't ever really see me as my own person -- that at the end of the day, I was just their little girl. I wanted them to hear me. This is going to be a real challenge for me...to remember as these boys grow that inside that brain are thoughts I can't see, struggles they won't tell me, and ideas and independence that they will need room to explore. Every so often, I try to pull back and ask myself, "How does Elliott see me right now? If this is a memory he will retain forever, what kind of mom is he seeing?" I don't want to be so self-absorbed in my role as mom, that I forget we are all real people.

I am going to be a parent forever. But my years of mothering my kids are relatively short. So, during these years where it seems like I am mom and only mom...I need to pull back and say, no, I'm still Shelbi. What kind of wife do I need to be? What kind of friend? What am I doing for myself because I deserve that? Every stage of life has its own crises, but my current crisis is this: How do I maintain my identity while living the day-to-day intensity of raising a toddler and a baby?

The answer is this: I take time away from them. To decompress. To refresh. To have a chance to miss them.

I will miss them. Terribly. I will walk through a casino and feel like something is missing -- I'll panic a few times. I'll call my mom and my mother-in-law more than I should.

But I've dealt with the guilt and I'm the one thing I am NOT going to do is feel guilty. And even if others want to judge my decision and talk about how they couldn't make that decision for themselves, that's okay. I don't love my kids any less because I can spend time away from them; I'm not a bad parent because I'm having highly qualified people take over the child-care for a few days.

Shelbi needs a break from "mom" and there's nothing wrong with that.

My adorable boys. Luckiest mom in the world to have them in my life and be their mom. 

Visiting the park as a social experiment

Sorry I've been MIA for a week. I'm a few posts behind -- I have some recipes from our Mother's Day brunch and a cake pop disaster to recount.

Plus, I'm totally addicted to the TV show "Dexter" right now. And I'm furiously trying to finish Season 2 from my instant queue on netflix because I have Season 3's disc sitting here waiting for me. I know, I know. I'm a marathon TV watcher. A few years ago, during a snow storm, I watched the entire first season of HBO's "Rome" in a night. I watched all that I could on HBO on demand and then walked to Blockbuster, bundled up in a snow-suit, to rent the rest. Pre-children of course.

And I gunned through "The Wire" during my last maternity leave.

Now, it's "Dexter."

Love it, by the way.

Even though I've been a bit of a "Dexter" junkie this past week (two seasons in one week. Now you know it's an addiction), I did make it to the park yesterday with the boys. Matt was working and I decided to load Elliott in the stroller, pop Isaac in the Baby Bjorn and make a trip -- we brought snacks and drinks. It was a big thing...getting to leave the house. Oregon's spring has been wet and gloomy. I was ecstatic for any ounce of sunshine.

When we got to the park there was a rough looking guy smoking a cigarette and drinking out of a paper bag.

Of course, because of all the "Dexter", I was pretty certain he was going to kill me. I started plotting back ways to get home through the neighborhood so if he followed me I could lose him. I contemplated sneaking a picture of him to post on to Facebook with the caption: "If I am murdered. Find this man." And in true Shelbi nature, when the creepy guy opened his mouth to carry on a conversation, I found myself congenial, talkative, and, well, downright freaking charming.

In the course of a three minute conversation where he told me about his autistic son and how he lives with his dad and doesn't like technology, I divulged my place of employment and my children's names. Doh. Idiot.

So, when the man left, I was feeling a lot more comfortable. (But since he left the way I came, I was pretty certain that I would have to employ those alternate routes home. I was going to be murdered for sure now.)

The park got busier after that. A man showed up with his daughter and an 8 month old Labradoodle. This man was goofy -- equally talkative, climbing all over the play-structure with his little girl while wearing red suspenders and a fisherman's hat covered in buttons. On a scale from 1-10, where buzzed-smoker-dude was a 6-ish on the intimidation scale, suspender-dad registered at a zero. He asked me if he could let the puppy run free and I said it was okay; the puppy was active -- running up to Elliott and licking him. Elliott loved every minute of it. He kept saying, "I pet this dog! I give this dog a stick! Elliott picked this spot to pet the dog."

Then another dad pulled up in a nice, new, shiny truck. He was well-tailored, in expensive sunglasses. His daughter was in tights and a skirt and as soon as they entered the park, that overactive Labradooble ran right up to her and knocked her back. The sunglasses-dad turned to the suspender-dad and made it exceptionally clear that his off-leash dog was unacceptable. He removed his daughter from the play area until the suspender-dad, tail between his legs (dad, not dog), packed up his daughter and his crazy dog, and left the park.

As I watched Elliott turn and say, "Where'd the dog go?", I realized that the sunglass-dad had been a bit of a douche bag. Rude even. I mean, sure, the park rules clearly state that dogs needed to be on a leash, but that dog was over-exuberant perhaps, but not dangerous. I found myself seething about how this was a classic example of entitlement -- that man totally felt like he could walk all over poor suspender-dad.

The other families left for home and it was just me and sunglass-dad. Minding our own kids. Not interacting. And who should show up? Creepy guy. New alcohol. Something to read that came in a dark black bag, and a fresh pack of cigarettes. Creepy guy sat down right next to me and lit up a cigarette. Of course, sunglass-dad had been eye-balling him from the moment he was within 20 yards to the park entrance. And the moment that lighter hit the tip of that cigarette, sunglass man raised his voice. "Hey, look, that lady has a new baby and you're smoking next to her! And that smoke is heading downwind to our kids. Can you go do that somewhere else?"

Two things crossed my mind.

1) If this guy just kills for sport, then I've got to be off the hook now, right?

and

2) Hey, thanks sunglass-dad!

Yeah, that's right. All of a sudden I was relieved that this overbearing controlling macho man was at the park. He might have been rude to the other guy, but I mean suspender-dad was breaking the rules, right? And then without a word from me, he had stood up for me -- he had told this guy what I wished I had told him, "Get away from the park." But I hadn't told the guy that. I had happily talked about my personal life and smiled, engaged him, and then inwardly worried about escape routes. In short: I was weak. I was worried about offending a guy who probably needed to leave the park. I was worried about my kids, but I was unwilling to do anything about it.

And I didn't like the sunglass-dad when he was picking on a seemingly harmless fellow father. But when he turned his attention to someone I didn't like, well, then he was my hero.

As I left the park yesterday, I contemplated this. I felt guilty that I couldn't be brave enough to ask the smoking, drinking, porn reading man to leave this family-friendly-kid-oriented play structure. Instead, I felt relieved that a man showed up to do this for me. Would Matt have asked the guy to leave? No. Probably not. But I still would have felt safer if Matt had been there with me. And twenty-minutes of this social interaction really raises a lot of questions about myself as someone who considers herself pretty progressive in terms of my role as a woman in my family.

But when it comes to sticking up to a guy at a park, I still want a guy to do that for me. I still want to feel protected. I didn't feel safe doing that myself. That isn't to say that I haven't had that role in the past -- but I don't enjoy it. I don't want to be the one to say something; if someone else does it first, I'm usually relieved.

I'm still wrestling with the message that sends my boys. Does it make me look weak? Does it make it look like I let other people do the dirty work? Or does it communicate that someday their role should be protector and guardian? Sunglass dad was trying to protect his own daughter first...I just happened to need the man gone too. I was grateful.

But really when it comes down to it, why do I feel compelled to be kind to strangers? How can I instill a healthy dose of wariness in people we don't know, while also teaching my kids to love and not judge other people? Where is the balance between those things? How can I know when I need to stand up and be the person who tells a guy to leave the park? Is it internalized sexism that makes me feel like that's not my job?

I still haven't figured it out.

Although, based on how quickly he fled the scene to avoid confrontation, I'm pretty sure suspender-dad wouldn't have asked the man to leave either. So, maybe we just all have our roles in life and I should be happy that there are sunglass-dads out there when we need them. But only when we need them, right? Because until we do, they're all just jerks. Yes, I know how it works. Now I just need to figure out what to do about it as I raise these sons.

What kind of men will they be? That is the only answer that matters.

Thank you US Weekly

My mom is a workaholic. She doesn't ever truly rest until her work is done.

My dad is a work hard, play hard kind of guy. (And before you go and have images of what "playing hard" looks like for my dad, let me paint a picture: It could be settling in for a four hour marathon of the food channel's Best Crab Shacks in America; staying up all night to compose music; umpiring tournaments for ASA softball; or writing down bad puns on a sheet of paper to use on waitresses when we're out to eat as a family.)

I fall somewhere in the middle.

If I'm working really hard at school, my housework and family obligations suffer. For instance: Grading papers while Elliott was taking a bath one day = every single toy (electronic, stuffed) ended up in the tub with him. And from September to June, Einstein just doesn't get walked.

If I'm feeling like my home is suffering, then school gets shortchanged. Assignments collect dust before I look at them and instead of spending four or five hours prepping lessons, I'm trying to find out how to make watching the first season of Battlestar Galactica relevant to our unit on contemporary literature. Okay, okay, I'm teasing. I wouldn't show them the whole season.

Could I do it all? Sure. And I'm certainly going to try. But let's not get crazy here...I'm not about to drive myself insane just for a small stack of vocab quizzes or for a small pile of laundry. If the students have to wait or we have to wear the same pants for a week...then so be it. Because I am the queen of taking time for myself. Sometimes I have to sneak it in. For example, it's time I make a confession: I lied to Matt about the intensity of my hemorrhoids in order to take long baths uninterrupted by children.

It was really brilliant on my part. Hemorrhoids are a valid ailment during and post-pregnancy netting myself several months of this trick. And what husband is going to say, "Another bath? Really? I'll go buy you some Preparation H or TUCKS for those things and we can cut back on our water bill."

It's only a pseudo-confession because Matt was already on to me. I said I was going to take a shower, 60 minutes later I emerged from our bathroom to two screaming kids and a stressed out husband.

Matt: What took you so long?
Me: [Hesitating] I was...shaving my legs?
Matt: Your legs still look like a Hobbit. You are a liar.
Me: Okay! Okay. When the water got cold, I crawled out and read US Weekly and ate a Cadbury Creme Egg.

Matt's says he has been on to me for a long time and allowed these escapades to go without comment as a testament of his love for me.

When it comes to what I want out of "Shelbi time", it's really simple:

- I want to read a magazine or a "candy" book (Sue Grafton, for example)
- I want to be warm (in front of a heater, in a bath...on a beach in Hawaii would be nice)
- I want a two liter of Diet 7-up/glass of red wine/Fresca/black coffee -- most often a combination of several of these beverages at once

There are variations to this theme. Sometimes I want to have "Mommy makes herself pretty time" which includes all of the above and then adds: Shaving legs, exfoliating, moisturizing, putting on a mud mask, applying make-up, curling hair, and then sitting around on my couch pretending someone is going to pick me up for a night out that didn't have to involve finding a babysitter or expressing milk in the passenger seat of a car. (Which is a far cry from making out with boys in the passenger seat of cars.)

During the ninth month of my pregnancy, I told Matt I needed to go grocery shopping and just came home with this:

And since Isaac's been born, I've acquired a pretty nice collection of US Weekly Magazines from each trip to Safeway that I've done sans Matt.

Adding these tabloids to my shopping cart is something I can do just for me. Of course, in the seven years I've been reading them, I've slowly lost touch with who some of these "celebrities" are -- but I don't care. The men are cute and the women don't have spit-up in their hair. I've never seen a "Stars are just like US" picture that showed an A-lister buying Starbucks with half of her shirt soaked from a faulty/leaky breast pad. (Oh yes, welcome to my TODAY. But the choice was go in with a wet shirt or no coffee. Which one would you choose?)

As a matter of fact, if Matt does the shopping by himself and I tell him to "bring me home a present" that is a code phrase for: You better come home with a magazine. When he buys me the magazine he knows that he's okaying the time I will need to read it too. Sometimes that means I will share a bathtub with a toddler who drives his cars up my back and points to moles I didn't even know I have and say, "Yuck." 

But when it means that I can find somewhere to hide while indulging in the lowest form of reading available to me...I'll forgo dishes, grading, and good parenting skills.

Every mom should have her one thing (for me, it's my several things) that she needs to sustain her. Hey, an US Weekly and a bottle of wine is cheaper than therapy.

Celebrity gossip, spring cleaning ideas, and amazing one-dish dinners? I've got you covered. Just need an hour alone...

From the words of Erma Bombeck

I wrote about Elliott growing up in this post. I was hoping I would feel inspired to write an original blog post; but as I meandered around the Internet this morning, I found someone else's words that deserve to be reprinted instead.

Plus, I hadn't cried yet today...so, it figures I should run across this Erma Bombeck column. Man Erma...you've got a name that probably won't come back into style despite its "old-timeyness", but I think you are funny, poignant, and honest.

Parents: TRY to read it without tearing up. I dare you.

I'm a glutton for punishment, aren't I??

(Sorry it's so melancholy. And it probably won't get read as much as the entry from yesterday because I didn't write "vagina" in the first paragraph.)

From the brain of Erma Bombeck...

A young mother writes: "I know you've written before about the empty-nest syndrome -- that lonely period after the children are grown and gone. Right now, I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry and muddy boots. The baby is teething; the boys are fighting. My husband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell off my diet. Lay it on me again, will you?"

OK.

One of these days, you'll shout, "Why don't you kids grow up and act your age!"

And they will.

Or, "You guys get outside and find yourselves something to do ... and don't slam the door!"

And they won't.

You'll straighten up the boys' bedroom neat and tidy -- bumper stickers discarded, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed on the shelves. Hangers in the closet. Animals caged. And you'll say out loud, "Now I want it to stay this way."

And it will.

You'll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn't been picked to death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing, and you'll say, "Now, there's a meal for company."

And you'll eat it alone.

You'll say: "I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancing around. No demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?" And you'll have it.

No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti.

No more bedspreads to protect the sofa from damp bottoms.

No more gates to stumble over at the top of the basement steps.

No more clothespins under the sofa.

No more playpens to arrange a room around.

No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent.

No more sand on the sheets or Popeye movies in the bathrooms.

No more iron-on patches, wet, knotted shoestrings, tight boots, or rubber bands for ponytails.

Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby sitter for New Year's Eve. Washing only once a week. Seeing a steak that isn't ground. Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.

No PTA meetings.

No car pools.

No blaring radios.

No one washing her hair at 11 o'clock at night.

Having your own roll of Scotch tape.

Think about it. No more Christmas presents out of toothpicks and library paste.

No more sloppy oatmeal kisses.

No more tooth fairy.

No giggles in the dark.

No knees to heal, no responsibility.

Only a voice crying, "Why don't you grow up?"

and the silence echoing, "I did."

Postpartum Blues

I had my postpartum checkup yesterday -- my doctor came in, inspected me, asked me three times what I was using for birth control, to which I answered, "Still imagining the pain of my episiotomy will pretty much handle it I think, thank you." And then we made banal chit-chat about how awful it is to imagine your parents having sex during my pap smear...because I still have no idea what you're supposed to talk about when someone is inspecting your vagina.

As part of my appointment, I had to fill out a "Depression survey." It comprised of ten questions, each one allotted a point value. I answered it honestly and was feeling pretty sure that my survey would show how well I've been handling the challenge of two kids -- one who seems to have a new health malady each week.

I said I was still laughing as often as I was before the baby. I said that I still looked forward to activities. I wrote that I cry "at least once a day" and that I haven't had thoughts of injuring myself. I was feeling so confident that my survey wasn't worrisome that I even totaled up the points for the doctor and put a little smiley face down beside the number. 

When my doctor picked up the survey, she scanned my answers and said, "Wow. Okay. So, you've been feeling pretty down, huh?"

I answered that I think I am down...but in a normal way...nothing to worry about.

She responded with, "Well, you're at an 11 on here...we hope that at six weeks postpartum women are at a one or a two." And that comment made me think that my smiley face was a little inappropriate.

After a brief discussion of whether or not I wanted anti-depressants, I left feeling like maybe I should have taken a different survey...or maybe they should do a pre-assessment survey and a post-assessment survey -- just like I do with my teenagers. The survey asked me how often I worry, if I find myself consistently anxious about things beyond my control, if I am hard on myself when things don't go according to plan. The answers? All the time; All the time; Most of the time.

All my high numbers came from one source: Worry.

I'm not feeling anything out of the ordinary. I think I'm a pretty normal type of worrier.

And it's not like the worrying part of me just popped up when I had Elliott. I've always had a slight bent toward anxiousness. When you're in the hospital having a baby and the nurses do a shift change, they stand in front of your bed and do a rundown of your medical chart. Each and every time, both in labor and delivery and in postpartum, the nurses would stand there and say, "And Shelbi was treated for depression and anxiety disorders in college -- she was on medication, but hasn't been taking for for several years. And she's been doing well?" And then they'd look at me for confirmation and I would just nod my head slowly and think, "Wow...it's really embarrassing to have your emotional history recounted for you at eight hour intervals."

But I do think that when women become moms there is a small switch that turns up the crazy just a tad. Because here's the deal -- you're forced to stop thinking about yourself and focus more on your kids. If I thought I was anxious before, well, I had another thing coming...because I was just being a selfish worrier. Now? I'm worrying about two little humans that are mine to protect! Scary!! You should see the things I Google...

Now, people who are close to me might not label my parenting style overprotective and neurotic. I hope that's true. Because if I've learned anything from this world it's that it isn't fair to burden my kids with my own neurosis. I might inwardly panic when I watch Elliott share a toy with some child in Sunday School whose nose is running like a faucet. Or want to run around the yard screaming like a crazy woman, on the phone with poison control, when Elliott tells me, proudly, "I ate the purple flower!" But I put the crazy on hold, breathe, and employ my calm, cool, and collected version of myself -- even if it contradicts my natural instincts. Why? Because my child is going to look to me to know how to react and, frankly, I don't want to raise another me. (Well, naturally I want him to have all the good parts of me.)

While watching "Finding Nemo" the other day, I had forgotten how horrific that opening scene was -- and I immediately started bawling when Elliott turned to me and asked, "Where'd the mama go?" I forced myself to wipe away the tears and explain to him in a calm voice that the mama and her babies were eaten by a larger fish.

"Oh," Elliott says. "Big fish ate mama. [Imitating Cookie Monster] nom-nom-nom-nom-nom." Then he pretended to cry (mocking me, I think). Then he giggled.

We'll strike a balance someday. In the meantime, I think we're doing just fine.

(You'd answer "I cry at least once every day" on a survey too if you keep finding things like THIS on the Internet.)

  

Reasons Why I am a Supermom

I REALLY wanted to be a Supermom when I had kids.

You know the type: They're ubiquitous on the Internet with their awesome blogs about making their own cleaning supplies, growing their own vegetables, or whittling their own teething rings. These women are fit, trim, and have perfectly coiffed hair; somehow they manage to dress in stylish outfits sans spit-up and coffee stains. Their children wear the most adorable handmade clothes refashioned from shirts and skirts from the Goodwill pile.

Okay, I didn't necessarily want to be that kind of Supermom. For starters, I have no idea how to whittle. But I would hear or read about these amazing women and after I got over the initial desire to punch them in the face, I realized that I harbored jealousy that they could be so put together themselves AND have put-together homes too.

It always seemed like I could have one or the other:

Either I was going to put on makeup and get out of my pajamas OR I could do laundry and clean up the dog pee.

The other day I sent my sister-in-law an email at 8:00 in the morning that sounded a little something like this: "Hey! Blah-blah-blah...I'm rockin' the mom thing today...blah-blah-blah making my own organic pasta...blah blah blah changing TWO diapers with a hand tied behind my back...blah blah blah...I could do this forever! I feel awesome!"

Fast forward to 2:00pm, where she received a text message that said something like this: "Disregard former email. Huddled in the corner in fetal position. Don't know where Elliott is currently, there is baby poop covering the faces of the Glee actors in my US Weekly, and somehow I'm no longer wearing any pants."

That sums up how this past month with a toddler and a newborn has played out for me.

Since having two kids, Matt and I have realized that we need to streamline the household operations. This has involved employing some cleaning and picking-up strategies and detailed meal-planning. And even though I have a list of things I'm supposed to do every day in an effort to have my household together and running like the well-oiled machine it can be, I can't seem commit to even the simplest of tasks. 

For example, one thing I'm supposed to do is keep the kitchen sink empty at all times. Put things directly in the dishwasher and wash pots and pans immediately after using them. 

Yup. Kitchen sink was clean this morning. But now it looks like this:

And those are just the remnants of one meal -- all that mess for one tiny box of Annie's Mac & Cheese? But you know what? I don't care right now. Because even though keeping the house clean and making good meals are important and could certainly contribute to "Supermom" status...I don't think that's what makes me a Supermom.

At the end of the day, if I haven't made a craft or started a sewing project, if I go to bed without folding the laundry, if I feed my child french fries instead of apples, I think I can still fight for that title. And here's why:

1) I love my kids unconditionally: Oh, it's so cliche, but true  -- I would throw myself in front of a moving bus to save my children. The love I feel for my two boys outweighs everything else in my life. I want them to be happy and I know that I'll put my own happiness and comfort aside to make sure they're happy. Being a Supermom is knowing that sacrifice is part of the deal. 

2) I know my limits and when it's time to ask for help: I can admit that when I whisper to my newborn, "If you wake up your brother, I'm putting you outside on the lawn until your dad gets home" that it might be time take a mental break. No Supermom is an island. If you find a fantastic Supermom out there, you've no doubt stumbled upon a network of Super people. My husband, my own mom, my mother-in-law, my family, my friends? If I get time to sit down and do something for myself, it's because someone else out there is helping me or will help me later. Right now, both boys are asleep and I'm choosing to write instead of clean -- so those dishes might go untouched until Matt gets home. And I'm super because I know, with 100% conviction, that I can't do it myself and I'm not perfect and it's okay to feel like this mom thing is crazy-hard. I'm a Supermom because I can admit that there are times I daydream about a life free from kids -- where Matt and I can just pack up and go to Vegas for a weekend on a whim. Or, more realistically, go out to dinner without being "that couple" whose child is screeching for a balloon while dumping the hamburger he won't eat on to the floor. 

3) I can count to 10 and am in command of basic math: I'm a Supermom because I know that learning to count to ten when I was two-years-old has been the best tool in my arsenal for dealing with a tantrum. I'm not always patient and I'm not always the best version of myself when my child is testing every limit...but I'm in my 30s and my child is two -- basic math that has saved me from lashing out when all I really need to do is walk away.

4) I know that being a mom is the most important job there is: So, even when I have to go to work, I can put it all in perspective. I'm a Supermom because I know that since raising my sons is the most important job I'll ever do, it's worth putting some time into planning how to raise them...just like I plan a lesson plan. Do I want my boys to know how important giving is? Then they should see me and Matt give. Do I want them to love God? Then they should see me loving God. Simple really. I model my Language Arts instruction...a basic tenet of classroom teaching; and so I know I need to model my behavior for my own kids too. 

5) I can function on three hours of sleep (but not without coffee, so help me God): When women become moms, their bodies actually become virtually superhuman. Which is awesome and incredible and also a huge source of frustration toward the adult male who lives in my house and gets to snore while I'm nursing the baby every two-three hours. (And I'll admit to utilizing spite pretty effectively at four in the morning when I place a screaming child with a dirty diaper on top of Matt's chest and then roll over and conjure up some convincing snoring-like sounds myself.)

And that's it.

I can kid myself into thinking that because I sprinkle flax-seed on french toast, make our own granola, craft a cookie monster shirt out of felt, and can keep everyone's clothes laundered and folded...while still reading books and watching movies...that I've got this mom thing down. But that's a total sham. There are all different types of super-parents out there -- and I've come to embrace my inner super-parent...who might never be someone who can keep dishes out of the sink and dog hair off of the pacifier.

I'm lucky to be surrounded by people in my life who know that if they get this text -- "Sitting in the bathtub. Fully clothed. Crying" -- that they should come over to my house STAT and, preferably, bring coffee. And I can send that text and still be super -- which is a nice reminder for every mom out there. 

Loving each stage, despite the challenges

Elliott has always been a happy child. And somehow between a mysterious illness that landed him in the ER three weeks ago and this baby that we brought home four weeks ago, our sweet and happy little man has turned into a whining, crying, hitting, temper-tantrum throwing nightmare. We take full responsibility for some of this change in behavior -- during his illness, Matt and I were CRAZY. A week old baby and a list of doctor's orders for Elliott was beyond stressful...we handled Elliott's refusal to drink liquids with the calm demeanor of a stampeding rhino. For the first time, our spoiled little boy saw us truly shaken -- his not listening to us was not just a discipline issue, it was a health issue, and we were scared for him.

So, in addition to his relationship with us changing, we also added Isaac. Rough week for him.

And while he isn't overly jealous of this new addition to our family, it would be silly of us to not recognize that we have rocked his world -- he is not our #1 priority anymore. Attentions are divided, patience is in short-supply. He wants to climb on the baby, kiss the baby, hold the baby -- and, of course, he is as tender and gentle as any two year-old can be. So, "You're crushing him. Can you step away from your brother? We'd like him to live for a long time," said in the tone a harried cop might use to a bank robber, has been our MO recently.

Matt and I get this change and we understand it. We weren't naive enough to think that Elliott could navigate childhood without challenges. But we were unprepared for how a second child changes everything -- including your relationship with your firstborn.

With each new stage of a child's life, I think there is a mourning period for the preceding stage.

That has become even more evident to me after Isaac's arrival. Because Elliott and Isaac are eerily similar looking  (their baby pictures are practically identical), it is almost like I have Elliott back in baby form again. There is my crazy toddler who talks back and doesn't listen and won't eat...but here is this Elliott look-a-like who nurses like a champ and barely cries and is learning to smile. It's strange. I have no desire for Isaac to "hurry up" and hit those milestones that first-time parents are obsessed about. I don't need him to crawl, walk, eat real food. I don't know if I will have another baby and I feel a strong need to cherish each moment of this baby's life. And at the same time, I am definitely mourning Elliott's changes and his growing up.

All these things we're experiencing are normal and every parent goes through it. Here is your baby, your awesome little child, who becomes his/her own person. And as they learn what they want and, especially with our boy, can't always effectively communicate what that is...there is pain and hurt. And when I want to throw him out a window because I'm tethered to chair nursing and he has put all his Fisher Price toys in the toilet or spilled a cup of 7-up on the ground; or thrown a picture frame across the room and won't stop walking near the broken glass...I just realize that this too will pass.

And when it passes, I'll be sad again. Because we'll be on to a new stage, with new challenges, and my toddler Elliott will be gone and I'll have a little kid -- and maybe that little kid won't giggle when we play "ghosts" and hide under the covers, or I won't be able to take baths with him anymore, maybe he won't walk up and give me kisses without prompting.

I'm so happy I get to experience a baby again with a new lens, but soon I will be watching Isaac grow and learn and he won't be a newborn anymore.

Having children and being a parent is easily the most challenging and rewarding thing that has ever happened to me. I don't think there is any way to truly capture how this job takes you and changes who you are to the core. It's easy when they are tiny and new to just love them to pieces and kiss those cheeks and forget the job you have ahead of you -- the job to raise these tiny people into great adults, who ultimately will live happy and amazing lives...without you. And when you're a mom to a toddler and a newborn, that's hard to imagine. But that's the goal and if I keep reminding myself of that, then I can weather the storm better.

The storm, which this morning, included a kicking screaming tantrum because Elliott wasn't allowed to "pick" the flowers I bought myself the other day. But then picked them anyway the moment he knew both mom and dad were occupied. When you have to buy yourself flowers and then don't know whether to laugh or cry because the beautiful flowers are now strewn across the living room, petals everywhere, while the child says, "I picked them. I picked them!" Well, that's my life. And no matter what these boys bring to our lives -- amazing and aggravating -- I wouldn't change a single thing.

Elliott "picked" this toy for his baby brother and gave it to him at the hospital. Now he likes to give him the toy to play with...and 100% of the time, that involves throwing it on his head while he's sleeping.