Insitinctive Mothering

And today...an article I wrote for a magazine that didn't quite make the cut...but here it is, in blog post form because it still demands to be released from my dusty hard drive!  


Instinctive Mothering


Mom; a title I’ve held onto now for nearly eight years (plus some if you count gestation!)  This is the first job I’ve ever been able to fully dedicate myself to, commit fully, despite a lack of sick days and all the 24-hour shifts required.  At the same time it’s also been the most terrifying and unpredictable position I’ve found myself in.  It’s a world of juxtapositions: rewarding and demanding, comfortable and so very messy, frustrating and breathtakingly perfect. 

In today’s world, the myriad of what “mom” is expected to be is further complicated by the accessibility to the world wide web of parenting practices. We Google and Pinterest discipline techniques, nutrition plans, crafts and rainy day fun, birth options, side effects of added Calcium, all in the endless pursuit of molding the perfect new person to add to the ranks of society.  Enjoying motherhood, now more than ever, gets obscured either partially or completely by the fear and constant second-guessing we do when comparing ourselves to Tommy and Jane’s mom based on her Facebook posts.

In an effort to present ourselves and our child-rearing ideals to others simply and easily, we pack them into pretty parcels to present to the parenting community.  We try to classify ourselves as this kind of parent or that, or we use harsh monikers such as helicopter or absent parent to describe others.  It’s all so tempting, those preset parenting parameters.  The fancy titles to define our choices by.  Problem, is, perception and the individual can make all the difference when it comes down to the different definitions of this type of mom or that.  What, then, do we do?  Argue for the case of our own personal classification system?  Or succumb and be ousted after being told you don’t belong?  And is that really what we want to do, to reject and ostracize moms who don’t follow to the most minute of details what we feel is the proper parenting path?

If you’re anything like me, when you hold your standards of care and your choices up to others who identify with whatever style it is you’re claiming, then find even the slightest discretion, it’s maddening to feel as if you’re coming up short.  It’s as if you don’t quite fit in with any particular subculture of moms and anywhere you go someone is going to criticize some factor of your personal mom equation.

           

But, maybe baby-wearing just isn’t comfortable for you; perhaps you cry at the thought of mixing that bottle of formula despite your pediatrician’s concerns at a slower than American average growth rate; these jars of baby food either delight or repulse you.   All that, and then don’t forget to take the baby’s comfort into consideration, for he’s part of this relationship as well.

The thing is, as different as we moms all are from each other, so too is our first from our middle to our last, whether there be four or nine of them.  It was in discovering this about my own three children that I realized to encase myself within any firm boundaries of attitudes and beliefs towards child-rearing would not only be disheartening and incredibly impossible to live up to, but also a disservice to my children.  I’ve found that my confidence as a mom is strongest when I make my choices based on who they are and less on what works for other parents and children

What teaches A right from wrong is mere irritation to W.  What comforted N at 2am is simply unnecessary to W who sleeps through the night with ease.  Where N required close, cuddling parents throughout the day, A was a craver of autonomy and never would’ve accepted being wrapped and worn.  All of this we learned as we went, a sort of trial and error, flying by the seat of their diapers as it were.  Combined with my visceral instincts and their subsequent overall happiness and contentedness, it all adds up to simple and plain instinctual parenting.  It could be that our wisest and most patient teacher on this tangled and wildly raw, beautiful subject are the little ones we’re trying to raise.  Indeed, our mistakes are forgiven by them far quicker and easier than by the onlookers who seek to judge and rebuke.

Don’t get me wrong.  Research is important for any parent, but with so many differing opinions out there and as much evidence stacked up on one side as there is on the opposing, it can be tough to navigate this jungle understanding that there is more than one right way to do things.  Getting overwhelmed and mixed up is inevitable.  When you make a firm stance, it’s without question that there will be just as many people supporting you as there are admonishing critics ready to demolish your months of intense homework.  

 

My three births were as different as different could possibly be.  My first came a week early, by choice (aka: the high-blood-pressure-high-sugars-baby’s-too-big Friday night induction special).  I made it to an 8.5 then caved to repeated offers for pain relief, despite being committed to a drug-free labor.  I birthed in a bed, unable to move around due to nurses’ orders.  All of this, and I hadn’t spent even ten minutes on reading about all of my options and the ideas behind the choices that were out there.  They’re doctors, I’d say to myself, of course they only have my health and well-being in mind, what else would motivate a healer?  Later in life I came to understand the pricetags that adorn every decision available in the healthcare system.  At the time, though, it felt right.  I was young and insecure…I needed guidance and those were the ideas and practices presented to me.  Five years later, it felt perfectly normal and obvious to birth #2 at home in my bathroom upstairs with nothing more to comfort me than my midwife and a strong husband.  I spent days worth of time on the computer searching for the answers to every question you can fathom, packed my poor midwifes text inbox, but when the moment came…the AH HA! This is it! moment washed over me, all fears and questions melted away and I just knew this was how N was meant to join us.

 That’s the thing about following your gut and placing the utmost importance on your soul’s reaction to the choices you make rather than the neighbor who heard you crowning, the man at the grocery store who disapproves of your shoeless babe (yes, that really happened), or your sister-in-law’s best friend’s pediatrician.  When it’s right, you know immediately and the gratification is instantaneous.

Ever mention off-hand, whether in response to a direct inquiry or pitching in on a friendly conversation about the topic, something as loaded as how you birthed?  The foods you ate while pregnant?  If you have, you likely (at least once) were on the receiving end of a barrage of defensive remarks from the other party(ies) involved, as if your choices are a direct attack on theirs.  In an effort to live in peace with one another and within ourselves, perhaps it’s time to make a conscious effort to live and breathe by our own convictions instead of wavering in the face of what we’re told is the “right” or “proper” thing to do?  I know that was myself, once upon a time.  I so badly wished to breastfeed, a dream that ended abruptly without proper support or education and once I convinced myself wasn’t possible and so when others celebrated their nursing milestones and achievements I would clam up, pout, and fight back all of the imaginary slights on my choice to bottle-feed formula to my baby girl.  If we all took the time to dig deep within ourselves and discover the paths and choices that jive with us on the deepest levels, we’d no longer feel that need to defend our honor in the face of others making choices maligned with our own; it’d no longer be a question of whose decision was wiser because we would understand that we, all of us, exist on different planes in this same existence and as such are impacted in very unique ways by varying our actions even just slightly.  We must then decide for ourselves what works and what is impossible.  Perhaps then we would quit questioning each other.

As humans, we’re driven to find patterns and ways to organize groups of things, all things.  To transcend that cerebral need and live moment-to-moment, perhaps we should try to parent in the now, quit trying to recall page 107 of that mommy rulebook, how freeing that could be.  To know that untitled does not equal unstructured or poor parenting.  As for myself, I’ll be here trying to start a trend of following those kneejerk mothering reactions and watching my kids thrive happily and peacefully, confident in the choices they make as they watch my confidence soar in my own.  



Ah!  And of course, the obligatory post picture.  How could I have forgotten?

 

Letter From a Nursing Student

**Disclaimer, I can't take credit for everything between the ------ lines.  Found it whilst doing random searches for care of the self.  The paragraphs before and after the lines are my own original writing.**

It's a bizarre Monday, a fourth day without the responsibility of an 8-hour-overnight looming ahead of me, three days of what should've been, probably could've been for most others, relaxing and unwinding after a hard week of class and work and class and work and eeking one to two hour naps in whenever the situation presented itself.  Many times that meant baby gates, a pillow and a blanket, floor space where toys have been shoved to both sides, and Nanny Nick Jr. aiding me in the afternoon care of the small ones.  Mom needs sleep?  Preposterous!  It's been four weeks since my semester began...and this has been the prevailing attitude, I can even claim it as my own.  That is, until this past weekend.  The one where I should've been devoting myself to enjoying my babies in between short spurts of studying for an exam.  Where I should've been, should've been, should've been so many things.  That's how it goes, these days.

This weekend the devotion of my self to everything besides my SELF came to a head in one very disconcerting health issue that sent my head spinning.  In many senses.  Out of no where I was forced to put my own care front and center; I don't know about you other moms, students, dads, caregivers, workers, but for me?  Nothing could've been more unsettling.  Nothing rattles the people pleaser in me more than saying "No", more than having this brand new entity to be concerned over...me.

"But....the baby......"

When the dust settles and the reality of it becomes very clear, that in the end the only one most able to meet your needs, to nurture you to health and sanity, is YOU... well, it isn't an easy reality to come to.  But this helped me.  And maybe it will help you too.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello to the friend, the parent, the spouse, the child, the colleague, the family, the acquaintance, the stranger in the bar who I forgot to call after my happy hour hello from my barstool:

I am a caregiver.

You probably know this about me by now.

Unless you were the stranger at the bar.  But if I ever call you, you'll come to know that too

I have a simple request, on behalf of myself and my fellow caregivers.  No matter where in the process we are, aspiring, practicing or retiring, it's the same.

Please remember, and feel free to remind me

Every day

Care of the self is necessary for the proper care of those in need that surround me.

Whether I am

A first year student or a second

I'm a dad

A mom

A fresh high school graduate beginning my generals next week

Working to put myself through post-secondary

Riding those student loans like a bull in the south of Texas

A single parent of multiple children

Any combination of the above

Any combination you could possibly conceive

I am a caregiver above all else

And before I consider me

I will consider the calling in my heart

Before I mind the aching in my bones

I am figuring out how to mend yours

I am not a martyr

I am simply consumed and ravaged

By what I love to do

Without consideration of reward

Karma

Retribution

I may not have arrived at the realization that I am as important as the people I care for

Like my colleagues

My peers

My classmates

Have

It could be I'm behind the curve

It could be I'm a fantasist, full of nothing more than a mix of gumption and inanity

But right now in my pursuit of this dream

I need to be reminded and I need you to remember

There will be days where I must come first

There will come a time when who I am now must be more front and center

Than what I want to be to the world

There will be moments where I am so lost in what I wish to become

That who I am is suffering

Show me

Slow me down

I nurture others

If I am a parent, I nurture them twice

I nurture the future nurturers

And am left with an empty tank on which to sustain myself

Help me refill

With a smile

A comforting embrace

A soft "It's going to be ok"

On a day when I'm convinced it will be anything and everything else

To the friend, the parent, the spouse, the child, the colleague, the family, the acquaintance, the stranger in the bar who I forgot to call after my happy hour hello from my barstool

It's not that I've forgotten you

In the madness that is this time of my life

I love and value "us" just as deeply now

As I did before

Please remember

And remind me

That it's ok to save the nurturing of our relationship for another time

When the fostering of my future success

Weighs so heavily upon me now

Remember

Remind me

That I am human just as those I am attempting to heal

Remember

In order to contribute to my success

In order to help me

Please don't demand more of me

The caregiver in me won't allow the neglect of you

So remind me

And remember

That this is not abandonment of you

This is the discovery of the nurse deep within me

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Words that resonate.  Words that help me feel the edges of the "whole picture".

And now I think I'll go drink a glass of wine in my room alone with an episode of Grey's.  Adieu!

"Do a Few Things Well"

Everyone has that pivotal moment on their timeline, the one when someone says something either directly to them or they read some wise words from a book, hear something cool from Johnny Depp in a good movie, something that happens to resonate just so inside of them, at just the absolute perfect point in their life that the resulting shockwave sets off an avalanche of transformation.  Or they choose to do nothing, and it haunts them.

Johnny Depp sure does haunt me...cause he's so deep...right.

I had one of those.  I remember every single little detail about that day, down to the clothes I was wearing and the color of his tie.

I was a single mom going back to school, my A was 10 months old, and I was failing two courses, barely skimming the line of a D in another, but pulling a B in my communication course...the only one I attended regularly.  I like to attribute that to the professor, an interesting, charismatic, compelling kind of dude....

This is Richard Gere.  This is not my professor.

Ok, yeah.  And he wasn't bad to look at.  But I digress, the class was going well, I was only late on one deadline which I  managed to talk my way out of failing.  After all, I was raising my daughter on my own, working nearly full time as a nanny and attending courses full time.  And...come on... it was technically in on time, simply in the wrong format.  Those were the talking points of the only email I ever sent him.  Without much response, the grade posted a few days later as an A.  It was over and I didn't ruminate much on it (oh, Samantha of 2006 with your magical fix-it-and-forget-it powers, I long to reclaim that magic...)  It was a week later, in lecture, that it happened.

October.  I was wearing a black shirt with lace around the collar and the hems.

My desk was on the far left of the classroom.  One seat back from the front.  So I could see his dark, Earthy brown eyes watching me as he spoke.  The only thing I don't remember are the words from the textbook.

"Do a few things at a time, well.  Or do many, many things all at once...poorly."

There was a pause.  Then...

"Like trying to raise a child all on your own while pursuing a degree and having to financially support yourself and said child.  Every single aspect of that life is going to suffer to some degree.  Sure, you may be able to say hey, look at my wonderful GPA!  I still have my job!  But how is your relationship with your kid?  You think that's going great too?  How much BETTER could it be?  How much is the stress to get it ALL done pervading every single moment of that kind of life?"

His tie was silver.  His pressed shirt was lavender.  It was kind of cold in there.

How could he possibly understand?  How could he know what it was like, trying to make it through "that kind of life"?  He obviously wanted for nothing.  Had he ever been a scared, struggling 20 year old with a baby and no prospects?

I gave up on the job.  I didn't quit.  I just removed every ounce of focus from it and split it between my daughter and finals week.  It was too late for that semester, of course, to resurface from the depths I had drowned myself in.  And I still don't remember much from A's last few months of her first year on this Earth besides lots and lots of driving.  I tried to pull it together for her at the end there, though, resulting in a dismissal from work and a bit of a financial struggle.  Never again, I swore.  It helped, finding C and moving in together, getting married,  getting a job taking care of my aunt and making decent money at it.  Other moms aren't so lucky, I knew as much.  I was dealt an incredibly fortunate and generous hand.   I wish that were "the end".  I wish that was my "happily ever after".  But I knew it couldn't be.  Something was sparked to life inside of me once I was stable on my feet, once life was no longer about "survival at all costs" I had a chance to tend to my needs as an individual....some moms call it being selfish.  I can't help it, I knew I had to keep moving forward; after stagnancy set in I grew restless and angry at my complacency with the unremarkable life I was living.

I find myself here today, in school and working an overnight 30-some-odd hour week in addition to raising three little girls, as a result of the decisions I made back when an unease with the ordinary took over me.  Without blinking, without a second thought back to that tall, rail thin man who wore tie clips and a thick silver ring on his left, well-manicured hand, who delivered a stern warning seven years ago.  I struggle.  Once in a while I absolutely lose it in the car, blast the music and hope no one can see me falling apart through the frosty layer I didn't scrape away from the side windows.  I'm back to doing those many, many things...the best I can possibly manage, this time with a husband by my side to lighten the load, despite the emotional burden of thick, murky guilt overwhelming me frequently.

Of course, I wish I had more time to do things with these lovely little ladies.  A is in girl scouts, and I know there's a frustration at my lack of involvement.  In fact, when she began I was slated to help lead the troop.  (I think everyone else took a step back, because I am NOT the one you would peg for leading a troop of little girls in all things scout-y).  But you know what?  Back when it was just work and the kids, work and the kids, work and the kids, do some dishes and kiss your husband goodnight, well I was absolutely thrilled to be a leader for the future generation of women.  I was excited to be an alternative role model.  To bring my own brand of awesome to the task.  To promote individuality.  To be a tattooed, pierced girl scout mom.

Well.  Now I sleep on girl scout nights.  And after next week, I'll spend most girl scout nights reading a textbook and writing papers, notes, making flashcards, studying skills and theories.  Which, naturally, doesn't mean I love my little scout any less than other moms.  It doesn't mean I'm flighty, flaky or disorganized.   Prioritizing, these days, means considering what will have the most positive influence on the future.  Yet, the disappointment radiates off of A like heat from a car engine in the midst of an intense July road trip, palpable, heart wrenching.  She doesn't understand.

All in the name of...making a better life for them?  We had a decent life.  A sustainable life.

All in the name of...responding to a cry from deep within that insisted I step off the well-groomed trail to the wild and unpredictable?  To follow my heart even when (especially when) my brain with its logic and reason and a million different but equally weighty answers to why I should, tries to convince me to stay the course?

There weren't any windows in the room.  Maybe that's why I found it so easy to pay attention to him.  Maybe that's why the sound waves of his words are etched on my cerebrum; they had no where else to go besides bouncing around the four walls of that small space, back and forth between the drywall and my eardrums.

I once found those words inspiring, and changed my life to reflect how very seriously I took them.

Once in a while, they haunt me. I do so many things, none nearly as well as I could, by my own choosing.  Other moms use words such as "selfish", or phrases like: you "made the decision to put your kids through this", you are actively "not present" in their lives.  Why? They ask.

My husband can't support me on his income alone; I work to feed my children while I study to feed my soul.


All in the name of...inspiring my girls to never settle for a life that is anything less than a monument to their passion and the greatness of their potential, despite the hardships they may encounter and the words of all those who can't possibly understand the journey they've chosen, nay, IN SPITE OF THOSE THINGS.  

In the name of...chasing a life, not of material plenty, but of spiritual fulfillment by tending to what I believe is my calling and never giving up, which I pray every day will set a positive example to my daughters who are always watching.

Yes.  Yes, that's it.

The Obligatory New Years Post!

Well, hello there.  I'd go through introductions yet again, but I think instead I'll just set this right here...

...and let it jog your memory.

We've reached the end of another year together, this family of mine and me.  A beautiful and never quite perfect year, albeit peppered with profoundly incredible memories.

My lovely midwife Jenny with fresh and new W, www.newbirthmidwifery.com!

I'd like to say we've done an intense amount of growing this year, all of us.  We learned about N's particular needs (and her strengths too!)  All to help us help her develop and become something wonderful.

I was published by this pretty excellent magazine, after the wild facebook status update debacle of 2013.

Natural Mother Magazine, I thank you!

My confidence in my little writing hobby was bolstered beyond belief, even if I'm not proving it by flexing my writer's muscles very often these days.  Sorry 'bout that.  But it's just that also...

After a wild roller coaster of disappointment, developing self-confidence and the implantation of a giant steel rod where my flimsy ineffective spine once was (figuratively speaking, folks), I was finally admitted to the nursing program of my first choice school.

But we're getting a little ahead of things here.  Before that there was of course my triumphant return to a job I absolutely adore, in March.

How about my very first root canal?  Which went so wrong in so many ways, that I can't believe I'm ever considering going near a dentist again?

That is not packing in my cheek.  That is swelling.

There were a few relationships that fell apart, but even better were the ones that were repaired and made stronger than ever before.

A wonderful vacation!  To see AMAZING family and friends!

And that one time one of those lovely Maine ladies came to Minnesota to see US?

Because my eldest was in her first BIG play!

The birthdays.  So many birthdays.

There's quite a lot to be thankful for, something I do far more thoroughly (reflecting on all I've been given, whether I've behaved in a deserving manner or not) at New Years' than on the turkey holiday.  Looking ahead, I see the potential the coming 365 days holds and I tremble a little at how it looms ahead of us, titanic in proportions, shadowy and blurry and unknown.  But what a wild ride.  What a topsy, turvy, insane ride.  Just when we started to get real down and out, thinking things would never get better, they would, they did, unfailingly.

I don't do big, specific resolutions.  The few times I have, I've done well with them (except the one where I said I'd lose the baby weight from W very quickly).  I just don't want to feel like a failure if I DO put something out there and have to admit defeat at any point.  Besides, the years keep coming, the wheel keeps turning, there's new days coming after this one, 24 hours of potential laying ahead of me all the time.  An entire day, week, month, year's worth of chances to make this life something stunning, something to look behind me and smile about.

Next year comes nursing school, preschool for little N, toddler adventures for W, and absolutely whatever A puts her mind to, I'm sure she'll own it.

I'm thankful, so thankful, for my 27 years, and everything encased within them.  I'm saying goodbye to 2013, and I resolve to look back next December 31st in the year of 2014 with just as much pride in what we've done with these coming 365, as I'm feeling today.

Happy New Years, everyone!  Give us your best shot, 2014!

Yes Honey, Nick Jr. is Just Fine...

In this house, there's two channels: Netflix and Nick Jr.

And if Netflix is the option du jour, then you can bet we're still watching Lazytown or Sesame Street.  Monotonous?  Yes.  Do I find myself responding to Dora in sarcastic bitchy quips?  Every day.  Is my slightly inappropriate behavior rubbing off on my daughters?  Probably.  But I can't help it.  It's the only thing that pulls me through.

By making up my own lyrics to mumble along with Bo on the Go's opening theme, I'm reminding myself that my brain is not rotting to mush after several hours too many of television time, I've still got some neural pathways sparking, I'm still clever.  Now, I'd be lying of course if I didn't admit this next bit...the incentive to glancing over at the guest star bantering with Elmo.  See...when the kids go down for a nap...and mommy gets her 20 minutes to an hour and a half of alone time with which to clean the house play on Pinterest...there's nothing more alluring than...

That's right.  I google and Pinterest search every mildly attractive guest star/secretly hot children's show host we stumble across.  No shame here.  And for your viewing pleasure/ease, I've compiled a list of my favorites.

#5. Secret Agent Oso. 

 Ok fine.  He's animated.  And Disney.  How could I have possibly gleaned from only his voice the extent of his real life sexiness?  Uh, hello, Lord of the Rings?  The Goonies?  I KNEW that voice.

Sean Astin.  The second reason to watch Encino Man.  Now found on Disney Jr., making twenty minutes of mind numbing potential torture just a twee bit sweeter.  Predictable narration, back-to-back episodes that follow the same script each time with a handful of words changed; just close your eyes and imagine Samwise Gamgee detailing the three special steps to get to Mordor.  Or something.

Dat hair.

#4. Twist, The Fresh Beat Band.

If you haven't heard of this show, you either don't own a TV (that your child is aware of), you homeschool, or you plain and simple just don't have kids.  This show ranks a few notches below Dora and Diego on my tolerance scale.  Not only did I have to listen/watch these people sing and dance about Bananas and Operas for a solid half hour, but mixed into the commercial breaks are two minute Fresh Beat Band music videos. Hey, just in case you forgot they exist in between all these diaper and Nerf ads, here's another song to stick to your grey matter and taunt you throughout the day.  Yes.  Yes you WILL be mumbling, "shout it out! just like a rockstar!" while you make spaghetti later tonight.  I didn't need to look at the screen to know when they were coming on, N's cues warned me to brace myself.  And THIS guy, this guy in particular seriously ground my gears.  No one is that stupid, Twist. No one.  But then I saw how cute he was...ok...maybe...

Jon Beavers.  Stifled giggle.

And suddenly I'm reminded of every stupid, cute boy I went to highschool with.  I can put up with every dumb thing you say, if you keep looking at me like that.  I'm sure the guy is a brilliant, talented individual.  Which would make him looking like THAT even more cruel and unusual.

#3. Rich Collins, from the Imagination Movers.  

Top center. 

I'm sure the other dudes are pretty attractive off-the-set too.  But Rich...

He's like a tame Adam Levine.  He's like the soccer dad version of Adam Levine.  He's Adam Levine if Adam Levine all of a sudden had triplets (two girls, one boy...but I've never thought this through...) he needed to drop off with a mini van to their French immersion school.  Yes please.

#2. Steve, the former (and better) host of Blue's Clues.

Now, I don't know about you, but I get pretty passionate about the Steve vs. Joe debate.  Steve wins.  Hands down.  And not just because he looks like this:

But also because he tells me I look great.   He wears the same green shirt every episode, which is important.  Blue is always blue, right?  Well then why the hell can't Blue's owner always wear green?  And, what?  College?  Yet, there were no tears, no "you're my childhood friend, Blue.  How can I leave you behind?"  And Joe just steps in, all "Hey Blue, you're my dog now".  This does not sit right with me.  Alas, this particular post isn't about my hang ups and my abandonment issues tied to Steve disappearing to some unknown post-secondary institution.  No.  It's just that I totally dig old-school Blue's Clues and maybe, probably, usually do answer Steve's obvious questions sincerely and solemnly to help him figure out whatever it is Blue wants but is too much of a pain in the ass to come out straight and tell us.  Because, come on.  Look at him.

#1. Sportacus, Lazy Town.

Trust me on this one.  First of all, watch how this man moves and tell me your thoughts stay rated G.  Didn't think so.  Second of all, listen to him.  That accent?  I almost don't need to show you what he looks like outside of that ridiculous costume and without the creepy mustache, but I'm going to because you deserve to see it.

Oh, wait, that's not the right one.  Here it is...

Magnus Scheving.  Magnus.  Seriously.

This show could be aired in straight Icelandic and I would still watch it.  In fact sometimes I do.  Not only do you get Magnus, but there's also...

Oh. Nevermind.  Just forget I mentioned that.

Magnus Scheving created Lazytown, a show encouraging healthy habits such as exercise and nutritional food choices ("sports candy").  Iceland's "Athlete of the year" in aerobic gymnastics (like being the best hockey player in Mexico).  He's also a father of three, and a grandpa of two.  I'm a youngish mom of small children and I can't get my feet above my head like that.  Touché, pops.

And now, in parting, a challenge (a hope, an anticipation...): bring some more to the table!  I know I'm missing a few, so let's see who YOU hope to see whenever you turn on Nick Jr./the episode you fast forward to on Netflix!  Really, though, I just need more for the Pinterest board I have devoted to this very subject.  Go!

The Great Birthday Party Debate

Halloween is quickly approaching, a family favorite in my house.  Well, that may not be the most accurate of interpretations, especially when the middle child cowers in fear whenever we approach the seasonal aisles in Target starting at the end of September.  But you know what?  Until they're old enough to put the decorations up themselves, we'll always be decked out from September 15th until November 15th in witches and zombies and pumpkins and skeletons.

Oh, fine.  It's always Halloween in this house.

Halloween, however, means so much more than just paper cutouts on the walls and pumpkins carved on the front step.  Halloween, once over, leads to the inevitable Thanksgiving, and that dear readers is when all hell breaks loose.  Every year the end-of-November tradition is to drive over to Wisconsin to visit the husband's family and celebrate all sorts of things in one go, since trips aren't as frequent as we'd like.  It's nice to catch up, unwind, enjoy each other's presence.  We make gingerbread houses, play with all the toys only found and Grandma and Grandpa's house, eat a turkey dinner, the girls see their aunt and uncles and new cousin, we enjoy a breakfast usually made by papa and A, I indulge in the rare Dunkin Donuts (every. single. morning).  It's wonderful.

He's got infinitely more patience than I have.

However, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the entire three days worth of holiday was tarnished by this voice in the back of my head reminding me of what awaits on the other side.  Somehow the universe, in all its infinite wisdom and goodness, decided to bless me with winter babies.  Three of them.  Two in December.  One in January.  I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this... December 1st, on the tail of Thanksgiving, is A.  December 24th, Christmas Eve (because she does as she pleases) is N.  January 19th, a slight reprieve, is W.  And in there we have Christmas, we have gift giving with all the rest of our family and friends, another few birthdays and parties to attend and the ringing in of the New Year.

A spoonful of vodka makes the vitamin v go down...

By December 19th we're so frazzled and in a word DONE, that it's hard to enjoy much of anything.  Because everything is so jam-packed, we decided a while back to take a firm stance on birthdays and the prioritizing of birthday parties.  More specifically, which ages are the "big" ones.  Together (I use that word very loosely since I count as two votes in this house) we decided on 1, 5, 10, 13 and 16.

But only after attempting to do a party every year for the first child. 

The FIRST is obvious, I would think, but it was a battle.  On one hand, he argues, the child will never remember this birthday.  On the other, I retort, it's the first YEAR mark she has, not to mention that's an entire 12 months I managed to keep a non-communicative (in the bigger sense of the word.  of course she could cry and coo but sometimes I would've loved for her to open her mouth and discuss with me the problems with the breast milk) creature breathing, eating, excreting and hopefully growing and learning at the same time without completely losing my mind in the process.  When the subsequent children came, that was exponentially more difficult and so an even bigger success worthy of grander celebration, if I do say so myself.

Calm down, Pooh.  That kind of behavior is what got us here in the first place.

Five...we're going to be starting real school.  Honest to god school.  The five-to-seven year leap is upon us.  We're going to start losing teeth, if we haven't lost a few already.  FIVE!  That's half of a decade.  We made it through terrible twos and this-sucks-threes and frankly-crappy-fours, and have arrived to the time when we thrust them into society, shut our eyes tight and hope for the best when they arrive home each day.

Ok sweetie, slap on a princess dress and walk through the streamers, such is your initiation into society.

Ten?  Seriously?  Do I even need to argue my point?  Double digits!  Half way to the the excruciatingly long one year wait until drinking age!  Luckily, he understood ten.  And five, though he wasn't quite as enthusiastic as I was.  13 might not involve much from mom and dad in the way of pretty party favors and such but there needs to be a cool cake and delicious food and some good entertainment that probably will be more expensive than a homemade version of pin-the-pepperoni-on-the-pizza.

They even got to decorate the pin-able pepperoni pieces.  Cool at this age.  Probably not at 13.

In today's world, you might be able to see why we're having some trouble here.  When there's shows like this all over T.V.:

How can I justify a little two or three friend outing for some pizza and a movie and a from scratch cake at our dinner table?  How can I look my oldest daughter in those enormous, sad, teary eyes after attending party after party all school year and summer break long for her friends and tell her that leaving a few of her friends out won't be that big of a deal?  How do I explain to a seven-nearly-eight-year-old that in this economy with jobs like mom's and dad's and student loan bills lurking around every mail delivery, a princess extravaganza just isn't sensible?  If I told A that she could have a mani-pedi-spa party OR eat dinner for the next six months, she'd cover up that growling stomach with loud shouts about her beautiful nails.

Don't let A see this.  It'll give her ideas.

There's this growing pressure on moms to preform in the birthday party battle arena.  Don't pretend.  It might not be you, but those moms are out there... the ones who wait on bated breath to see if your daughter's dress is going to be frillier than theirs?  More sequins?  More sparkle?  More shine?  Will you buy the three tiered barbie cake complete with doll and fondant or will you settle for the corner grocery store sheet style with cheap piped buttercream?

Telling of a party her future fiancé will be having, isn't it?

Every theme needs to be greater than the next.  Circus parties followed by magician parties which inspire rock climbing and ocean diving and skiing parties.  Every kid gets a little gift bag, because everyone deserves a present, and those gift bags should never include crappy candy or cheap-o plastic junk.  Where's your creativity?  Your decorations better be from The Pottery Barn or Neiman Marcus or something like that.  Balloons?  Passé.  Doesn't she know how to roll the streamers so the tape isn't showing?  In fact, if you didn't choose every element of that child's party from a Pinterest board and craft each one from up-cycled resources on your own during your oodles of free time, well then really, how good of a mom are you?

Well.  I guess it's OK.  But I bet she didn't make those puff ball looking thingies herself.

How do you choose who to invite?  These days, in our "everyone's a winner!" culture, we are too scared to leave anyone out for fear of being the cause of an individuals emotional scarring in formative years that leads to serial murders or mass shootings.  Or just plain ole hurting someone's feelings.  I quiver in fear over invitations, wondering whether or not other parents will call me after their child comes home hurt and sad that she/he wasn't invited.  I remember one party in particular; A went to school and gave her teacher the invitations to put into the folders of the girls who were invited.  Unfortunately, mom didn't know there were TWO Sophias in class, and didn't put the correct last initial, which resulted in inviting the "wrong" Sophia which A then announced the mistake in front of the entire class when "wrong Sophia" brought up how excited she was for the gymnastics party!  Son-of-a-bitch.

Sorry Sophia.  Party was cancelled on account of my kid was too much of a mean girl to deserve a party at all this year.

Naturally, both Sophias were welcomed and attended.

But how do you choose?  When there's family with small kids around the same age, when there's Facebook where you, naturally, want to post all the fancy pictures documenting the amazing shenanigans and consequently show all the people who weren't lucky enough to warrant an invitation? It's impossible, especially with as many cousins and cousins' children and friends and friends' children as we have.  Someone is going to be left out.  And, as far as I can tell, the mom falls under the scrutiny almost every single time.  It's the competition of the thing, the Birthday Battle within the greater Mom Wars.  The dads get left out of the drama, probably in part because they're just so good at avoiding it all.  But the moms are responsible for everything, aren't they?  We're under the most pressure to preform...I still haven't sorted out why.  But it's an inescapable truth.  When dads send their daughters to school with crazy hair and mismatched clothing, we wince and wonder what other people must've thought of how WE moms are caring for our kids.  When the birthday party isn't as cool as Jimmy's or Sarah's and our child complains, we wonder and panic that the other kids might be talking about how lame our kid's mother is.  It falls on us, most of the time.  Even if we're just imagining it, we feel it, and that's enough to set us up for 18 odd years worth of annual party paranoia.

Lucky for us we have pretty awesome Grandmas who save the day, FREQUENTLY.

That brings us back to "the big ones".  Instead of experiencing this every single year with every single kid, an exponential nightmare, we will attempt to harness our excitement for our aging children and focus it on those we deemed landmark ages.  Except...we have to do something don't we?  We can't just ignore their birthday altogether.  So we decided that this year we'll do one thing for the two December girls.  One little get together with a friend or two at the indoor waterpark with that from scratch cake I love to bake and just a present or two for each of them.  Nothing more.  Who are we going to invite?  Are we going to pay their way into the waterpark?  It's expensive so...no.  Well then, why don't we open it up to whoever feels like joining us?  Mention where we'll be, if you want to come, come on down and meet us there.  "But then isn't it a party?" He asks me.  Then we need to make sure we have enough cake and enough favors and if it's a party for our kids we need to pony up cash to invite people so they don't get pissed about going to a party and bringing a present (not required, by the way, but I personally can't stand not bringing a present) AND paying cover charges... this is turning into a party.  This is turning into work.  A lot of work.  Back to the original plan, a few friends.  But........who do we invite?  Ok, we get to pick.  But she's turning eight, don't you think she'll resent us for choosing for her?  And don't you think if we post pictures of their fun that everyone else is going to get mad at us for not involving them in the celebration of life lived and life to come?  And I still need to buy Christmas presents as well as anything-BUT-red-and-green-wrapping-paper.

Happy birthday girls.  Mom's given up.  Dad's in charge now.

In the end we'll work it all out and I'm sure our girls will feel loved and cherished and adored on their special days.  But reflecting on the insanity of it all, one is left wondering how to gracefully step out of the fight, how to duck out of the ring when you don't feel like going even ONE round with the moms who want to engage you in these epic matches of "who obviously loves their kid more?". I want to believe my efforts will result in raising women who do not focus on the THINGS in life and instead on enjoying the moments and the love in life.  Is that enough for now?  Will that be enough for them as they grow up and envy the other kids for everything they get to do?  Will they resent me for it, even if they do one day understand?  Will they resolve to do more for their daughters than I did for them?  Will they understand that I wanted so badly to do more but some years just couldn't?  As far as I'm concerned, the memory of their most SPECIAL birthdays will live on in my heart forever, and I spend every single day of the year doing my best to show them how grateful I am for those three specific days of my life and of theirs.

I hope they understand that, for me, those particular parties will never be topped by anything I've ever had or ever will have in my life ever again.  Nine month prep and weeks of cleanup be damned.