Forging into the World of Other Moms.

November 14, 2018

My oldest daughter is six, and officially in “real” school. That means there are girl scout meetings and gymnastics classes. There are birthday parties and playdates. When I first started to emerge from the cocoon that was my house, burp rags, bottles and limited interaction with other moms outside of work, I’ll admit I was a little scared.

I have read those articles about moms who need to learn to build each other up instead of break each other down. And ones about the…DUN DUN DUN…mom shamers who judge you for feeding your kid the fish-shaped cheese crackers instead of the bunny-shaped ones (and vice versa). And the ones about little old ladies who stare you down and shake their heads when your child is throwing a tantrum.

I was actually more than a little scared. I was terrified.

And terrified me started going to gymnastics on Tuesdays with an infant and a notoriously challenging three-year-old in tow. I sat in the back row of seats. I shamefully let the three year old get a snack from the vending machine…every week. I turned bright red as she ran straight out the door into the parking lot and I ditched the baby inside with a bunch of strangers to save her from certain death. I cringed as she prodded through crowds of onlookers to get to the water fountain.

And I waited. I waited for someone to ask me to leave. Or to tell me to get my children under control. Or to ask me why I was feeding the baby formula. Or to reinforce that I am doing this absolutely, terribly wrong. But guess what? I’m still waiting.

Instead, I have been greeted with empathetic smiles. Other moms have offered to to hold the baby, and take the three year old on a walk on the sidewalk. One mom even said, “You’re doing a great job.”

Terrified me is now a lot more relaxed. No one even flinched at the girl scout meeting last week when I showed up with store-bought cookies and Capri-suns. A little old lady at McDonald’s told me the other day that my girls reminded her of hers when they were young. (They were acting like monkeys in a zoo, by the way.) And my nine-month-old reaches for Jessica, the nice baby-holding mom, automatically on Tuesdays.

I am just dipping my toe into the world of “other moms”. And I think it’s not that bad. There is far more support than there is judgement, or shaming, or head-shaking. I want you to be confident, mama. The world is still good out here. When you emerge from those piles of diapers and burp cloths, there are mamas who will help you out, and lift you up. And there are far more of them than there are those who will try to tear you down.

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Notes For the Babysitter: What Parents Really Want to Say.

November 5, 2018

We’re headed out of town for the weekend soon, and leaving three perfect angels at home with our trusty, go-to weekend sitter. There is a tailgate to be shopped for and planned, suitcases to be packed, PSR night, gymnastics night and hopefully bath night gently packed between now and the time we leave so I am already thinking about what she’ll need to know for less than 48 hours with….THEM.

I’ll leave behind a light note. Something like:

  • Everyone in bed around 7:30pm. 8pm at the latest.
  • iPads in moderation.
  • The baby eats 4 6-oz bottles per day, plus 3 meals which are sitting out for you.
  • She takes a binky to go to sleep.
  • Fair warning: they wake up early. There’s unlimited coffee stocked in the kitchen.

Right? That’s nice. It doesn’t make me look like an untrusting psychopath with way too many rules, while also appearing do-able. Nice and easy. It’s a note that lowers the chance of her running out the front door and texting me, ‘Nevermind, good luck!” by at least 67%, while the pile of cash sitting atop the note covers the additional 33%.

However, my mom brain knows just how insufficient this note really is. Everyone will survive I tell myself on repeat. They are angels for other people (which is actually infuriatingly true) and they’ll have fun! But real me still wants to jot down a few extra things:

  • The three year old cannot eat corn dogs for every meal. If she takes it upon herself to bite into a frozen one while you’re caringly making her something else, don’t worry. Poison control said a bite won’t hurt her.
  • If you need to entertain the nine month old for a few minutes, sit her in front of the robovac. She loves to take it off its home and watch it go back again. Guaranteed four minutes of sanity.
  • There is still Halloween candy around here. If you let them have too much, the six-going-on-eighty year old will tell on you (she can text me from her ipad…). Use it for bribes as you wish.
  • Whatever you do, don’t leave the three year old and the nine month old in the same room alone together, ever. She loves her so much she might actually squish her. Or feed her Skittles. Or stand her up to help her “walk”. Or…well, you get the idea.
  • The six year old will watch YouTube all day if you let her. And she’ll be super cranky if she does. Pick your poison.
  • Not that this has happened before or anything, but if the three year old says, “I have to go,” and you tell her to go, she just might be talking about leaving the actual house and not going to the potty…hypothetically.
  • At bedtime you’ll want to serve waters in the blue Mickey and pink princess water bottles, or else.
  • Warmy = the six year old’s giant gray old-lady blanket.
  • Hilda = a flattened stuffed hippopotamus.
  • Heart blanky = a baby blanket the three year old stole from the baby’s room that she sleeps with every night.
  • If you have questions about all the remotes, ask the six year old.

And finally, their dirty hands and sassy mouths and deceitful minds are quite literally our entire world so don’t let anything crush their spirits or break their bones while we’re away. Just as fast as I’m sprinting out of here to get away from them, I’ll sprint right back if one of them needs me.

It will be insane, and not that bad all at the same time.

May the force be with you,

Megan & Donny

Mom Turf: Setting The Playground Rules

November 1, 2018

Hey mama. Yes, you over there, scrolling Facebook pretending to be buried in work emails. And the mom actually buried in work emails. And you, right there—snapping the same picture of your kid going down the same slide for the 15th time in a row. And you, the helicopter mom rolling your eyes at the wild kids playing tag. Even you, mom over there not paying attention whatsoever.

Parks come with a whole slew of rules for kids—age limits and size limits and proper slide form. But what they don’t come with are any rules for moms. I have come up with a few ideas, and I think they’re surprisingly simple.

First of all, there is a reason we’re all at the park. It is more often than not to escape (aside from the occasional birthday party). We go to parks to escape the toy bins being dumped out for the 47th time in a row and the snack crumbs ending up on the kitchen floor and hearing “I’m bored” for the 123rd time and to escape yelling “INDOOR VOICES” in the least indoor voice we can muster.
Rule #1: Be understanding.

Secondly, we have all come to the park with children. GASP! Did I just say children? Yep! We have all brought children to the park to P-L-A-Y. Some are slow and wobbly children. Others are fast and nimble. Some are shy and love to watch. Others are social and want to play. Some run up slides, and others hold up the line at the top mustering the courage to take the plunge. Regardless of the age or stage of your child, remember all the kids deserve to have fun.
Rule #2: Be patient.

And finally, hello. I’m a mom, too. In fact, I’ve been every single mom I described in the introduction above. I think we’re far more alike than we are different. And I think we’ve lost the art of friendly hellos. Next time I see you there, I’ll leave my fear-of-judgement pants at home and say hi.
Rule #3: Be brave. 

My Mom Policy: No More Toy Bins

October 29, 2018

Have you recently found yourself in the home organization aisle at Target or, better yet, IKEA? Roaming and looking for solutions to house all of your kids’ “stuff”. The babies and Barbies and cars and Lego sets. The bottles and shoes and dresses that come with them, too.

When your kids are little, there is so much stuff (thanks, grandparents). And the natural thing to do, at least for me, is to find solutions to store it all in the least cluttery way possible. However, when we moved into the house we live in now I made a promise to myself that I would never buy another toy bin.

I bought toy bins that fit the space of our home, and held all the stuff we had at the time when we moved in. I decided right then that if I ever found myself feeling the need for more storage, it instead would mean we need less stuff. That was three years and a whole extra human ago, and the only time I broke that promise was when we finished the basement.

This house is a major upgrade from the spaces we’ve lived since our oldest daughter was born. We moved from the luxury of midwest space—3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house—to the scarcity of California space—1 bed/1 bath apartment—when she was just 12 weeks old. I packed up a whole room we had carefully decorated just for her and took down the hand-made bow holder and shabby chic letters above her crib (it was six years ago, ok?). We even packed away her crib, and we were left with just enough space for a Pack ‘n Play next to our mattress on the floor.

That year we lived in California, about 1/3 of our stuff fit in our apartment and 2/3 sat in storage. Guess how much of it I missed? Zero. Not a single thing. In that tiny apartment, I learned how little we really need. How much love grows in little spaces. And how much crap we accumulate just to fill the space we have.

This past weekend, we did our annual purge (we do it before the new wave of stuff comes in at the holidays). And boy does it feel GOOD! We go through the house and fill boxes with toys and stuffed animals that have served their time and purpose here.

I purposely don’t do this under the cover of night while the kids are sleeping. I want them to learn to part with toys, books and stuffed animals—even ones they love. I want them to understand that if they love it, another kid will, too. I want them to be perpetually in touch with the fact that physical belongings are not what matter. I want them to feel good about giving to less fortunate kids—and that doesn’t mean giving our “leftovers” or the things we don’t want, but rather sacrificing things we do.

At 8 months, 3 and 6, I wouldn’t say they quite get those concepts yet. But eventually they will. And in the meantime, I feel lighter. The clutter has lifted and so has the weight on my shoulders. Instead of squeezing more in this holiday season, we have made room.

Here Come The Holidays, And More LOL Surprise Dolls.

October 25, 2018

Hey mama. I see you over there, under 25 layers of plastic scraps while your child is still gleefully can’t-waiting and unwrapping the contents of that colorful ball. And Lord I pray it is not a Confetti Pop for the sake of your floors. Let me tell you, I can relate.

I can relate to your bank account that has undeniably suffered trips to Target for a single $13 Big Sister only to discover shelves of empty boxes (or only pets), yet still left with $89 worth of oh-yeah-I-needed-that.

I can relate to your surprise when there is actually a full shelf to choose from—and the overwhelming urge to grab them all.

I can relate to your disdain for not actually knowing what you’re buying at all.

And I can relate to your hidden excitement to unveil the surprise.

I can relate to the layers of plastic and confetti strung all throughout your house.

And the ice-cold and luke-warm water splashed all over your kitchen.

I can relate to your hatred for teeny-tiny shoes, yet also your fondness of spunky little names and adorable little styles.

I can relate to 27 minutes of alone-time while your child is trying to get to the doll.

And 27 hours of beg-time while your child is trying to convince you why they need just one more.

Who knew toy fads could be so fun as a parent? Some days I’m not sure if I love or hate the LOL Dolls, but they sure do add a layer (or 7) of excitement to this stage of life. Here’s to the next blind bag!

This post is in no way sponsored by MGA Entertainment or LOL Surprise Dolls, though I probably should have tried to make that happen. 🙂

Why Writing This—Right Now—Matters To Me.

October 23, 2018

Once upon a time I drafted about a half of a book titled, What to Expect When You Weren’t Expecting. I wrote it just after I had my first baby, and it was about dealing with the (shocking, emotional, painful, vomit-filled) truths of pregnancy, and the gut-wrenching feeling of faking thrilledness for a surprise bundle of joy. I can hardly relate to the heart of that work anymore, because after three pregnancies, three perfect babies and six years experiencing motherhood I can’t even comprehend how I was unthrilled about Brynlee’s life at any point in time.

But back then, it was the truth. There is only one piece of that not-so-book that still speaks to me—the dedication. It read:

For my daughter, Brynlee (and any future daughters I don’t know about). I hope this book gives you someone to relate to when you get pregnant. Because at that point I’ll be way too old and jaded by the joy you’ve brought my life to remember any of this stuff.

As moms, we become jaded oh-so quickly by the joy our children bring to our lives. It’s why almost every woman with grown children reminds us mamas in the thick of diapers and feedings and sleeplessness how fast it goes, how much we’ll miss these days and how we should cherish every moment.

They don’t actually want us to stop blinking. Or expect us to miss pacing the halls with a screaming newborn at 2am with a woken, whiny 3 year old over there in the corner. They don’t assume we will actually cherish trying to get smushed banana out of the carpet or permanent marker off of the walls.

I could promise that I will never tell a mama of littles that she will miss this, and instead tell her that she will make it through. But just six years ago promised I would never scream, “You must be so thrilled!” to a mama who just found out she was pregnant…and I have totally already done that.

Every time I’ve had a newborn, I’ve been surprised at how hard it is. My kids are not even three years apart, yet each time a new one has entered our lives I have been far enough removed from the grueling newborn stage to forget just how sleepless and exhausting and physically demanding it is.

That’s why I started writing, right now. In the thick of 8 months, 3 and 6. In the middle of diapers, sleeplessness and school routines. Because if I try to write about it later, it will come out as a filtered set of memories tainted by the joy of the outcome, rather than an honest look at the struggle in the journey.

I hope you’ll continue to journey with me. We are all in this together!

20 Things That Prove I Actually Am An Adult.

October 20, 2018

I am 31 years old, and 10-year-old me would’ve thought I was an old fuddy-duddy. However, aging is such an odd thing. As you get older you, of course, mature and your body fat increases and your skin elasticity decreases, but it all happens so subtly that you never actually feel like an adult in your brain. There is no magic time or place where it’s like, “Ok, now you are an adult.” I suppose high school or college graduation could serve as those moments, but still…it doesn’t feel like it.

Recently I have caught myself doing things that act as a quick pinch to remind me I am actually not that young and hip anymore (if I ever was to begin with). Here goes it:

  1. I keep Urban Dictionary on speed dial (after learning in a business meeting that Netflix and chill does not actually mean Netflix and chill).
  2. I know what speed dial means.
  3. There are three humans who refer to me as “Mom”
  4. I have said, “When I was your age we had to wait through the commercials. Yes! All of them.”
  5. I have said, “Are you ready for bed?” to my spouse before 8pm.
  6. I have to buy my nieces and nephews things to get them to say I’m their cool aunt.
  7. I had to put a phone call with my best friend in my calendar…and book it a week in advance.
  8. I have made the switch to Kidz Bop (ever since my daughter bolted out, “I didn’t know that I was starving ’til I tasted you” in the grocery store checkout line.)
  9. I get giddy when the house is clean.
  10. I got a new toaster as a Christmas gift (and I wasn’t mad about it).
  11. I consider a couple driveway beers a wild Friday night.
  12. I voluntarily drive a mini-van.
  13. I have called the doctor about poop color. (for a child, to be clear)
  14. “I have a person for that.” My repertoire of home repairmen, lawn peeps, pest control, garage door fixers, etc… is impressive.
  15. #ThrowbackThursday is my favorite Spotify playlist.
  16. People laugh when I do “The Floss”
  17. I have said, “Yeah, well life’s not fair,” more often than I care to admit.
  18. I don’t even have to check in at the OB or pediatrician’s offices anymore.
  19. I actually think my dad’s jokes are funny.
  20. I love Brussels sprouts.

Alright, that’s enough adulting for one day. If you need me, I’ll just be here listening to Britney CDs and eating Pop Rocks.