Blissfully, Imperfectly Yours...

I have never been a morning person.

Unfortunately, that hasn't changed with motherhood. In fact, while mornings may have been a little less than rosy before, now I just freakin hate them.

Not always, of course. Sometimes, I will awake to a sweet  two year old staring lovingly into my face, or an excited seven year old bounding happily into my room, or a gentle kiss from a four year old prince.

But mostly, I wake to someone, or several someones, screaming in the bedroom next to ours. Or throwing legos into the hallway. Or sticking their finger in my eye.

On most days, there are now two kids to get ready for school. Whoever said it gets easier once your kids start school was a liar. Or maybe just delusional from sleep deprivation. Oh sure it's easier between the hours of 9 am and 3 pm, because they're not there. But trust me, the craziness between the hours of 7:15 and 8:45 more than makes up for it.

I realize that's only an hour and a half. But it feels like six hours.

Except when it comes to having enough time to get everything done.

 In which case it feels like ten minutes.

Oh sure, it starts out easy enough. A somewhat leisurely breakfast as we talk about our day. But then I look at the clock, and suddenly...it's time.

Time for the calm, maternal figure in the kitchen, who just ten minutes ago was sweetly asking "Waffles or oatmeal, Sweet pea?" to turn into a psycho drill sergeant on speed.

Get dressed!

Find your shoes!

Take your lunch!

Shit. I haven't made your lunch.

Find your shoes!

Brush your teeth!

Do your hair!

Why don't you have your shoes on?

And for the third time put your socks on the right feet!

And then I think, I would totally skip the sugar in my coffee if I could just put a little xanax in it instead.

I drive the kids to school almost every day now. Because I think it's important that the last face they see before they walk into their school is mine. That before they have to sit down and do the calculus that they now teach in second grade (at least I'm pretty sure it's calculus), or spend an hour learning to write their name, they get a kiss and a hug from their mom.

That is why I drive them to school.

It has almost nothing to do with the fact that my butt can't manage to get their butts out the door in time to get the bus.

Or that one of them doesn't even have the option of the bus.

So I drive them to school and as I drop them off, I pray that they have a good day, and that they stay safe, and that no one is mean to them. And then I pray equally hard that none of the teachers come over to help N close the door as she gets out, because then they would see the inside of my car.

And call the health department.

And as I drop B off at preschool, I hope that his teachers don't notice that his socks don't match and that, like me, they'll just be happy that he actually has a sock on each foot. And shoes, too. And I pray they don't notice that the jacket he's wearing is actually his brothers, which he grabbed from the back of our car where it has been for the last two months. And I hope I will find his new, seasonably appropriate coat when I get home.

Even though I'm pretty sure I haven't seen it since Thanksgiving.

Occasionally, I see another mom like me. She may try to hide it, but we can pick each other out pretty easily. The ones who are dressed well but forgot to brush their hair. Or whose hair looks great but who are wearing shoes that don't match. Or the one who has make-up applied perfectly. To one side of her face.

But mostly, the moms I see in the mornings are much more together than I am. Or at least they fake it really, really well. Their kids are always wearing seasonably appropriate clothing that actually fits, and carrying book bags without muddy footprints on them. They smile, and say good morning, as if they've somehow already had the amount of coffee they require in order to interact with others. (This usually happens for me around noon). Of course, they are also dressed adorably and with their make up perfectly done. Even though they're just going to the gym.

These are the moms whose cars are always clean. Or at least clean enough that they don't seem to care if anyone sees the inside as the kids pile out. Am I the only one who strategically places myself outside the open car door to minimize the chances that anyone is actually going to see in there?

And then, after the morning craziness, and the slightly less crazy mid day craziness, there's the nighttime craziness.

It's not any more perfect than day time. Last night, I finally made time to re-fold a months weeks worth of laundry and put it in each persons laundry basket. Tonight, I came home from work to find the boys strewing the contents of several laundry baskets all over the basement.

I chase them through the house to get them into bed, and O insists on doing handstands in his crib for ten minutes before finally laying down.

I lay down with B for those ten minutes, and as I finally start to leave, he asks me to stay for just one more minute.

As I eventually start to leave again, I tell him that I love him more than all the stars in the sky.  I don't tell him that that's also the amount of xanax I would like to put in my coffee most mornings.

"I love you, too, Mom. But I love you more than all the macaroni in the cheese."

I tell N good night, and she ignores me as she's reading her book. She doesn't want me to read to her anymore. And she wont read to me. So we lay there for a few minutes, me missing the days when she wanted just one more book.

I start to get up, and she says, "Don't forget my kiss".

At least she still wants to kiss me.

I sneak downstairs, hoping they don't hear the creaking stairs, a sound which will surely have someone calling for me again.

"Mommmmmmmy!!!!"

I've been caught.

"Yes O?" He is crying.

"My eye just fell off!"

"OK honey. We'll put it back on in the morning."

"OK. Thanks Mom".

So very far from perfect.

And yet, so close.

Chance Encounters...

I have been going to a mom's group at church lately.

I'm pretty good at leading groups. I'm good at watching groups. I'm even pretty good at planning groups.

I'm not really good, however, at being a part of a group, especially one that involves people that I don't know well.

Unless, of course, there's tequila.

In which case, I love groups.

But I soon realized that this group is made up of moms who are a lot like me. Most of us are in a similar place in our lives, and can relate to each other in the way that is shared only by moms who have just scrubbed peanut butter and/or syrup off the walls for the third time in an hour, before grabbing their children, and their shoes, and their sippy cups, and hoping that they all somehow end up in the right place by the time they reach the child care room at church.

And the few moms who are in a different place in their lives are able to remind the rest of us that someday, our lives will consist of other things besides diapers and sippy cups and puddles of syrup on the floor. And that some day we will actually miss these days. And then those moms say things like "It really doesn't get any easier. Just different",  which makes the rest of us want to go find a group with tequila.

But we don't. Because this group is also about God. So we talk. And we pray. And we share stories of hope, and grace, and kindness, and faith.

And really, what else does a frazzled, half insane mom need more than those things?

Mostly, we talk about how, even in our hardest moments, God is there. In the details. Even when we don't always realize it.

So I have been thinking a lot about what I can do to find God in the details. I have been trying to be more mindful. Of myself. Of others. Of what's going on within me. And around me.

And that's kind of where I was yesterday as I pushed a cart through the Trader Joe's parking lot, and noticed a woman walking around her truck as if she was looking for something.

I put the groceries in the car. I put the kids in the car. I noticed that she was now sitting on the curb looking under her truck. So, as any of us would, I asked if she was OK.

She said she had locked her keys in the car and she was looking for the spare that her husband had hidden underneath the truck. Then she said her purse and phone were locked in her truck, too.

I gave her my phone, and she called her mom, who didn't remember where the key was hidden. She handed me my phone back.

"Do you want to call anyone else?" I asked

Like maybe the guy who hid the key?

"No, thanks. I can't call him. He passed away".

Oh.

She was way too young to be a widow. My age. Maybe younger.

So we looked under her truck some more, neither of us having any luck.

Eventually, she thanked me and said she would go into the store and get the number for a locksmith.

I thought of how much a locksmith would cost, and suddenly wondered where Jimmy was. He's a man of many talents. And he's pretty good at breaking into things.

Typically Jimmy works long days and is often an hour or more away, and he usually doesn't answer his phone while he's working. But that morning, he said he had a light day and was going to check on a couple jobs. So I called him, and he actually answered.

And he happened to be five minutes away.

"Well, would you mind coming to Trader Joe's and helping this woman break into her car?"

"Her husband hid a key, but then he died", I added in a whisper.

Jimmy asked how to get there, and the woman and I talked as we waited. Her kids were two and four--the same ages as B and O, who were waiting in the car, eating most of the cookies I'd just bought.

I saw Jimmy's truck pull into the parking lot and said "Oh, there's Jimmy now".

And she looked at me and said "Your husbands name is Jimmy? My husband's name was Jim."

Well, of course it was.

So my Jim crawled under her truck and looked for the spare key that her Jim had hidden. Without success. And then he grabbed some tool thingy out of his truck and tried to open the door to her truck. Without success. And then he looked for a coat hanger. Without success. Until a van pulled into the spot right next to us, and the guy opened the back door and handed us...a coat hanger. Which still didn't open the door.

But still.

Ultimately, Jimmy popped open the back window and crawled through and opened the door.

She was, of course, incredibly grateful.

I was too.

I was grateful that when I called him, my husband didn't laugh at me, or tell me I was crazy, or tell me that this lady we didn't know was better off calling a locksmith.

I was also grateful that I was listening when God said "Her Jim's with me. She needs to borrow yours".

The Things of Childhood...

We gather them before we have a baby. The things of childhood. The crib. The stroller. The onesies with the matching socks.

We wonder how we went through them so fast. These things of childhood. How did they outgrow that snowsuit so quickly? And the shoes. Those adorable, sweet baby shoes. Impractical as they may be.

There are other things of childhood, of course. A baby's cry. A sleepless night. Followed by one hundred more sleepless nights that cause us to wonder how time could pass so slowly.

Followed by years of wondering how time could pass so quickly.

Baby shampoo and belly buttons. Pacifiers and baby rattles. Diapers and diapers and more diapers. Some things of childhood are easier to let go of than others.

A baby book that we somehow haven't had time to put anything in.

Breast pumps and bottles eventually give way to sippy cups that somehow grow legs and walk themselves to the strangest places when no one is looking. Under the couch cushions. Behind the TV. Inside the entertainment center. Where they are found weeks later, and it is discovered that legs aren't the only things they have grown.

And in these same places, we find other things of childhood. Blocks and books. Trains and toy tractors. A stiletto Barbie shoe. At least now I can stop worrying that it was permanently lodged up someone's nose.

Diaper cream and toothpaste. We try to remember which one goes where, but sleep deprivation can do strange things, and well, if it's good for one end, it's probably good for the other end, too. We will try, however, to identify which one has been used to paint the bathroom walls.

Outgrown clothes and outgrown toys. OK, so maybe we sometimes hold onto them a little longer than we should. Who knows? She may want to play with that baby doll again someday. And that dress was just so cute on her.

Books read by me give way to books read by them. And then books they write in as they tell me not to look.

Drawings of stick figures without bodies. A name that's mostly spelled backwards. A Valentine that says I Love You Momy.

These are the things of childhood.

First hair cuts. First bike rides. First days of school.

Puddles of syrup on the kitchen floor. Peanut butter hand prints on the walls.

A half eaten hot dog under the covers. Sometimes it's best not to ask.

A skinned knee. A bruised ego.

A broken heart. A broken treasure. A broken rule.

Tears and Laughter. Sometimes theirs. Just as often mine.

Quite often both at the very same time.

A smile. A hug. A thank you.

These are the things of childhood, though not the only things, of course.

There is frustration, and exhaustion, and self doubt. Happiness and pride. Excitement and amazement.

And sadness, too.

Someday, though, these things will give way to other things.

A diploma.

A wave.

A last look back over a shoulder.

A book that holds a baby bootie. And a small red curl. And a Valentine that says I Love You Momy.

Now that we finally have time to put things in it.

These are the things of childhood.

And I will take them all.

What are you giving up?

As Ash Wednesday approached, I was thinking a lot about what I would give up for Lent.

Typically I give up sweets, or alcohol, or sweets and alcohol.

It's selfish, really. I figure Lent is as good a time as any to lose a few pounds. But maybe that's too easy. Maybe there's something else--something more meaningful--that I should be giving up.

N had it all figured out this year. She was giving up playing on the computer.

But not the Kindle Fire.

We had a little chat about that one. Obviously she can chose to give up whatever she wants, but you know, it is kind of..well, cheating.

She informed me this morning that she had changed her mind, and she had decided to give up chocolate.

Phew. Valentine's Day just got a whole lot cheaper.

But me? I'm still not really sure.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that I'd like to give up getting soaking wet as I attempt to coax B  into the pool for swim lessons. Again.

And more than once I've thought about giving up on trying to keep my house clean.

Same goes for my car.

Does God really see any benefit in complete and utter futility?

It's occurred to me several times in recent months that I would like to give up changing diapers. I've been changing someone's diapers since 2005.

Enough already.

And then today, it seemed that the decision on what to give up was made for me.

Apparently, I'm giving up picking N up from school.

At least, I'm sure that's what the school secretary thought when she had to call me to tell me that N was in the office with her, since they had a two hour early release today.

Which I totally knew. But, well, there was B's Valentine's party at preschool today, and the tax stuff, and the fact that I wasn't feeling all that well so I might have actually been napping when the school called.

To tell me to come pick up my child.

I'm pretty sure this also means I'm giving up my mother of the year award.

I had visions of N sobbing in the office, looking up at me with her tear stained faced and declaring "But you forgot me!". I had visions of her future years in therapy, and of her eventually saying "I realize now that my mother really did love me. She was just a total mess".

But as I walked into the office, N was standing next to the secretary's desk, smiling and eating Valentines' candy.

 With her best friend, whose mother also forgot her.

Misery loves company.

And so does complete and utter embarrassment.

As for Lent? I'm giving up sweets. But for obvious reasons, I haven't committed to alcohol.

And as for N, she's starting tomorrow, since her mother took her to Starbucks after school and bought her a cheesecake brownie.

If only I could give up guilt.

What's Going on in This House?!

This morning, I dropped N off at CCD and got to spend an hour all by myself. Well, I guess I wasn't exactly all by myself. In fact, There were actually about 200 other people there. And a priest. And a choir. But there were no screaming two and four year old boys. At least, none who belonged to me.

So it kind of felt like I was all by myself.

I stopped taking them to church when they started offering people beer. That was over a year ago. I know they need to be there. I know the holy water would probably be good for them. I also know that they behave like sweet little angels when I drop them off in the church child care room when I go to the moms group. But as for actually taking them to church? I'm just not that brave. I've decided they're not going back until they make their First Communion. (Aunt Marie, if you're reading this from Heaven, I'm just kidding. I know they have to go back before they make their First Communion, so don't worry, I plan on taking them the week before).

While N and I were at church, Jimmy was at home watching the boys. I'm now convinced, however, that men and women have very different ideas of what the word "watch" actually means, since Jimmy was apparently watching O order twenty-six bucks worth of  books on my kindle. They were all CIA themed. He's clearly advanced.

N and I came home with donuts.  O ate the chocolate off one, then threw it at me. Fortunately, he missed. He has a good arm, that kid. But I have been thankful lately for his bad aim. I was particularly thankful for it a few days ago when he threw a box of tea bags at an elderly lady in the grocery store. He missed then, too. I apologized profusely. She laughed. She told me she has boys, too, and shrugged as she walked away.

This morning after missing me with the donut, O proceeded to scream for twenty minutes that he couldn't have another one.

"O, you shouldn't have thrown your last one at Mom," B explained. "That wasn't good". He shakes his head and attempts to roll his eyes, though he doesn't quite have the eye rolling thing down yet, so it looks like he's going cross eyed instead. I make a mental note to have him hang out with N more so he can perfect his eye rolling.

I attempt to ignore O's screaming, and ask N to go clean her room. She runs upstairs in tears.

"Now N's crying too?" B says, with a slightly better eye roll this time. "What's going on this house?!"

An hour later, N has managed to pick up two socks and three crayons from her floor, and stops cleaning to go to the grocery store with Jimmy. These shopping trips tend to make me a little nervous, as they typically result in the purchase of three boxes of cookies, a head of lettuce, a pack of hot dogs, and a bottle of cocktail onions.

Today, however, he bought actual groceries. Bags of them. There were even vegetables.

And then, he cooked them.

Yeah, I know.

After dinner, N went back to clean her room, while B volunteered to wipe the table for me. And then, he actually did it.

He's not the only one wondering what's going on in this house.

I don't know for sure what's going on, though I have an idea.

I suspect someone saw me in church, and recognized me as the mother of those two boys who were offering everyone beer around this time last year.

And they started praying for me.

Really, really hard.

Dare to be Good...Enough.

I've been feeling kind of....something lately.

I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was. It seemed to be a combination of things, really. Winter means too many cold days inside. Which means lots of time for the kids to trash the house, and little time for me to clean it. Which means I start to go a little batty.

And then I start to look around.

At the mess. The one I just cleaned. At least, I thought I did. And the socks. The ones I just matched. At least, I think I did. And the toilet. The one I just scrubbed. Well, OK, maybe I was wrong about that one.

Tired of looking at the mess, I look in the mirror instead. What the hell is wrong with these pants that they shrink every January?

Did I mention that our Christmas lights are still up?

It's now February. Another month and I think people will stop expecting us to take them down. They'll just start referring to us as "The Rednecks on the Corner".

So then I start thinking about how my housekeeping is clearly not good enough. And neither is my sock matching. And my toilet scrubbing...well, let's not even talk about that.

My Christmas undecorating skills are obviously lacking. And those pants...well, it's clear to me now that even my shopping skills could use some work. Why do I keep buying the same pants if they shrink every single winter?

In short, none of it is good enough.

This isn't just me, though. As it happens, I've talked to lots of moms who aren't good enough. Their houses are too dirty. Their children are too loud. Their laundry is too piled up. And somehow, it's all their fault.

Ladies, I think it's time we took a page from the men's handbook.

Don't get nervous. I don't mean that we should start scratching any part of our body we feel like scratching, in public, while burping loudly and spitting out the car window.

I mean that we need to stop aspiring to perfection, and start settling for good enough.

I have to admit. For the most part, I tend to be OK with good enough.

(Mainly because I know I'm not good enough to be a perfectionist).

For a time, I can accept the piles of laundry, and the mismatched socks, and even the shrinking pants.

Until I can't anymore.

But when I can't take it anymore, I really can't take it anymore.

I tell myself that I suck at housekeeping, and sock matching, and toilet scrubbing.

I mean, I can't even keep my pants from shrinking.

But at least I'm not the only one who feels this way. So we women listen to each other, and we commiserate, and we support each other.

But when it comes down to it, we don't really help each other. In fact, we often do the exact opposite, because when we invite other women to our house, we clean it first. We scrub the toilets. We put the laundry away. Maybe we even match the socks.

All the while looking at the clock, wondering why the hell we ever invite people over anyway.

And then we do the worst thing of all. We suck it in, and put on our incredibly shrinking pants, pretending that they didn't shrink at all. And then our friends arrive, and we remember why we invited them over.

Because we love them. And they keep us sane. And they make us laugh.

Except that we can't really laugh.

Because our incredibly shrinking pants are too freakin tight.

But what do you think men do before they have another guy come over?

They don't scrub the toilets. They don't match the socks. They don't even care that they haven't taken the Christmas lights down in time for the Super Bowl.

They put on pants.

And here, ladies, is our lesson.

So let's just stop.

Let's stop trying to be perfect. Let's stop telling ourselves there must be something wrong with us that we can't achieve it.

Let's stop driving ourselves insane.

And let's start aiming for good enough.

And please, let's stop pretending that the incredibly shrinking pants didn't shrink.

So next time you come over, forgive me if I sweep the crumbs off the counter instead of scrubbing it.

It's good enough.

And you might notice that my kids' socks are mismatched.

They're good enough.

And if you look closely, you may notice that the comforter was thrown hastily over the bed, with the sheet in a ball underneath it.

Good enough.

My kids are happy. And fed. And mostly dressed.

That other stuff?

I'm working on reminding myself how little it really matters.

The way it is is good enough.

The same goes for me.

And for you.

I promise.