Confessions of a Bad Mom (Pt. 1—Because, Let’s Face It, There Is Bound to Be More I Screw Up)

     I am a bad mom.  Frankly, there is an overabundance of reasons, including, but most certainly not limited to, my babies sleep in cribs with cute decorative bumpers (despite suffocation warnings), we eat at drive thrus far more often than I would like to admit, and the ratio of hours spent in PJs around here vs. the hours wearing “normal” clothing is actually quite alarming.

     While cleaning up the kitchen the other night after dinner, it dawned on me yet ANOTHER reason why I am a bad mom.  Perhaps it is early nesting instincts kicking in, perhaps it is the fact that springtime has (supposedly) arrived, perhaps it is because I missed the sights of my doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front.  No matter the reason, I purged.  And I purged HARDCORE.  Not my dinner, but my kids “creative projects”.

     My name is Laurel and I am a bad mommy because I don’t save my childrens’ artwork.

     Now, in my own defense, my boys are not the “artsy” type.  Ryan is content scribbling over the same exact coloring page for 3 days in a row. To him, an old shopping list covered in his jagged lines drawn in a pencil unearthed from the bottom of my purse is “art”.  Caiden, on the other hand, thinks that “art” is a.) stealing a coloring page that Ryan originally chose and using one color—99.9% of the time it’s BLACK—to scrawl a half-assed scribble on it to claim his territory and/or b.) Handing ME a box of crayons with a blank sheet of paper and dictates what I should draw for him.  The only time Caiden really sits and does an art project is when he is asked to create it by his preschool teachers during a daily lesson.  Even then, he, admittedly, follows the instructions and goes through the motions, but only does the bare minimum required.  One day he came home from school with a piece of red construction paper that had a bunch of green felt squares glued on it.  In an encouraging manner, I asked him to tell me all about his picture.  “What did you make today?  Tell me about it?  Why do you think you guys did this project today?”  His response, “I dunno.  You can put it in recycling.”  Where I should feel bad about the fact that he demonstrates such a lack of care with regard to his work, I actually pride myself on his eco-consciousness…

     I go to my friends’ homes and see their kitchens and mudrooms and playrooms plastered with beautiful creations full of color, texture, and funny descriptions written on the bottom.  The parents of children that I work with “complain” about not having enough room for yet another project to display.  So I, in the vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’ (or the Picassos’ or the Van Goghs’) will hang up my kids’ work under a strict set of rules:

1.)    Seasonal art (ex: Valentine’s Day project) will remain on display for intended season.

2.)    Artwork will be allowed a 1-month-maximum residency on display.

3.)    If the artist doesn’t care about it, neither do I.  (Aka- “The Peace Out Felt Squares” Clause)

     If I am to keep my kid’s artwork, it must also fall into at least one of the following categories:

1.)    Contain a hand, foot, or fingerprint.

2.)    Feature a photograph of the artist.

3.)    Demonstrate a sincere amount of love, attention, and effort and/or hilarious description of what the piece of art is about.

     Perhaps it may seem to be incredibly insensitive, non-maternal, and downright mean of me to set these standards, but I simply cannot bring myself to try to organize and store this paper clutter especially if my children could care less about it in the first place.  And so this is how our home has been run since Caiden could pick up a crayon.  Our life full of crappy art was acceptable and under a peaceful agreement of control.  That is, until Caiden discovered the stark doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front the other night.  He wanted to know what I was going to do with the giant stack of art projects in my hands...

(Insert MEGA amount of Mama Guilt here.)

“I—ugh—was going to—ugh-- recycle them.  You know,--ugh-- be good to the earth?!?!?”

“But Momma, those are my art projects.”

“I—ugh—thought you didn’t really care about these pictures.”

“But Momma, I made them for YOU.”

(Insert MEGA amount of SOUL CRUSHING Mama Guilt here.)

I quickly scanned the room to find a distraction—I mean, a solution—and saw my camera sitting on top of the baker’s rack.

“Here Buddy.  What do you say if we take pictures of your pictures?  Then Mommy can create a special book later of all your artwork.”

“Good idea Mommy.  But I have a better idea.  You can take pictures of me holding my pictures.”

And a better idea it truly was.  So now our home has a new set of working rules for artwork.  The pieces will be on display for their allotted seasons and when their month-long term expires, they will be photographed with their little artists—my own, personal masterpieces.

 

The (Anti)Social Experiment

     Any parent or childcare provider has done it at least once in their lifetime.  It’s that awkward moment when they insert baby talk, high pitched tones, or contributed an unhealthy exuberance in sharing useless information involving cartoon characters and plots into what is supposed to be intellectually stimulating adult conversations.  For me, it took place during a long-overdue night out with a group of childless friends.  I looked the part.  I wore heels and pants that didn’t consist of 100% Spandex.  I donned makeup and my hair was out of its usual ponytail.  The night was going to be full of sophistication and mature humor and maybe even a little political commentary.  And then it happened.  As everyone was getting ready to pack into their cars to head out to dinner I made the announcement, “OK Guys, before we take off does anyone need to go to the potty?”

     Legit.  I said “potty”.  In heels.

     Despite the fact that I know EVERY person who has ever spent an extended amount of time with kids has experienced a similar situation, I felt so incredibly ridiculous at that moment.  Later on I began to reminisce about my pre-kid days and wondered what happened to my former being who prided herself on scholarly vernacular and possessed opinions on worldly affairs that went beyond whether ketchup or BBQ sauce was better on chicken nuggets.  And then I reflected upon the daily conversations that I now partook in.  I seriously, have never used the phrases such as “poopy”, “boogie”, “snacky snack”, and “happy nappy” so much in my entire existence until I became a stay-at-home mom.  Now I would consider sentences incomplete without one (or all) of those phrases used.  Discouraged, this thought process then lead me to the following social experiment.

     I literally spent an entire week recording the bizarre and oftentimes disgusting things that are said in this household.  Just one simple week.  And this is what transpired…

Monday

(Child emerges from playroom)  “Why are you naked and where are all of your clothes?”

Tuesday

“What do you think you want for lunch today?  (Look into backseat via rearview mirror.)  Hey!  Boogers aren’t on the menu!  Get your finger out of there!”

“Knock that off and give that to me!  Toothpaste is NOT a condiment.”

“Where are your pants?”

Wednesday

“Please stop head-butting the dog in her rear end.”

Child sits in his father’s seat and starts speaking in a low authoritative voice.  “Hi.  I’m Daddy and I’m the boss.  If you are bad I will put you in time out.  But if you are good and eat all your supper I will give you a treat.”

I laugh and then say, “That’s pretty spot on.  What does Mommy sound like?”  (Pandora’s Box opened, Stupid!)

“Hi.  I’m Mommy.  And I’m the other boss.  If you are bad I will put you in time out.  But I’m meaner.”

Thursday

(In what should have been a tender moment shared while quietly snuggling my 5-year-old, the following conversation emerged)

Child rests his head against my, albeit, pregnancy enhanced chest, pulls back and then looks quizzically at me.  “Momma, what are those?”

“That is my chest, dear.”

“Oh.  I thought that it was the baby’s feet popping out.”

(I thought this would be the end of this exchange.  I should have known better.)

Child then looks down at his chest, back at mine, and back at his.

“Woah.  Yours it a LOT bigger than mine.”

“Yes.  Yes, it is dear.”

(PLEASE, GOD let this conversation come to a close.)

Child stares back at me and then makes a coasting motion with his hand over “the girls”.

“Momma, these are like mountains.  BIG MOUNTAINS.  I am going to get my trains so can they chugga chugga up and down them.”

“Honey, I don’t think that is necessary.  Or appropriate for that matter.”

“Momma—“

“Do you want a snack?  Let’s go get a treat.  How about some TV time?”

Friday

“You have been potty trained for two years--Did you seriously just poop your pants?”

“’Chuggington’ was on.”

Saturday

“MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!  Ry-Ry is nakey again.”

“Serously Child!  You are like the freakin’ Houdini of attire.”

“What have I told you about head-butting the dog in the rear?!?!”

Sunday

Child sits in his father’s seat and starts speaking in a low authoritative voice.  “Hi.  I’m Daddy and I’m the boss.  I’m old.  I drink soda.  I drink blue milk not red milk [1% vs. whole].  I go to work a lot.  And I play video games.”

I laugh and then say, “That’s pretty awesome and TOTALLY spot on. “  (I learned very quickly NOT to open Pandora’s Box again.  Especially with this uncensored honesty in the air.)

“No Ry!  Put the potty back on the floor!  The froggy potty is for practicing how to tinkle and poop on the big boy potty—NOT for dumping bath water on your brother!”

     So after one week I drew my social experiment to a close and realized that all it proved was that there was no wonder why I say some of the things I do and I was bound to have anti-social conversations for the remainder of my days while raising small children.  That, and I live with a house full of aspiring pint-sized nudists.

Flipping on "Five"

I am not quite sure what it is about my kids, but it seems as though once they reach the anniversary of their birth, a mystical switch is flipped within each one of them and they magically morph into a new being.  Everyone is familiar with the phrase “The Terrible Twos”.  In our home, “Two” is a cake-walk.  It’s “Three” that you better batten down the hatches and become an emotional doomsday prepper.  “Four” was wonderful year in which my eldest was still vulnerable in so many aspects, but gaining confidence in such strides.  We were beyond the initial uber-cautiousness of new situations that “Three” presented (entering preschool, attending birthday parties for people outside of the family, trying out new classes and playgroups).  He now had a solid core of friends whom he interacted with on an almost-daily basis.  He developed his nurturing skills now that his kid-brother was able-bodied enough to keep up with him.  He worked on his assertiveness—at time, to a fault—and learned that he can have opinions, share them, not always agree on them, but survive even if that were the case.  He thrived on knowledge and often surprised us with the factoids he picked up along the way (ie.:  seriously schooling his parents on the inner workings of railways and locomotives) or repeated phrases that mimicked the elders in his life, oftentimes making us do a double-take and wonder who this 40-year-old was inhabiting our 4-year-old’s body.

And so, like clockwork, the switch was flipped again and on March 3, 2014 a new little Caiden emerged from his bedroom.  It has only been two weeks, but if it were at all possible, I would bottle up “Five” in a heartbeat.  Although over the course of the past year Caiden has grown by leaps and bounds, he seems to have acquired a sense of maturity and empathy that went beyond his normal realm of personality overnight.  Through the experience of having a younger brother, he has learned the importance of sharing, yet now he demonstrates an uncanny need to share.  When preparing him for the fun events to take place at his birthday party, one thing that stood out to me was that “The Child Who Does Not Consider a Birthday ‘A Birthday’ Unless There Are Balloons” was no longer looking forward to taking home his balloon bouquet because he didn’t think that it was fair that there were not enough for each of his friends to take one home with them.  Later that day we spent the afternoon roaming the aisles of the local toy store looking for the perfect new wooden train engine to add to his collection.  Despite the fact that he was so proud and pleased to now possess “James”, the minute he returned home Ryan showed an interest in it and Caiden didn’t argue for a millisecond--simply handing  the new toy over and moving on to the next activity.  (Ryan has since slept with this train every night).

(The birthday boy posing with a different train. He got a bunch.  Shocking, I know.)

 Another area in which this sweet boy has really impressed me is his increasing love of numbers and logic (a trait obviously inherited from his father’s side).  I swear that on March 2nd this boy could only count up to 39 correctly, yet on the evening of March 3 he demanded everyone’s’ attention at the dinner table and wanted to count up to the “biggest number in the whole wide world: 100”—and he did.  That was a moment in which tears sprung to my eyes, not because I was inevitably celebrating his personal victory, but because I realized, in truth, how quickly so much can change in a matter of 24-hours.  When you look at your child’s face each and every day you rarely get to see the transformations that are occurring right before your eyes (just think about how different your kid looked in pictures from a year, even a month ago).  That night, over a plate full of spaghetti, I was literally able to see my little boy change just a bit and it was so mesmerizing and bittersweet simultaneously.  Caiden’s love of numbers has spread to other areas such as reading a digital clock and genuinely following the dates on the calendar.  The teacher in me often extends these moments in conversations such as “Your birthday was 4 days ago on March 3^rd.  Let’s add 4 more days to 3 and figure out what today’s date is.”  He will mentally do the math (seriously kid, it’s really OK to use your fingers at this stage) and then double-check on our kitchen calendar.  The satisfactory smile on his face when he sees that he got the answer correct is priceless (and then he proceeds to tell me that I screwed up when I say, “Yes! Today is March 7^th”—Because “it is really March 7^th, 2014.” Thanks, Capt. Correction.)  The mom in me, however, thinks “Holy Cow!  That’s my boy!  You’re a genius!  And a smartass, but I love you all the same!”

I have commonly described Caiden as the “quiet observer”.  He was the last of his friends to crawl, to walk, to talk—you get the idea.  A perfectionist by nature, no matter the task, from infancy on he would sit and watch others, take an inventory of how and why they were doing what they were doing.  You could almost see the gears constantly turning within his mind as he sat on the sidelines amongst his peers.  And when the time was right for him, he would tackle his milestone with flying colors. He was not a child who would take two, wobbly, unsure steps—he would coast across the room.  When it came to climbing up a step, he literally stared at the basement stairs for the longest time and then one day conquered the entire flight in one confident effort.  Unlike his kid brother, Caiden was not a “trial and error” kind of child.  “Error” makes him very uncomfortable.  That is, until he turned 5.  POOF!   Switch flipped.  All of a sudden he is becoming more fearless.  At his birthday party at our local gym he was the first to jump into the pool.  A boy who formerly would be bashful if caught singing a song to himself is now making up new songs, singing it loud & proud, and letting me videotape him performing.  It truly feels surreal some days and I catch myself turning to Dan and going, “Are you seeing/hearing this?  Who is this magnificently humorous, carefree being?”

The last transformation that has emerged recently is my 5-year-old’s independence and increasing maturity.  He has abandoned his overly-cautious shyness and traded it in for a more sociable set of traits.  He’s memorized important numbers and loves to use the telephone to call family members.  He doesn’t hesitate to order his own meal at a restaurant and even includes details like the necessary flatware he would like served with his lunch.  The other day he asked to pay for items at the store and even carried on a cute little banter with the cashier.  (I’m almost surprised that he didn’t walk away with her phone number.) The maturity has extended beyond social situations though.  Caiden has expressed a genuine interest in wanting to take on new jobs and responsibilities around our home.  Rubbing the sleep from my own eyes the other morning, I went to wake him up for preschool and found that he had already made his bed.  He asks to vacuum daily, fights over the duster with Ryan, assists with the laundry, clears his dishes 90% of the time without prompting, and enjoys sorting out our recyclables.  Today he told me, “Momma, I love to help you out.  It makes me feel real good to have a nice and clean home.”   (Now if only he asked to do windows or was old enough to handle the ironing…) I know that this phase of life will inevitably fade over time—most likely sooner than later-- but I pray that I can nurture it enough for its duration in order to set a solid foundation for him; providing him with a set of life skills that will make him a great roommate, spouse, and parent down the road.

(You thought I was kidding about the duster fights?)

(So thorough!)

  

As I draw this blogpost to close, two things strike me.  The first is that today is St. Patrick’s Day and as I reflect upon this 5-year-old little Irishman, it is beyond obvious that luck and good fortune has certainly rained down upon me and I am beyond blessed to be this boy’s mother.  The second is that it is truly bittersweet how fast time flies by and quietly, yet drastically, changes things.  It makes me think ahead to the stack of Kindergarten information sitting in front of me on our dining room table waiting to be filled out and submitted—a task that we are so eager to do because it is beyond apparent that this child is ready and excited to move on to.  Yet part of me hesitates each time I take out the pen because it confirms that in a matter of a few short months my firstborn will be in full-day public schooling.  Wasn’t he just making me crave Sour Patch Kids and kicking me in the ribs from within?  How can half a decade pass by so quickly?  Just as my children seemed to be wired with that magic switch within, allowing them to transform overnight on their birthdays, I selfishly wish that some days—days like these— that they were also programmed with a special button.  Just.  So.  That.  I.  Could.  Press.  PAUSE.