Baby Food Badge

I almost wrote on Facebook last week something like this, "Making baby food today. Two sweet potatoes, a butternut squash, a bag of peas and bananas – man, this kid can eat." But due to my unhealthy obsession with not making people feel bad – "What if a person who reads this doesn't have time to make their baby homemade food? What if that person, I don't know, doesn't have the capability to? No food processor, blender, fresh veggies, water? Or what if they're sick, their kid is sick or dying (yep, I live in crazy town), whatever!" – of course I didn't end up posting it. Irrational? Maybe. Hypersensitive, no ... or yes (according to Michael). I just call it thoughtfulness (and/or insecurity).

Anyway, back to baby food. Michael asked if we could cut Henry's six-jar-a-day habit. It was wreaking havoc on our grocery budget. I complied and spent all this time and put forth this incredible effort (chopping, pureeing, cleaning, storing) to feed my baby some fresh, less expensive food and well, he hates it. And the hatred runs deep. He sees it coming in the ice cube tray and he turns his tight-lipped mouth away from me and stares. It's showdown time. I stare back at him wide-eyed, willing him to blink first, because then his defeat in our staring contest would guarantee my dominance, his submission and subsequent healthy food eating, right? Isn't that how it goes? You blink, you lose, sucka. Seriously. Who does this? I hope you. I hope I'm not the only one.

Well, that's never how it goes here. I have staring contests with all of my kids and they almost always win.  And even when their bright blues can't keep their lids open for one moment longer, they still don't admit defeat and do what I command. Henry is just following suit, I guess. So, we've tried changing it up. They say 50 percent of eating is visual. I wouldn't want my dinner served from an ice cube tray. Now we sneak the food out of the fridge and pour it in a baby food jar. What's more attractive about a glass jar than the tray? I don't know. But even after our craftiness, he still knows. Can you believe it? He still knows the difference. How?

Here is where I'd like to take a moment to dedicate a song to my dear, sweet Henry.

Despite Henry's eery and frequent displays of omniscience, I'm still not convinced he's a deity (I don't think someone with superhuman powers would sit content with poop seeping up their back or snot dribbling into their mouth. They'd take care of business.).

So how does he know? Why does he prefer the jar? I'm wondering if I've stumbled on to something big here. I didn't know this was genetic. That perhaps I have a special gene that has now been passed on to him. A gift I have that will keep on giving for generations now. And what is that gift, gene, more likely? I don't know it's official name. But I'm thinking it's something like the "I crave processed food, lather me in high fructose corn syrup and shoot trans fat in my veins" gene. It can't be helped. It's genetic. I can't blame Henry. He's at the mercy of the gene pool. I was/am, too.

Spaghettios (Chef Boyardee)? Check. Mac and Cheese (Kraft, not Annie's). Yes, please. Twinkies? Mmmm. Donuts (Fresh or in Little Debbie bag) Whatev. Corned Beef Hash (Not the Real Food Cafe kind, IHOP kind.) For sure.

While I have had years to curb my outlandish – some say unhealthy, I'll say genetic – cravings and can now drink green smoothies without gagging (Thank you, Amanda), poor Henry has only been fighting this genome battle for a few months. (Did I mention he's also refusing the boob right now?) Formula it is. He takes his convictions (genes) seriously. He's all in. Except for the fact that his formula is organic. Take that, little man.

Today for lunch? Peas and carrots ... in the jar. But wait, they're organic, too. Mom 2, Henry 0.

Time Flying Badge

This is about minute 33 of the fit where she screams, "Stop taking pictures of me."

Usually I write during nap time. Today I'm changing things up. We are in minute 43 of my almost 3 year old's time out. You might be able to hear her at your house right now. It sounds like the Exorcist meets late-night neighborhood cat/rabbit fight. I keep asking her if she's ready to be all done. After I'm brutally rebuffed, she breaks into a violent fist-pumping rendition of the "Oompa Loompa" song.

Yes. This is for real. I couldn't in my wildest dreams make this up.

Last week I almost blogged about having the perfect day; about how for a brief moment I had been given a reprieve from crazy town. I wanted to write about it, but I just couldn't do it. One, because I knew some of my friends weren't having that kind of day. And two, because I knew it wasn't going to last.

With a few exceptions, if I am really happy or really sad or really angry or really anything, I can hold my breath and the moment has passed. There isn't a lot of time for basking. It seems that every moment, every experience is fleeting - at least in this season of my life. I feel like for the first time I believe, I understand, I live within the constraints of "time flying."

On our three-day road trip home from Maine a few weeks ago, I tried an experiment. Every time I started to have a buildup of angry emotions - like I wanted to shove Michael's iPad down his throat or drop my kids at the rest stop - I would look at the clock and tell myself if I still felt the same way in 15 minutes I would take action. I'm happy to report that Michael's iPad is still intact and all four kids made it home.

This time flying thing is good and bad, isn't it? It's good when I'm mad. Case and point - my husband and kids are safe and well. It's good when I'm feeling down. Today I'm in one of those "Do I have any friends?" funks. Do you have those? Bleh. But I've only been counting my friends and making the "reasons you are not alone list" in my head for about an hour. Already I'm starting to feel better. Time flying is good when I'm discouraged, stressed, lonely, sad. Time flying is good when my kids are naughty, when Michael is a butt or when a vacation is still a month away.

But there are days like last week when I want to reach out and grab time by the throat and tell it to slow the hell down. Maybe to stop all together. I know it's unrealistic and not possible. I know if I stopped time now I'd miss out on great things to come. I know every cliche thing you could tell me about time flying by. I've just been finding it difficult lately to give myself fully to the moment, to really let go and really enjoy and really feel when I know that in the blink of an eye - more like the poke of an eye in our family - it will be gone.

It kind of hurts.

In the middle of the most wonderful occasions I find myself - just for a brief moment, of course, because time is flying - feeling sad. When we're eating dinner with friends, relaxing on a date, chatting with neighbors, sharing our "happy and sads", singing in the car, enjoying our family, I hear a voice that reminds me that this won't last. At least not here.

It's in those gut-aching moments that I'm reminded and hold onto and am deeply thankful for a time coming that is everlasting. A time that is never ending. A time that is endless. A time where my joy is permanent. (A shout out to U2 for writing a song that reminds me of this.)

And as it always does, time has passed and Ella is finished fitting. My writing time is over.

I Don't Know Badge

I am in an endless state of "don't knowing."


What should the kids wear today? I don't know.
Jack just poked Evelyn in the eye. What do I do? I don't know.
It's raining. What should we do today? I don't know.
Evelyn just spit on the floor. What do I do? I don't know.
Can/should the kids have chocolate milk with breakfast/lunch/dinner? I don't know.
Ella won't go to sleep - ever. What do I do? I don't know.
Netflix for one, two, three hours per day? I don't know.
Henry is crying and crying and crying. What do I do? I don't know.

I DON'T KNOW.

Not knowing is draining. Discouraging. Defeating. A few nights ago the kids were on a major sugar binge after a late-evening birthday celebration. Jack wouldn't go to bed. Every five minutes for about three hours he came out of his room to tell us he couldn't sleep. Five seconds after that Michael would stare at me with that "what the hell do we do" look. Do we let him cuddle in our bed? Do we let him sit up with us? Do we bribe? Do we threaten? I don't know.

This - mothering - is my full time job and most of the time I don't know what I'm doing. I would be fired if I were in any other line of work.

"Doctor, I broke my foot. Can you fix it?"
"Well, I don't know."

"Dentist, I have a cavity. Can you fill it?"
"Hmmm, I don't really know."

I read books on parenting and it seems like the authors know. I look around at other families and their kids are sweet and kind and thoughtful and I assume they know. I talk to my mom role models and they must know. Right?

But I still wonder - does any parent really know? Is it possible to know? Am I alone in my don't knowing? Can I become less don't-ing and more knowing? Will I someday answer questions like - "Should I let the baby cry it out?" "How many bites of food should the kids eat at dinner?" "Organic vs. non-organic" - with confidence and boldness and insight? Will I ever know what to do?

I just heard a really smart guy - Phil Strout - talk about wisdom. He said we don't parachute into wisdom. We step into it with our left foot, our right foot, our left foot, our right foot. It comes gradually, painstakingly and often shows up after the fact. Ugh. Just when I need it most. One husband, four kids and a crazy golden doodle - someone charter me a plane and grab me that chute.

But until that flight shows up, I guess I'm just going to put one foot in front of the other and pray that with each step forward, I'm going to know a little bit more than the one before.

It Is OK Badge

I am not a fun snow day mom. I'll just admit it straight up - I hate snow days. I like the structure, routine and sanity that school brings. I feel guilty admitting that. I think I mostly feel guilty about it because I have some friends that are snow day moms. They love it when their kids are home unexpectedly. And since I don't and I actually enjoy it when my kids are gone for the day, well, what kind of mom am I?

I'd brag about being a snow day mom if I were one. Let's be for real, Facebook is full of status updates from snow day moms! "Watching my little love bugs frolic in the snow while getting hot cocoa ready. Ahhhh. Life is good." But I feel like I have to hide the fact that I'm a "I want my kids at school and yes, a play date for the afternoon at your house mom." What would I, a non-snow day mom, post as a status update today? "Kids watched Netflix over breakfast while I laid in bed still fretting over the snow day. Played play doh for five minutes. Too overwhelmed by the mess. Kids are watching Netflix again." Seriously. No one posts that.

As I'm writing this I just got a text from a pregnant girlfriend that says, "Tell me it's OK that I feel like a MAC truck has hit me and I need a nap 23 out of 24 hours of the day. Oh, and that my kids have watched 2.5 hours of TV already today."

Is it OK? Hell yes it's OK.

Why is it OK? Because while I may not be a snow day mom, a Pinterest mom, a crafty mom, a farmer mom or sometimes even just your average friendly mom, there are a lot of things I am. Good things. Fabulous things that make me the most amazing mom to the four kids I've been given the privilege to raise. I would make a list, but I don't want to get too snow day mom status-updatish. :)

And just to be clear, I'm not bitter at the snow day moms. I do make fun of them (to their faces, not just publicly in my blog!). But I'm glad they're out there. My kids are really glad they're out there. They teach me things and inspire me and let me sit in their kitchen while they organize crafts and make the cocoa. And I think the feeling is mutual. They learn from me and what I'm good at.

So, cheers to the snow day mom! I see one out my window just this minute. And I'm perfectly OK with the fact that I'm not out there frolicking with her.

Old and New Badge

What I know now...

• I have every aisle in our grocery store memorized. Tell me what you're looking for and I'll tell you where to find it.
• I know my 14-digit library card code by heart.
• I can recite Goodnight Moon, Barbie Pet Vet, Pinkalicious Pinkie Promise and numerous other great works of children's literature on command.
• Poop (as in human excrement) on your clothes or carpet? I can get it out.
• Need tips on birthing, breastfeeding, babies, toddlers, preschoolers, kindergartners? Got it.
• Menu planning, local kid hot spots, play date ideas, discipline? I have some pretty good insights.

Seriously, the list goes on and on and on. I'm not bragging. The amount of knowledge and level of organization/multi-tasking (playing a board game, breastfeeding, breaking up a fight) skills I've accumulated over the last six years are pretty astonishing. I would totally have been promoted at my job by now and be making more money.

But what surprises me is how much I belittle what I've learned and how I've grown.

What I used to know:

• Need a book at Barnes & Noble? I can direct you to it.
• Put together a news release, a speech, a story, a magazine about this, that or anything. No problem.
• Want sushi for dinner? OK. I can give you the details on every joint in town.
• Serial comma or no? Colon or semi-colon? AP style? I'm your girl.
• Oh, Governor Granholm is calling. Please hold while I take her call.

I spend a lot of my time focusing on "losing" who I once was instead of focusing on who I'm becoming. I say it all the time, "Look at me. Look around. Who am I?" I clean. I carpool. I care for our kids. What am I doing?

Why does it feel like what I'm doing now is insignificant? Unimportant? Trivial? What makes having a thorough understanding of Dante's nine levels of hell more valuable than getting all three kids undressed, dressed and showered for swim lessons with time to spare (a seriously bad-ass, sweat-inducing accomplishment if you ask me!)?

I guess I just don't want to think like this anymore.

What if I still am the girl who is capable of interviewing Gov. Granholm AND now in addition to her, I'm the girl capable of scrubbing the grout, washing the dog and getting dinner on the table in the last hour before Michael gets home?

Have I really lost the more valuable, educated, talented me? Or am I like a more enhanced version of me? Is it that different times of life require different parts of me to shine while others sit on the back burner for a bit? I'm not going to lie. I wish I could shelve some of my current tasks for some I've had in the past -- lunching at a deli downtown instead of in my kitchen, sitting in on a press conference instead of quick skimming the news on my phone before one of my kids asks to play it again.

But I'm trusting that ALL that I've learned up to this point in my life will not go to waste. Thoreau wrote, "Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit and resign yourself to the influences of each." Easier said than done. But definitely worth a try.

Lamenting over the loss of my "self" at a friend's house yesterday, she encouraged me to write. "You are a writer. That's who you are, what you love to do. It hasn't been lost." So, I thought I'd try to write something, anything each day for Lent. I'm mixing it up - a little old me and a little new me. Hopefully the combo is better than either one would be on its own.