Motherhood- Welcome to the Jungle (Gym)

Perhaps this next mamma-logue belongs in two separate rants, however I feel this is related.
  When I became a mother, I unwittingly became part of something much MUCH bigger than I. I became part of the all-encompassing "Motherhood". Whether you carry your child in your belly or your heart, being someone's mother automatically guarantees you entrance into all kinds of fun. Your Mamma-kind can be your best or worst friend.
  Case in point, you have an entrepreneurial idea. Your fellow Mammas will support and promote you. You have a need, often they will find a way to fill it- clothes, food, shelter or sympathy. It has been a surprising side-benefit of motherhood. But tread lightly sisters, and do not take your fellow females for granted. Because that hand that extends help can just as quickly give you an unprecedented smack-DOWN.
  I have seen and experienced and given first hand (ha ha) the smack-down. I never seek out the drama mammas, but if you provoke me, I have little patience for you. We, as women, might not be in some type of declared war but make no mistake. Friends can become ene-mammas pretty quickly.
  Don't misunderstand me. I am not decrying the sisterhood of which I am so fond and for which I am grateful. No no. I am merely saying, many if not all of us know how we want to be treated- how we deserve to be treated- and we have no problem demanding that from each other. For example, never over-invite yourself to another mother's home. Especially when said playdate involves your sweet little monsters causing any level of havoc. We all know how much fun it is to clean up after our own, let alone someone else's br... children. And if said ... children happen to so much as lay a hand on our own spaw... sweetlings well then... be warned. Tread very lightly upon the hospitality of the Mamma Bear you just poked. Now, let me be clear. Arguments happen between these adorable little characters as they play. But heaven forbid it become a pattern with any regularity. Your best bet? Do not transfer blame, do not make excuses, do not pretend you didn't see. Woman up. Apologize. And make a hasty retreat. If you value your friendship at all, you will do what is right by your fellow Mamma and her little bear cub. It isn't easy being in the Sisterhood of the Big Girl Pants but it is worth it.
  Here are some easy rules. New Mammas, Commit these to memory:

1. Always treat your fellow Mother how you wish to be treated.

2. Don't forget Rule #1 or heaven have mercy on your soul and that of your progeny.

That is all,
Sister Amanda
May the force be with you

Public boob, private boob

What is it with our society and breasts? Now I am only talking about the United States because that is what I know. That said, what is our obsession? We Bind them, flash them, truss them, lie about their size, fake their shape, hide them, hate them, love em, and ignore them.
There is so much about them as objects, characters, power, etc. it seems the craziest thing. I mean, what are they? Two bags of flesh with a sippy end. What's so great about that? They are objects of importance for nourishment and care. They are designed for babies. They have been made into sex objects and we have taken back that power to manipulate others (I said it!).
All I want to know is- why do we allow them the power? Why can't we remove our Puritan or prurient attachments and allow whomever to nurse or display their body as they wish. Is it possible or not to go back, to deobjectify our breasts?
Discuss while I finish nursing...

Babes in dance class

Nothing is more adorable than your little one dancing. And nothing is less adorable than the Moms in the wings. Anxious, stressed, impersonating Alice Cooper's makeup as we tear up at every moment and clapping for every turn and step- regardless of timing or mistake. We will cut line to see their photographs and pay any price to preserve the moment in time when they actually smiled. And hopefully looked like we did their hair or wash them sometimes.
Why do we make ourselves into such a wreck for our beautiful children?

Mommy Bragging

Lol, for my one reader yes, I am back. I, mother of 3 an unemployed teacher am back at blogging!
This week, let's discuss... Mommy bragging. Do you or don't you?
As a rule, I don't. Here's why- a funny story is one thing but going on for longer than a minute about your precious little one is making whomever you are talking to gag. It just is. Here's why- inevitably, you are bragging to another mom (Grandma's/Nonni's/ etc are the exception of course) and that mom is being made aware of her child's faults through your monologue. No one is so confident in her parenting that she is immune to second-guessing her children. We all want the best for our child and want them to be their best selves. Thank you, Oprah.
  Here's a thought, what if they were just their average selves? Would that be so bad? What if you heard parents chatting about how proud they were that their child brought home B's and made the cheerleading squad but was the base of the pyramid? Let's face it, they can't all be at the top. So why are we so focused on our children being the best and brightest? If they are all so great doesn't that make them average anyway? Aren't we unfairly setting our future adults up for that moment on American Idol Season 30 when they are inevitably told they are NOT in fact, a rockstar? Why aren't we more interested in letting them play and just be? Not everybody needs nor deserves a trophy. What is there to reach for? Sure, disappointment never felt good as a kid but disappointment is REALITY- not Housewives of CrazyTown reality, REAL reality. You know? Like when you turn off the TV/Computer/Smartphone? Remember that?
  I am by no means saying you shouldn't praise your children or be ashamed of your praise. Go ahead but please, be realistic. Your child is NOT a baby Einstein, or a baby Picasso- unless of course he or she is in which case... yay. Good for you. Now stop bragging and have a normal conversation, please!

Hey, it's how many of us feel but are just afraid or too nice to say it. Just putting it out there. Discuss amongst yourselves...

"You aren't mad, Mommy..."

"You aren't mad, Mommy..."

Those were the beautiful words my almost 3 year old preschool daughter spoke to me today... and for whatever reason they both made me mad and sad. 

It made me mad because I could tell that my child had been coached by a well-intentioned adult and family member to say that to me when I seemed upset. She also reminded me that even when I was upset with her, I still loved her. These are reassurances I make her myself when I am rationally explaining why I AM upset.

It made me sad because as the universe was apparently backhanding me upside the head I got an email from another mom friend about parenting without yelling. Oh boy. Have you seen this lovely site?

Frankly, I am more of the "Moms who drink and swear" variety but so. be. it.

I say, Live and let live- or if you piss me off. Live. and let die.... yes, I am a Wings fan because I love Paul. Deal with it.

Anyway, the email from my sweet fellow mother asked the poignant and thorny question, "Would you want YOU for a mother?" 

FUCK. Yes? On some days, I know that I am about two donuts shy of a total meltdown. If that doesn't make sense to you then you understand.

Just call me the Yogi Berra of mothers. That's kind of how my logic works.

Moving on... I have to wonder what kind of memories my girls will retain. 

Will she remember that I always give up my food, comfort and time for her? Will she only recall my time away?

Will they only remember the curse words in traffic? Or will they fondly reminisce over the way I always said "sleep sweet" at goodnight?

Do I have to deconstruct my parenting as I am doing it?!?!?!

Right now, I am too busy trying to BE a parent and do a good job with my brain cells in tact. 

Maybe "You aren't mad, Mommy" is the universe sending me a new mantra or she is practicing what she will say someday when she does something really really bad. Oh god... 

Just when you thought you have the whole motherhood thing down... they change on you!

What is it with this crazy ride? Just when I think- ok, I have the handle on this deal- BAM!! They have changed, moved on to a new, demanding stage! I know, I know- it is a lyrical and magical journey that I must savor since one day they will not allow me to hug them as they drive away in my car loaded with all my best clothes... (actually that does make me tear up a little). The thing is though... I am trying so hard to do the best I can- just like so many of us out there. I am keeping it as organic as I can afford. Reusing clothing and not overconsuming. We compost when we can, grow as much of our own food as possible on an apartment porch and recycle to our utmost. My two and a half year old (as she demands we include the half) is in the midst of becoming a little lady. She's full of opinions, personal timing (as in, no thanks I don't want to do that now, Mother, maybe in a little bit. To which I reply, calmly... NOW NOW NOW! Am I reverting while she matures?) and fashion ideas (But I can wear these pants as a shirt! I really can! Look!). My soon to be eight month old has gone from infant to toddler at warp speed. Last week I was propping her up on a Boppy pillow. This week I am considering wrapping her and my whole apartment in bubble wrap since she now thinks she can cruise! (My chiropractor told me to "discourage" her from walking too early. Whuh???) Just when we got my oldest daughter to sleep in her own room, nightmares began. We got our little one in her own crib and separation anxiety and teething began. Those who swear they do not co-sleep either lock their children in or lie. That's right. YOU LIE.
Ha ha. The universe is hilarious.
I get it. Don't get comfortable. Don't start to establish a routine regardless of what everyone else tells you, books lecture and the SuperNanny insists... (Jo Frost you don't even HAVE children! BLURGH!!!)
I know every bit of sage wisdom experienced mothers pass on is mostly true but still... they are done with this transient thing called motherhood- or are at least through the stage I am in and therefore too smug to be borne... STILL. What other job do you do that never has one job description but ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS changes?
I am not of the opinion that you should get paid for being a mother- it IS a choice for most of us, after all. However, if there were some type of holiday pay/ lunch break/ vacation coverage- or even a bathroom break uninterrupted so I don't have to explain menstruation to my two year old- that would be great. Thanks.

M word, thy name is MUD

As I sit down to type this, I am sweating, my head is aching and I have four- count them 4- children in some type of hyperactivity or coma. I realize my free will was exercised when I drove through the lane and chose the glad fare on the board but I chose correctly- Apples instead of fries. HOWEVER, along with said apples (which reek of some type of preservative and are more pickled than  "fresh") is an easily accessed container of caramel dipping sauce. When I say easily accessed I just want to clarify. My two and half year old daughter easily, and very quietly, opened it and proceeded to consume this container in the car in what I must say was 2 SECONDS FLAT!!! Why would this corporation offer a "healthy alternative" like apple dippers? Um, gee.... I am feeling like there is some type of Mommy Conspiracy afoot... lure in the Moms and their kiddos and then sock it to them with the adulterated bleached apples and sugar syrup! My darling toddler was DeLiRiOuS!!! I am monitoring her for a sugar coma as we speak- she was talking crazy, razzing her older cousin and on a mood fun-ride that was not so fun for those watching.
Now, if for some reason you are not laughing along with me (or fine, at me) then you have never been in a mini-van hell like me and should not bother reading further. Otherwise, send me a mini-violin of sympathy through the computer screen right now as I struggle to type this through the haze of a day of craziness capped off by a deceitful meal that. was. NOT. happy.