It’s been too long since I’ve sat down to write.
I’ve had no energy, no desire, no internal fire to get me going.
My youngest, Emma, had a severe allergic reaction to amoxicillin. You don’t know what it’s like to feel powerless until you’re holding your tiny, red, puffed up toddler in your arms and you hear her gasping for air. You don’t know fear until you’re on the phone with a 911 dispatcher while crying and shaking because your child’s eyes are rolling back and her face has turned completely pale. You don’t know despair until you’re sitting in an ambulance holding your child and just asking over and over if she’ll be ok.
The ER nightmare lasted almost 2 weeks. It started with a cold and escalated into a life threatening situation. No one slept, no one ate well, no one showered or was able to relax. It was a hard time. It made me realize how much I’ve taken for granted and how I need to be more thankful.
I spend too much time on my phone. I don’t play enough with my girls. I pick my fiance apart for little things. I neglect myself.
Well, December, to you I say – Good riddance.
Here’s to another year, another opportunity, another chance to take action. Please stop waiting – Time is unforgiving.
Live, laugh, love… Today and always.
3 days. In just 3 short, fleeting days my baby will be 7.
I can’t stress how much time really does fly. There are moments I missed that I’ll never get back. There are memories that were never made because something got in the way. There are a thousand things I regret and wish I could do over.
My dear sweet Lola,
At 6 your hands are still tiny. Your love is still pure. You fill the house with whys, what ifs, and wonder. Your eyes and laugh still sparkle with innocence. Your dreams are big and very within reach and any wrong doings against you are simply answered with forgiveness. You are my hero and the love of my life. You’ve taught me so much and make me strive to become a better mother and person every waking day.
I love you, sweet pea.
I write a lot about my kids and adventures in parenting. I am not an expert. You should never take my advice or try and recreate something I did with my two disasters. I honestly think I would rate myself at the middle of an ok parenting scale – where ok is the best. In fact, I’m breastfeeding and trying to put Em to sleep with Bulls On Parade playing in the background.
I yell too much and not enough at times. I am not the most patient and it’s starting to reflect in my oldest. She told me to stop rolling MY eyes at HER. She’s 6. I probably rely too much on technology for my 5 minutes of peace and sometimes, we snack all day. I’m guilty of letting Lo taste my decaf peppermint lattes and super guilty of letting Em nibble on dark chocolate.
Sometimes I think I suck at everything and that feeling is usually intensified after reading random mom blogs and seeing perfect family everything pictures on Instagram. Some of those moms homeschool all their kids and manage to have perfect photo-op ready lives at all times. Dinner is always some healthy, organic feast where the hashtag foodporn seems inadequate. I want to eat those pictures and wonder why I can’t seem to manage more than a load of laundry some days.
Those parents also manage to go out and enjoy each other. It took us 2 years to go have an hour dinner together. Who knows when we’ll get to go out alone, again. They wear awesome clothes or better yet, make their own clothes while their children are content doing some awesome artistic endeavor. They’re beautiful, always either perfectly polished or just grunge enough.
It’s tough figuring out your parenting style as it is. It’s harder yet when you have all these styles to compare yourself too. All those stories you hear or read. All those suggestions and long term effects to consider.
I’ll let you in on a secret – you’re good enough.
You might not ever in your life achieve some of the things you see but those little humans you’re raising see you as the bees knees. Yeah, you’ll fuck it up. They’ll forgive you. You’ll move on. You’re perfect in all your parenting imperfections.
Live, love, laugh.
The underage ladies and I have tickets to go see the freshest band on the Nick Jr. block! Yeah, be jealous. I know some of you might be going to the movies, museums, fancy restaurants, or just plain dives but not me. I’m going to rock out to the Fresh Beat Band. I’m going to scream, shout, and quite possibly throw my bra (I’ll have to dig through the trenches to find a decent one) at Twist.
I really am excited maybe even too excited. The girls should have a blast and I can’t wait to see them dancing and clapping their little hearts away. This will be my first concert in 2 years. And, when in Rome… Dance. Even if it’s to kiddie pop.
Overheard while in the bathtub with her sister…
So you’re white, I’m tan… We’re still sisters, it’s all good.
When asked how long her sister napped…
Oh, you know like an hour? No, maybe 2. No, wait… 2 hours and 50 cents.
When reunited with a friend she hasn’t seen for a week…
Oh my god, Jasmine! I haven’t seen you in like 30 years!
6 has been quite a ride but I don’t think I’m mentally ready for 7. My baby is getting older. How much longer will she be ok with sitting through Dora with her little sister? Or listening to lullabies? How much longer will she love me unconditionally and be ridiculously forgiving?
I can’t help but notice the baby leaving from her face and in place the beginnings of a beautiful, spunky teenager.
Oh, Lola. You have no idea how much I love you. You drive me absolutely crazy but I’m just as crazy – about you.
My kids are driving me bananas and not the cool Gwen Stefani kind of b-a-n-a-n-a-s.
I’m totally going batshit insane here.
They are being unruly, adorable, little dickheads, running around without taking my state of mind into any consideration.
I have no more popsicles to bribe them with and I’m running out of patience. Why did I have kids? Good question.
A title I never thought would be relevant in my life.
Oh my, how the mighty have fallen.
There I was, on a muddy soccer field at the most ungodliest of hours. Yes, me. Standing for hours, IN THE SUN, not even remembering to reapply sunscreen every half hour. I cheered. I stomped. I yelled at my daughter to look at the ball. I was all of the things.
Soccer mom, that was me.