I Just Need to Practice Dancing

We all need to be reminded of how important it is in life to slow down and enjoy ourselves. Amid my rigorous sixteen unit schedule I find myself being away at meal time far too often. I get frustrated sometimes at feeling like I have to choose between being a student, or being a mom. But my kids remind me that it's okay to struggle with this. Because everything takes practice. Even as an adult, it's impossible to think we suddenly know how to do it all. Be it all. Be everything to everyone.

So, when we sat down for our fancy dinner: corn dogs, peas, and chocolate milk, Tristan was feeling jittering, nearly jumping out of his chair. Now, if you know Tristan, this would not surprise you. He's the type of kid who literally lights up whatever room he's in with his intense energy, a smile that spreads the span of his dimpled face as he cooly swipes his bangs out of his eyes.

"What's the matter? Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I finally asked him.

"No, mom. I just have to dance. I have to get up and practice dancing when I'm done with dinner. Because I haven't danced in a while, and so I need to get up and dance," he said, in his matter of fact tone, that, if it weren't for it's high pitch, you might expect an older child to have said, not a five year old.

It took me back to Jr. High, practicing my moves in the mirror before the big dance. And yet, when the dance came, I ended up just going with it and moving in ways that weren't planned. And then I realized it was silly to practice.

And yet, isn't it funny how when we become adults, we think we can stop practicing? We leave ourselves to our own habits, uncaring if we are better or not, but accepting this is who we are. But I say, Practice to Dance. Dance as if it's eighth grade all over again, but this time you don't care if you look silly or not. You are out to dance in the world, and if you want to dance, son, Dance.

Don't get mad when you aren't good at something right away, because chances are that anyone who is good, has been practicing every day since they were five.

The house is alive with the sound of muuuusic....

Mommy coping strategy #1: How to stop yelling at my kids

I may not be the screaming mom who overreacts and gets irrationally annoyed, but maybe I am. Sometimes it feels like children are little manipulative monsters who drive a splinter under your last nerve. It's those rare occasions that I become that mom, you know, the mean and loud one who your kids are afraid of, and who is ashamed of themselves for not setting the best example.

And with kids, you always know how you dealt with them because they copy your behavior like an obnoxious trendy commercial. My daughter has told me 'whatever' and my son says 'frickin', and it's those times that I sarcastically call myself 'Mother of the Year.'  

Maybe I'm too hard on myself, maybe we all yell at our kids and they will all turn out okay. But I hate myself for doing it, even if it's not often, and I've come up with a great alternative...

Whenever I want to scold them, I take a deep breath (yea, I know, that's not original) but then I proceed with my lecture in the form of a song..."Pick up those toys right now before I send you to your roo-oom" I try to end each line on a high note to keep the song feeling positive.

And then, even if they don't listen, and I have to get louder, or more threatening, at least it's not as bad in song form: "I'm going to have to start taking stuff awa-aaay, if nobody can do what they're toh-ooold. Maybe I will just give it to children who waa-ant it, and know how to clean up after themsehh-elves."

I feel better, and the kids respond better when they feel like I am not going to blow a fuse when the house is a mess. I'm still up in the air if it's totally effective, but it does lighten the mood and has really (stupidly) worked to help me feel like I am scolding less, but still keeping the kids in line. Because one false move and they will walk all over you....

What the ????

9:45 am today and I had just spent nearly an hour on Facebook, tagging my family in pics from a fun-filled weekend in Las Vegas. I checked my school email and found that my professor had emailed the syllabus and signed his note with a "See you this evening." But that message was yesterday, and that was impossible, I thought, because it's still Spring Break.

He's just a visiting teacher, I thought, silly guy. But when another email was found with another syllabus and a message, "See you in class!" the suspicion that I was wrong became disgustingly clear. I checked the school calendar online, and sure enough, the first day of Spring Quarter was YESTERDAY!

Okay, don't panic. I had fifteen minutes to get dressed, put make-up on and head out the door to make it to my Tuesday classes on time. What about the kids? Hubby was supposed to go to LA today. Sorry hubby, gotta go!

Pulled into the parking lot and found a space. Pulled in too close between two other SUV's. Ugh, the gardener mowing the lawn in the parking lot is staring at me, I back out and pull to a free space with nobody next to me. I get out, it's crooked. I start her up and do it again. Better. Off to school. Damn, car's still crooked. Oh well, I'm running out of time.

Cross the street. Damn, forgot soda on top of car. Run back and grab it so it doesn't ruin my paint on the car (does it do that? I know it does on coffee tables). What building is my class is in? I forgot the schedule in the car, crap. I know it was BY-something so I find the map. Where's a campus directory when you need one? I need an app for that! So, found "Boyce Hall" and I think that sounds right. And I head into the side of campus where the trees are big and shady, and it would be beautiful if they weren't covering the building names. Circle around the library once. Better check map again.

Stopped to consult my laptop campus map and knew that if I saw the Physics building I had gone too far. And low and behold, I finally found it! Hooray! By this time I was sweaty and tired, and had to creep into an already started History of Modern Mexico class. About ten minutes into it, as I reapplied my lip gloss and checked emails, I remembered why I used to hate school, and history. Ugh.

After getting through this class I would have to revise a play that was due in my next class, and figure out what room number that class was in since I wasn't "officially" enrolled in it. So I would be spending the short break between this class and my next one trying to eat lunch, revise a ten page play and then find somewhere to print it out, and hope either my professor emails me back with the room number or my friend texts me back in the next hour.

All I can say is, 10 more weeks until Graduation...

She's Marking her Territory

Okay, I know this is typical of new male dogs, but my tutu-clad 3 year old is already a year past potty training days, so what gives?

I have changed the bed sheets in the house probably four times in the last week. First we had a run of the flu, so all the sheets got cleaned and the house smelled sanitary like the pungent aroma of bleach escaping from the laundry room. The next night Ashlyn crawled into bed with me somewhere around 3 am, and I woke up at about 6:30 in an enormous puddle of urine soaked sheets!

Good thing I bought a new mattress protector a few weeks ago, except that this girl must have leaked a gallon of pee into my bed, soaking through the pad and into the once nice and new pillow-top mattress. Why was I so eager to get her out of pull-ups at night?

Then the laundry starts again. A couple nights later she is unable to sleep all night again (all these darn colds and coughs going around) but I wasn't going to make that mistake of letting her in my bed happen again, no sir! So, I climbed into her bed and tried to snuggle her back to sleep. She sweetly told me not to put my arm around her because it would hurt her belly, so I pulled up her pink pony comforter and rolled over to try to get some shut eye. After countless conversations, I realized that there was no chance of being able to sleep with my insomniac daughter, I gave up and brought her into my bed.

We woke up to yet another puddle, and I cursed myself for giving her so many sips of water in the middle of the night. But what was I supposed to do, she was coughing? I didn't make her sit on the potty, even though it is usually a steadfast rule that no kids can sleep in Mommy's bed until they at least try to go pee on the toilet. But at 3 am, or 4:30, whatever time it was, Mommy was delirious and just wanted to go back to sleep! So, shame on me for not enforcing my own rules. And I see clearly why I set that rule in place.

Today I am washing Ashlyn's bedding. I just put new sheets on her bed two days ago, but this morning she wet right through her comforter, blanket, sheets, mattress pad, and even managed to soil her snuggly kitty-cat Armando.

If this wasn't enough evidence that she is marking her turf, her vomit explosion on the sofa sealed the deal. It wasn't bad enough that she threw up all over the couch, but it was on the part of the sectional where I typically sit and lie down. So now, after a week of continuos sheet changing and bleaching laundry, I can't even sit on the couch and relax without the lingering aroma of vomit.

I looked up how much it would cost to have the couch cleaned, but since it's a sectional (and the vomit was right in the middle section of course!) it would be almost $200!!! So, I scratched that idea and googled how to clean up vomit, coming across a recipe for white vinegar and warm water, followed by a baking soda paste. Let dry, then vacuum.

I followed the instructions, eager to get that stench out of what used to be my nice navy blue chenille sofa. The vinegar stung my eyes, but was refreshing compared to the smell it was trying to clean. I waited all day for it to dry so I could vacuum it up, but after ten hours it was as dry as it was gonna get and the vacuum effectively smeared the baking soda deeper into the texture of my couch, it did not suck up the white at all.

Well, I flipped the cushion, but the smell still won't go away. I sprayed a new bottle of Febreze all over the cushions five or six times throughout the next couple of days. But I still can't lay down on my couch without catching a not-so-faint whiff of vomit.

But why should a Mom get to take a break anyway? There are more loads of laundry to get done, folded and put away. Oh yea, and finals week for this college mom...

Poop Stains

Okay, don't tell my son I told you this, but it's too good not to share. And inspiration to write doesn't come along this easily ever.

Sitting down to blank screen, even though it's fifteen minutes past the kids bedtime and I should be bathing them or something, but they are playing and it's quiet and I should check on them but I don't and then their friend (a six year old blonde quite like a young Alice in Wonderland) skips into the dining room and announces

"Tristan has a poop stain" as if it were the time of day.

I should have known better how to react. I am a mother of two, with over five years hands on experience. Right? No, it stumped me. Why was she telling me this? I don't care if he has a skid mark. It happens. I do laundry, I see it. But why did she see it? These thoughts, paired with my goofy-tired state of mind, make me just laugh hysterically. I can't even see clearly, the tears running out of my eyes, and I can't speak or I bust up again. I realize I need to investigate.

I go upstairs and find him on the toilet. I go in to help and check out this poop-stain, when I discover an entire poop smeared over the front of the toilet bowl! That was way more than a poop-stain! So I look to Tristan for an answer because he never does this, and he gives me the stink eye, saying "I heard you laughing at me, mom, and that wasn't very nice," while holding back his anger tears.

I feel so bad that I was busted, that's not my finest parenting, and I rarely slip up like that. But it was so funny and caught me so off guard. So I tell him, "I'm sorry buddy, you're right, that wasn't very nice and I shouldn't have laughed like that, but think about if someone came up to you and said 'mommy has a poop-stain', would you laugh a little?" Luckily he starts giggling at that idea and so I'm off the hook. I peel him off the toilet, give me a baby-wipe bath, and send him to his room to grab some fresh clothes while I finish cleaning up. I'm grateful for lemon-scented Clorox wipes to help do the dirty work of cleaning up that toilet and then throwing them away immediately.

Ah, poop stains. Happens to the best of us.

My kids are TOO popular!

Usually this would be every parent's dream...to have kids who everybody else's kids want to play with, but enough's enough!

When I drop the kids off at their preschool class (they go together) the other kids call out like a fan club "Tristan! Ashlyn!" Cheers all around. Then Carter invites himself over for a play date. And Justin wants to come over too. So I agree that maybe we can meet at the park (since my house is usually a disaster midweek) and Tristan tells me to text Carter's mom and invite Madelyn too (his crush from last year who has moved on to Kindergarten this year), meanwhile Ashlyn is inviting Roxana and McKenzie to a sleepover?

And the worst part is that I can't keep track of all the other mom's names, and I really don't have much, if any, free time during school to arrange such social engagements. Because it's not really just about the kids, it's about the moms too! It takes energy and effort to forge new friendships, but it's always really rewarding and comforting to hear other women my age share similar struggles with the insanity of parenthood.

Becoming friends with other moms has it's equal share of getting even funnier inside stories of your kids. Logan's mom, Jennie, told me that he was reporting each day that Ashlyn was absent from preschool (she had a really bad cough and runny nose so I kept her home for a week) and then the day that both the kids were absent he was very worried about them! And I got to share with McKenzie's mom that when it was Tristan's turn to bring a preschool snack he wanted to get the pancakes on a stick again because McKenzie really liked them last time.

It is so fun to watch the kids build their first friendships, and they are so sweet that it reminds me how important friends are. As busy as I get with school and life, it's absolutely necessary to my sanity (and the kids too!) that I slow down and make time to chill with a good friend (or a new friend) and appreciate the comfort of not being alone.

So, in my efforts to help my kids they are actually helping me remember the importance of friends at all ages. One hour park play dates have been a reasonable time commitment and just enough for everyone to wind down. While I may have ruined my suede boots in the sandbox, it was worth making the time for friends and I am proud of my kids for being so popular.

O Christmas Tree...

Yay! Winter break is here, which means I finally have time to put up the Christmas tree with the kids and get the house feeling warm and cozy (and clean) again for the holidays. We dragged out the good ol' 8 foot fake pine from the garage (which wasn't hard to do since we never put it back up in the rafters after last Christmas) and assembled it with ease. Now that my son is 5 years old he helped me heave each of the three heavy sections up raise the tree to life. Then I began the ponderous task of fluffing, but really I don't mind it, and so it goes on for several days after because I need to fill the gaps to make it look less see-through. Once the lights are up, and the kids have caked it in decorations (though somewhat disproportioned heavily on the bottom third of the tree), it will look real as Christmas itself!

Now, people seem to be firmly on one side or the other of the Christmas tree argument of real versus fake. Most of this opinion seems to be formed based on childhood experiences. Personally, I grew up with the real thing and have fond memories of it as part of my traditional Christmas experience. But my mother-in-law was allergic to pine trees so my husband grew up with the artificial trees.

I have found that the majority of real tree enthusiasts are actually quite snobbish about it, as if it's a matter of refined taste and superiority. As if artificial trees were like worshipping a false god. They try to plea to your senses by conjuring up emotional attachments to the scent of pine and the prickly needles that stick in the carpet and the fact that it's alive and real.

Then there are the fakies. Some claim environmentalism, that they are saving trees from the senseless murder, that they are only glorified then discarded on street curbs. Others, like me, just want to be economical about the matter. Trees are frickin' expensive! Fake ones are cheaper and last longer, and won't scratch the roof of my car each year when I have it tied down and drive it home. Many of the new trees even come with the lights already in them, how cool! Fakies see the practicality of owning a reusable tree.

Although artificial trees can't replace the scent of the real thing, they are a decent alternative. I just burn a pine-scented candle, and mop with pine-sol. And nobody has to crawl under the tree to water it, or in my case forget to water it. Memories of tree lots and the festivity in the event of picking a tree are fun and irreplaceable. But I don't want a tiny pine tree, I want a big one, and if that means I have to go the fake route, so be it. I might not be fully converted, but I'll never be a tree snob. And the kids hang the ornaments without such cares.