Parenthood. We are probably doing it wrong.

There is a lot of noise on social media lately about motherhood. Not really about fatherhood, not really calling out the dads. I think there are flows every now and again where we the people get on our platforms and proclaim to the world that they are doing “it” wrong, whatever the new “it” thing happens to be.

Right now it happens to be parenting.

Aimed directly at mothers to be precise.

We have heard about the zoo incident where the young boy climbed into a gorilla pit. The one where seemingly the mother had no eye on her child for the entire time he climbed a fence and other security measures to find himself face to face, in a pit, with a 400 lb gorilla.

While I wasn’t there and I am by no means one to judge another mother I find it extremely frightening that this teeny tot was unsupervised in a public place. Surrounded by strangers and more danger than one could possibly imagine.I am infuriated by this parents lack of concern for where her child was until it was too late. I am appalled other adults must have seen this happening and said nothing. Did nothing. Stood back in judgement? Wonder? Horror?

How does the child escape the watchful eye of a parent?

I will tell you how. Mothers are human too. We are expected to be on a constant watch for our offspring, for potential pain, possible death. While I managed to watch mine for as many years as it takes to basically not fall into a pit at the zoo … I wasn’t exactly perfect.

Pick up any parenting magazine or surf a parenting website and try not to be persuaded to read about the struggle of working parents vs those who stay at home and how hard it is to make a life choice to be either.

Or the blogger who I briefly scanned proclaiming BS on stay at home moms who title themselves super human and their children saints.

I have been on both sides here. When my brood was teeny I stayed at home with them. We budgeted to the last dollar and we never had much but I was home.

Are my children saints because I was there 24/7? No.

Was I some kind of super human for making a choice to stay home? No. I was barely human. Have you seen The Walking Dead? I was the mommy version.

Mostly I was a mess chasing toddlers around in my pajamas from yesterday, wiping faces and picking Cheerios out of my hair. I usually didn’t know what day it was and I didn’t care as long as my family was fed and alive.

Once they were older I worked, I went to school, I got a better job, I found a career and I love it. I can provide things I never had, that they never had, and sometimes that means I work alot of hours.

Do vacations and big screen TV’s make me a better mother? No. If you ask my kids they think I’m pretty cool but that would only be so they can go back to playing video games on the new console.

Are my kids saints because I work to support them? Hell no. They spend alot of time being grounded for not helping with the dishes.

Then there are the celebrity parents on social media. Those with cute little baby pictures on Instagram followed up with attacks on parenting. Everything from when it might be alright to leave your newborn for a dinner out to how to dress a toddler or style their hair. Or those adopted kids to gay parents and how they can possibly be thriving in such an environment.

I received my fair share of parenting advice, lucky for me I could just hang up the phone or close my front door and not hear it if I didn’t want to. Social media seems to have closed that gap. There are plenty of opinions on everything. I have mine too but generally I just scroll on or unfriend or unfollow people who irritate me.

I simply don’t subscribe to those I can not seem to pass by without voicing a negative opinion.

I am well aware nobody wants to me to point out those dirty little kid faces in every photo posted. (please wipe your kids face, seriously)

Do I have cute little food face photos tucked away somewhere to embarrass my kids later? You bet.

The point is parenting is hard enough without someone in your face telling you that you are doing it wrong.

You probably are.

I probably am too.

…. but since nobody handed us a manual with our newborn we have to make it up as we go along. Be a good person. Wipe your kids faces and don’t let them wander off in dangerous places and you will be just fine as a parent.

Try not to judge others out loud and you will be an excellent mother. Kudos.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil





Mother’s Day. The real kind.

I am not a fan of this mothers day thing. I am intentionally seperated from my family tree mostly because of who I love.

Generally this is wonderful. It’s absolute bliss really.

However, when mothers day rolls around there is a deep pit in my stomach. A longing for unconditional love I never knew.

We celebrated a “moms’ day” Saturday instead. A full day of stuff we love as a family. Not because we had to but because we want to. An all inclusive splurge you might say. It was glorious. I felt loved. Honest and truely.

This the day of the official “Mother’s Day”,  so says the calender, started a little differently. I casually stepped over piles of laundry ignored  all week and strolled to the kitchen. I was greeted by a real life family kitchen, basically a mess of things not quite put away and a pile of dishes in the sink. I stopped and pondered who’s turn it was to load the dishwasher and I sighed deeply knowing it would be a long day of house chores.

I called to the children for help with today’s clean up. They came, with sad faces, to have left whatever it is adolescents do on the weekends.

They proceed to tell me they can not complete chores as we are out of a list of things, most importantly in this moment, dishwasher tabs. My son asks me if I picked them up yesterday. I snap back that we were together all day, how could I possibly have picked them up? I feel bad instantly. It isn’t their fault I have a deep issue with today and of all days I will spend it scrubbing toilets and folding other people’s underwear.

I sigh deeply and ask him to “please just load the dishwasher … alright?”
Seriously. Just load the damn dishwasher and stop giving me crap.

Instead of sulking and throwing plates into the rack, my child walks over to me and without saying any words just hugged me. I held him tightly and mom melted just a little, just long enough to relax.

The moment ended ubruptly when he said “no” … no?
As in no, I will not just do the dishes?

This kid.

He knows how to make me laugh. I love his sarcastic nature, he clearly gets it from me. This kid knows me. He appreciates me for who I am.

Even if he didn’t utter a single Happy Mothers Day this morning.

Even if nobody made me breakfast in bed. Let’s be honest, they didn’t even clean up their own breakfast.

But my boy hugged me so sincerely for 30 seconds I will forgive him for just about anything. Even not doing the dishes.

Spring cleaning the closets

It’s that time of year again. We dig out the prior seasons clothing, sort totes to see what still fits and what’s still fashionable.

Unimagetil about 2 1/2 years ago I did this task twice a year all by myself. I would go from bedroom to bedroom and organize with carefully color coded totes. It took me about a day and that includes the inevitable laundry. That was when I had time for simple pleasures, like bubble baths and pedicures. Times have changed.

Life circumstances the last 2 years or so what they were, the kids would sort of help the last few change outs. This was done with minimal supervision and it seemed like they had a good handle on keeping organized and tidy. I didn’t check on them. It was after all probably fine.

This year I decided they could do it themselves entirely. A preteen boy and a young teen girl, I could trust them with this responsibility. cause I’m tired. and lazy.

The kids are surely old enough to do this all by themselves, right? Wrong. So wrong.

I came home to begin my weekend on the couch; I was going to watch a movie or a Netflix marathon or something on the DVR. Or maybe all that. I’ve had a long week and I earned this weekend. I had all night free and popcorn ready for poppin.

Then it started.

The endless arm loads of clothing being dumped around me. Then they started with the questions …

Daughter: “What about clothes I don’t want?”
Me: grumbling, pausing the TV but not making eye contact … “Just sort them and I’ll figure it out.”

Son: “What about this?” holding a shirt some random kid probably left here months ago.
Me: “Really? Put it in the pile. I’ll sort it out.”

I’m gonna take my chances anyway.

This went on for what seemed like forever. Then they disappeared leaving me with more clothes than a Goodwill grand opening.

Then I noticed the smell. Not the buttery goodness of a fresh Orville Redenbacher. No. More like one of the dogs passed gas while barfing up a dead thing they unburied and then ate. Not that my dogs would do such things. Hopefully.
I don’t know where the stench was coming from but it was gross.

I sighed heavily without breathing in too much of the toxic air and set to sorting. No way could I continue ignoring the mess. I carefully inspected the clothing and made my selections. One pile for eBay, one for donating and one for the trash.

I found one of my cardigans, a single shoe, a dried up leaf and 2 mini bounce balls. I also found some tiny sizes they clearly missed in the prior seasons closet clean outs. I don’t care how good of a job they claim they did, I know nobody in this house has worn Iron Man under-roos since kindergarten. Lucky for me one pair of jeans had 42 cents in the pocket. Even luckier? Nothing dead.


I think maybe I will go back to cleaning their closets myself. Even if it means I never, ever get time to just watch TV without multi-tasking again.