I’m too busy making mistakes and praying my kids turn out alright anyway.

I’m too busy looking at my musty smelling laundry pile and wondering if I should fold it or light it all on fire.

I’m too busy teaching my kids good work ethics which means saying “stop playing and keep cleaning” over and over until everyone is crying.

I’m too busy yelling that everyone needs to STOP YELLING and then wondering if I will ever be able to stop yelling. It’s not really looking good for any of us.

I’m too busy letting my three-year-old use a pacifier and my six-year-old wear Cinderella underwear as a bathing suit.

I’m too busy trying not to fight with my husband in front of the kids even though sometimes we make each other crazy (ESPECIALLY IN THE CAR). I say trying, because last week my three-year-old asked me why daddy and I sometimes argue like little kids.

I’m too busy wondering if that wet spot is from water, juice, or urine.

I’m too busy trying to assess if that Pterodactyl scream was a “we’re having fun” scream or a “blood has been shed” scream.

I’m too busy making risky calls like should I let my son wear that shirt with spaghetti sauce on it to church and do I tell my girls that it’s actually a “vagina” not a “bagina” even though bagina is way more awesome?

I’m too damn busy apologizing to my kids. I’m apologizing for misunderstanding them, for getting grumpy, for bumping their head on a doorway, for not believing them that their tummy hurt until they projectile vomited and for throwing away that ginormous popsicle stick art project they brought home from school.

I’m too busy apologizing FOR my kids, like, “sorry they ate all your snacks and asked you if there’s a baby in your belly”.

I’m too busy being overwhelmed by the fact that it’s already dinner time AGAIN and the food is still at the grocery store.

I’m too busy because this parenting gig is flying by at lightning speed and I’m hanging on for dear life hoping that when it’s over they will look back and say we were loved.

I’m not going to judge your parenting because IT’S HARD and YOU are the qualified one.

I’m not qualified because I don’t worry about your kids like you do. I don’t lie awake at night wrestling with decisions about schools, and friends, and behaviors, and obstacles in their precious lives. I don’t love them, ache for them, feed them, or say sorry to them like you do. I don’t know them. I don’t know their dreams or what makes them tick.

I’m eleven years in and I am now more certain than ever that there isn’t “one way” to do this well. I’m just trying to figure out how to parent my own kids and how many margaritas I can have without getting a hangover. Life is complicated.

If we can’t be real and share the struggle, then it just doesn’t work for me.

I’m a fan of all MOMS.

I’m too damn busy for anything else.

***

Cheers friends! For more like this you can follow me here, on Facebook and on Instagram!

I am all done moonlighting as an ivory collector.

It was the fifth time the, “tooth fairy must have been so busy she forgot!” while my husband and I mouthed obscenities to each other over their heads, HOW COULD WE LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN???! My son sat me down and gently asked, “Mom, are you the tooth fairy?”

I just couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. I caved.

“YEEEEEES, I’m SOOO sorry!”

“It’s okay Mom,” he said kindly, “but can I please have the money?”

“Go grab my purse.”

Now that they know the truth, my seven year old tells me 47 times before goes to bed, “I just can’t wait until the TOOTH FAIRY comes tonight. The TOOTH FAIRY is welcome to leave cash or small toys, in case the TOOTH FAIRY was wondering.” Then he winks at me wildly until I’m worried he’s having a seizure.

The problem is, this doesn’t help, because I am going to forget forever and my kids are shedding teeth like sheep dogs lose hair. We practically have to eat through straws around here.

I never think about it again until I feel him staring at me disapprovingly while I make breakfast the next morning.

“WHAT?!” I finally ask.

“The Tooth Fairy forgot last night, ” he says. Then he doesn’t break eye contact for a full thirty seconds in case we both weren’t clear WHO the fairy is that he’s referring to.

I DO NOT KNOW WHAT MY PROBLEM IS. Why can I not remember this??

Also HOW DID THIS EVEN BECOME A THING??

Did the mothers of old turn their children’s canines into ivory earrings or barter with them at the local trading post?? Why are we paying our kids for their teeth? Do we think they will leave the tooth forever to rot in their heads if we don’t offer them some sort of cash incentive?

I feel like if I knew what I was supposed to do with the ivory once I collected it, maybe I’d be better at remembering.

Also I’m pretty sure you need Jedi skills to rummage under a child’s head and not wake them up. Worst. Idea. Ever. Do other people’s children sleep kind of like dead people? Is there a form of Children’s Nyquil reserved for the tooth fairy? Or is it simple use of pre-bedtime hypnotism?

Just tell me.

I really think there needs to be more explanations or speciality training courses for this. Right along with child birth. Here’s how to remove a tooth from underneath a sleeping child, taught by Dr. James Bond.

Meanwhile, I just made a family announcement:

I want to inform you all that I will now be doing daylight cash transactions for teeth. No more back alley deals. You bring me the tooth and I give you quarters.

During the day. When 100% of this family is awake.

The end.

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

I’m so excited about my newest post for Motherly, because, FOR REALZZZ.

Mornings before kids:

1. Get self ready.

2. Get self in car.

3. Go.

Mornings now:

1. Wake up children.

2. Go to the kitchen to start breakfast.

3. Hear no noise from children.

4. Holler at children every 30 seconds.

5. All appear, except one. Your future seems bright, you keep hollering.

6. You hear last child thrashing and grunting violently. This is the worst moment of his life.

7. Child finally emerges. It is unclear if he is human or zombie.

8. Child sits on couch.

9. Child becomes one with the couch.

10. You call frantically to them while making eggs: “Shoes!” “Hair!” “Clothes!”

11. Child stares into space.

Read more at Motherly…

We clean things so they can be destroyed right exactly before you drop by. I don’t mean to brag, but my kids are capable of making my house a major health code violation in ten seconds flat. Sometimes I think about posting pictures of what my house looks like when it’s clean – just for reference.

Welcome to my home. Here is a picture of what my house looked like one time last week.  It could also look like this more often if I had 47 maids and manservants.

Due to a current cash flow problem, we have had to reduce our Downton Abbey staff size.

Please come back in 25 years to see it like this again.

Thank you.

We are always smelling things. Pillows. Clothes. Carseats. Butts. My life is just a game of: where and what is that horrible smell? Did something die? Did someone poop? Is that a piece of pizza under there??

I just need you to know that I KNOW about the smell. Okay?

There’s only one thing worse than being stinky, and that’s been unknowingly stinky.

I am not that girl.

I have been trying to solve this mystery since Tuesday.

I appreciate your patience.

We take family photos and hang them on the wall so that we can live vicariously through those happy…and remarkably clean people.

Look at them, aren’t they precious?

Laundry. We are literally always doing laundry.

Step 1: Wash load.

Step 2: Forget.

Step 3: Smell Load.

Step 4: Hmm. Smells fine. Dry load.

Step 5: Smell dry clothes.

Step 6: Dammit.

Step 7: Re-wash and dry.

Step 8: Pull out dry clothes to fold “later” and throw them on your bed.

Step 9: Forget until you go to bed. Dammit.

Step 10: Throw clothes on floor.

Step 11: In the morning have children run through clothes until you can no longer tell what is clean.

Step 12: Throw pile back on bed because you cannot even.

Step 13: Repeat until you die.

We are keeping people alive.

We are just saving lives, one pair of adult scissors at a time.

Delivering the children. To school, from school, to birthday parties, to dance, to sports…

I’m just a girl, sitting in a minivan…praying you don’t ask me to get out.

These Lorelei Gilmore shorty shorts did not anticipate leaving the vehicle. I brought the kids and they are dressed. I can not guarantee any other kinds of hassles or formalities such as bras, pants, or shoes.

The kitchen counter. We all have our one thing that makes us feel like we might be in control. Mine is my kitchen counter. Kids engaging in WWF wrestling? Toddler screaming while being permanently velcroed to my calf? It ACTUALLY being cloudy with a chance of meatballs?

I do not care if the heavens have opened and giant chili cheese dogs are bouncing off my front porch.

I can’t control everything – but I can control one thing: and that is my kitchen counter. If you need me, I will be wiping it down for the 102nd time today.

Feeding people. I serve up three meals a day so that people can cry, fall on the floor in convulsions, and agonize over which is better: my cooking – or- starving. Then they choose starving…because my food is just. that. bad.

Insert eternal eye roll.

And then the Lord gave us wine. Thank you, Lord.

Grocery Shopping. I am making moral decisions at the grocery store.

Do I spend my life savings on organic – and feel very good about my healthy and conscientious choices?

Or…

Do I fill my cart with hormones and pesticides and feel like a money saving boss?

Life is so complicated.

I cope by buying mostly organic and hitting up Dairy Queen on the way home for lunch…because balance.

We are not searching for unsolicited advice.

Things you can do instead of give me advice:

Clean my minivan.

Get me a Roomba that eats toys.

Pour me a coffee.

Tell me I’m pretty.

That is all.

We are not judging you. 

You know what I don’t have time for?

Judging.

I do not care if your kid eats fruit snacks or cucumbers. I don’t care if you homeschool or are a working mom. I just don’t even care.

I don’t care if you don’t want kids or are on the career track. I say more power to you – and please while you’re up there, break a few glass ceilings for my girls, would ya?

I don’t think my life is harder or that I’m some sort of martyr. I think that this is exactly what I chose to do – and sometimes it is hard, because that is the nature of things that matter. Just like any great dream, it is worth the cost.

Things worth believing in are also worth fighting for. Sometimes that looks like hard work and sacrifice.

These kids – they are my dream.

And I believe in them 100%.

You do you my friend.

****

***Our hearts go out to all suffering from Hurricane Matthew. One way to join ongoing efforts in Haiti is to donate to Doctors Without Borders by clicking this link.

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

I am forever grateful for my friend and her vast knowledge of obscure things.  I use her as a sort of brain crutch and text her things like; “Do I like guava kombucha?” and “If I mix vinegar and bleach will I die?”

She is now 9 weeks pregnant with her first, and last night she went to flush a banana peel down my toilet.

Dear friend,

Mom brain is real. Sorry about that.

In your honor, I have compiled a list of things that definitely happen to me barely ever all the time. You may or may not want to prepare for these things to happen to you. Or just get a tattoo that says, “I am not crazy, just tired.”

Tattoos look good on you, so maybe do that.

Love,

Jess

***

I give really good mom-speeches to my kids about how potatoes are not soccer balls, and “No more than one” marker tattoo on your illiterate little sister that says “boys rule”. I’m feelin’ real good about my magic with words, but their eyes are glazed with confusion.

“Mom, why did you tell Haven to stop singing soccer balls?”

The usuals. Throwing away keys. Putting ice cream in the refrigerator. Losing 17 debit cards in a row. Leaving the car running for four hours. Forgetting English. Telling my friend I don’t have any brothers, when clearly, I have a brother. Normal stuff.

Three trips to the grocery store for one meal. I am terrible at grocery shopping. I have friends who do a trip a week. I salute you. Have you considered starting a business to do this for other less skilled people? I come home with taco shells, sour cream, salsa and three things of raspberry fruit bars, feeling very pleased with myself.

At 5:30 I realize we are not vegetarians.

The one thing I have going for me is that I’m usually wearing a delightful combination of high-water sweat pants, snow boots and left over mascara my first grocery run of the day . I’m pretty sure they think I’m two different people.

I used to be a good student. Now my hand writing is not legible, and I would die without auto-correct.

When someone asks me a question and I feel like it’s a test.  My palms get all sweaty, I’m going to have to REMEMBER things.

“How was your trip?”

“What trip?”

“…your trip.”

“Oh! When I went to Seattle on Monday….right. I don’t remember.”

Or there’s the classic…

“How are you?”

“Gooooooooooooood, hahaha.” (I have no idea.)

Leaving my child’s shoes at the library. How does that even happen? How did I successfully walk to the car with my kid, never realizing – oh hey – they don’t have shoes on. Were they walking in their socks? Did they steal someone else’s shoes? I don’t even know.

Appointments. That is all. I really can’t talk about it without my heart rate rising. I will just say that things that include the words “drop-in” are more my style.

Losing all the things. I learned a long time ago to stop using the words: “I think my phone, purse, ID, credit card…were stolen.”. Oh…right, my phone is right here, in the underwear drawer (obviously).

Cooking mishaps. Making brownies for my friends that are the consistancy of tree sap and not at all chewable. Shattering our front window  because I preheated the BBQ (for an hour) right next to it, and setting all the utensils on fire because I forgot to open the lid.

Randomly screaming. Everyone is peacefully walking out of Costco when I see a SUV coming our way. I can’t get the words out fast enough as I see my four year old turn to get a wrapper off the ground. In decibels not safe for the human ears I scream – “STOOOOOOOP!!!”

Only thing is, Oaklee is still holding my friend’s hand and the Suburban of Terror was turning into a different row.

Guys, in my mind, it was real. I was having a heart attack – and now you are. You’re welcome.

Asking my friend to read my blog before I share it, to make sure I didn’t say anything insane. And if it is insane, that it’s at least funny-insane.

***

Carry on Momma! You are AWESOME, remember, NONE of us are perfect. We are just a messy band of sisters, showing up and doing our best in the most flawed of ways.

To find this amazing #mombrain hoody (which is SO cozy btw) check out WutheringIris on Etsy. My fabulous friend Jenn Hanson makes these as well as extremely adorable head bands (as seen)…(#momhair – can I get an amen?). You can follow Jenn @wutheringiris on Instagram.

You can follow me here at wonderoak.com or on my Facebook page WONDEROAK Blog!

In honor of us all being in this together – please share your best mom-brain moment!

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Sister, I am with you is a message of solidarity between moms and women. It says I AM FOR you no matter what.

I don’t care if your house looks like the bottom of a cereal box. I don’t care if you’re makeup is fresh or three days old. I don’t care if you smile a lot, cry a lot, or yell a lot. I don’t care if you breastfeed or bottle feed, or if you like a glass of whiskey at the end of a long day. I don’t care if motherhood fits you like a glove or like a too-tight pair of pants that ride up the nether regions. I don’t care if you house smells like lavender or dirty diapers. I don’t care if you stay at home or have a full-time job. I don’t care if you’re keto or paleo or eat a lot of frozen pizza and carrot sticks.

I AM FOR YOU. Sister, I am with you.

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