My most recent “method” has been pretty advanced, it’s called: surviving.

The other day one of them had a meltdown at a friends house. I was late to get somewhere and I was in a hurry. The ending was abrupt and she didn’t take it well. She dug in her heels and I dug in mine and what ensued next was a battle of wills that escalated to level: shit show.

Afterwards I thought back wondering what I could have done differently. The nagging question I couldn’t get away from was: why was I in such a hurry?

I am always in a hurry, and I don’t know why.

Yes, I was late, but no one was going to die if I took ten minutes longer than I did.

I don’t think I could have avoided the tantrum, but I know that I didn’t help by adding in my stress to the concoction of emotions she was already feeling. Here sweetie, how about I add this lighter fluid to your fire??

I wake up in the morning and I already feel behind. The kitchen’s dirty, everyone needs breakfast, and I usually need (or want) to get out the door. I channel all my stress into rushing. I constantly feel like I’m driving down a road going as fast as I can and someone is tailgating me honking their horn. I don’t know if that’s part of my struggle with anxiety, or just my personality.

When one of my strong-willed kids has a blow up I try to rush through it the same way I do everything. I think I was looking at all those parenting techniques as quick fix-its. I expected them to work like a button I could push to stop the meltdown (FOR THE LOVE MAKE IT STOP) but that’s not realistic (at least for us).

What I haven’t tried is waiting. (Waiting…patiently.)

I don’t mean “waiting” as a new parenting technique to somehow teach them to stop (there’s no secret plan here), but waiting for the sake of waiting. Waiting because I’m a grown up and I could use some lessons in slowing the eff down.

Waiting because they’re little and I’m creating space for them to be little.

These meltdowns and tantrums are like storms. They will blow over. I know from experience that we will cuddle afterwards and we will be able to talk then, but they can’t talk in the moment. I have to give them space, and I have to give them time.

Yes, I need my kids to respect me and listen, however, there’s barely ever the rush I think there is for that to happen. The only rush is coming from my own impatience and embarrassment.

My husband and sons went out of town this week and so it was just me and my two girls. I decided to experiment and I gave myself one goal: slow down.

I can’t tell you how many times I felt the familiar angst and hurrying feelings rising up in my chest, but (most) of the time I asked myself this:

 What the hell is the hurry?

And then I told myself to SLOW DOWN.

And it was amazing.

There was only a couple meltdowns, but when they did happen I reminded myself that I didn’t have to be anywhere but there in that moment, and that I had all the time in the world to wait for the emotions to wind down.

I’m not saying all this because it’s a “fix” for all strong-willed kids everywhere. It’s not. It isn’t a fix for all moms and dads either, because we are all different.

All I want to say is if you are “hurried” like me, I feel you girlfriend. The struggle is real.

My new summer goal is this: slow the crap down.

***

For more like this you can follow me here, on Facebook, and on Insta.

Also follow my friend Liz, the photographer behind these beautiful photos on Facebook and Instagram. (*EDITS ADDED*)

I can’t give you perfection, but I can give you all of me, without holding anything back.

I can give you my whole heart.

I can let you see me laugh and cry and everything in between.

I can admit when I’m wrong (even if it takes me awhile to realize sometimes).

I can hold you when everything seems to be falling apart.

I know I will disappoint you sometimes. I wish that wasn’t the case, but it is.

I will hurt your feelings. I will snap when I should be kind. I will be hard on you when you need softness. I know that I will, (I have already).

I will let you down. More than I’d like to admit.

I can’t give you perfection, dear one, but…

I can listen when I realize I’ve hurt you. I can apologize and do my best to do better the next time.

I can be your safe place when you mess up (again) and believe me, you will mess up a lot.  We all mess up a lot, my love.

My eggs are often overcooked and I always burn the toast, but I will give you enough to grow and think and dream. It will be enough to be an astronaut or a lawyer or an artist.

I am messy and disorganized and I forget to sign your school papers.

I’m fiery and sometimes I react before I think it through.

I’m grumpy, tired, and stressed more than I’d like to be.

I can’t give you perfection, not even close…

But I can give you room and space to feel your emotions too.

I can give you my listening ear to hear your stories, your fears, your struggles, and your dreams.

I can give you my best and my bravest. I will never stop loving you or striving to do better by you. You are my treasure, my star, my firework.

My heart is yours, forever and for always.

I will partner with you and stand by you through every hardship, and through every milestone.

I won’t be perfect, but I will be present.

Despite how I fail, I pray that you will know how widely and deeply and safely YOU ARE LOVED. The thing is, dear one, I can’t ever give you perfection, but I don’t expect perfection from you either.

Feel free to make a mess and to make mistakes. I will be right here by you. I have lots of experience with messes and we are in this together;

Every. Single. Step. Of. The. Way.

Love,

Mama

***

This pic is compliments of my amazing friend Liz. You can follow her sweet lifestyle blog on Insta &Facebook.

For more words like this, you can follow me here, on Facebook, and 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…

I am not used to being the one who is not the parent of the screaming child. This was uncharted territory.

I identified with her painfully and I wanted desperately to affirm her. I wasn’t sure what to do except smile and look as nonjudgmental as possible. I tried to think of what I could say, like, should I shout above the screaming, “YOU’RE AMAZING!!” Or should I go in for a fist bump, “You got this!!”?

Before I could process what my awesome, pro-mom, non-judgey response was going to be the mom turned to me with desperate eyes, “I’m sorry, um, can you hold her?” She held out her crying infant towards me.

“YES!” I said eagerly. As I took her precious one in my arms, the little girl made eye contact and then wailed. I bounced her gently and put her pacifier back in her mouth, feeling such an intense solidarity with this mama.

“I have four,” I offered, hoping to reassure her that she hadn’t chosen a psychopath.

“Me too,” she smiled

“Target with kids is hard,” I said, “how old is she?”

“Four weeks,” she smiled with postpartum exhaustion in her eyes, “thank you so much,” she took back her baby and I watched her walk away.

No…thank you. I thought.

I have been the woman in the checkout line more times than I can count. I’ve stood sweating in this woman’s exact position, barely commanding the tears to wait until I got to my car. I’ve felt my face grow red and hot as my toddler screamed and kicked, waking up my baby who was angry and ready to nurse. I’ve felt so alone and so out of control.

I’ve thought I SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS. I AM DOING SOMETHING WRONG AND EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT IT IS EXCEPT FOR ME.

I’ve pretended to be calm and cool while inside I felt like I was suffocating. I’ve felt embarrassed and emotionally naked in front of an audience of spectators. In my mind people were waiting and expecting me to GET IT TOGETHER.

But as I rocked this baby I thought, in those moments, there were probably people just like me who were longing to lighten my load and whisper: hey, I get it, I’ve been here too – you’re doing a great job.

This mama was brave. She let her guard down and because of that, gave me a gift. She redeemed a thousand of my own frantic check-out moments by letting me be a part of hers. She let me join her village and reminded me that I’m not alone.

I am not the first one to walk this road and I will not be the last. There are grandmas, great grandmas and great great grandmas that have gone before me. There are mamas whose kids are older than mine and who are navigating junior high and high school. There are those who are right where I am and those who have brand new babies.

Whatever stage I find myself at, I will not find myself alone. This is a weathered road we travel.

I’m not the only parent whose kids have thrown tantrums in Target, I’m not the only one to have her kids tell a lie, I’m not the only Mom to lose her temper. I’m not the only one to have a son who struggles with reading, or the only one to have a child scream I HATE YOU. I am not the first and I will not be the last.

We really are a part of a village, a part of something much bigger than just ourselves and there are women all around us who simply get it.

Chance brought me one of my people, a sister I just hadn’t met yet. She is one of the ones in the ring with me, doing messy, but beautiful work. We are both knee deep in motherhood and for a moment our stories crossed and I am grateful.

To me she was beautiful and valiant, a mother holding everything together by a thread. I don’t know how she felt. I don’t know if she felt small, or if she felt tired. I don’t know if she felt undone or defeated…but I hope she felt supported.

I hope that in that moment she did not feel alone.

I hope she felt like I was WITH her.

No judgement.

Just respect.

We are not the first moms and we will not be the last to have a “moment”.

It is messy, it is hard, we will fail often…

but we do none of it alone, and we are never, ever the “only one”.

#solidarity

***

Gah, I love you all! I am so grateful for a growing community of mothers who are FOR each other. Ya’ll are the literal best. 

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

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!

1.When talking to your kids, try to sound like Mary Poppins, but sweeter and less abrasive.

2.Never become angry or scared – because you aren’t a human anymore, you are a mother. It’s different. Always be empathetic of their emotions, but avoid having any at all yourself (unless it’s ecstatic joy or all-consuming peace).

3.Don’t feed your kids anything that isn’t raw, organic, and that you didn’t go into to the woods and forage for personally. This should be fairly easy, because there are only three meals a day and 17,000 snacks to take care of. Never EVER get fast food, or as I refer to it:

Satan’s Candy.

Not even once, friends. Not even once.

4. Danger is everywhere. It usually comes in the form of Red Dye #40 and strangers, but sometimes lurks in non-organic cotton. You are a fortress, nothing gets past your Eagle Scout vision.

5. Self Care: The goal is to look like you are a junior in high school. Without ever taking time away from your children, you should be exercising at least 7 1/2 days a week. To find that time, maybe give up sleeping.

6. You must be fun all of the time. Even when you are scraping scrambled eggs out of the carpet and ESPECIALLY when your kid hits you in the head with a giant rock. That is a perfect time to be super fun.

7. You should always know how to answer all the questions they ask you with perfect poise and wisdom, especially, “Why do girls have two butts?” and “Why do ladies wear shirts, is it because their chests are ugly?”.

8. Homeschool and like it, nay, you must love it.

9. Stay home and surrender all other identities at the door. Your name is “Mom” now – you should probably change it legally.

10. Yoga is definitely something that moms do. And if you don’t do yoga, invest in fifteen pairs of yoga pants. You’re welcome.

Love,

Idealistic Expectations + The mother that has never existed, but we all think might.

I have a theory…this “ideal” mom that is capable of ALL these things- she is a myth. Kind of like Bigfoot – only more toned and with perfect hair. Seriously though. We moms need to keep it real and be in this together, no one else is going to understand these problems, amiright?

I just took my first Yoga class. I took the class for the seriously injured and the elderly, because I knew it would be just my speed.  I was right.

Turns out breathing is very complicated for me and so is thinking of something to fixate on that is less than 500 words and doesn’t have to do with whether or not my kids brought shoes to grandmas house. It’s a real problem. My second son never brings shoes anywhere. How does one walk across gravel and snow with out having an a-ha moment?? I don’t even know.

I feel okay about my relaxing problem though, because one of my friends has a worse yoga problem. She has gone to two yoga classes since having kids, because she needs to mommy-detox. Unfortunately it turns out now that she’s had kids – relaxing actually makes her vart (no, I did not spell that wrong). And that is not something she usually enjoys doing publicly.

We cannot win you guys. Thinking of relaxing things is complicated and stressful, and if we do relax, we vart.

So, in response…

Dear Idealistic Expectations,

We can’t even do yoga very well. We’re going to need to break up, you’re kind of an asshole.

Love,

The Real Moms

This “ideal” has become steeper, more strenuous – and let’s be honest…

Just straight up impossible to climb. Do I look like I’m about to summit Mt. Everest anytime soon? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let’s keep this whole parenting thing a little more doable and a little less in the clouds of fantasy bedtime stories…um kay?

To my beloved mamas, obviously you can rock the homeschool and the foraged for food and I still want to be your friend.

Just don’t be perfect because that’s annoying.

See you at yoga.

Special thanks to Marianne Wiest Photography for these insanely amazing photos – she has such a gift, I can’t even handle it. Check her website and follow her on Facebook and Instagram!!

To keep updated on new posts you can either follow me on wordpress, or like my page on Facebook, WONDEROAK Blog!

JOIN THE WONDEROAK SISTERHOOD

Shop Sister I Am With You shirts here

For every 20 shirts sold, one shirt will be sent to someone in need of some sisterly support (this is done via nomination on Facebook and Instagram).

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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That’s why I’m ordering a triple espresso, and a quarter of my right leg is shaved, my friend.

I really don’t mind, they are well-meaning and I like talking to adult people whenever possible. Unless, you know, the kids are having a collective meltdown. Then I might try and wilt said adults with fire from my eyeballs. (Sorry about that.)

Besides the slightly terrified observations I’ve heard, I’ve also had many twenty-somethings share their dream of the day they can Freaky Friday into my world. I’m flattered because I like my life.

I have often wondered though, what exactly are they picturing?

So I have put together a list of things I think they imagine…

****

I spend endless time Facebooking, working on an Etsy shop and watching my favorite shows. 

When you say “time”, if you mean hiding in the bathroom while someone bangs on the door and yells my name 45 times in a row, then Girlfriend…grab your slippers and your Nicholas Sparks and prepare to chillax.

The Facebook thing is a little true. But do you know why? Because Facebook requires zero amount of brain power. And in case you were wondering, that’s exactly how much brain I have left.

Having girls is going to be like playing dress up every day. 

I had four years with just boys, and I’m not going to lie, I thought this. When I was pregnant with my first female, I spent time pinning braid-blogs and reading things like “2700 NEW hair styles to try with your toddler”.

Then my girls grew hair.

And now they wake up each morning with gorgeous knot sculptures. It’s like the Rubiks Cube of hair brushing. Turns out I should create my own pin called “747 ways to make your kid cry while attempting to calm the beast”.

As far as being a child-stylist, my adorable and creative daughter usually comes out looking like this…

Love her.

I know what I’m doing. 

Nope. Just when I think I’ve got these people nailed down, they go ahead and grow. It’s cray cray up in here.

I’m never overwhelmed.

If I’m out and about I probably have a triple Americano or a glass of wine in my hand. Lets be honest…that’s my best look.

There are definitely hilariously awesome moments, rocking out with my kids to Megan Trainor and Macklemore, but, let me be the first to tell you, I get overwhelmed. Anxiety and worry are knocking at my door all the time. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose.

What is that quote? “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.”(Meg Cabot)

For me that is motherhood. It’s showing up in spite of my fear that I will fail or that something beyond my control will go wrong. It’s choosing love and knowing that in the end love conquers every fear.

I don’t ever have to wear real clothes.

This may or may not be true. My at-home/shopping/everywhere uniform is often an “adorable” combination of ‘stretchy’ on ‘stretchy’. However, when I do arrive at a “jean-day”, I feel unexpectedly angry. Denim is a real shock to the system after spandex.

I always look like this. 

I have a certain “look” if I’ve made it all the way into town (15 minutes away). That look is called dressed. And (usually) there’s some makeup involved. Not only do I not always look like this, but I also had to forgo cleaning up the egg smeared into the table in order to put on mascara.

I once heard someone joke about being a “stay at home model”. Yes, a model for seven-year-old sweat pants and dark under-eye circles.

Having kids is like babysitting. 

First of all, if you’re babysitting my kids, both my sons are in love with you and both my girls think you’re going to give them ice cream. So…there’s that.

Then there is the constant-constant. These people have me on 24 hr. room service. Plus, I don’t remember the dishes screaming at me when I babysat. The dishes, the crumbs, the clutter – is like a fog horn in the background of a really great song. So rude.

The kids though. Being there for all the cute (as well as all the not-cute), there’s nothing like it.

****

So, to the ones that want my life. I’m honored, I think you’ll probably love it (I do).

There ARE the moments you daydream about, snuggling and baking cookies…

Just know that when you snuggle, there will probably be a very full and pungent diaper making your eyes water..and when you bake, flour will cover every surface of your house as well as the inside of your bra.

To keep updated on new posts you can either follow me on wordpress, or like my page on Facebook, WONDEROAK Blog!

**

P.S. I have had some readers recently wonder if I think the SAHM Mom is harder working or superior to the working mom. My answer is NEVER, nor do I believe for a second it’s the “higher way”. The only reason I write from that perspective is because, currently, it’s what I’m living.

I salute my working mom friends – mommin’ aint easy – you are amazing!

Love you all, keep on – keepin’ on!