I’m not talking about saying “NO!” to my kids. I know some moms are very anti N-word. But not me. I say no at least 300 times a day. It’s a regular part of my conversational interactions with my children. I say “no” more than I say yes, and I’m not afraid to admit it.
That’s not where I’m going with this though. I’m talking about saying “no” in terms of not spreading yourself too thin. Allowing yourself (as a mom, as a person who needs self-care) to take a day off, to skip the laundry for today, to cancel on your dinner plans and stay home with a book.
Moms these days have so much pressure to be perfect, to be super mom. We have to make sure our kids don’t get too much screen time, but get enough that they aren’t the only kids at school who don’t know what Fortnite is. We can’t yell or scream or swear. We have to use our words carefully as to not bruise their fragile egos. We need to be their advocate, but make sure we aren’t helicoptering over them… they need their independence too, but not too much. We need to keep them away from processed foods and GMO’s and ensure they are only supplied gluten-free, sugar-free, non-GMO, fresh, clean, and homemade meals shaped like their favorite Disney characters. We have to make sure everything is fair, because (as we all know) life is always fair and simple participation in life is always awarded. Our kids must be the best in everything or it’s a direct reflection of us as parents. Hell, you can’t even apply sunscreen on your kids nowadays without someone chastising you for using an aerosol spray can of SPF that causes cancer. DEET? That’s absurd. No one uses that. It’s homemade essential oil concoctions to repel bugs in this century. Get your shit together, bad mom.
That is just the pressure we women have with KIDS! When you add in the pressure of just being a woman it’s seriously overwhelming. If you show up to school drop off looking like you just woke up, sure, some moms might get it, but some will judge the fuck out of you. Show up late for pickup? Clearly there is something wrong with you! Don’t make it to the gym on a regular basis? Stop at McDonald’s on the way home from running to school to sports to clubs and home for homework? You must not care enough about your family. What’s wrong with you?
You’re not part of the PTA, PTSA, PTSO and the NRA? Well then… you’re not a real “mom” at all!
In this world of perfection, it’s hard to take time for yourself. It’s even harder to FIND time for yourself. I have found that the only time I get any time to breathe, think, focus, or plan for the upcoming days is at night when my kids are asleep. Which is great, if you can live off no sleep. I can’t.
When my marriage started to come to an end and I had to take a look at my life and my family on a much deeper level, I realized, I was doing WAY too much. I was falling apart at the seams trying to keep up with sports, school and after-school activities, dinner and PTA meetings, cub scouts and parties and the list. is. ENDLESS. When things got really bad I was having such anxiety I couldn’t even fall asleep at night even though I was walking around like the living dead because I was so damn tired. And when I finally did fall asleep I couldn’t get my ass out of bed in the morning without hitting the snooze fifteen times (or more).
It might be an unpopular opinion I have, but I am a firm believer after years of spreading myself so thin I can’t breathe, that sometimes… I just have to say no. If I am not up for a night out, I will say so. And I won’t feel bad about it anymore. If I don’t want to drag my kids to a party where I know they (and I) are going to take days to recover from…. I make a call, send a text, and apologize, and STAY HOME. If I have to skip making dinner and order in just to save my sanity, I do it. If I have to send my kids to school with a lunchable instead of a homemade sandwich in a bento box with carefully selected fresh fruit and vegetable sides, then so be it. I overslept so I’ll stop at 7-11 on the way to school, and I might even throw in some ho-ho’s (GASP!).
In most cases when speaking about anxiety and depression, women are TWICE as likely to be affected than men. I think that speaks volumes to the amount of pressure we are under as women, as moms, and as wives. It’s a hard thing to admit when you are in over your head. It’s almost like you’re admitting defeat. Admitting you can’t handle the stress. But, in reality, if you can be someone who knows their body, knows their mind and their soul so well that they know when enough is enough and it’s time to slow down. To do what it takes, for your own well-being, and ultimately for your overall health so you can actually take some time to ENJOY life and have FUN with your family, with the strength to not give a DAMN about what anyone thinks about it. Well, that makes you the real super hero.
**did you know? According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America“
Generalized Anxiety Disorder affects 6.8 million adults, or 3.1% of the U.S. population, yet only 43.2% are receiving treatment.
Panic Disorder affects 6 million adults, or 2.7% of the U.S. population.
Social Anxiety Disorder affects 15 million adults, or 6.8% of the U.S. population.
SAD typically begins around age 13. According to a 2007 ADAA survey, 36% of people with social anxiety disorder report experiencing symptoms for 10 or more years before seeking help.
Major Depressive Disorder is the leading cause of disability in the U.S. for ages 15 to 44.3.
MDD affects more than 16.1 million American adults, or about 6.7%of the U.S. population age 18 and older in a given year.
While major depressive disorder can develop at any age, the median age at onset is 32.5 years old.
More prevalent in women than in men”
Things I Promise Not To Do On Your First Day Of School
Dear Son,
As you skip up the walkway and get into line with a group of your peers, all bright eyed and fresh faced with hope and dreams and the future in your eyes, I promise not to lose my shit in front of the friends you don’t know you’ll make yet. I won’t embarrass you and bawl. I won’t scream your name and tell you to tie your shoe because you’re jumping around and I can foresee the future of you tripping on your own laces and face-planting in the hallway. I won’t lick my finger and wipe away the leftovers from your breakfast off your cheek.
When I come in to wake you that morning, I assure you I will not stir you with my sobs while I stare at your sweet sleeping eyes and think about all of the times I have watched you sleep. Carefully sneaking into to your room to gaze at you longingly, to study the rise and fall of your chest. Expertly moving out of the room begging not to wake you or there would be hours of hell to pay, but I couldn’t help but watch you breathe one more time before bed.
I vow not to tell you that as you were getting ready this morning and making sure you picked out your best clothes and combed your hair to perfection that I was thinking about the day you came into this world and took me by storm. How beautiful and perfect you were and how I stroked that same hair with my hands, in the same way you are now as I nursed you into the wee hours of the night. How I too, carefully picked your clothes before you even took your first breath so that I could make sure to document the moment, with the best photos, and never forget.
I pledge while you sit and eat the special breakfast I made for your very first day, I won’t tell you about the look on your face when you tried a new food that you realized you liked and the faces you would make when you didn’t. I won’t tell you about all of the messes, the noodles stuck in your hair and the sauces rubbed on your high chair like paint and the discolored baths that followed. I won’t tell you that even if in those moments I was frustrated, I was tired, or I seemed mad, in this moment, I would do it all again.
I swear on my life I won’t tell you stories about how through my sleep-deprivation, my stress, my long days, that even though I may have appeared defeated and tired, I (secretly) loved waking up extra early with you and sneaking in extra snuggles. I adored watching the sun come up with you in my arms while you fell back asleep…. but my coffee was finally kicking in and now I was wide awake. Just studying you. Memorizing the lines on your lips, the wrinkles in your neck, how you smelled, your perfect little nose, those miniature ears. The way you smiled in your sleep. Your incredible sense to reach up, even when you were fully enveloped in dreamland, to search with your fingers for my face before you sighed with relief and continued on snoozing away.
And after the day is over, I cross my heart that while I hear your stories about all of the friends you made, your new independence and the experiences you’ve had (and will have) that didn’t include me, I won’t tell you that I missed you. That after I walked away and left you in the hands of the school, your teachers, your friends…. I cried today. How I thought about all of the things we could have been doing if you weren’t busy at school, without me. I won’t tell you that I worried about how you were alone with no one to hold your hand and guide you. But you weren’t lonely at all. I was. But I promise I won’t tell you that.
5 Things I Learned About Dating Apps – A Cautionary Tale
It’s a harsh reality when you realize your marriage is ending. It’s an even harsher reality coming to terms with the fact that dating has changed LIGHT YEARS since the last time you were on the market.
My biggest fear when entering the dating pool again was, “where in the world do people meet if you don’t go anywhere but preschool, karate, baseball {repeat}?” And “who the hell is going to want me now?”
My body is like a rouge grape you find at the back of your crisper, stretched and dried up again, wrinkly and forlorn. After years of breastfeeding, I have permanent pancake boobs. They literally need to be folded from their flat state into any apparatus to hold them into place, and even then it’s a gamble if they will stay or take a nosedive for my knees before the end of the night. My feet are monstrous after three pregnancies and …. I have a gray hair (or two, or forty, who’s counting?). For years I didn’t want to show my husband my body in all of it’s nakedness and he saw me shoot babies out of my vagina. The thought of getting into my birthday suit in front of a new, strange man? No thanks, I’ll stay abstinent.
Not to mention, my kids are tiny terrorists, I don’t want to admit they are mine to strangers out in public, better yet a person I’m trying to impress enough to keep around for awhile.
Thank God for dating apps, right? WRONG.
As a way to get out of my head and “have some fun” my friend and I decided it would be genius to throw myself into the world of Tinder. Tinder couldn’t be a more user friendly and readily accessible platform that can quickly take your mind off of your current (sad, lonely, depressed) situation in just a few swipes. That guy is HOT! Swipe right, INSTANT MATCH! This is too easy! Don’t like this guys stupid mustache? Swipe left. He gone. But, that’s about all it’s good for if you ask me.
Eventually, I did find myself a new man. But it wasn’t on a dating app. And I’ll tell you why.
1. People are LIARS – I was one of them. No one in the world is going to come out saying “I’m emotionally damaged and cry alone in the bathroom at least once a day, but if you can pry me off the couch and away from my beloved Netflix family for the night (good lucky, buddy), I might be fun! I don’t know, I haven’t done it in a long time.” Instead, they are going to tell you they are world travelers, hikers, bikers, fitness fanatics, wine enthusiasts, and avid foodies because that is what you want to hear and they want you to give them a chance. I’m sure half of the people I talked to were either robots or using a stock photo for their profile picture while texting away on their phone in their mom’s basement eating Cheetos.
2. Men are CREEPS – I’m just going to say it. Dick pics. No woman (at least not one my age, do younger girls want this? Am I just old?) wants you to open a line of communication with her by sending a picture of your genitalia. I do not care if you think you have the most perfect penis in the world, without seeing it I can already tell you, it’s ugly. That is why adult entertainment geared towards women tends to have men in uniforms, DRESSED in various fantasy roles, maybe shirtless, or maybe in some undies, but def not flailing their bare weiners. AND – I have kids. I don’t need one of them opening my phone to find some pornographic photo a strange man sent me and dodging questions about why there are “pribates” on my phone. If dick pics are the only way to go for you, send a warning first, and get ready to be instantly rejected. No one wants to see your pee-pee.
3. Men can’t handle rejection. Even on a stupid App – This one weirded me the fuck out. Some men have apparently never been rejected in their lives, not even on the internet. So when they encounter a woman who has zero interest in them, it is evidently impossible for them to come to terms with. So unthinkable, in fact, that they sought me out and demanded an explanation. I disappeared from their chats and that meant, in their minds, it was completely acceptable to find me on social media through mutual friends and order up answers as to why we were suddenly unmatched and why I didn’t want to speak with them. As if this had been some horrible misunderstanding and I would (apologetically) come crawling back to them because they were hand-picked especially for me by the Tinder Gods and stalking was certainly listed in my dating profile as a required characteristic I was seeking. I’m sorry, freaky man I’ve never actually met in real life, I don’t owe you SHIT. This was completely intentional on my part, and although I tried to leave quietly and respectfully in an attempt to let you hold on to your dignity, I’ll let you have it (since you asked and all)…. your dick pic was a fucking nightmare. I’m still having trouble sleeping.
4. Some men on these sites are actually looking for something serious- Nothing wrong with that. Except, I came for the free meal, not to replace my kids daddy with a dude I met online. What’s with the pressure? Listen guy, I just got over a marriage, and considering it didn’t end well, I’m not in a hurry to re-retain my lawyer and do that whole thang again any time soon. I really shouldn’t even be dating yet according to all of the (remarkably accurate) Facebook quizzes I’ve taken while stuffing my face with pirate booty and watching Gilmore Girls reruns, but hey… I needed dinner and you needed someone to buy dinner for, win-win! But – Oh! The babysitter is calling, gotta go! {{unmatch on the way back to the car}} {{finds me on social media later}}
5. You *might* match with your ex – This was when I gave up on dating apps because clearly they didn’t “get” me. I found him in real life first, Tinder. And it was a fuggin disaster. So thanks for the recommendation, but I think I’m gonna swipe NO FUCKING WAY. I felt so dirty. I needed to brush my teeth and take a shower, stat. And then it hit me…. If I could see him, does that mean he could see ME? OH GAWD.
Even if I ever find myself back on the market, I don’t think I could navigate my way back to that shit show again. Not a chance in hell. Nothing in this world made me feel like an old bag more than online dating. It’s a jungle out there, ladies. Good effing luck.
A Transformation On How I Perceive Drug Addiction – A Disease
I used to be the person that would hear or see someone talking about addiction in a negative way and I would instantly jump up with statistics and facts about how this is a disease. People in this horrible situation do not WANT to live this way, they got sucked in to a terrible downward spiral and don’t know how to get themselves out. They need support, compassion, understanding. Not judgement and disgust. And, “would you treat your family member with cancer this way?”
I used to come to bat for people struggling with a dependency issue and fully speak my mind in their favor.
That was before I watched the transformation of someone close to me and how it directly effected my family. This is a debilitating disease, that is true. One that tears families apart and ruins relationships and is selfish and self-centered.
It’s a disease that forgets what time to pick kids up, what day of the week it is, misses baseball games and important school functions.
It’s a disease that likes to blame other people for it’s problems. It’s a disease that leaves an important meeting because it’s got better things to do. It’s a disease that insists it’s not.
A disease that doesn’t open the door when you come to check on it, that doesn’t turn the blinds because it’s scared of what’s outside. One that is sad and hurting, but hurts others more and thinks because of it’s own sadness, that’s justified.
It’s a disease that can’t take responsibility for it’s own actions, even when the direct result of those actions are staring them right in the face (bars and jumpsuits and all). It’s a disease of disappointment. Of broken promises and borrowed money; a shell of a person stands in the face of this disease.
A disease that steals, cheats, and lies like a professional. It’s contagious. Like a virus. The disease consumes everyone around it and they become dependent on the disease, even if they haven’t caught it. Dependent on taking care of it, keeping it warm, fed, and ALIVE.
This disease has tunnel vision. It doesn’t see the big picture or the impact it’s having on others. It only sees itself and what it needs, in the moment, for that hour, for the day. Tomorrow isn’t even a fleeting thought to this disease, not yet.
It’s a disease that loses jobs, can’t pay bills, forgets birthdays, has cars repossessed and rights taken away. It’s a disease that loses children, loses freedom.
It’s a disease that will eventually die with it’s host. One that knows what it takes to cure itself of this madness but can’t take the plunge. One that appears to prefer living in it’s own filth and misery rather than facing the reality.
It’s a disease that effects family more when it’s alive than when it’s dead. A disease some people wish would just go away, and some wish would turn back time.
If you are dealing with this disease, I know how hard it is to see the person inside the disease. How hard it is to disconnect the two and realize that they are not one in the same, even though it would appear that way. This disease is deceiving. This disease causes hate, mistrust, regret, overwhelming sadness. And unlike other diseases, when this one causes death, it can create more relief for the family than any other.
I used to say “consider the person”, be compassionate, understanding, have faith, have hope, be supportive. Now, when it comes to this disease, all I have to say is…. Fuck You. And this is a disease that never apologizes, so neither will I.
Every Mom Has A Favorite Child
Ok – don’t all crucify me at once. But can we just be real for a minute? On any given day, in any given moment, I have a favorite child. And if no one else is brave enough to admit it, I sure as hell will.
As moms I think we go through phases, just like our kids go through phases. They are like episodes of the miniseries that make our week, our month, our year. The dramatic episodes of not sleeping, refusing to eat or deterring bedtimes with every excuse known to man. Heartwarming ones of showing us some extraordinary side of them we didn’t know existed that makes us well up with this immense amount of pride and love we had no idea we were capable of until motherhood slapped us in the face. Or… the horror episodes of complete dissonance and disgust for you, mom. It’s in these moments, that my favorite child tends to shine bright.
At one point I had three kids ages four and under and it was B.R.U.T.A.L. One of them was constantly going through some growth spurt, some sleep regression, or some milestone that subsequently caused them to have a hard time falling or staying asleep. Which, synchronously, meant that mom was getting a really shitty night’s sleep. During those days? My favorite child was whichever happened to be sleeping through the night with the least amount of interruptions to MY sleep.
Around the age of four, all of my kids seemed to have some chronic case of the “terrible two’s” (what can I say, we have a hard time letting go in our house). Except it was amplified significantly from the average child tantrum and more like a “terrible preschooler who doesn’t care what you say and DEFINITELY doesn’t care what strangers think about them, because they are going to completely meltdown in…. 3, 2,…1…. in the middle of target with NO shame and NO regrets” stage. And in the middle of that stage I think to myself (every.single.time.) “I don’t remember my older child(ren) doing this?” They did, of course. Just like labor pains for sure kicked my ass and made me think (in the moment) that there was no way in hell I was ever doing that again. NOPE. Yet… a few short months later, found myself once again staring down the beginning of the harsh pregnancy path, forgetting all about the inescapable and excruciating ending to the human gestational period.
In that moment, the moment when my child is the spawn of the devil himself and thinks I’ve come to expel him from his body, this child is my least favorite. The favorite spot is up for grabs. Usually, at this point, if you’re quiet? You’ve won the title.
Then there is the moment when I go downstairs to see the laundry has already been washed (albeit not sorted and not enough or too much detergent was used in the process, but this is a minor infraction I can overlook, because it’s DONE!). Because my oldest has taken an interest in housework in exchange for a weekly allowance, he is doing extra around the house to learn the value of money, and simultaneously experiencing buyer’s remorse and the hollow feeling of overspending your very last dollar on something you definitely didn’t think through. You know, major life lessons. In THOSE moments? He’s my favorite. Hands down.
When my child learns to tie their shoe, pick up after themselves, makes a team they tried out for (or doesn’t), in that moment, that child is my favorite. But tonight, when that same child is the one refusing to brush his teeth after I’ve only asked seven times? He slips himself down to the bottom rung and the lead is taken by the snoozing babe with clean teeth already in bed.
Regardless of whether you are willing to accept it or not. I’m guessing you have a favorite right now. It’s the one sitting quietly on your lap while you read this. Or maybe the one who took it upon himself to clean up his own plate after lunch and put it in the sink. Maybe it’s the one who’s napping. But it’s definitely not the one you just put in a timeout ten minutes ago because she took it upon herself to cut her hair while you showered. Or the one who didn’t pick up the legos you asked her to and now you’ve stepped on a tiny landmine of pain. It’s not that one. Not now. But maybe later….
