Something You May Not Know About Me

 In the "Things You May Not Know About Me" category, I am legally blind. I have worn glasses since before I can remember and have worn contacts for the past 35+ years. With correction, my vision is near 20/20, but without contacts my vision in my bad eye is below 20/200 which is (was?) the definition of legal blindness. As I've never known what it's like to have normal vision, and as I can have near normal vision with contacts, I don't think too much about it too often. First thing I do upon waking is put my contacts in and the last thing I do before going to bed is take them out, so the amount of time I actually have to deal with my 20/200 vision is extremely small.  It's just a non-issue in my life as long as I have my contacts in, which I always do. 

Last week, I developed a case of pink eye. (Funny side bar:  the p and the o key are right next to each other, and if you're not careful, you'll develop a case of oink eye. And since oink is a word, spell check won't catch it. I'm still giggling over oink eye!). As I've worn contacts for the past 35+ years, I do not have a pair of glasses.  I've also not had oink eye *giggle* since I was a child myself so I didn't have a back up plan. I ended up spending three days virtually housebound because I couldn't wear my contacts and the idea of going out in the world, visually impaired, scared me to death. Not that I'd have driven (heavens no!), but I was afraid to go to the store or out to eat with my husband as chauffeur and guide.  We finally did go to the grocery store and it was horrible.  It was "my" grocery store, where I shop all the time. I know the store, the aisles, where the groceries are located -- it was a very familiar environment and I was with my husband, who is the safest person in the entire world. I was 100% safe but I was so uncomfortable and so nervous that I ended up clutching the handle of the shopping cart while my husband got the Cheerios off the shelf and put them in the basket. Then he would pull the basket while I trailed beind, hanging on to the handle like it was a life preserver. 

I was so grateful when the 72 hours of contagion ended and I could put my contacts back in again. That was a really scary three days. There was one surprising thing about all of it:  being a woman of a certain age (insert eye roll here @@), I have to wear reading glasses to see things close up. I did learn that when I don't have my contacts in, I can read just fine (as long as what I'm reading is literally inches from nose).  But the convenience of not needing reading glasses was far, far overshadowed by the inability to navigate the aisles of HEB, so it was a minor blessing. 

I am now back to wearing my contacts (and reading glasses) and I am being nagged to make an appointment to get glasses "just in case". I also feel like there is some major, deep theological life-lesson that someone else might be able to pull out of this situation. I have a suspicion that another person would be able to wrap this up with a "and that's what it's like to be spiritually blind and then have your spiritual blindness removed" analogy, but I can't. All I know is that was a scary three days. Part of it was my own fault for not having had a pair of emergency glasses but regardless I did not like that feeling of utter helplessness. Again, that seems to cry out for a theological tie-in, but all I can think of was how frustrating it was to not be able to see -- I had a headache and I had to pull each bottle out of the medicine cabinet, hold it right up to my nose, squint, and then say, "Honey?  Does this say Motrin?"  I saw things on the floor and had no idea if it was a black sock, a dog hair ball or a *shudder* critter. It was three days of moments like that. 

I am very happy to be back in contacts. I don't even mind having to put on reading glasses - alto reaching into the freezer to take something out for dinner without the reading glasses is fun:  "I think this says ground beef ... Lets thaw it out and be surprised!" I never realized just how dependent I was on my contacts, or how severe and limiting my near-blindness was or how crippling fear can be. I was actually afraid to leave the house. 

On the other hand, tho, three days of near-blindness makes you think the house is cleaner than it is. You don't see how the bathroom needs to be cleaned and the dust on the end tables suddenly disappears.  :) Still, all in all, I'll take being able to drive and being able to leave my house.

Now to call the eye doctor and get an appointment for a post-oink eye exam *giggle* and get a pair of "just in case" glasses. 

Birthday Gifts, Wanted and Unwanted!

So, I had a birthday last week.  I’m now in my last year of my 40’s … next year is the big 5-0.  I hope there is a big old blow-out party (hint, hint!). 

Me being me, my birthDAY was actually a birthWEEK.  I went out for dinner the weekend before, the day of, and the weekend after – all in celebration of my birthday!  And I’ve no shame about telling the waitstaff it’s my birthday and getting my free dessert and having them sing to me.  I like the attention!!

I’m still not used to having birthdays without having my children around me; one child is in Africa, one child is in Kansas and the other child is in Waco … but I did get text messages and Facebook messages and phone calls.  It’s good; not as good as having them here and in person, but it’s good.  I love hearing from them.

My husband gave me the EXACT gift I asked for:

 

It’s the first American cookbook, written by an American woman and written for American housewives and based on American ingredients.  It was written in 1747 and is a wonderful read as a historical resource.  Surprisingly to me, when I tell people that’s what he got me, they get a glazed look in their eyes and they say, “Oh …” rather pityingly.  They don’t understand that’s the EXACT gift I asked for (and for Christmas, I’m asking for a similar book, written a few years later); but good thing for him, he also got me a beautiful pair of pearl and diamond earrings.

 

That seems to be more socially acceptable and when I tell people that, it redeems him in their eyes.  But just between us, I like the cookbook better.

I also, for my birthday, got a special gift of –itis.  Four separate and distinct –itis’, actually.  I woke up feeling like death; dragged myself to the doctor where I was diagnosed with bronchitis, sinusitis, conjunctivitis (pink eye?  A toddler illness? I’m 49 freakin’ years old!) and otitis media.  Yes, an ear infection.  Another toddler illness.  It’s somehow wrong to have two (!!) toddler illnesses and menopausal symptoms at the same time. 

Anyway, I took to my bed and whined and carried on and made my poor husband fuss over me and wait on me hand and foot for several days before I decided I wasn’t going to die and I arose from my death-bed and insisted the birthWEEK celebrations continue! 

And they did!  We went out to eat again (I was too weak to cook, but not too weak to eat out LOL) and we went to Cheesecake Factory because … well, because they have cheesecake!!  The waitress was amazing; she was so personable and friendly and nice – but when it came time to present me with my cheesecake (and the song – got to have the “everyone look at me, I crave attention” song!) she either misunderstood what I said, or I didn’t speak clearly, because I was serenaded with “Happy Birthday, dear Salmon …”  Salmon?  After the song ended, as husband and I were diving into the cheesecake, I asked him, “Did you hear that, too?” and he laughed and said, “Yeah, but I wasn’t going to say anything … but yes, she called you Salmon.”

All in all, turning 49 hasn’t been too bad.  I got the *exact* gift I wanted (even if everyone else thinks it’s odd) and I got a beautiful (and socially acceptable) gift, I got phone calls from my children.  I got gifts and cards and well-wishes from friends and family and I got at least three birthday meals.  And a new nickname. 

I also got a collection of –itis’ that made me feel youthful (toddler illnesses.  At my age!  What’s next?  Acne?) and I was able to take to bed and read my new cookbook … and be VERY grateful that I don’t have to fix any recipes that start off with, “First, skin a young rabbit …”

And I have a pair of diamond and pearl earrings that redeem my husband in other people’s eyes; but I still have to say, “But I *WANTED* the cookbook!  I asked for it!”.

Turning 49 was fun. Well, maybe not the -itis'.  Those, I could have lived without.  But aside from that, turning 49 was fun.  I can’t wait for 50! 

COTC Day!

Clean Out The Closet Day approaches!!  Actually COTC Day was scheduled for a couple weeks ago, but it got postponed by Sit On The Couch And Watch Back to Back Episodes of Breaking Bad Day.

COTC Day has been on my agenda for quite a while now, but I have a hard time mustering up the enthusiasm to actually get in there and tackle it. Before SOTCAWBTBEOBB Day took over, I did go through and throw away the, no exaggeration, hundreds of wire hangars that years and years of dry cleaning had brought into our home (and I channeled my inner Joan Crawford ... "No wire hangars, EVER!") but that was the extent of my attempt at conquering the closet. 

The closet in question is the master bedroom closet. It's big. It runs the length of our bedroom. It's easily the biggest storage area in the house which makes it the logical place to store, not only clothes, but all the other things that households keep but can't go in the garage or attic because of heat. 

In addition to clothes and shoes and other normal master bedroom closet items, we also have ... stuff. There is a built in, floor to ceiling bookshelf that has school and office supplies on two of the shelves.  There are *important* papers on two of the other shelves  (user manuals for items we don't even have any longer and at least one packet called Welcome To Your Freshman Year of High School, from 2009) and the remaining two shelves have essential items like extra shoelaces and a sewing box and a skein of yarn, because I am going to learn to knit.  Yes, I am. Yes, I really am!  

We also have in that closet an old laptop computer that doesn't work. We have an even older desktop computer, that doesn't work. We have a hand-held video camera that's probably 15 years old that may or may not work. We have, inexplicably, at least a half dozen pillows, shoved into trash bags, in one corner. Where did they come from?  Why are they there?  I have no idea. We have bedding for beds we no longer have. (When I go to throw them away, I hear a voice saying, "But they're perfectly good sheets / pillows / whatever!!" and I think, "Yes, and if one day, for some reason, I need a twin sized sheet, won't it be handy to have these!"). 

We have a large box of cords and chargers and accessories to devices we don't even have. We don't even remember what some of the cords go to, but hey -- they're in The Box so they must go to something. If I could just get rid of the Box O'Cords and the mysterious pillow stash, that would clean up one whole corner!

We also have things of sentimental value in there -- two plastic bins of baby stuff:  baby quilts made by my children's great grandma, the outfits they wore home from the hospital, cherished childhood blankets. Because there is so much clutter, tho, the baby boxes are in the middle of the floor of the closet. Again, if we got rid if the Box O'Cords and the pillow stash, the baby boxes could go into that corner. 

I also have pictures. Old fashioned, pre digital camera snapshots. I have scanned them and have them all on a hard drive, but I don't know what to do with the literally thousands of photos. As of now, they're in suitcases and the suitcases are in the closet. 

Do you see why COTC Day so overwhelmed me?

And this doesn't even include the clothes in the closet that I can't wear, will never again wear but don't want to get rid of, because ... well, what if one day I need to look like a refugee from a 1980's movie?  I've got a full retro-wardrobe in my closet! (Not that they were retro when I bought them, but ...)

And the shoes. Yeah, I've got three, maybe four, pairs I wear on a regular basis -- and a bunch more that I'll never wear as long as I live because they hurt, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they look so good!

 What's bizarre is, the rest of the house isn't bad. It's not cluttered and filled with random stuff. Even the other closets are fairly organized and tidy. I think because the master bedroom closet is so big, it was easy to stick stuff in there "until we figure out what to do with it". 

My Beloved, Mr Über Organized, told me to tackle the closet the same way you'd eat an elephant -- one bite at a time. Don't get overwhelmed by the big picture, just take one corner, one shelf, one section at a time. 

Just like eating an elephant. 

My response?  "Elephant. Eating an elephant. Oh, we used to get elephant ears at the county fair. Remember those? They were fried and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar??"

And that's how I started off with the best of good intentions to clean out the closet and I ended up in the kitchen, baking. 

*sigh* 

Self indulgent, obligatory post-birthday musings

We've been married a long time. 27 years, as of this writing. I can distinctly remember when, as a newlywed, I wanted nothing more than to make it to our 21st anniversary so that I could say I'd been married as long as I'd been single. Twenty-one years seemed so far away, such an unimaginable length of time. And here we sit, over a quarter century of marriage under our belts and it feels like it's only been the blink of an eye.

Someone asked me the other day how old my children were. I said, "My daughter is 19 and my son is 22" and as I heard those words come out of my mouth, I was stunned. 22? My son? Not possible. And surely my daughter, my *baby*, can't be just a few months away from leaving her teen years. She's almost 20! No, I must have done the math wrong -- my babies can't possibly be that old.

My husband, on my birthday-eve, said to me, "Enjoy this next year. It's the last time, ever, you'll be able to say you're in your 40's." I am not squirrelly about my age -- I have no problem with the number. I'm 49 (as of yesterday!!) and I'm 100% fine with that. He knows that, and he wasn't being a jerk or being insensitive. But I was struck by the swiftness of the passing of time. Almost 50. Another decade gone. As with the 27+ years of marriage and the children who are unexpectedly in their 20's, it just surprised me.

I feel like, now that we are approaching our third decade of marriage and since I am on the cusp of 50, I should be wiser. I should have more answers. I should be more settled and secure. A friend from church is leading a study on marriage and she asked us if we'd participate. Her exact words were, "We are looking for some veterans of marriage to show us how it's done". Apparently other people also assume I have some answers. I don't! I feel like I went from 21 year old newlywed to 49 year old empty-nester in the blink of an eye. Honestly, I'm not sure how that happened.

I think certain events; milestone birthdays or anniversaries, the birth or death of a loved one, major celebrations or achievements, tend to make a person retrospective. It amuses me when 17 and 18 year olds get all contemplative upon their high school graduation -- I can't help but think, "Please. Your life is just beginning!" but then I wonder if, in decades to come, they are going to see 50 creeping up on them and they are going to wonder, "What happened? Where did the past 30 years go?"

I am excited to see what the next decade brings.  I know, with certainty, it will bring joy and sorrow.  There will be love and laughter as well as tears and anger.  I hope it brings new family members and I pray it doesn’t remove any loved ones from our midst.  I also hope that I take the time to remember the events of life so that they don’t meld into one fast-moving blur of memories. 

Someone asked me about blogging (ha!) and I responded, truthfully, that I blog just for fun.  I have no idea what I’m doing, and my audience is mainly (solely?) my family (and not even all of them LOL; my own kids don’t bother to read my blog … apparently they read the first few to make sure I wasn’t talking about them and since I wasn’t mentioning them by name or sharing any personal details, they don’t bother reading it any longer) and some of my friends.  I blog for me and I blog so that future generations who may stumble upon this will know me as more than a name and dates carved on a headstone.  I want them to know ME … my personality, my thoughts, my musings.  I also hope that these blogs will serve to keep things clear and in perspective for me.  I have a feeling that, if the past 30 years just flew past, the next 30 years will go equally quickly.  Wow.  Then I’ll be on the cusp of 80 and that is unimaginable to me … about as unimaginable as being 50 was to the 20 year old me. 

And even though my children don't read this blog, my husband does, so this is for him ... FYI, I wouldn't hate it if I woke up next year to find this in our front yard: 

 

Quiet Monday Morning, Almost

It’s early Monday morning.  Aside from the sound of the dog snoring, my house is completely quiet.  Husband is at work, Daughter is in her college apartment, Son is in Africa … it’s just me and Killer McSavage and her snoring.

 

Killer hates to have her picture taken (I once surprised her with the flash, so now every time I point the camera at her, she turns away).  I took that picture, and she sighed … and rolled over.  Didn’t get up off the couch, just put her back to me.  She’s not one for wasting energy.  LOL!

 My son has been out of my house for three years and my daughter has been out of the house for a year.  You’d think I’d be more used to a quiet, empty house.  I don’t know why it still seems so strange to me but a part of me still expects to hear a sleepy toddler call out, “Mommy?” 

I still want to have that First Day of School experience; I texted GirlChild last night and said, “What time is your first class?  What time are you going to wake up?  Are you taking the shuttle to campus?” and her response was “9:05.  8:00. Yes.”  I guess she has this First Day of School down pat and she doesn’t need a hovering Mom … but I still want to pack her lunch, check her backpack, give her a First Day of School kiss …

And don’t even get me started on the BoyChild.  He is in Africa.  AFRICA.  I can’t even text him or Facetime or email him, like I can her.  With him, we get to Skype maybe once a week, if I’m lucky.  It’s probably a good thing I’m not near him; it’s one thing to want to check the GirlChild’s backpack and make sure she has pencils and notebook paper, but what am I supposed to do for the BoyChild?  Check his body armor and make sure his weapons are loaded?  No, that’s OK.  With him, I sort of have to pretend he’s just at Boy Scout Camp or something … if I actually stop and think about the fact he’s in a combat zone, it tends to freak me out.  So he’s at Boy Scout Camp.    Sometimes, denial isn’t a bad thing. 

I am grateful for my church; I get the honor of going up there a few mornings a week and loving on the babies.  I get to snuggle the newborns for a couple of hours while their moms are in Bible Study.  I can easily remember when mine were younger and I had the opportunity to attend a New Mom’s Bible Study.  I was SO grateful for the chance to leave my babies in a safe, loving place while I had some much needed “me” time.  I see in some of the moms, that same look of relief.  I’ve been told they feel comfortable leaving their babies with an experienced mom like me (“experienced” = “old”) and I’ve had at least one mom tell me that she appreciated having a Grandma taking care of her baby.  *sigh* (Not yet a Grandma, but if God saw fit to bless me with a grandbaby, I’d not hate it!!)

I guess this is part of that whole Circle Of Life thing … I was once the New Mom, anxious for some me- time and grateful for the people who opened their arms and hearts to my children and now I am the “experienced mom” (LOL!) who finds herself with too much me-time on my hands and is grateful for the opportunity to love on someone else’s babies. 

I want, so much, to have my own children physically close to me.  I am delighted they are responsible, independent, functional adults.  I am pleased and blessed to have children who have successfully left the nest and who are making their own way in this world.  I do, however, miss getting to see them on a regular basis and I miss being able to give them a hug and a kiss.  I struggle with the urge to over-parent (is that a word?  If not, it should be!) and I still want to text GirlChild and remind her to pack a lunch.  I want, so much, to tell my son to be safe, be careful, not take risks.  (But then again, he’s just at Boy Scout Camp, and that’s not dangerous, right?)

I see on Facebook everyone posting pictures of their children on the First Day of School, and it makes me a little bit sad.  I won’t see my GirlBaby on her first day of school … although she did text me a picture of her English textbook LOL!

And there is no First Day of School at Boy Scout Camp … but I wouldn’t mind to give him a hug and a kiss anyway.

So, right now, it’s just Shadow and me.  Tomorrow, I’ll go snuggle babies at church but for today, I’m going to listen to the dog snore, wait for GirlChild to text me when her classes are over and I’ll pray that BoyChild gets a chance to Skype … from Boy Scout Camp … and I’m going to start planning some EOFO outings for Husband and me to undertake.  Now that the weather, in theory, is going to cool off we can start our daytrips.  We can even take overnight trips since we don’t have children at home to worry about.  There are some positive things about having an Empty Nest; I am going to focus on those today.  I am going to vicariously enjoy everyone else sending their babies off to school and I am going to love on babies tomorrow.  Today, I am going to savor the quiet and solace of my house and I am going to decide what adventure we will undertake on our next EOFO weekend. 

And maybe get the dog some Breathe Right strips.  Dang, but that dog can snore! 

 

Spectacular Failure

I wish I could sing.  I want to sing, I enjoy singing, but I’m not that good at it.  It’s not a talent I have.  I actually wish I had any musical talent at all; I wouldn’t mind to play an instrument (piano, specifically) but what I really, really wish I could do is join the church choir and sing.  I have accepted the fact that I have no musical talent, can’t sing, can’t play an instrument, can’t read music … but it saddens me regardless.

I also wish I could garden.  I hate (loathe and despise) gardening but I hear people talk about their gardens and their flowers and their yards with such intensity and passion that it makes me jealous.  They talk about the primal connection they get from digging in the earth and the joy they get from seeing their flowers grow … I don’t share that passion, but I wish I did.  They make it sound so amazing, so fulfilling, so life-changing that I find myself jealous.

Even more than my wanting to sing in the church choir (which is a huge desire!) or my wanting to grow beautiful flowers (which is a lesser dream), I want to be gracious.  I want to be one of those women who entertain flawlessly, who makes every guest in her home feel honored and welcomed.  I want to be one of those women who can throw together a dinner party on a moment’s notice.  But not just gracious in terms of entertaining, I want to be That Woman who always has a pleasant face, a peaceful spirit, a gentle smile.  I want to be the woman who has a kind word for everyone, who knows when to give a hug and who knows when to offer a word of encouragement.  And it’s a good, appropriate word of encouragement.  I want to be a giver of solace and a bearer of peace.

Yeah.  Uh-huh. Let’s look at that.

 Do I sing?  No.  Do I garden?  No.  Do I entertain?  No.  Am I gracious?  No.  But there are things I do well, things that I do so well that I may be World Class Champion category good.  I can worry with the best of them.  I can obsess and stress.  I can misspeak and I can mess up.  Oh, and apparently I’ve come to learn that I also can rock the hypocrisy thing. 

At the beginning of this summer, we were handed an unexpected (and scary) medical diagnosis.  It wasn’t something we saw coming, and it totally knocked me for a loop.  I responded best as I could, by handling what I could … I made phone calls and doctor appointments; I called the insurance company and got referrals.  I made follow up appointments and I read everything I could find on WebMD (bad option, FYI).  What I didn’t do was share my fears with anyone … not my friends, not my extended family, not my immediate family, certainly not the patient.  I internalized everything and then patted myself on the back for being so strong.  (Yeah, feel free to roll your eyes here.  I have.)  Once the immediate crisis had abated, I breathed a sigh of relief … and then, a month or so later, proceeded to have a screaming, yelling meltdown fit about something totally stupid and minor.  It ended badly (ya think?) and did nothing but make things worse. 

That’s not being gracious.  That’s not being supportive and encouraging.  That’s not giving solace or bearing peace.  That’s just being a stressed out shrew.  Not a shining moment in my life.

I also realized that I have been a huge hypocrite.  I tell other people to pray, I counsel others to go to the Bible for comfort, I suggest Scripture verses that might give encouragement and peace, but when I’m the one facing a crisis, I don’t pray for the right things.  I don’t ask God to guard my tongue and my heart; I just hold everything inside, call myself “strong” and then when I break (and I do), I do so spectacularly.  I don’t mean that I don’t pray at all, I do, daily.  I ask Him to help my loved ones, I ask Him to please make the specialist have a cancellation so that we can get that appointment (and He did!), I ask Him to give my loved one peace, but when it comes to myself … no.  That I don’t do.  I don’t ask Him to give ME peace and solace.  I don’t ask Him to still my fears and silence my tongue.  I don’t ask Him what I should say or do for my loved one that will make things better – or at minimum, won’t make things worse.  Instead I ask Him to change people around me, to fix their problems, to give them wisdom and guidance and peace and then I assume I figure that, when/if that happens, then I’ll have peace. 

So far, that’s not worked out too well for me. 

Some things I’ve handled well.  Some things, not so much.  And at least one time, just about a week ago, I failed so spectacularly that the fallout has repercussions that still haven’t been fully resolved. 

That’s impressive.  Just imagine if I had invested that much time and effort and energy into a pursuit that is productive and positive. 

I want a happy, tidy ending to this.  I want to say, “And now things are better; I’m singing in the church choir, I’ve got a beautiful garden and I spend my quiet times in contemplative reflection of Scripture.  My prayer time is full and is a blessing, and both gives me solace and peace as well as allows me to be a fount of blessing to those around me.”

But that would be a lie. 

So, no happy, tiding ending.  But at least I’m a work in progress … so for that, I’ll be grateful.

Raising the bar for being a Good Mother

Whoever keeps moving the bar for Mothering Standards needs to STOP.  When I was growing up, 230 years ago, it seemed the bar was pretty low:  we children were expected to go to school, respect our elders, eat our veggies and, as teenagers, don’t come home in the back of a patrol car or come home pregnant.  That was about it.

Then I had children and the bar was higher:  we didn’t just send our children to school, we had to “partner” with the teachers.  We had to be room mothers and PTA members to show that we were “invested” in our children’s education.  The backyard, piñata and WalMart cake birthday parties were substandard; we had to have “event” parties at “venues”.  When did Chuck E. Cheese become a “venue”?  Helicopter Parenting became a phrase and suddenly those of us who had no idea the rules changed were being told we were failing this parenting thing because we weren’t doing things that we didn’t even know we were supposed to do.

Now that I’m out of the baby / childrearing phase, I can be a little more detached.  I no longer feel the pressure to buy my children the perfect back-to-school wardrobe and I can look objectively at the blow-out birthday parties I see.  I am not (thank you, God) personally involved in the disposable vs cloth diaper debates, and I don’t worry about organic vs homemade baby food. 

Thanks to Pinterest, tho, I am seeing a new trend that freaks me out.  Not only apparently are moms today expected to pack their children’s lunches every day (which I did for one of mine who refused to eat cafeteria food) but they have to be nutritionally well balanced (which I agree with, but there ARE days when your child refuses to eat anything except waffles, so lunch was an Eggo that you toasted at 7:00 a.m. and a baggie full of Nilla Wafers and two graham crackers, because a 100% carb lunch is better than them eating no lunch at all … don’t judge until you’ve had a 6 year old who would barely eat in the first place …) but now the lunches have to also be visually appealing and cute.  There are websites and pins and posts that talk about how to make clever and crafty and creative lunches.  Because if the bread isn’t cut to look like a giraffe, you are a Parenting Fail.

 

 

Come on, world.  There is enough pressure on moms as it is.  We are judged on all sorts of stupid, irrational things.  We have to be SuperWomen, and raise perfect children while juggling careers and husbands.  We have to be Martha Stewart in the living room, Paula Deen in the kitchen and Heidi Klum in the bedroom. 

But when there are moms who are busy making Smithsonian worthy bento-boxes for their child’s lunches … wow.  That’s setting the bar kind of high. 

 

 

Chill out, ladies.  Relax, moms.  Take a breather, women.  We are OK.  We aren’t in competition with each other and, guess what?  If you don’t make palm trees out of bananas for your toddlers, they are still going to grow up just fine.  I promise.  And yes, there will always be *thatMom* who outshines you.  She will appear to be SuperMom and she will make you feel like you’re not succeeding … but I guarantee you, that SuperMom has her yoga-pants-and-no-bra days just like the rest of us.  OK, she may not wear that outfit to WalMart, but trust me, she HAS that outfit. 

Bento boxes for babies.  Seriously.  I am speechless.  I thought making my kids “fancy” pancakes (pour the batter in a cookie cutter) on the occasional Saturday morning was impressive.  I would have NEVER made it in the Pinterest-fueled Perfection Mom world that now exists. 

I see young moms at church.  I've had moms apologize to me (!) because they have a bottle of formula, not breast milk,  for their infant.  I've had moms spend several minutes explaining and justifying why they are using cloth or disposable diapers.  I've seen moms come into the nursery and see another child ask, "Do you think it's OK that my baby is older than that baby, but my baby is smaller?"  I just want to hug these moms, tell them they're doing just fine ... and remind them to breathe.  And NOT look at Pinterest.

I am at the point in my life where I feel obligated to give advice ... so to the young moms out there, I want to say, "You're OK.  You're doing a good job.  Don't compare yourself to SuperMom, because SuperMom is a facade.  She's got her eggos-for-dinner moments and I promise you, she owns a pair of yoga pants just like you do".

To the older moms, I want to say,"We survived!  We raised our children and we know what we did right and what we did wrong.  Give a supportive word of encouragment to that young mom you see. Let her know that the I-dressed-myself outfit her three year old is wearing (cowboy boots and a tutu) is adorable and just let her know you think she's doing a great job."

I love Pinterest.  Don't get me wrong.  But please, young moms, don't base your idea of "Good Mom" on what you see on Pinterest.  Sometimes, a baggie of graham crackers *is* the definition of Good Mom.  And in my opinion, a three year old in cowboy boots and a tutu is more adorable than the uber-coordinated "dress/socks/hairbow" look. 

Hang in there, moms.  You're doing a great job.  I promise.  Breathe.  Relax.  And don't judge yourself based on Pinterest or the fictitious SuperMom.