Ella’s at school, I only have 2 out of 3 kids for a couple of hours, so I figure, “hey let’s be wild and go to Target! What’s the worst that can happen?”
I totally underestimated my children.
Liam & Ava took turns singing the song of their people from the shoe department to the freezer section—for those unfamiliar with the layout, it’s the whole god damn store. What song is that? I don’t know the name of it but I do know it consists of high pitched squealing, tears of their forefathers, and some snot filled gibberish. For the most part I ignored it, something I am becoming very good at by the way. But there were a couple of moments where Jesus didn’t take the wheel and being that I was in Target, I felt comfortable enough to let my crazy out—you know…surrounded by my fellow overwhelmed, overtired, and just plain over it moms. After my repetitive “sittttt dowwwwnnnnnn” (s) in my best exorcist voice down the shampoo aisle, and a man (with an obvious sense of humor) actually crouching to the floor, I finally waved the white flag of submission and knew it was time to haul ass to the exit.
But not before the next level battle of the self checkout which is an entirely other post. I honestly would like to ask management if I can review the tape of the shit-tastrophe that just graced their store. Anyway, after spending too much money and clearly too much time here, I do what any basic bitch in Target does— Starbucks. Duh.
And since I know you’re already thinking it, yes, I do like to torture myself. Moving on.
Behind me was a nice older lady whom had the pleasure of a front row seat to my traveling shit show. We kept making eye contact as I’m talking through my teeth trying to wrestle one of Liam’s legs back into the cart & picking up Ava’s thrown bottle for the 13th time. I thought for sure she was judging me so I began planning out come backs in my head, you know, just to be ready for any lip Critical Cathy wanted to dish out. I order my drink while simultaneously sifting through the empty sucker sticks & puffs in my purse and there it was. This angel of a lady steps up to pay for my drink & even makes it a venti for me! In disbelief, I thank her and insist she doesn’t need to do that. “You’re a good mom” is all she said to me. That’s it. That’s all she said. I took my now upgraded drink and headed out, smiling because 1) Liam farted on the way to the car and Ava belly laughed so hard, and 2) because there are still good people out there. People that get it. People that realize in between all the chaotic moments, an act of kindness can brighten this braless, mismatched, unwashed hair, broken mamas day. And even 58 seconds later, when Liam became a whiny 33 pound bag of wet cement while I tried putting him in his car seat, that first sip of my ice cold gift was enough to keep me smiling.
Have you ever just completely lost your shit to the point where you truly question your abilities to raise another human being–or those days when your children started off as human but then turned into the exorcists’ stunt double, lets say….around nap time?– Of course you have! The daily tantrums, sibling turf wars, toddler side eye because ‘I can’t want a chicken nugssss’ or because you <GASP> gave a spoon instead of a fork at dinner? These things are just par for the course in a typical day-o-fun around here and don’t have the same ‘nails on a chalkboard’ effect they used to have. Ahh, the power of selective hearing; my newest mommy super power.
Within the past week, I’ve found myself waving the white flag of defeat in the parenting game slightly more than usual. There I was, staring blankly at the in-laws basement wall (thank you for your continued thoughts and prayers) sprawled out on the luxurious air mattress with pure exhaustion, holding back tears.
We just had such a good day yesterday, what am I doing wrong?! How can one day be filled with giggling and playing, and the next day filled with what seems like non-stop yelling and aggravation? Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
What kind of Mom am I, anyway?
I’m the kind of mom who can play tea party while munching on plastic crumpets for an hour. I’m also the kind of mom who if I have to hear the music to an obnoxious toy for one more god forsaken minute, I just may book my stay at the nearest padded room.
I’m the kind of mom who counts down the hours until bedtime because I crave the silence and that’s my only chance to watch my shows. I’m also the kind of mom who will lay awake at night, smiling while thinking about the giggles and screeches of those two happy children–unless they’re hungry, tired, teething, or three. Other than that, yep, they are mostly happy.
I’m the kind of mom who wakes up energetic, ready to punch the day ahead square in the face, obnoxiously whistling while swiffering my way around the house. I’m also the kind of mom who will bribe the kids to stay in bed just ten more minutes, as I search frantically for an ounce of energy to even open my blood shot eyes.
I’m the kind of mom who will arrive on time, confidently dressed in jeggings, hair and make-up done, looking crute. I’m also the kind of mom who shows up late, completely frazzled, shamelessly wearing three day old yogas paired with a splattered cereal shirt, barely holding myself together while realizing the only thing stopping my tears is last nights mascara.
I’m the kind of mom that would do ‘anything for a break’. I’m also the kind of mom that once I’ve escaped the circus, the conversation always circles back to how much I miss my little animals.
I’m the kind of mom that searches Pinterest for the healthiest kid recipes that consist of funny faces made with fruit. I’m also the kind of mom that doubles as a crazy lady while slamming the microwave, sighing loudly because ‘I cannot fathom cooking another meal for all you ungrateful heathens in this house!’ Chicken nuggets and Doritos for the kids and Noel. Wine and Ella’s half eaten chicken nugget for me.
I’m the kind of mom that is stumbling, trying to get it right everyday, learning from my mistakes, always polishing my approach. I’m the kind of mom that laughs, yells, makes silly faces, loses my temper, has dance parties, plays princess castle, sheds tears of joy and tears of fatigue, one who reads, and teaches–sometimes all in the same hour. Most nights my mind wanders back to how awful some aspects of the day were, but in the same thought, I’m thankful for the lesson. I’m the kind of mom who is trying my damndest to be the best I can possibly be: sometimes nailing it, sometimes completely failing.
I’m not the kind of mom that is perfect, and that’s the kind of mom I want to be.
Although Facebook has kindly summed up my 2015 in a matter of a thirty second video, the year certainly didn’t feel like it went by that fast–at least at some moments it didn’t. Oy. I’m not posting my ‘year in review’ publicly on my page-why?-because if you’re my Facebook friend, there’s a good chance you’ve already seen every picture and video I’ve taken-unless you unfollowed me, and if so, rude! You’ve probably noticed my check-ins at restaurants documenting the two times I left the house without the kids. Remember? It was the posts with the big neon lights accompanied by alcoholic drinks. I never missed an opportunity to show social media, “LOOK! Look at us, Noel, being all adults and shit! We’re cool again!” I will, however, take a little bit of time to recap the years events here.
As I said, during the course of 2015, some days time felt like it actually stopped. I mean there was one many mornings that too many whines and cries lead me to literally take the clock down and give it a few punches-‘is this damn thing working, cuz I’m pretty sure it’s been 7AM for like three freaking hours now! Sonofabitchin’clock!’ [cue the sobs on the kitchen floor. Mine. Not the kids.]
I was pregnant for the first half of the year with my little meatball, and [no]thanks to Burger King for being so damn delicious, I was forced to eat my body weight in Whoppers; in conclusion, 2015 brought me to my highest weight that I’ve ever been in my life. The plus size side to that? My reflection was kind, or disgusted, enough to sign me up at the gym later in the year, and I am back to my regularly scheduled workout: elliptical, free weights, and Chipotle as a reward for doing the first two things. Screw you, judgey reflection!
I went full-time stay at home mom in the Summer right before having Liam. My new job of raising now two kids gave me a ‘should’ve had a V8’ big smack of reality right upside the head. What was the one thing I learned in my six month stint in the Big House? This shit is hard. If society didn’t frown upon face tattoos so much, I would have certainly gotten teardrops etched onto my face by now. But instead of teardrops, mine would be suitcases to represent all the times I didn’t runaway from home in the middle of the night. The year of having two children saw much more tears, way less sleep, leaky boobs and sippy cups (for the love of all that is Holy, can someone please make a sippy cup that doesn’t leak!?) and way more time spent inside the house thanks to a car seat hating baby.
Please, Santa! I promise I was a good girl!
My daughter Ella turned two in March, which is odd because I’m pretty sure she’s turning 15 next year, what with her attitude and all. She has turned into quite the diva with a mind of her own. We already fight like cats and dogs at times, and I find myself left speechless at the sight of her crossed arms and perfectly executed side eye stare down. I remember like it was yesterday when the only words I would hear from her were “Ba! Da!Ma!” And, I also remember naively saying, ‘Aww, I can’t wait until she can talk.’ Well, some days I wish I could stuff that wish back into the genie lamp. Sheesh!
My marriage saw four years this past May. Since having kids, every anniversary that passes I find myself breathing a sigh of relief–‘we made it another year’–because sometimes, love just isn’t enough to keep a marriage afloat. Expenses, work, general life stress, wet towels on the floor, toilet seats never being put down, and sleep deprivation all have the powerful ability to create arguments that don’t matter, silent treatments instead of resolutions, heat of the moment saying things you don’t really mean instead of counting to ten. More often than not, we find ourselves on the opposite side of the couch, talking about the kids, finances, football, how annoying the neighbor is…anything really, other than us.
I started writing later in the year simply because one day I felt like I was about to explode. I was completely and utterly done with everything: the walls were caving in on me, and I didn’t want to be an adult anymore. No one except the kids were around at the time-I would have yelled at Noel, but he escaped my wrath by conveniently being at work-so my blog was born. It has been my ‘safe place’ to lean on, to share my thoughts and feelings. It brings me back to reality when I feel like I’m tripping on a bad batch of “special brownies”. No, I don’t really eat “special brownies” just using a metaphor, people.
Much like previous years and future years to come, my life isn’t going to be even close to perfect. Stress, heartaches, empty pockets, arguments with Noel and the kids, puke, poop, and pee-not just my own-will all continue to plague me on a daily basis for years to come. I get that. I accept that. I embrace that. 2015 has been a whirlwind for the Repiscak Pack, but we’ve had many good times, too.
Ella started “pre” preschool in September. I have seen her grow and learn more than I ever thought was possible in only a few short months. Liam completed our family in June and has gone from a tiny bump on a log to a belly laughing, touching and eating everything in sight, fast-crawling machine. He’s one of the most content babies; unless he’s hungry. In that case, you better get moving, no walking, I’m talking knees to chest, he doesn’t have time to wait and you will hear about it. Noel and I are working together on a more loving, understanding ground between us; taking our relationship off the sidelines in the game of life. Realizing that we can be both a spouse and a parent at the same time; it doesn’t have to be one or the other.
Well folks, that’s my 2015 year in review. Ups, downs, and sideways, I saw it all. With the new year right around the corner, a standard resolution is needed, right? Count me out on that. I mean, I guess I could make one like; go to the gym more, eat healthier, stop yelling, put the laundry away, etc., but then I truly feel I am setting myself up to not follow through. I’m what’s called a one weeker: Everyone’s all like, “new year, new me” and I’m all like, “new year, new me [for a week], and I’m done with this BS”.
I won’t pressure myself with a fake resolution this time around. Instead, my goals for the new year are simple and honest. To be less of a fighter, more of a lover, smile more in the face of chaos, put my phone down and read more than one page of a real paper book, not get pregnant, look better in my new yoga pants, not get so mad at Noels farts, and to be the best, perfectly imperfect wife, mommy, and me that I can be. And on days when I just can’t, I resolve to not runaway, rather, I will smile (and cry, but still through a smile) and I will be thankful for this life that I have.
I just cried because there’s no mayo to make the tuna fish I’ve been vowing to make for the last three days. And before you start getting any crazy ideas–No, I’m not pregnant again (thank you, baby Jesus!). No, it’s not “that time of the month”(add that to the list of why I still nurse, and again, my thanks to the man upstairs). I cried because the lack of mayonnaise in the house was the straw that broke my tired, aching back. I mean, seriously, if someone could take a picture of me right this moment, this is what it would capture: an exhausted mother of two standing in front of the computer, feverishly typing through a tear stained face, swiping the unwashed strands of hair that managed to escape my two day old ponytail from my face, sipping my cold coffee while holding Liam in the baby carrier because he refuses to sleep. EVER. Or be put down. EVER. Ella running laps on the couch, leaving a trail of Cocoa Krispies in her wake. If I had to caption this picture, it would surely be with the words—I’m breaking.
I consider myself a fairly new player in the ‘motherhood game’, but aren’t games supposed to be fun? Don’t get me wrong here, I absolutely love being a mom, I know…so cliché of me, but it’s true. I, hands down, have more fun and great times than not. But if I’m keeping it real-as I like to do- there are those times when I’m just not having ANY fun and I have the urge to flip this game over and quit. Times where I feel so defeated and overwhelmed that the front door looks quite appealing compared to the circus in my living room. There are times smack dab in the midst of the chaos that I stand there, blankly staring, silently telling myself, ‘I didn’t sign up for this shit’, as the tears start to flow.
The cracks from being a mom are starting to show-not the ‘plumber’s’ one, although that makes an appearance now and again when I squeeze into too small jeans- I’m talking about the physical, emotional, and mental cracks that begin to take shape the moment you squeeze that little one out. The puffy, bloodshot eyes from interrupted sleep, night after night, for months on end. The thinning, changing hair, increasing ass width, the southern migrating boobs, and the smallest of wrinkles beginning to form on your once more youthful looking face. The forgetfulness of even the most routine things because your to-do list keeps getting longer and longer. The turning of your stomach when you hear or read about a child getting hurt or killed; forever wondering ‘what if that was my child?‘ and in the same breath thanking God that it wasn’t.
I’ve always been an emotional person-a gift from my mom- thanks, Mom-but after having kids, my tear ducts are now on steroids. I cry because I’m tired. I cry because I’m hungry. I cry because I just want to take a hot bath alone, without a random, plastic bath toy poking me on the ass cheek. I cry because is Glenn dead or what the f^@*?! I cry because I just. Want. To. Sleep. I cry because there is no mayonnaise in this God forsaken house so I can make a damn tuna fish sandwich! I cry because I love these two kids so much. I cry when Noel eats the last piece of bacon. I cry because both kids are crying about completely different things, and all I can think is, ‘if you can’t beat ’em… join ’em.’ So I drop to the floor on my knees, stick my thumb in my mouth, and I do just that–I’m breaking.
The clearest lesson I’ve come to learn about being a mom so far is that every minute, every hour, every day is different. A bad moment of inconsolable tears and tantrums can always be erased by giggles and hugs in the very next one. Days like this- when my efforts to meet all their needs feels futile, when my patience meter is already filled up before 8am, when I yell like a banshee for what, in hindsight, is not even a big deal-it’s these hardest of days that I find myself at the end of my rope, ready to throw in the parenting towel. But right when I’m this close to breaking into a million, tiny, exhausted pieces, I take a step back from the edge, get a slight grip back on reality, and remember- there are days I will break, but I’m not broken.
Being a mom is hard, selfless, relentless, unconditional, rewarding, and exhausting. It will boost your confidence as a parent when your child smiles and thrives: It will utterly crush you if they don’t. This season of motherhood is ever-changing. It will leave you feeling stripped down and exposed; left questioning whether you’re doing this all wrong or getting it all right. Days like this, all I can do is pick up my pieces, put them together as best I can, and allow my kids’ love and laughter to be the glue that holds me together- at least for today. The desire to do better everyday as a mom allows my body and mind to shatter and mend day after day. Each time I fall apart, pieces of me are arranged slightly different with each repair-changing me (hopefully for the good) and forming the cracks that come with motherhood.
And while it’s only a matter of time when I’ll break again, I will never be broken.
It’s no secret that when I became a first time mom, I was a complete and utter hot mess. Our first night home from the hospital was easily one of the hardest nights of my life up until that point. I remember calling my mom at midnight from the cold bathroom floor, sobbing into the phone — “why didn’t you tell me having a baby was gonna be like this? I’m NEVER having another one! I hope Ella enjoys being an only child because I would never voluntarily go through this again!” My mom, mother of four children mind you, chuckled a bit, and replied something along the lines of, “Oh Kelly, you’ll be fine and you’ll have another one. Lock yourself in the bathroom for a few minutes and have a drink.” {Cue my Oscar worthy meltdown performance in 3..2…1..} “GOD, mom, you don’t know anything! That’s horrible advice, actually, that’s not even advice! How is that supposed to make me feel any better? Thanks for nothing!” {click}
See? Hot mess.
We scratched and clawed our way through the first two years of our first child’s imperfect rearing. Hell–we were just crazy enough to have a second. Man, oh man, turning our family of three into a pack of four was certainly a game changer. I knew, somewhere buried deep in the back of my mind that it was going to be hard to have another little tyrant in the house. But I was determined to add another little one to the household, because you know, we weren’t dysfunctional enough I guess. Not even the flashbacks and cold sweats of the memories curled in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, begging for just an hour of sleep, and for my boobs to stop leaking, could deter me! So here we are, I am now responsible for not one, but two tiny, demanding human beings–no pressure or anything. I’ve come to find out in just four long, long months of mothering, now two children, my overall experience can best be described as pure chaos. A sometimes cruel, always exhausting, wonderfully amazing life of chaos.
Our routines have changed. My oldest who, for the first two years of her life was numero uno, now has to wait a little longer–‘mommy can’t play right now, she has to clean poo off your brothers back.’ Sleep when the baby sleeps they said. I say, those days are mostly gone. It never fails that when one finally stops fighting the dreaded nap, the other is magically wide awake. Ella being 2.5 years and Liam only 4 months means they are at totally different stages in life. Solid food versus bottle. One sleeping mostly through the night [why must we do a meet & greet at 2am three times a week? Go to bed!] while the other is still on infant time meaning we’re up every couple hours. Walking, running, jumping versus laying on the floor mesmerized by the ceiling fan [Hey, who needs those expensive toys, anyway!Rookie mistake] One being able to communicate needs, wants, and demands using words [but why are you whining tho?] While the other lets me know just what he wants by the use of high pitched cries and clicks of the tongue–similar to a baby dolphin, I suppose.
Being in different phases definitely makes being a mom harder than it already naturally is. It makes for a more challenging day, and longer, even more tiring nights. Sometimes I have to let out a good cry because I just have no more energy left to give, or the beer fridge is empty, and the day is only half over.
Yes, I’m exhausted majority of the days. Yes, I contemplate running away sometimes, mostly just to the local Dunkin Donuts. Yes, my hands are full and my stomach empty. No, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The idea that as their mom, I will be so heavily relied on day in and day out for my whole life can be quite overwhelming at times. But that’s okay, because while I’m busy loving them, they are providing me with something in return that is just as overwhelming a thought–double the love. My arms may be tired, but it’s because I have two little loves to hold on to. My legs may be tired, but it’s going to be from chasing and playing with my kids. I may never get a decent night’s sleep again, but that’s because my mind will always be wandering back to them. My house may never be perfectly clean, and I may never catch up with the laundry, but that’s okay–because we’re going to be busy making memories. I may have double the headaches and double the tantrums, but at the end of the day, I will always have double the love.
Ever since March 30, 2013 at 12:56pm, our world completely changed. Ella, our first child, had entered the world and has been our little firecracker ever since. I remember having such a hard time in those first few weeks home from the hospital. One of the recurring questions in my mind, and often whispered out loud to myself was, “what the hell did I get myself into, how am I gonna do this??” I thought I was prepared. I truly believed that besides the typical sleepless nights that came with a newborn, everything else would be a piece of cake-at least that’s what those parenting books made it seem like.
Ella didn’t sleep more than a 4 hour stretch until she was about 10.5 months old, and didn’t take too kindly to naps. I was basically a mommy zombie-a mombie. There wasn’t enough coffee in Cuba to satisfy my caffeine needs at this point. ‘Oh please don’t let the sun go down for the witching hour is upon us’–honest to God, I’ve never been more terrified of a sunset in my life. In our household, 7pm was appropriately named, the ‘witching hour’. Ella, my sweet little baby, transformed into a screaming, inconsolable mess for hours on end–meaning I became a screaming, inconsolable mess. Looking back, those nights were a bit of a blur. I vaguely remember screaming at my husband at 3 am, probably because he didn’t hang the towel up after a shower the day before, and 3am seemed like the perfect time: we were up anyways and who else was there to yell at! I remember walking the living room for hours on end, wearing out the carpet, praying Ella would fall asleep before sunrise. And of course, there were those moments of me locking myself in the bathroom at 4am, crying, because I was just.so.tired–I became pretty good at that one. But, we got through it–4 hours at a time–nonetheless, we got through it. This went on for many months, eventually ending, allowing all of us to embrace sanity again–or what was left of it. Ella’s first year of life was hard, but it was so rewarding. Being able to witness all of her precious firsts; smiles, teeth, belly laughs, crawling, those wobbly first steps of freedom.
Year two has definitely been flying by, and everyday that passes, she never fails to amaze me. I look at her and cannot believe how much she has grown up, even taking on the role of a proud big sister! All the stuff she knows; the already massive vocabulary, putting sentences together, counting, drawing, potty training like a pro, bossing her new brother around. Her amazing ability to sift through a whole sentence that she may have overheard me or her dad (mostly him) say, and is able to repeat back that one curse word (again, her dad said it) that slipped out–genius! [note to readers: I don’t condone or encourage said toddler to use curse words. She is just smart enough to wait for them to come out and uses them for her own entertainment.]
I often catch myself just staring and smiling at her. Seeing who she has become, wondering who she will be. Her already constant need to entertain anyone that walks into the room is quite hilarious. Laughing herself into a coughing fit, her lack of patience for things, and outright stubbornness are all things I love so much. For someone so petite, she makes up for with a huge personality. I’m amazed and so grateful that I get to be her mom. Sure, she gave us a run for our money in those first few months, and let’s be honest, she still does. And since she reminds me so much of myself, she always will be a button pusher.
Despite all the hard days, the long days, and even the greatest of days, there’s something important I learned in being a first time mom to Ella. I never understood when everyone would say how rewarding having children can and will be. Thinking to myself, “yeah Ok, I won’t sleep for 10 years and I’ll be wiping butts for another 5, some reward!” -well that was before I had kids. In my short run of the parenting marathon, I realized just how right those people were. All the sleepless nights, the ‘witching hours’, skinned knees, and public tantrums. All those things no matter how bad, good or just plain ugly they may be are so rewarding-maybe not in that moment-but they definitely are. Because in those bad moments, we get to talk and try to teach them a better way. Because in those good moments, we can watch the fruit of our labor thrive, and use the skills we’ve taught them. Because in those ugly moments–and trust me, there will be plenty of ugly moments, hideous ones, in fact–we can cry right along side them knowing that tomorrow is a brand new day.
To me, a reward as a mom, is everything I just wrote. It’s the memories that we’ve already made. The good, the bad, and everything in between, they’ll always be ours to share. There’s a reward buried in each day, some days I may have to dig a little deeper to find it, but it’s always there–and all I have to do is look into her eyes.
Officially Outnumbered 