I don’t feel like I’m a good mom

This has been a hard week. I’ve had a headache for seven days straight now (on top of the normal neck pain). I’m exhausted because I can’t sleep well because the pain keeps me up. I feel like I have zero patience with the kids. I’m constantly snapping at them. I have run out of energy to come up with ideas for things to do and the weather has been terrible. I don’t want to get out of bed and I want them to be quiet because the sound hurts my ears. The other night, after a day of TV-watching so that I could rest, I told Tom, “Maybe I am not made to stay home. Maybe I’d be a better mom if I wasn’t around the kids all the time” because I don’t feel like I can do it anymore. And that I’m failing my kids miserably.

And then it hit me.

The brilliance of this will astound you:

Just because you don’t feel like a good mom doesn’t mean you’re not a good mom.

Ok. I’m pretty sure I wrote that somewhere before – probably in the archives of my blog – but sometimes old ideas can smack you in the head just like they are new ideas.

Whether you work, don’t work, want to work, don’t want to work – none of that makes you a good mom or not. And you won’t be a better mom if you stop working or start working. You can do a million crafts, use only organic foods, make homemade dinners from scratch every night, make your kids clothes, stay home, work to give them a better life, homeschool, make up games, buy them toys, help with homework, teach them to ride bike, go on walks with them, get them involved in sports or music or art, lead the PTA – and none of those means you’re a good mom. Do you know what makes a mom good?

Unconditional love.

Just like 1 Corinthians 13,  you can do all the things society tells us makes you a good mom – heck, you could win Mother of the Year because of all you do – but if you do them without love, what good is it?

A few weeks ago I asked Ethan if I was a fun mommy (don’t ask if you don’t want to know, kids are brutally honest) and he said, “No, you’re not a fun mommy. But you’re a really sweet mommy. And you don’t have to be fun, I still love you.”

So yeah, maybe I can’t be the “fun” mom; I hate that my body won’t behave. It hurts like mad to have to tell them “I’m sorry, I can’t.” But, gosh, I love my kids. I love them so much that I desperately don’t want to fail them. I love them so much that I feel like I’m a terrible mom because I don’t do enough with/for them. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a good mom, does it? It just means I don’t feel like a good mom.

So, come on. Go ahead. Say it with me: “I’m a good mom.” Out loud this time: “I’m a good mom.”

You are a good mom.

I am woman. Hear (my lawn mower) roar.

You may recall that last August, my parents gave me a lawn mower. A riding lawn mower. Tom and I never felt it was worth paying to have one for 1/2 an acre, but my mom and dad got a new one and so we got their old one. Emphasis: Old. If you don’t remember, read this post:

http://www.mommyinthemirror.com/?p=358

So apparently, lawn mowers have batteries. Just like cars. (In case you didn’t know.)

And also like cars, lawn mowers charge the batteries while they are running.

We didn’t run the lawn mower all winter, ergo, the battery died and I couldn’t start the lawn mower last week. So I did what any normal person would do: Called my dad to come and jump start the thing. (Did ya know you can jump start a mower with a car? Red=+ Black=- means red to red and black to black. So simple.

So he started it and I mowed the lawn in 25 minutes. I just love zipping around on that thing. Sure beats the manual push mower that took me 1.5 hours to use and couldn’t mow anything longer than an inch without bogging down.

Unfortunately, 25 minutes is not enough to charge a battery, I guess. Because it didn’t start again yesterday. And with the epic amounts of rain we’ve been having this spring so far, the lawn is growing like crazy and any opportunity to mow comes in one hour windows. So what did I do? I called my dad and had him take home the battery to charge it.

This is where the I-am-so-amazing-you-would-never-guess-a-girl-could-do-this-herself part comes in. My dad took out the battery which is a near-impossible feat all by itself. The worst part is this little bent piece of metal wedged over the top of the battery to keep it from bouncing around. There’s like 1/1000th of an inch of clearance to get that thing in and out. But he wasn’t going to be able to come back to put it back in until later tonight, so I asked my mom if she would just drop it off on her way to/from the grocery store.

So I got it back today and decided I may as well try putting it back in on my own since it wasn’t raining and it will very likely rain every day for the next month. Or two. Or three.

Of course, you know by now that I figured out how to reconnect it and slide it back in, but gosh, if only you could see how hard it is to get it back down in that spot! It’s like the earth on its axis. If it tilted a few degrees in any direction, life could not exist on this planet. Well, you had to have that battery at a very precise angle (I don’t know what it is because I was busy trying to keep the metal thingy up with one hand while maneuvering the battery with the other hand.) to get it to slide into place. And it’s under the seat which means it had to fit down in, or I’d be standing on my riding mower and that would just look stupid. I don’t know who designed it to be so difficult to take out and put back in – I’m guessing not a woman. Unless she was a sleep-deprived mother of many small children.

Ok, so that was rather less exciting than I had hoped. But I am proud of myself. Like super proud. Like, WOW! (Just let me bask in my own compliments for awhile. I don’t get many from myself.) Now, if I could just mow in a bikini with perfect soft ball boobs…

Can you spot what’s wrong in this picture?

So I was shopping at WalMart for groceries today and we walked past an end-cap that had blow-up swimming pools – with a blow up slide and palm trees… And anyway, something about the photo caught my eye.

Did you see it? I mean, at first glance you think, “Oh, they are having so much fun. That incredibly pale boy on the slide in the middle is even raising his arms!” Perhaps you notice that the other two kids appear to have white smears of sunscreen all over their faces. I know the quality of the photo isn’t all that great – so here’s one that’s zoomed in – the photo on the box was fuzzy, by the way, so I couldn’t do any better.

Do you see it now? Look at the “mom”. Could she be any more disgustingly fake? I mean, come on, if you’re gonna photoshop a picture, at least make her boobs the same size! I don’t know anyone who has three children – even with a boob job – who looks like that. Heck, I don’t know anyone who looks like that. Seriously, the right one is a perfect softball shape. Good grief.

And truly, people, this is why I rant and rave about how ugly I feel all the time. Because even cheapo kid’s toys have fake bodies on the boxes. It’s a subliminal message. You’re not really supposed to look at the mom, but certainly, they could never put a normal-sized woman in a one-piece – or even a tankini – on there because who would want to buy it? “Check out this toy! Oh, but that mom has cellulite and a jelly-belly. Never mind.” Everyone notices this on beer commercials. Beer (in large quantities) makes you fat, yet do you ever see “beer-bellies” in commercials? Nope. Because “ugly” doesn’t sell.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. I wish, just once, that a princess movie (as Sienna likes to call them) would have a plus-sized chick and pot-bellied guy fall in love. And for it not to be cheesy – but just as sappy as the normal movies. I bet it wouldn’t sell, though. Because “fat” is not romantic. Or pretty. Or handsome.

All the spy novels I read have skinny chicks who need rescued or who sleep with the main character. Because it wouldn’t be as romantic if James Bond hooked up with, say, Kirstie Alley, would it? (For the record, I think Kirstie is gorgeous.)

I remember back when I watched “Baywatch” (yes, I admit it) and the one lifeguard asked a girl out over the phone – having never seen her – because she had a sexy voice. Who shows up? A portly, but lovely, lady. Of course, there’s all this embarrassment and he apologizes when he realizes she realizes that he is no longer attracted to her and he goes on a “pity date” with her. I think that was the only episode she was in because, of course, who would want to watch a stud like that guy be with a woman like her?

You know what my point is in all this – I read that article on CNN that’s going around on Facebook  (http://www.cnn.com/2011/OPINION/04/19/granderson.children.dress/index.html) and at the end he says, “Why do businesses keep selling this message? It’s because consumers (that would be us) buy it!” What can we do about it? Not a lot. The most important thing I think I can do is to make sure my kids get the right message from me and their daddy: That being healthy is important, not being skinny or shaped a certain way. I can keep them from watching movies that have stupidly unrealistic ideals – or explain that it’s just make-believe and that real life is far less pathetic. But that’s about it. I doubt, just like gas strikes, that if I decide to never buy/read/watch/listen to anything that promotes this impossible ideal, it will put even a tiny dent into anything. Every consumer need to stop accepting that image before it’s ever gonna change. And I’m pretty sure Jesus will come back before that ever happens.

Ashamed

Why do I still feel so negatively about myself? Why does it have to be a constant battle every day? Why can’t I just eat a piece of cake and not feel compelled to run for three hours to make it “ok”? Why do I still compare myself to everyone around me? Why don’t I feel as though I measure up?  I feel like my life is a broken record. I just want to be normal, whatever that is.

How do you know it’s PMS when you don’t have a period?

I’ve already mentioned how awesome having no period is. I forget sometimes that all my friends around me still have to buy tampons and have cramps. I pity them. Really, I do.

But I still have one ovary. Which means I have hormone surges at that time of month. The thing is, I don’t know what it’s been doing lately – it seems like it’s not working… So the past two days, I’ve been in a funk. More than the normal funk. Lately, I’ve been frustrated because my headaches are back and my doctor told me that I basically should just not do anything that hurts my neck – which is everything. Well, mostly. I’m extraordinarily  beyond frustrated with that whole deal because I don’t want to give up things I love (outdoor stuff in particular) and who is gonna weed my garden?? Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that on top of that major frustration is that PMSy-I-don’t-know-why-I’m-so-depressed-and-why-do-I-feel-like-stuffing-my-face-with-chocolate feeling. If that’s what it is, it will end up going away in a few days.

I have no idea if that’s what’s going on, but it sure feels familiar. Blech. Thank the Lord for Reese’s easter eggs. Yum.

How can kids with the same parents be so completely different?

You know what the coolest thing about kids is? How they are each born with their own personalities. From day one, Kaylee made herself known to the world. She sounded like an exotic jungle bird squawking while Sienna would just make an angry face at you. Kind of like this:

Heck, even in my belly, Sienna was – well – Sienna. Shoving her butt up in the air just to tick Kaylee off and start a huge battle that made my stomach look like aliens would burst forth at any second. She is still very deliberate in her devious ways. And Kaylee still screams like the world is being attacked by giant sea monsters any time she feels she is being wrong ed.

This is awful, but it kind of cracks me up that when I have to give them spankings (very very rare). Kaylee lets out a blood curdling scream the second you make contact with her skin. With Sienna, it’s almost a contest to see if you can make her cry. If you don’t get a good smack on her little bum, she doesn’t react at all.

If you go to our church or know us personally elsewhere, you know that Kaylee is the most gregarious child in the world. In fact, since you likely had to look gregarious up in the dictionary, you probably saw her picture there. No person is a stranger to that little blondie. She marches around like she owns the place (whatever place where we happen to be) and waves with her huge smile and says, “Hello!” to everyone. She also likes to talk about whatever might be happening that day or week. Such as, “Hi, my mommy and daddy took away my Penny Pony because I wouldn’t go to sleep.” Or, “Did you know that I pooped and that I had to wait for Mama to come and wipe my butt because I’m not allowed to wipe poopy, just pee and we always wash our hands even if we didn’t wipe ourselves.” New people are instantly her best friends.

Then there’s Sienna. Once, I took them to Wendy’s and while Kaylee was blatantly looking over the divider into the next booth to see what those people were doing, Sienna was literally hiding under the table so the people in the next booth wouldn’t see her. She is that kid that everyone wants to make smile and hug them but she won’t. She makes people feel bad because she takes a while to warm up to them, but they have just experienced very slobbery kisses from her outgoing sister so why wouldn’t they expect Sienna to do the same thing? Alas (just like her mommy when she was little), the brown-haired sister is shy. I kind of hate that term, thought. She’s just more cautious. She generally ends up liking everyone – once she’s seen that they are nice and trustworthy. If you are patient with her, she will warm up to you and then she’s as loyal as a three year old kid can be.

Kaylee is insanely care-free. Not much bothers her – for long, I mean she does make a big deal out of small things. But when it comes to learning something new or figuring out puzzles or learning to write letters or numbers or anything cerebral, she just doesn’t care. If she messes up – no big deal. As long as no one else is mad at her, she’s happy as a clam. She doesn’t seem to be obsessed with anything in particular – princesses, ponies, puppies, dolls, whatever. She loves them all and couldn’t care less about any of them (unless, of course, Sienna or Ethan care, then she does too.)

Sienna. Oh, my Sienna. I think her second word was “pink” (first one was “uh-oh”, fitting since she is the physically more daring of the two) and she is more than obsessed with princesses. She wants everything that exists in the world to have something to do with princesses. I don’t know why. She’s also extraordinarily particular and deliberate with everything she does. She enunciates very well and if she doesn’t remember how to say something, she asks how. She loves to sit in a corner with a book and make up stories out loud (so adorable, but she hasn’t let me catch her with a camera yet). Coloring in the lines is a goal for her and she does pretty darn well. She works very hard at writing letters (with no prompting from us)and is quite proficient at writing “p”.

So at this point, you might be wondering about Ethan. Why haven’t I mentioned him? Well, first, it’s just way easier to compare twins. But second, it’s because in many categories, he falls somewhere in the middle. Not overly out-going but not overly shy. Not too adventurous, but not particularly scared. He has interests, but not any obsessions, really. The funny thing about him, though, is that he is so mature. I hate saying that about a five year old – I work really hard to remember that he’s five because he says the most profound things sometimes. Not to mention that he blows me away with his mad reading skills. Seriously, that kid is amazing. Yeah, he’s my kid so I’m supposed to be proud, but if I am comparing, (which I am) the girls are no where near where he was as far as reading and writing go at this point. And remember, I was raising baby twins when he was two and learning to read; he’s pretty much taught himself. He learned the letters, then the sounds (thank you Fridge Phonics) and by the time he was three, he thought it was a fun game to read words we wrote on his Magnadoodle. I think, also, he’s the most sensitive of the three. He really really wants you to like him and to approve of him. He’s got a great daddy, because Tom doesn’t let him win (at least not easily) so when Ethan does win at a game, he is so proud of himself and he knows that we are genuinely impressed with him.

I guess the thing that fascinates me is the whole nature/nurture thing. It’s very clear to me that kids are born with predetermined personalities. Yet, we as parents have the responsibility to guide them as they grow so that they can maintain their own identities and use them to the best of their abilities. Crazy frightening when you think about it. So I try not to. I just watch with awe as they grow and marvel at the gifts God bestowed upon me.

Regrets

I’m spring cleaning and while that does include actual cleaning, it means I am decluttering as well. I’m kind of a sentimental pack-rat. As long as I have a good memory attached to something, I keep it. Every year, I go through stuff and weed out anything that I feel isn’t worth keeping anymore. So…

I have a hat box full of cards – wedding shower cards, wedding cards, birthday cards and some Christmas cards. I didn’t keep them for any sentimental reason, per se – I wanted to keep them for the kids to use for crafts someday. We got married 10.5 years ago and the cards have not been touched since. Yesterday, Ethan and I went through them and I opened each one to make sure there were no personal messages. Most didn’t have anything special written in them, so they went into the kids’ craft box.

But there were a few that literally brought me to tears. First: Seeing my Grandma’s shaky handwriting tell Tom and me to have a wonderful marriage like she and Grandpa did. Grandpa died when I was 14 – after their 46th year together. I miss him, but as I’ve said before, I already miss her, too. She’s in a nursing home and when we visit, she definitely doesn’t know the kids and I’m not sure she knows me. I hate having people I love get old.

Another, really annoyingly fluorescent-flowered card, was from my other grandparents – who both died in 2004. In it, Grandpa had written (in his own shaky handwriting): “You’re a real nice granddaughter.” It’s weird how grief can just give you a sucker punch like that.

The biggest thing, though, was my journal from late high school through 2001. I hate reading it. It’s filled with so much pain and turmoil – my senior year of high school was probably one of the worst of my life. I made some stupid choices and hurt my family and friends. Tom and I nearly broke up. In my journal, I wrote that I wanted to commit suicide but that I didn’t want to hurt Tom or make my family feel guilty. Every page says something like, “I don’t know what to do,” or “I am so depressed,” or “I hate myself.” I want to throw the journal away. To pretend that time of my life never happened.

I’m amazed at how the pain is still so easily made fresh. Raw. What could I have done differently? What could my family have done? Did they have any idea how difficult life was for me? I know it shouldn’t have been; I had no good reason to be so depressed. Maybe it’s easier when someone shouldn’t be depressed to just try and will them to get better? I’ve tried to use logic with myself before, “At least I have…” But it never helped lift the darkness that was a constant companion until I met my good friend, Welbutrin. I think I should have been on anti-depressants back then. I probably should have seen a real counselor and not just a pastor – he gave fine advice, but didn’t know how to get to the root of the issue.

How much different could my life have been had I unpacked all that baggage back then? Wednesday, we talked in my poetry class about grad school. I doubt I’ll ever go because I’d want to do it in creative writing (only one local program) and it would have to be full-time. Maybe when the kids are grown? Yet another reason I wish I’d gone to school way back when… I know, “You can’t change the past” and “You can’t see where you’re going if you’re always looking back.” It’s hard, though, when I’m cleaning and I see a journal that should have been filled with the care-free words of a teenager waiting to get engaged and then married. An intelligent girl starting out her adult life…  Maybe I should get rid of that journal. Burn it in a ceremony – or at least the pages that are so pain-filled.

I’m so thankful for Jesus Christ. If not for Him…

Do WHAT with out complaining?

Philippians 2:14 “Do everything without complaining or arguing.”

Everything? Really? Come on, how can I not complain when I’ve had headaches (every day) for three weeks in a row? When my neck is killing me despite five weeks of therapy? When I have a stomach bug for the past two days? When it’s flippin’ snowing in April?

I know we aren’t supposed to compare ourselves to others, but maybe this is a good time to do just that. Because people in Japan are still looking for family members – and losing hope. Many thousands have lost mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, friends. They’ve lost their homes, their businesses, their possessions. A few flurries is far better than a life-altering disaster like a tsunami or an earthquake.

So what if my girls are being bad nappers? I still have my girls. So what if Ethan keeps interrupting while I’m trying to finish a school assignment? I still have my son. So what if it’s snowing? I have a warm house and heat and fuzzy big blankets. So what if I’ve got headaches or my neck hurts? If it hurts, that means I’m alive.

I still want to complain. I’m human. I was born with human nature – which is self-centered. I’m allowed to have bad days, too. Sometimes, though, it’s good to put things into perspective.

Here are pictures of my blessings (and their new haircuts):

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2088678&id=1127764665&l=351bb80b1e