Evolution of a Mom

I haven't been around for awhile. I've let a few things slide. Ignored the guilt of not constantly engaging in this completely voluntary and optional and inconsequential endeavor. Like every good Mormon Mommy. But at least I've finally finished making learning packets for Landon's pre-pre-preschool program I'm starting with him, complete with glittery finger puppets and pop up pages of scripture stories.

And now I feel guilty because I'm completely lying to you.

In reality, I don't keep this up regularly because I feel like this:

Thanks to this:

 Combined with this:

Who, incidentally, has gained an alarming proficiency with this:

I'm not sure how it happened, but it may have something to do with the fact that, in general, all I want to do is this:

On an unrelated note,
I want to eat this:

Martha Stewart Image

And look like this:

I see nothing inconsistent with that. Let me reside in my hormone-induced fantasy world.




In my mind, I look like this:

Except instead of rising majestically from the sea, imagine it sprawled on the couch with various food crumbs adorning it's belly. 

But in all fairness, I'm sure I really just look more like this:

What? It's slightly smaller.

But pretty soon, I'll look like this:

Only my pouch will be a baby bjorn. Also, I think I'm missing another pretty important member of my offspring. Which will also most likely happen quite a few times. 

So, forget taking your kids to the zoo. Just bring them over here and see what creature I morph into each day. I promise not to scare them. Much. 

You can find me in my natural habitat:

Notice the lack of No Feeding signs. Just pointing it out. 

Letter To My Belly

A good friend of mine recently told me that she writes letters to her unborn child. She writes about her dreams for her daughter and the things that scare her and touch her heart. I thought this was a wonderful idea and will open the foundation for an unparalleled bond that mother and daughter will cherish.

I thought I might give this a try myself. But, my friend is thoughtful, creative and dreams in big writing in the sky whereas I tend to sit on the grass and notice all the dead plants around me. So when I sat down to write a letter, here's what I came up with:


Dear Baby in my Belly, 


I don't appreciate the addition of love handles you've added onto your temporary home. Really, not necessary. 


Love, 


The Woman Giving You Life


I wonder if this kid still thinks it has time to change wombs.

Happy Happy Birthday Landon Dear

Today Landon is two. Actually, he turned two on Saturday but by the time I actually get around to posting this, he will still be two. I'm working on tired mommy time here.

I remember when Landon was born (which is not really something you forget). I remember looking at the 2T clothes I got for presents and thinking "he will NEVER wear these." Not only has he worn them but they're now starting to resemble the 90's midriff muscle shirts. And I'll be honest, he's about five packs short of a six.

But here he is, in his two year-old glory. I'm sure every mother reading this is going "Oh you're cute. You think two years old is a big deal. Wait till they're (insert age of oldest child here)." Because sometimes I subconsciously think that about people saying "4 months! My baby is 4 months old!" But I truly thought I would never survive maintain some form of sanity keep him alive learn so much as a mother in this period of time. But I have. And I'm so grateful for the little laughing, hyper, stubborn, truck-loving, funny, sweet, golf-loving (like his daddy), mischievous, cookie-eating (like his mama), smart, quirky guy that he is.

Not only have I learned so much these past two years but he's not done too bad himself. So, in typical Mormon-mommy fashion, I will now list a few of Landon's accomplishments to date. Behold his awesomeness!!

In the last two years, Landon has:


Learned the entire alphabet backwards and forwards and is now working on deciphering ancient Mayan dialects using his "ABC Fun for Me!" rosetta stone.


Read five Dostoyevsky classics, in Russian. And then corrected the English translations.


Mastered the art of sharing to the point that he now just gives away his toys to kids he passes on the street.


Successfully initiated peace talks in the Middle East by giving Ghadafi two choices: stop being a butthead or go to time out.


Created a nuclear disarmament NGO based in Iran and North Korea called "Hands are not for hitting and bombs are not for dropping."


Rescued an injured baby bird and nursed it back to health with his sippy cup.


Published an article in the New England Journal of Medicine entitled: "Golden Poop: The Effects of Corn on the Digestive System."


Drew an exact replica of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel on our driveway with chalk which created quite a stir about public displays of religion until the rain came and washed it all away. Which gave him a new idea for the backyard - an ark.


Potty trained himself, our cat and four dogs that live on our street.


Used his homemade satellite to pinpoint the exact location of a certain bearded terrorist mastermind and then used his Fisher Price Laugh & Learn phone (with direct line to the President) to relay the coordinates to a certain Navy special ops team.


Discovered new constellations in the shapes of a fire truck, backhoe loader and bulldozer.


Traced his genealogy back to Adam and Eve.


Learned how to spell genealogy and then taught his mama.


Began his Memoir, tentatively entitled "Doggies are Funny, I Like Trucks." 


Happy Birthday to my sweet little man! I can't wait to see what the next two years will bring (world peace? let's start working on that). 

Landon, working on yet another Great American Novel.
Or watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on YouTube. 

Whoa, Whoa, Whoa. You Mean it Gets Harder??

My good friend Brittney sent these articles to a couple of us to see what we thought. Now how in the heck did she get in my head? The things in these two articles are exactly things that I've been thinking a lot about lately - and things I definitely needed to hear.

http://powerofmoms.com/2011/06/little-kids-little-problems/

http://powerofmoms.com/2011/06/do-children-make-us-happy/

The first article definitely spoke to me the most. Ever since Landon was born I have often found myself wishing away his childhood with dreams of "if only he could sleep, feed himself, tell me what he wants, understand me, understand reason, play nicely, not play in the cat's water bowl, be potty trained, not run out into the parking lot even when I tell him not to, have an extended discussion about the meaning of life with me, etc, then my life would be so much easier."

But some of those things have come, and life isn't easier. It's just different. Good stuff came with the changes, but hard stuff did, too. I remember wanting Landon to walk so badly because I hated having him crawl around on dirty floors when we were out and about.

So he started to walk. Then he started to RUN.

Now his favorite thing to do is shout "WUN AWAY!" and then run away from me at top speed. Who knew little pudgy toddler legs could move at the speed of light when they're doing something they know they're not supposed to?

So things are never going to necessarily get easier - but I've found that the good comes with the bad, often in surprising ways. For instance, I hate the heart-stopping vision of my son running into oncoming traffic, but I am actually glad that he can walk and run around. He seems so much happier than when he was just crawling and able to get a lot more energy out. And more energy expended = better sleeping. The golden ticket.

So whenever those thoughts of "if only he could (insert wishful thinking here)" pop into my head I need to remember that every action (usually) has an opposite and equal reaction. Which means that, even though he's a lot more vocal on his opinions now, he can also choose to voice his little opinion that "mama, I yuv you." And that's something I should never wish away.

Sugar Baby

Sometimes I think that God thinks I'm funny. Not in funny in the "A Priest, a Rabbi and a Mormon Bishop all walk into a bar - OUCH" kind of way but more funny in the "pat her on the head because she thinks she knows what's going on" kind of way. Kind of like when someone gets all dressed up and thinks they're looking super hot as they're walking down the street when in reality they have no idea they have pink undies static-clinged (clung?) to the back of their shirt. I'm sure God doesn't laugh at our misfortune, but you have to admit - seeing that would be kind of funny.

So I like to think I provide plenty of amusement up there. Mainly because I often do think I have it all figured out. Honestly, sometimes I can just hear this quiet chuckling and "Oh, Debbie" with a shake of the head. Usually that's the more rational part of my brain but I try to block it out as much as possible.

Case in point: This post.

Seriously, I knew what was going on. I felt super mood-swingy, more lethargic and just generally more squishy. Thank you, cookie dough dinner. So I wrote about it. I had taken pregnancy tests the week before so I figured I just needed to decompress all my sugar-laced feelings.

((Soft chuckling. Pat on head.))

Later that SAME day, I took a test again (since I had to call the OB to schedule a check up and they always make me take one) and this is what I got:

I actually took a third one the next day too. You know what they say about 3 witnesses...

So it turns out there is a bun in my oven. I'm just hoping it's as sweet as the one I previous thought was taking up all that room (and preferably not made of cinnamon).

I have to admit I was a little relieved that there was something to explain all the weirdness. I am growing a human being, after all so I'm allowed to be crazy, right? (SAY RIGHT, SAY RIGHT!!!!).

Now that my sugar bun and I are finally spending more time outside of the bathroom then in it, I am happy to say that Landon will be a big brother on December 5th!

Oh, boy. Talk about thinking that you have it all figured out. Poor kid has no idea what's about to hit him. ((soft chuckle, patting Landon's head)).

The Mother of All Days

I've never quite understood birthdays. Don't get me wrong, I'll never turn down a chocolate cake (ever) or a big box with a bow on top (unless something inside is breathing) but I've always felt a little guilty having everyone celebrate and congratulate me. I mean, I didn't actually do anything. It was my mom who did all the work. In fact, here are my contributions to my own birth:

-I refused to come out even after over 20 hours of labor
-When I did finally move I kicked my mom's rib out just to show my displeasure
-I was also facing the wrong way because I was NOT going to make this easy on anyone
-I made my foot go slightly clubbed just out of spite (well, probably not. But I am awfully stubborn)

Being the 6th kid, you would think that I would have just leisurely popped out after a few minutes, high-fived the doctors and nurses and been like "yo momma, let's get this show on the road!" (isn't that how you talked as a baby?).

But I didn't. And neither did any of the 5 before me. So for awhile I've felt like birthdays should be a day of appreciation for the mother, not the kid-who-just-happened-to-be-kicked-out-of-a-comfy-womb-and-is-none-too-happy-about-it-either-and-I'll-let-you-know-it-for-the-next-18-years.

That's the nice thing about Mother's Day. It's finally putting recognition where it deserves. Technically, everyday should be Mother's Day but I've only felt that way since I had a son of my own. Never say I'm self centered.

So I want to take this day to officially recognize my own mother for all that she has done for me. I should also do this daily, I know. And maybe I do since everyday I think "man, this mother stuff is hard." But I still want to recognize my mom for all the things she has given me, not just life, but confidence, encouragement, unconditional love, the beginnings of a testimony and a lot of laughter along the way.

My mom and I at my wedding. I'm  not sure if you can see the resemblance. 

Here are a few things I learned from my mom:

1. Look for the good in others (I'm not as good at this as she is).

2. Never never stop learning. 

3. How to eat a raw artichoke.

4. How to feel guilty getting rid of food, even if it's starting to walk out of the fridge on its own. 

5. How to put butter on things that should not have butter on them. Like PB&J sandwiches. On my own I learned that this is super gross. 

6. You can get through anything with the Lord.

7. How to make a mean potato salad.

8. How to be a spiritual anchor. 

9. How to be a good sister (also something I'm not as good at)

10. That I am a daughter of God. 

In addition to my mom, I've also been lucky enough to have a few other great influences in my life that have shown me what it means to be a mother. I don't know how much these women know I have watched them. Let me make that sound less creepy. Watched them and admired them. There we go.

My sister and sisters-in-law. PS- I didn't have a picture of just the girls on my computer so just look at them. The guys are pretty cool, too. I guess. PPS- I'm sure you noticed the giant chasm next to me. That's where Tyler should be. But he had to work at the hospital. Doesn't it look like I was ditched by my baby daddy and was now shunned from the family? It's only funny because it's not true. 

I am also very fortunate to have another great example of a mother very close to me. Like I always say, I hit the jackpot of in-laws. She raised 5 great sons and is teaching me how to raise another:

My MIL and Landon

And of course, a few of my biggest mothering inspirations:

Okay, just kidding about that last one. But, you know, I'm sure trying to juggle diapers, algebra homework, texting, colic and how to hide your stretch marks in your prom dress is really difficult and they're trying to be the best moms that they can. No judgements here. Not too much anyway. 

And on that note...

I'd like to wish every woman out there a Happy Mother's Day and thank you to all of you who try, everyday, just to make it to the next with everyone in tact. Someday, they'll be writing a blog post about you. Except with holograms. And lasers. 

Hindsight is Always a Better Parent Than You

Today was a momentous day. A milestone that shall forever be enblazened in my mind. The record books shall show that on this day a checkmark was placed next to an all important stepping stone to becoming a seasoned parent.

Today, Landon completely embarrassed me with an all out throw down in public.

I feel like I should get a medal. Make it chocolate.

Don't get me wrong. Landon has cried in public before. Freaked out even. But never has he so unilaterally created a scene of destruction and mayhem as he did today. And this following a toddler storytime, which meant he succeeded at stealing the attention of every single mom in the Worthington Library away from their own book-ripping child to stare at my thrashing son while simultaneously pretending not to notice.

When Landon does something, he does it all the way.

Dear Landon,
 I'd really appreciate a warning next time.
Thanks,
The woman who gave you life

It began with the little computers in the children's area. Landon loves to play on the computers (he especially loves to wear the giant headphones that barely stay put on his little noggin) so after the lovely storytime we went over there to read a couple online books. He was fine for about 5 minutes until he decided he wanted to explore the rest of the library - with his headphones still on. Though I explained that the headphones couldn't leave the computer, he decided to test the theory himself and made a sudden dash for it. Needless to say, Landon went one way and various computer equipment went another.

Yet he hung on. He hung on to those brown little plastic headphones that were most likely borrowed from a senior center's audiology department with all his massive toddler strength. He was furious - FURIOUS! - that he couldn't take them with him. I tried to wrangle him, clean up everything and pry the headphones from his white-knuckled little hands. He screamed, threw himself on the floor and when another kid tried to sit in the seat he recently occupied, he tried to wrestle that kid down.

I knew my reaction to all of this was going to be watched and judged, even by those women pretending somehow not to notice the banshee rolling on the floor. So it was time to perform. While simultaneously trying to clean up everything and prevent Landon from taking out another kid, I remained calm (more of a stupor, really), I offered him choices (okay, we can sit back here at the table and listen to headphones or we can go explore the library, which would you like?), I validated his feelings (Wow! You are angry! So angry because you can't take the headphones with you!). I did everything by every single book I've read.

Guess what happened? The kid FREAKED. And continued to thrash and scream. And throw. And act like Naomi Campbell.

Don't give her headphones or there's no telling WHAT she'll do.

I've had some time to think about this and, since hindsight is a way better parent, I realized what was missing from all the parenting strategies.

Backbone.

My goodness. Come on, Angelos. Mom Up. Have some freakin' backbone.

What I should have done, at the first sign of tantrum, is pry the headphones out of those death grip fingers, pick the screaming child up, tuck him - thrashing and arching all the way - under my arm and take him away (far far away) from the scene of the crime. THEN I should have done all that validating stuff.

I remembered coming across an article about this recently on the website Psychology Today. It's taken my first public humiliation to realize that I need a combined approach for my son - asserting firmness while validating feelings. I have thus far tended to be heavy on the "touchy-feely let's get kids to agree to everything by offering options and rewards" side. But sometimes you just have to say "these are the rules, and this is what we do." The modified "because I said so."

So, if you're still with me, that's what made this such a momentous day. First humiliation. First major parenting lightbulb. They seem to go hand in hand, I hear.

So what about the veteran moms in the trenches? Any parenting lightbulbs of your own, or any good tantrum fighting tips? Any other good places for storytime? I don't think we're welcome at this one anymore.

Cinnamon Bun in the Oven

I've been feeling a little...off lately. It's been going on for a few weeks now and I can't quite seem to figure it out. I feel irritable, hormonal, overly sensitive, squishy (can you feel squishy? Because I do) and my stomach seems to be expanding (that's where the squishy part comes in).

So I did what any logical, completely hormonal girl would do. I took pregnancy tests. Two of them. Just in case I peed too hard on the first one to make it malfunction. I really had to go when I took it.

Seeing as we had to go through fertility treatments in order to have Landon, I would have been incredibly surprised had I actually been pregnant but stranger things have happened (see: Kim Kardashian's decision to record a song). So I'm not pregnant. Turns out I've just been eating way too many desserts. Or I have a chocolate chip baby growing inside me.

I call the left foot!

It's funny how we always refuse to accept the simplest of answers. And by we I totally mean me and me alone. Ache in my elbow? It's broken! Migraine? Brain tumor! Cell phone bill too high? Landon has learned how to read, write and become incredibly nimble with his little sausage fingers in order to send out hundreds of texts this month! Belly a little flabbier than normal? My wasteland of a womb has spontaneously generated life!

Actually, the real aspect of all of this that I have refused to accept (other than having to relinquish one of my four nightly desserts) is the fact that I was a little sad when the tests read negative. Those sad little single lines just looked so lonely. Kind of like my son.

But could it be? Could I really have experienced the "mommy veil" where suddenly the bad stuff slowly disappears from your memory and all you're left with are the tiny little socks (awww, sock...) that they wore when they were newborns? Up until recently I swore that veil didn't exist for me. My travails were veil-less. Or so I thought.

But has it happened? Could I really have forgotten waking up every two hours (or not sleeping at all)? The feeding, burping, changing, then starting all over again? Trying to figure out schedules, praying that the baby will sleep longer than 20 minutes? Schlepping that massive car seat around that cuts off circulation to the crook of your arm? The crazed hormone fluctuations of pregnancy (How could you say something like that? It's not what you said, it's how you said it! You don't even love me anymore! I need chocolate!) (Actually, I don't think this part never went away) (Because I may have said something similar yesterday).

No. I have not forgotten any of this. I just don't seem to be bothered by it as much anymore.

Uh oh. I don't like where this is going.

Butt Of Course

It’s amazing how quickly kids grow up, how quickly they learn about the world around them. Just the other day I walked into our family room and found Landon lounging in his silk bathrobe, puffing on a bubble pipe and trying to coax our cat into fetching his iphone so he could read the Wall Street Journal – illustrated edition with his evening sippy cup.

Okay, not really. But, seriously, how cute would a little mini silk bathrobe be?

Anyway. So like I said, they grow up fast. Or even if they don’t grow up fast in terms of time (to be honest, I kind of feel like I’ve had a toddler for 16 years now. Actually, I’ll probably still feel that way when he’s 16) they certainly grow quickly in their ability to notice things around them, even if you don’t want them too.

That’s what I worry about – my little baby learning about a few things way before his time or learning about them in the wrong way or learning about them at all (girls shall always – ALWAYS I SAY! – remain a mystery. Forever. And ever. Until I want grandkids. And then I hear adoption is nice.)

Most importantly, I worry about Landon learning about things without learning respect first. I have a grand vision of raising my son with the upmost respect for not only himself and his own body, but for women and their bodies as well. I could write a diatribe on how the female body is severely disrespected and degraded in our culture but I will spare you all my soapbox. Just know that it is. Nod head.

So that is why an incident that happened a couple of days ago shook me up so profoundly, for more reasons than one.

We were visiting our local library (where all good memories begin) and Landon and I were perusing the latest books on display (by perusing I mean Landon was taking them all off the shelves and creating a step stool to stand on to reach the higher shelves to climb onto and I was pretending he wasn't my child).

Somewhere along the display were a few new fitness books. One had a cover that looked like this:

I never would have taken a second thought for this particular book except that Landon suddenly got very animated and started yelling "BUTT! BUTT! Mama, Mama! BUTT!!"

I looked down at this small bit of a boy pointing excitedly to a book cover with a toned and tight woman, still proudly proclaiming "BUTT!"

Is he saying what I think he's saying?

More importantly, since I don't remember this particular part of anatomy coming up in our fun little "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" song, to whom do I serve a restraining order for teaching this to my kid and how long should I allow them to maintain full use of their faculties?

By this time, people were starting to pay attention to my cute little pervert and snicker/judge my mothering skills. I quickly whisked him away to the kids books while loudly saying "Yes, honey. We will find that BUS book for you!"

I fooled no one.

So as my child happily pulled out every book in the children's section, I sat deep in horrifed thoughts. "It's started! I thought I had more time! At least until school when he met some other kid who teaches him poop jokes (which consist of yelling POOP! and then falling down in a giggle fit). How do I teach him to respect women's bodies when he doesn't even understand that the cat is not his intellectual equal? What if my child is the poop joke instigator? Will he be the one to teach his friends how to spell certain inappropriate words on the calculator? Do I have THAT kid?"

And so went my thinking all through the rest of the time at the library and during the ride home. I looked at Landon's sweet little cherubic face, laughing at himself for putting his sock on his head. "Where did I fail you?" I thought.

We arrived home and my mind continued to plan out how in the world I would now try to right this wrong, rewire a tiny sponge brain and change my child's certain errant path. I had to do it before it was too late, I had to work harder to instill empathy, compassion, respect and proper anatomy. I will have to speak to Tyler to get him on board, unless, heaven forbid! He was the culprit! Then we would have some words. Oh, man he would be in so much...

"Mama! BUTT!"

Landon came running over proudly showing me his tummy and pointing to the curious thing in the middle.

Belly Button.


Butt of course.


Let me step down from my high horse now to tell you what I learned from all of this:

1. I need to chill out. Seriously.

2. I need to stop projecting my own feelings and perspectives onto Landon and remember that he is only a toddler. Most of his thoughts currently revolve around cookies.

3. I still have a few more years before I really need to worry about what he learns and what he understands and even then it needs to revolve around organic discussions.

4. The most important thing I can do is not shove my own rhetoric in his face but rather create an open and honest atmosphere in our home that makes him feel comfortable asking questions and expressing his feelings.

5. I need to teach him how to say navel, immediately.

Whiners Unite!

I'll admit it. I'm a bit of a whiner. When things are bad, they are really, really bad. A hangnail will ruin my day. Okay, not really, but those suckers hurt!

One of the pitfalls about whining is that you invariably hear about someone who has it worse. And then, not only are you having a hard time but then you feel guilty about having a hard time. Which is hard.

But I do think it's important to get out of ourselves a little and remember that as difficult as something may be for us, someone else always has it harder.

For instance, you may have noticed me mentioning once or twice on here that my son was a terrible sleeper for about the first year (or you may have noticed my PTSD-like flashbacks whenever a conversation about infant sleep ensues).

But I was sincerely humbled when I interviewed a woman the other day whose daughter was born eight weeks premature. Even after she got home from the NICU, to ensure that their baby girl was still breathing with her underdeveloped lungs, the husband and wife had to take turns waking up ever half-hour to check her breathing. For the first few months.

Not only did I realize maybe Landon wasn't so bad after all, I was also immediately thankful that I had such a hard time with his sleep - because that meant that there was nothing more important than that that I had to worry about.

There are so many instances that I can point to like this. The fact that my husband's work schedule is ridiculous and sometimes we don't see him for days. Then I find out that my brother has had to travel for work extensively for the last couple of years, leaving my sister-in-law home alone with her three kids for weeks at a time. But then even she will say that she's at least grateful she's not a military wife.

Or Maria Hunte, whom I interviewed for a story about adoption for Columbus Parent Magazine. She opened her home to five teenaged girls so they could have a family. She now has six daughters - mostly teenagers. One has reactive attachment disorder. She wants to adopt more. She doesn't have many resources except those that come from her heart.

Suddenly my frustrations with my one toddler son didn't seem like such a big deal.

I don't mean to invalidate anyone's hardships. Nor do I advocate a cease-fire of the whine wars. I fully intend to continue whining. I deserve to continue whining. Why? Because pain is relative. What's hard for one person may be easy for another and vice versa.

But instead of seeing another's hardship and guilting ourselves for being a wuss (I'm really hoping it's not just me), I think that what we do need to do is take strength from others and what they go through.

"If she can do ______ then I can definitely do _______!"

If she can handle a child with a life-threatening condition, maybe I can think (THINK!!) about maybe possibly having another baby. Before I'm 60.

If she can be independent enough to be a single mom for weeks or months at a time, then I can figure out how to unclog the disposal by myself.

If she can open her heart to five kids that she don't share her blood then I guess I can still love Landon after he smears yogurt all over my freshly cleaned windows. And then draws on the cat. And then eats her food. Then throws it up.

Yes, I can do it. But don't worry - you'll hear about it later.

Parenting Tips of the Day

Tip #1: Every now and then, it's important to allow your child to have an illusion of control within your carefully constructed parameters. 

Tip #2: No need to waste precious quarters when perfectly good uncles are available. 

You're Welcome. 

Why I Had a Kid

Hey, I birthed him. Shouldn't I get something out of this deal too?

That's more like it. 

5 Reasons Why I Love Having a Toddler at Halloween

1. It is only socially acceptable to go trick or treating as a 27 year-old if you have a 16 month-old decoy to collect candy for you.

2. He will eat none of said candy because he doesn't understand what it is yet. If he does have an idea, you can give him the mini packages of pretzels that those "halloween-hating" houses give out while you keep the good stuff.

3. You don't have to spend hardly any time or money on your child's costume because they look cute in anything. Halloween party tonight? Shoot. Um, just go wind yourself up in toilet paper again, Johnny.

4. Toddlers have no idea they are even wearing a costume and walk around as if being dressed like Snookie is a normal daily occurrence. Maybe it is. No judgements.*

5. Because a green (green?) hippo has never been so cute.

Please, Sir. My Mother wants some more candy. 

*Actually, did you hear the hint of me judging you? Because it was totally there.

Picture Perfect Outside the Lens

Fall has arrived as evidenced by football, red and gold leaves, crisp afternoon air and the inevitable desire to drive half an hour to a farm, get hay in every crevice on your body, let a goat lick your son and then trudge out to the field to get your own dang pumpkin off the vine while you pay the farmer for your labor. 

 Ahh, the smell of cider and irony.

Tyler had a rare afternoon home last week so we decided to take Landon to Circle S Farms, the same farm where Tyler grew up picking his pumpkin (from a perfect patch of pretty plump pumpkins with his pal Peter). (Not really Peter). (Although I wasn’t there so I don’t know). (But I’m pretty sure). 

It was actually really quite a fun experience being able to be on a real farm with real animals and real hay barns with slides (which must make collecting hay in harvest season pretty fun) and take a real tractor ride out to find our very own perfect pumpkin (I have nothing to say here, it just felt like time for some parentheses). I am still finding pieces of hay in Landon’s diaper and, thanks to this experience, we now know that he is terrified of chickens. 

Landon's ultimate nightmare

Needless to say ( ), it was a memorable experience. And that, my friend Peter, is my point. 

We came away from that evening with close to a hundred pictures, not counting video footage. From the second we stepped out of the car, both Tyler and I felt the need to document every second of this “memorable” experience to ensure that it would truly be “memorable.” We have pictures of us walking from the car to the ticket booth. From the ticket booth to the farm. From the farm to the barn. We have pictures of Landon in every conceivable corner of the farm, with every conceivable animal and sitting on every conceivable bale of hay and next to every inconceivable giant pumpkin. We wanted Landon to play on the tractor, to hug the scarecrow, to lie on the gigantic pumpkin because Oh! What a cute picture that would be! The point was to document this “fun” experience by posing him “having fun.” 

The funny thing was, the more we tried to capture his “fun” the more he wasn’t having any. We wanted him to sit on the tractor and laugh for the camera as he pretended to drive. He wanted to pick up chicken poop. 

Seriously, Mom. What more do you want from me?

It wasn’t just us, either. All around us were parents struggling with wailing kids in order to get just the right shot (Parker, I don’t care if the hay scratches your legs, roll around in it like you love it!). The interesting thing is that by documenting the memory with such fervor we tend to lose out on the experience itself. 

After awhile, we calmed down with the camera and took in the scenes around us. That’s  where, at least for me, the real memory begins. Landon laughing as the goats licked his hand and running to hug my legs as the chicken came closer. Tromping through the hay barn, sinking every couple steps like quick sand, letting Landon plop! into the pile at the end of the slide and hearing his delighted laugh. Tyler holding Landon’s hand through a row of corn stalks. Watching Landon’s little face switch back and forth from slightly worried to exhilarated as the tractor lurched it’s way across the field. These are the pictures indelibly imprinted in my mind. These are the memories worth remembering. 

That’s not to say taking pictures is not a good idea. I am glad we took a lot of the pictures that we did. Many pictures that we have invoke happy feelings of wonderful memories. The importance, I think, is to allow the moment to dictate the record, not the other way around. 

Okay, I do love this one. Probably because we weren't forcing him to look happy.

Perhaps I need to learn to find a happy medium, or at the very least, get better at taking actual candid pictures. But until then I am going to try to make an effort to experience moments with my family by taking in the total sum of the moment and etching it in my mind - the light, the smell, the laughter, the subtle expressions and nuances - unencumbered by a lens. Or guilt. 

Because I’d take the memory of my son’s giggle as the goat licks his hand over a picture of him crying next to a giant pumpkin any day. 

There's a Little Good Mom in Us All. Kind Of.

I made peach cobbler today.

From scratch.

With fresh peaches.

From my very own peach tree.

That I just found out I had last week.

Even though my backyard is about 30 square feet.

I never claimed to be especially observant.

It was delicious!

As is anything with dough and a high sugar content.

I did not wear an apron.

Mainly because I was wearing old, comfy pajamas.

At 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

Landon took my inattention as an opportunity to explore.

By taking everything out of our Lazy Susan.

And shoving fistfuls of raisins in his mouth.

Covered in pre-made bread crumbs and Swiss Miss.

Landon, not the raisins.

I should have made him wear an apron.

Good Mom

I have a confession to make. It’s a secret I’ve harbored for a little over a year now and would finally like it to be out in the open. Because we’re sharing here. Wait, we are sharing, right? We’re definitely sharing. Because the interwebs is place we come to share our hopes, fears and innermost secrets. With friends. And strangers. And creepy people.

I’ve realized this secret little by little over the last year but have largely kept it to myself (with the exception of others who may have already guessed). But I feel that it’s time to open myself up, break down the façade and embrace the truth. So, here’s the truth:

I am not a good mom.

Now before you go all obligatory complimentary on me (OMGosh! Na-huh! You are SUCH an awesome mom! If I were a one year-old I would TOTALLY want you as my mom!) just hear me out. What I mean is that I am not a good stereotypical mom. Of course I love my child and try my best to provide what is best for him, I often find myself falling short (waaaay short) of the “apron-wearing, educational craft-creating, lovingly reproving, completely losing herself in her children and finding her ultimate joy in being a mother” standard of a mom. The Good Mom. Whether that type of mom exists or not (and I posit that they do because I swear I know a couple) the fact is that is the picture of motherhood we subconsciously set as a model. And this is where my secret lies: I am not good at being a Good Mom.

Actually, no. Not even then.

I know it’s only been a little over a year into this motherhood thing but I have yet to feel enveloped in a sense of complete purpose. I love my son, I want him to grow up to be stalwart; a compassionate and productive member of society with integrity, resourcefulness and confidence. But I’m having a hard time figuring out how to sacrifice myself (like a Good Mom) without losing myself. I feel like I don’t fit very many of the mommy (specifically Mormon mommy) stereotypes that I’m not quite sure where I fit in. I don’t sew, I don’t play any instrument, I’m terrible at crafts of any sort, and you couldn’t pay me enough to scrapbook. I haven’t made Landon any flashcards, learning puppets or ISpy beanbags. We don’t go to any singing classes, gymnastics classes or mommy and me classes. I buy his babyfood (non-organic). I let him eat stuff off the floor (15 minute rule) and his “blankie” is not a handmade plush quilt but rather a stained burp cloth.

My interests and talents seem to run contrary to the Good Mom role. I wish I had more compatible talents, because I really admire people who do. But I would rather read about the fall of the Soviet Union than a book on how to teach your kid to do linear equations by the time he’s 3. I let Landon listen to Taking Back Sunday and Jay-Z (clean songs, at least) in the car because I can’t handle The Wiggles Sing Along. I can only keep this up for so long because soon he will become more aware of his surroundings. I’m sure his pre-school teacher would not be impressed by a little kid singing “If you feelin like a pimp son, go and brush your shoulders off. Ladies is pimps too, go and brush your shoulders off”. That would be an interesting parent-teacher conference.

So how do I reconcile sacrificing myself to be a Good Mom without letting my brain seep out of my ears? How do I find that inner Good Mom and put a twist on her to make her uniquely me? How do I raise a kid who likes good music but still knows how to pop and lock?

So many questions. A lifetime to figure it out.

Apparently FDR Never Met a Balloon

When I was a little kid I was afraid of a lot of things. I guess you could say I had a sensitive little soul, but in reality I think I was just scarred from having four older brothers. One time, my brothers told me that there were bears hiding in the forest that surrounded our house in and they would come get me if I was playing on my swing set. My mom never understood why I wouldn’t play on the swing set that I had been dying to get and so sometimes she would make me go play on it. I would sit on the swing, facing the forest, and timidly pump back and forth all the while searching the trees with bug eyes for any sign of hungry bears.

want to play on the seesaw?

Another time, one of my brothers told me that he had something to show me out in the front yard. When I ventured close to the front door, he told me that it’s was the boogey man outside! then shoved me out the door and locked it while laughing from the window as I cried. How you can possibly become a fully functioning adult after that, I don’t know.

Giant child eaters and nondescript undead creatures aside, the top of my fear spectrum was dominated by two hideously terrifying things. Look down at your little Sparky – that precious dog with the fluffy white fur, saucer eyes and wagging tail? That thing was a ferocious devil demon to me. I couldn’t go over to play at friends’ houses if they had a dog, or they at least had to ensure me it would be kept away at all times.

Get it away! GET IT AWAY!!

Thunderstorms were also panic-inducing. I’m not sure why – maybe it had to do with the lightening that struck one of our trees in our front yard, leaving a perfect jagged lightning bolt shape. I guess I assumed that if a tree could get hit, so could I. One of the houses I lived in as a kid had a screened in porch. My family would gather together to watch the fantastic flashes of light and hear the sounds of the booming thunder over the trees. I hid under the kitchen table.

So with such a wussy for a Mom, I assumed that Landon would also exhibit some aversions to certain childhood experiences. Maybe the closet monsters would cause him distress or perhaps the tornado sirens that go off occasionally might be cause for concern. You can understand my surprise, then, when I found out that Landon is utterly terrified of balloons.

To you it's just a harmless celebratory trinket


To Landon it looks like this

Yes, balloons. The helium-filled balls of joy that are the desire of every carnival-going kid the world over. I found this out last week while joining a friend at Chick-fil-a (pre-kid I would never have stepped foot in this place. Post-kid, I see it as it really is: The Best. Restaurant.Ever. I even used emphasis periods because that’s. how much. I mean it.). Anyway, the staff kindly asked if Landon would like a balloon like the other kids and I said yes thinking he would like it. Apparently I don’t know my child at all. He cried from the second that balloon came near him. On the way home, I even had to pull over the car to get the balloon away from him because he was freaking out so much. We still have the pathetic, deflated, non-threatening shell of a balloon wafting on the floor of our living room and every time he sees it, he crawls past it at super warp speed as if the string is going to slither around and catch his little leg.

I’m not sure what to make of this fear. Should I be grateful that his life is peaceful enough that the only thing he can find to cause him grief is a weightless piece of rubber? Or should I be concerned that my kid is headed for many days of viewing the world from inside his locker? I am also not sure how to handle this. My husband (only half kidding) suggested the “flooding” technique in which you surround a person with the object of their fear so as to inoculate themselves against it. So do we tie big bouquets of balloons on every door handle and stuff his room full of them (I’m sure my pediatrician would love that) so that everywhere he looks it’s a frightening array of creepy messages like “Over the Hill!”, “Welcome Baby Girl” and “Congrats Grad!”? That is the stuff adult therapy is made of.

I favor the ignore it and it will go away approach (it’s worked with a lot of stuff so far, I’m seeing how far I can take it). I figure we just accept it as a quirky stage of childhood and move on. Besides, it’s only a matter of time that he will find something else that will cause him great distress.

Like girls.

I Take It Back! I Take It All Back!

What was I thinking? I will take my cuddle-averse, too-many-other-things-to-do-than-sit-here-with-you-mom-but-thanks child over this one any day.

After a night consisting of me pacing back and forth holding a sick baby for 9 hours straight (9 HOURS! Appreciate me for a second.) I sincerely think this whole “hugging” thing is overrated.

I want my Landon back.

So That's What It Feels Like to Have Your Child Like You

Landon has a fever of 102.7. It has continued to rise since this morning despite a regular Tylenol regimen. The poor little man is so exhausted he can barely keep himself awake for more than a half hour at a time. When he is awake he is miserable and just wants to sit there being held. Is it wrong of me to sort of enjoy that? I have been blessed with an incredibly active, curious, squirmy, short-attention-spanned child whom I usually have to force-hug while he pushes me away with both arms and legs because I am apparently ruining his diabolical plan of catching the cat. So this burying his face into my shoulder, sitting on my lap with his head leaning against my chest or falling asleep nuzzled into the crook of my arm – I don’t know this child. But I kind of like that he’s here.

Not that I want my child to feel pain or discomfort by any means, but I suppose it feels like I am actually able to do something for him, provide some sort of relief, because otherwise I am completely helpless. I can’t take away sickness from him. I can’t transfer the pain onto myself. I can’t force medicine to work better, faster. I can’t provide a magic cure. I can’t ensure that something worse won’t happen in the future. Helpless – the least klassy feeling there is. But I can provide a safe and familiar (albeit somewhat bony) place to lay his little head, as long as this little snuggly boy chooses to hang around.