To Whom It May Concern

After dropping my kids off at school this morning, a pleasure usually reserved for my husband on his way to work (I did it today so he could have breakfast this morning), I came home and vented about the frustrations that power doors cause in the drop off lane. That got me thinking and so I typed...


I just had a thought that could maybe make life a little easier in the drop off lane... we recently got a new van and it has power rear doors, not something we've ever had before. When I stop to drop my kids off they pull on the handle, I push the button, and the staff member outside the door pulls on the handle and it's almost more than the poor car can take. The door freezes about two inches open and there's a lot of beeping and we have to close the door and start over. This morning it happened three times. Last year the staff member outside the car actually pulled the handle hard enough trying to get the power door open on my friend's car that she broke the door handle off completely. If that had happened to me I can guarantee you that I would not have been the one paying to fix it... I just wanted to suggest that when a kid gets dropped off in a mini van you guys wait to see if they need help with the door, even a kindergartner can open a power door from the inside, before helping. Thus avoiding confusing the heck out of the door and causing drop off to take a lot longer than it needs to.

Thanks!
Mom (Your friendly, psycho, neighborhood control freak.)


Changing the world. One drop off lane at a time.

Fan Mail

When I checked the mail a few days ago I noticed the hand addressed envelope that didn't have a return address on it.  But I didn't have time to read it until today...

Yeah.

Hang on just a second while I go grab my soap box.

I have a pretty thick skin. Don't get me wrong, I still find this to be cowardly and hurtful. I know a lot of people who would be slain by something like this. This is the kind of thing that makes people quit going to church. I think if you're gutsy enough to send something like this out you ought to be gutsy enough to own it.


Dear anoymous sister,

I can't learn from your mistakes. I have to make my own. And we all have regrets. I'm sorry that you feel that the choices your children have made are your fault.

I have high expectations for my children. I expect them to behave, to be respectful, and to do what they're told when they're told to do it. As a result of those expectations I have really good kids who I am very proud of. When they misbehave they are disciplined swiftly and firmly, which sometimes means getting drug out of church by your arm to have a time out because you mouthed off to your mother during sacrament meeting. I have very low tolerance for crap from my kids and yes, it does occasionally bite me in the butt.

All mothers have moments where they feel like witches. Those who don't are either liars or pushovers. Those moments of despair are born from days and days of struggling with strong willed children who know how to push your buttons. They come from hour upon hour of screaming baby who can't sleep because their siblings can't grasp the concept of quiet at bedtime. They thrive on day after monotonous day of laundry and dishes and whining and "sharing." We all have days where we feel like all we did was yell and say "No." Welcome to motherhood. It's not always glitter and play-dough.

My children are loved and happy and they are thriving. They are not "rejected" at home. They are cherished and encouraged and cuddled and read to and played with. I am guessing by this letter than you don't know me very well or you would know that the "harsh" moments are generally far between, you would know that time out ends with a hug and an I love you. You would know that hugs and kisses and tickles run like water around here.

You would also know that I am generally not one to concern myself with what other people think.

As I have said before I don't need you to tell me what you think I am doing wrong. If you're so concerned about the well being of my children why don't you offer to give me a hand instead of sending me hate mail. Chances are that I'll turn you down, but that would be a much less hurtful way to ofter the help you seem to think that I am in such desperate need of.
 
aubrey

Just Keepin' It Real

As I type this I am debating whether or not I should actually post it. I know that this is a sensitive issue for many people...in the last two days I've read no less than six blogs or statuses about how much this bothers people.

And I am starting to feel sort of like I need to come to my own defense...

I have been known to complain about my kids.

Sometimes I even complain about them in real time on Facebook. I know, it sounds horrible and I feel bad typing it. But it's the truth and I own it.

It's a coping mechanism.

On those days when I am at my limit and my darling little monsters are either totally oblivious or simply don't care I NEED to know that some one out there is having the same kind of day. I need to know it's not just me. I know that not every moment of motherhood is going to be sunshine and bubbles but I need to know that I am not the only one out there who is trying hard to have a good day and failing dismally. I am venting in an effort to get myself to the point that I can laugh it off. And I know that I can count on one friend in particular to laugh it off with me or for my Mom to tell me that I am doing a good job and to just hang in there.

And I need that.

I have four children and none of them were an accident. I tried, and prayed, and cried over becoming pregnant with each and every one of them. 

I chose this.  

I chose the exhaustion and mess and the whining and I don't regret that choice. Ever. I love my kids and I know that I extremely blessed not only to have them, but to be able to stay home with them. I just refuse to pretend that it is always easy. Motherhood is hard. Being grateful to be here isn't always easy.

And here's where is gets really dicey. I have a number of friends who have struggled with infertility. I do not pretend to know how devastatingly painful it must be to live that for years. I've only experienced a small sliver of your brand of heartache. I applaud you for being able to go on after years and years of unfulfilled dreams. But please don't tell me how to raise my four children or how I should feel about raising them. Because you. simply. don't. get it. And it's not your fault that you don't.

I'm sure not trying to hurt anyone's feelings here but you can't possibly grasp what it's like unless you've lived it. Having one child doesn't make you an expert on having more than one any more than my having four makes me an expert on having eight. And you can't possibly understand how exponentially harder it gets to be, simply because you haven't lived it. You have no idea how the exhaustion compounds right along with the cleaning and laundry. I don't pretend to know where you're coming from, how about you don't pretend to know my life?

My kids drive me nuts and saying so, or occasionally venting about it, does not make me a bad mother. It does not make me undeserving or ungrateful. It's simply how I best deal with the stresses that if bottled up would make me bitter and unhappy. I know that I am blessed. I know that I am lucky to be surrounded by chaos. I know that there are nights you would gladly take my baby. Believe me, there are nights that I would gladly let you. Just like you, I am doing the best that I can.

How about we mothers would stop beating each other down? How about when a Mom you know reaches out, how ever she chooses to do it, you reach back instead of folding your arms, stepping back and calling her a terrible mother? We mothers are the only ones who truly understand what we're going through. Does she need help? Does she need a laugh? Does she need a treat? Does she simply need to interact with someone who's more than 3 feet tall and speaks fluent, understandable english?

She's having a bad day, she needs help, and she needs to know she's not the only one. And judging her for admitting it isn't helping...