Niiiice Target.

Dear Target:
As a fatty, I get very frustrated by your general failure to include anything of value for me in your "Daily Deals". As such, imagine my excitement when I saw you had actually taken a major portion of your demographic into consideration today.

Thank you so much for putting two piece, plus sized swimwear on sale.

Or is that "for sale"?
Gotta be honest. I do feel amazed. But not so much by your prices.
We're fat. Not stupid. You know, in case you were wondering.

Signed:
Proud owner of a Sears swimsuit ($20 at the beginning of the season. Amaze THAT)

(In case you can't see, the sale price and the list price are exactly the same.)

It's official. I am no soccer mom.

I spent this past week with my family. Mom, Dad (of the step variety. I try not to discriminate. I'm no fathercist.), sisters (three!), and assorted nieces and nephews.
The Husband Guy, lucky bastard (...I mean...poor guy), was stuck at work. So Bubba and I went alone. Which is fine. We do it a lot, actually. Bubba loves his GrA-Ma! even if he can't touch anything.

Seriously. There is no touching at Grandma's house. Bubba's mantra as we drive (the five end.less. hours): "No touching Gramma's house. No touching Gramma's things. No touching Gramma's stuff." I'm not sure who I should feel worse for. Bubba or Gramma. Such a reputation. It's sad. We have no such rules at our house. Which has led the the purchase of three cameras (soon to be 4 if #3 doesn't come out of hiding soon) in 2 years. Gramma might be onto something.

Regardless of the No Touching fear of God my mother has somehow managed to beat into my child, while simultaneously making him love her like no other (note to self: tap mom's brain), we had a fabulous time. We even spent a lovely (if by "lovely", you mean "hot, sweaty, and mosquito filled") day at one of said assorted niece's soccer tournaments.

Which leads me to the point of today's post.
Can we please discuss Soccer Moms? I feel we should. Especially since the title of my blog makes me a professed failure at this elusive title.
A failure I have never been happier to embrace.

Picture 100 10-13 year old girls (breath. Breath through the pain.) As if that's not painful enough, now picture them with their mothers in tow. It's like a train chugging out of control on a downward track towards a group of preschoolers being led across the street by a bunch of nuns holding puppies. And eating snow cones. While skipping. You see the wreck coming. But can do nothing to stop it. The memory is too fresh. I have to stop.

Ok. Back from my happy place.
Here's the thing. Anytime you decide to live through your child or encourage (or as I like to call it, "force") your child to live out your childhood dreams and memories, you're screwing with them.

Children are by nature programed to want to please their parents. It starts at birth and never really ends. (I'm still trying to make my mother happy. I don't drive 5 hours with Chatty Kathy in the backseat for my health.) If you tell them you want them to play soccer, play soccer they will. And honestly, that's fine. It's not about soccer. Well, not just soccer. It's about soccer. Pageants. Dance. Gymnastics. Hockey. :Enter Name of Activity You Didn't Win At Here:

I sat on the sidelines (Ok, I didn't do much actual sitting. I mostly chased and tickled a silly two year old around the adjacent playground) and watched 100 crazy mothers yell at coaches, their kids, refs, and other players like this one game would determine their child's success or failure at life in general. I witnessed rituals ("But you always wear your ponytail that way"), chants ("Who's the best? YOU'RE THE BEST!"), prayers, pep talks, sideline coaching ("what is wrong with you? KICK THE BALL KICK THE BALL RUN RUN HUSTLE!"), and, perhaps the worst of all, insults ("Are you even AWAKE out there?!"). I saw crying children forced back into the game because "they made a commitment." All in the name of support.

It made me sad.
And I'm sorry. I can't do it.

If Bubba loves a sport, or the cello, or art, I'll support him. I'll be there to hold him, encourage him, love him. Cry when he fails and rejoice when he wins. But if you see me on the sidelines at each and every practice, screaming at my kid from the bench, arguing with refs, or bashing other players behind their backs? Please, direct me to this post. It's my job as a parent is to guide him while he grows. Not force him to be the kid I wasn't.

So yes. I'm already a Soccer Mom failure and my kid isn't even three. I hope I never succeed.

Heartwarming Story Wednesday

My kid is straight up awesome. This is no lie. If you knew him, you'd be forced to agree.
But most don't know him personally. Allow me to give you a peek of just how awesome he is (I need a good synonym for awesome. Any suggestions?)

We have been struggling with sleep for a few months. And by a "few months", I mean 27 months. Give or take a few days. There have been nights I swore (oh, right, like you've never done it) under my breath. And nights where I swore not so under my breath. Bubba had undiagnosed sleep apnea and severe reflux. And RAD (reactive airway disease). Do you have any idea what albuterol does to a kid? Picture a metal top (you know, the spinning toy thingy), hopped up on caffeine and sugar. Then plug it in. That's pretty close to my kid on albuterol. Just when we got it all under control, he discovered he could control his world (and thus, mine) by climbing out of his crib.

With a "big boy bed" came a whole new world of sleepless-ness. Gone was my security fence in the form of the white bars surrounding his crib. Gone was my ability to put him down, drowsy, but awake and let him fall asleep. Gone were the days of letting him fuss (not cry. Never cry. I'm not a Cry-it-outer. You can be. That's cool. Don't judge me; I won't judge you.) if he woke up.

Welcome the days of rocking him to sleep.
Rubbing his tummy for hours at time while he counts the trains he insists on sleeping with.
Finding his way into momma and daddy's room to pull all the clothes out of drawers. I tell no lies.

We've also welcomed the days (or should I say "early mornings") of little eyes peeking over the side of the bed. And a sweet little voice saying, "whatcha doin?". "Sleeping." "Oh. Shhhh. Whatcha doin?" Ah. My little silly boy.

After weeks and weeks of this. I concede. I wave the white towel. I give in. He wins. Sleep IS for chumps.
Ok. I don't concede. I compromise. I call this "parental growth". We do our bedtime routine. Bath, Jams (PJs), play with trains or cars, book, prayers, rock for two minutes. Bed. I rub his tummy for one minute. He counts trains. Or tonight, he bangs the plastic hammer he took to bed on the wall. Whatever his little two year old mind moves him to do. Then I kiss him.

And walk out.
Yikes.

As long as he stays in his room, and is quiet (as quiet as a two year old can ever be), I leave him alone. (He, in turn leaves me alone...) It works. Mostly. Last night he fell asleep on the floor.
Tonight, it sounded like he was sleeping sooner than usual. So I popped up to check on him.

I opened the door and saw a tiny, curled up little boy sitting in his rocker with the biggest smile on his face.
"Hi, momma! I rockin!"
"Oh, Bubba. Yes you are."
"Momma rockin? Please?"
You know what kiddo? You got it. Momma will happily do some rockin.
And while I was rockin, he said his "grace" (all prayers are grace. Silly sweet little boy.)

We rocked till he feel asleep. Totally worth whatever sleep setback it incurs.
I freaking love my kid.

Lazy Bones

I have a wonderful friend who has an adorable son just about Bubba's age and another almost 4 weeks. Today, we met up for the first time since the arrival of her new bundle of joy. And yes, I inhaled that new baby deliciousness. Oh yes, yes I did. (It's contagious, right? RIGHT?!) Mmmmm....new baby yumminess.

It was tarnished only by the lunatic at the swings next to us.
Lunatic might be a bit strong. But the other word (spelled with the following letters, in no particular order: B, I, T, H, and C) is not family friendly.

Let me back up.
Bubba and I met our friends (We met them "first", which is Bubba speak for "Mommy is not allowed to trick me into going to the mall or Target by promising me a trip to visit my buddy") at the park this morning. It was really a beautiful day. (No bugs. Which, these days, is my only requirement for a beautiful day.) Bubba and I were running late. Par for the course. The line at Dunkin Donuts is always unbelievably long. One must wonder: does everyone have a sleep adverse toddler at home?

Anyway.
As we pulled in, there was another mother and her twin daughters. I held the gate for them as they followed us in. Bubba had, naturally, waved at his "bud-dy" as he sprinted to the location furthest from my prying eyes and out of reach of my full-name calling yells to get him off the equipment from which he will instantly fall and break something. I sat and watched my friend's epically well behaved child eat his snack sweetly at the picnic table. (Note to self: discuss this with friend later. I think there's something wrong with her kid. Or mine. I think mine. I hear sweet and well behaved is the goal.) We chatted a bit, but eventually both kids had abandoned parental control and we decided it was best to find them. Long story (and yes, I have an amazing knack for making even the shortest stories long. I'm creative. And bored a lot.) short, we chased them around for a bit, but toddlers often like to do their own thing. Playing with mom isn't a lot of fun. Especially when she's such a buzz kill (Hey, Hey BUBBA! I said NO SCALING THE FENCE INTO THE PARKING LOT. and GET OFF THE BACKHOE. NO YOU CAN'T TURN IT ON. TURN IT OFF. TURN IT OFF. Ok, I'm going to count to three. GET OFF THE BACKHOE RIGHT THIS SECOND. Some of this is made up for effect. Not telling which part.).

But, like any good boy, eventually even mine wants to hang in a swing and have his doting momma push him. For 35 minutes. And so my story begins.

Bubba was in the Lazy Boy of all swings. A veritable recliner on ropes. I want one.
After noting that the kids in other swings (even the baby ones) had to hold on for dear life, I commented to him, "Hey, Bubs, you get to be lazy bones in this swing!"
Remember the mom from the beginning of my post? (Unlike most of my yammering, her presence here was not pointless.) She actually said the following, "You're the lazy bones."

I did a cartoon look around. Double checked. Looked around again. OMG, she was actually talking to me.

At first I was annoyed. Then I was angry. Then I was defensive.
I was defensive because I felt like she was probably right. I feel lazy. A lot. Right now, as I blog, there is a pile of clothes (yes, clean. Geeze. Judgey much?) waiting to be folded and the play room, in which my lazy bum sits, is overrun by Little People (I think they're actually The Littles and build stuff out of my trash in the middle of the night. Or at least I wish they would. I'm tired of taking it out.). So yes, it's easy to feel defensive.

But you know what?
I also woke up at 5:30. Did two loads of laundry. Unloaded the dishwasher. Made a lunch for the Husband Guy. Read 134 books. Fed and walked the 65 pound lab that adopted us. And posted 68 status updates on Facebook. All before breakfast.

Then, after taking my little dude to the park, I took him to a restaurant. (I know. I know. I took a toddler to a restaurant. I'm out of my mind.) Moved him from the car to his bed on the second story of our house. Posted 183 status updates. Discussed the 1/2 marathon I'm aiming to complete in T Minus 19 days. Napped. (Ok. You caught me. I'm lying. I didn't actually nap.)

Then I navigated 234 post-nap meltdowns, had a tickle war (I never win those.), read 294 more books, tormented (er, I mean, played with) the dog, went shopping (I KNOW!), and then race walked 5 miles. (No, I'm not lying. I really did.)

So we watched some Happy Feet during dinner. Let me point out, said dinner consisted of homemade chicken strips, diced cherries (which I pitted all by myself. Go me.), fresh corn cut off the cob, and a delicious cup of coconut milk. So I let him play with his trains quietly in his room until he fell asleep. So I'll have to get up early and fold laundry.

I'm so not a lazy bones.
So there.

(Just so you know, this post was going to contain a discussion of the latest activities we've engaged in, complete with pictures, but I can't find my camera. Again. Don't tell the husband guy. But, stay tuned. Once the camera is no longer AWOL, I will wow you will pictures. I know. You're excited. Try to sleep tonight anyway.)

My mother yelled at me.

Well, kind of.
She found (and by "found", I mean, I typed in the URL and moved away from the screen so she could read) my blog. She naturally found me witty and insightful. And pretty. She says I'm the most beautiful second daughter she has. I'm not sure what that has to do with my blog, but yay! I'm pretty! :twirls around in post:

She did, however, take exception to the word "failed".
"But you're NOT a failure!"
"Oh, mom, but I am. And it's OK. This is all about embracing those failures and not beating myself up for them."
"Yes, but you're a wonderful mother. You're just comparing yourself to what you feel society says you should be based on Oprah. The Pioneer Woman. Martha Stewart. Where is your self love? That's why I love Branden's book 'The Six Pillars of Self Esteem'. It talks about all of that. Positive self regard starts with you. You can't teach your kids to love themselves if you don't love you." (note to self: never have a discussion about self worth with a sociologist.)

Ok, yes. She is correct. I'm not an actual failure. I just feel like a failure. Why? Because I'm not 120 pounds (I know, I know. You're shocked). I really don't like to do laundry. I don't cook dinner every night. There's always laundry to do. I name the dust bunnies in my house (you act like you don't. Dust bunnies are people, too.) I spend too much money. Please, feel free to add your own personal failures here:

(Ok, just do it mentally. This is not an interactive blog.)

The point is, I know I'm not actually a failure. My kid is the very definition of awesome. Seriously. Go look it up. I did that. And he is loved. Clean (mostly). Fun. Smart. We color. Go on playdates. Run around the park. Everyone who meets him says "is he ever not smiling?" (hahaha. Yes. Catch him at 4am when he's tried to crawl into my bed for the 193813 time. Aw. Crap. Add that the list of things I do that I shouldn't. Not bedshare. Or wait, bedsharing is a no-no now. Or something. Either way. His feet do not belong in my face.) So I'm a pretty good mom. I really am. Mainly because I follow three simple rules:
1) Love your kid
2) don't hurt your kid
3) sugar will not hurt your kid and is an excellent tool for bribery. (:gasp:)

Ok, ok, pearl clutchers. A little sugar. Deep cleansing breaths. I'm not advocating pumping your kid with an IV of corn syrup. But you know, some? Not gonna hurt them. And this brings me back to my point. Why do we suddenly feel like we have to defend our choices? Why is sugar the new evil? (It's not, by the way. Try making browines without sugar. Not so tasty. Not so tasty at all. And I think we can all agree that brownies are not evil.) I think we feel this way because we are bombarded with books, TV shows, blogs, magazines, our own mothers (hey, man, just calling 'em like I seem 'em. Love you, ma.), and perhaps the worst of all? OTHER MOTHERS who make us feel like if we don't do everything just so, we're going to irreparably damage our children. For like, ever. I don't think we are. Mainly because I have yet to find two books that agree on anything. Is it OK to Cry it Out? Sure. If you want your kid to hate you forever. But if you don't, your child will never sleep and will enter Kindergarten (if precious lives that long without her much needed beauty rest) a drooling exhausted mess who doesn't even know her colors and only speaks one language. See? You can't win.

And thus, I've given up trying. It's not even worth it. Does that make me a failure? In the eyes of the world? Probably. But I don't care about the rest of the world.
I care about my son.
Who is the happiest little boy I've ever met. And I did that.
Go me!
(I think Branden would be proud.)

Dear Interwebz

So, I've started this blog approximately 53492 times. And my goal is to start with something witty. And attention grabbing.
Or at the very least explanatory.

I've decided against all of that. And go for rambling. With a lean toward introductory. Heavy on the sarcasm. With a dash of too tired to care.

I had a blog a few years ago where I dealt with the nightmare that was my (ok, our. I suppose the husband guy had his own inner demons to deal with. And by "inner demons", I mean "me") struggle with infertility. That sucked. But now we have the most awesomest little boy ever (Bubba) so I'm like totally over it. (Let's play "spot the lie")

What I'm not over? Being a mom. I had plans to be the bestest mom ever. Like ever, ever. I would do 13 dozen cookies, complete with hand piped soccer balls or footballs or ballet slippers or whatever my little guy was into for each and every holiday, bake sale, and play date. I would have perfectly clean and organized house (cue laugh track) at all times. Play dates at our house would involve fun, yet educational, art projects. We'd totally build the best towers. My child would have impeccable manners and be potty trained by 2. The terrible twos? Bite your tongue.

That's all well and good when you're, you know, NOT a mom.
Once the child comes screaming (or in Bubba's case, flying silently) into the world, you realize that most of your plans were actually just the list of things your kid will screw up. In a good way. I mean of this in a good way. I mean most of it in a good way. I'd really like to bake 13 dozen cookies. Cookies sound yummy right now.

I digress.
I love being a mom. I love my son with every fiber of my being. And some fibers not of my being. (Like wipes. I love him LOTS with wipes. He's a messy kid.) But I am not nearly the mom I planned to be. And while I can be cool with that most of the time, there are times I look at the sad, pancake like rainbow birthday cake I attempted and think "so not fair. I'm a good baker! AND? I need pictures for facebook!" (There will be no pictures. This time.)

But in the future, I plan to go for honesty and just show the stupid (but yummy. Oh, was it yummy. Dense and moist and almost brownie like in it's consistency. Yum yum yum.) pancake cake. I believe, no I know, I'm not the only mom who looks at the Pioneer Woman like she's either a Goddess or an Alien. Jury is still out. Either way, without a staff of 12, I will never measure up.

My house is a mess (or as I like to call it, "normal"). My kid often eats hot dogs for dinner and toast for breakfast. I have dog who will.not.freaking.just.SIT.already. And a husband who often has to remind me that he does, in fact, need to wear socks to work (A policy I find ridiculous) and he prefers them to be clean (also a policy I find to be ridiculous). And I cannot possibly be alone in this. Heck, just the other day we had to have playgroup at the park because nobody's house was clean enough. (Hey, PW, when was your last playgroup? Hmmmm??? Just sayin.) So this blog? Well, let's not call it a how to. More of a how not to hate yourself for pancake cakes.

Or, if you are one of the fab, 13 dozen cookie baking moms whom I curse (oh yes, there is cursing in this house. Damn skippy.), well, then you? Can just laugh in the face of your superiority.