Hello? Is it Keys You're Looking For?

I used to have brains. Big brains. Like, off to see the Wizard to discover you already had brains, brains. Ideas that didn't involve car seat buckling strategies. Ideas about life. Theories. I had things to say. Now, I just forget what I was going to say. What was I going to say?




The square root of...hey....did I ever switch that load over to the dryer?


With every pregnancy, 2 zillionths of my brain has been lost. A shit-ton (actual measurement) of lost brain matter, if you will. Most days, I can not spell words I've known my whole life. Octopus. No, octopuss? I call all of my children by the wrong name. Every day. I compensate for the guilt by concluding that it only endears me to them as you always most want to please the person who easily forgets you.

I have a key hook which may as well be a magic portal to Narnia. Keys go there, but they never ARE there. Sometimes, I will find my key ring (AHA! BRAINS!) only to find that the car key isn't on it, but, 3 sets of house keys are. WHAT? I don't know. I have NO idea. How, you ask? This is your brain on kids.

My husband has come home to find I've left both sliding van doors open. In the rain. And has walked up the deck to discover the keys. In the door. On the same day. What's missing...besides my brain? The sign that says: "Free Van and Family!"

I will be in the shower with shampoo on my head and I will think, "Where the hell am I in this shower process? Did I put conditioner on my hair first? How did I even get in here? What's that sound? Where are the kids? Where's what'shername? Did I wash my face? SHIT! It's what'shisname's snack day today! SHIT! Did I put conditioner on top of my shampoo? Why am I wearing underwear?"

I have a calendar full of reminders written in my handwriting with a pen I wielded and I generally forget to check said calendar. I walk past it, at least 100 times a day, but, it's invisible to my brain. Then there is the flip side - I look at the calendar with no knowledge of writing items down. I look at the calendar. I look at my hands. I look to the heavens. Divine calendar writing? I check to make sure ink isn't pouring from my hands a la stigmata. How in the? Who in the? Brains.

With baby # 3, I devised a clever system of placing a rubber band on the wrist of the side I last nursed on. BOOOOYAH! BRAINS! Only to go to feed and wonder if I ever remembered to switch the rubber band to the alternate side? Sleep deprived, raccoon eyed and caffeine thirsty, I'd stare at my wrist as if high. Stare. Stares. Staring. *Shrugs* Nevermind. What's the matter, grey matter?

At each pediatrician appointment, I take notice that my childrens' head circumference is growing. Growing with knowledge, growing into new hat sizes. Growing with my stolen brain. As they covertly and adorably activate the brain sucking transfer sequence, I marvel at how willing I was to let my brain go. How willing I was to do it all again. To become more Forrest Gump with each passing child. I may not know where my keys are, but, I know what love IS.

Load up, kids! The doctor says you are healthy and smarter than your mom. Everyone in? Everyone is buckled? Where are the keys? *Sees lovely, kind and sympathetic receptionist running out to van holding key ring* Sigh. Brains.



This is your brain on kids. Any questions?



Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder, Here I am at Camp Granada.

Summer is underway. Or, underfoot - like gophers, snakes and sewer lines. Summer conjures visions of swimming pools, s'mores and two of the most beautiful words to fall on this mother's ears: Summer Camp.

Two of my plucky ducks are enrolled in one (glorious) week of summer camp. Coordinated drop-offs at 8:30 a.m. and 9:00 a.m.. Pick-ups at 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. - Oh, pardon me, I was just doing the shopping cart and the sprinkler at the same time because, guess what? Two kids. Gone. ALL day. Summer camp isn't just a fun-filled romp for the kids, it's a silky smooth slice of sanity saver sprayed with sunscreen and wrapped in maccaroni art.

I was hell bent on sending the two older children to camp this year; even if I had to sell a kidney or my soul. All year, summer camp shone like a guiding beacon of hope and truth with the back lit faces of other mothers insisting on its necessity; guiding me as I pinched my pennies for the "Save Mom's Sanity Summer Fund". I pinched. I tucked away. I made some hard cuts. Like balancing a federal budget, I knew some of the luxuries had to go if I was going to make CampForce One fly. Months of drinking crappy store brand burnt beans. A little here. A little there. I turned wine into water and then took the money I normally use to buy wine and put it towards camp. Voila, a summer miracle.

Last night, the anticipation was palpable. One more day until summer camp. ONE MORE DAY! On my top secret countdown chart, I could finally make that last strike-through and pop open the bottle of cheap-ass bubbly. A week of 50% less children. A week of 50% less fighting over apple cores, mismatched socks and who flushed who's waste down the toilet. A week of running errands without an unload and load procedure mimicking the evacuation of the Titanic. Summer Camp, they are your problem now.

As I settled in for my camp coma, I noticed the giant stacks of paperwork provided by camp administration:

"HI! Welcome to Summer Camp!" Ok, good start. I'm totally hooked. Where is this letter going? Somewhere exciting, I bet.

"We are so looking forward to playing with your children!" I'm glad someone is.

"Here's a helpful list of what you should bring!" Whatever it is you need, camp...I'm gonna give it to you. I'm gonna give it to you good.

And, that is all it took. A little packing. A little penny pinching. A little hopin' and wishin' and dreamin' and forced sobriety. Today, at 9:00 a.m., I became 50% less likely to be heard screaming, "STOP PUSHING YOUR SISTER'S FACE INTO HER YOGURT!" and 50% less likely to go produce postal in the local supermarket. "Glen, clean up in produce. The corn....the sweet, sweet corn. It's. It's everywhere. The horror!"

When I picked them up, they were pink cheeked; eyes half mast. The smell of sunscreen, chlorine, glue, bliss and exhaustion meltdown was in the air. I have made a good decision. But...OHHHHHH....those su-uhhhh-meeerrrrrr CAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAHHHHMPS (tell me more, tell me more-ohhh-ohhh-ore).

Long live Summer Camp. A grateful Mom Nation salutes you.

Camp Crystal Lake made me sign all sorts of crazy waivers. Weird.

Are You Disney Princess Enough?

Moms. We're all different. Our look, our parenting styles, our limits, our talents. All unique. Still, despite our differences, we manage to find kindred spirits at parks, school assemblies, dance classes, backyard barbeques and at work. We seek each other out for adult conversation, sanity and for the benefit of our small people. Moms with friends are less likely to scream about wire hangers. Less likely to be found at 1:00 p.m. singing the theme song to Meet The Fairies. In the grocery store aisles. To a cantaloupe. Drunk. We are hard on each other, but, we need each other. Yeah, I said it. I NEED YOU. So please, don't lower your blinds. Leave the curtains drawn. It's not stalking. I'm just friendly. Really friendly. Are you going to eat that last banana hanging on your banana tree? It looked lonely when I peered in your kitchen window this morning.

Moving on...

While watching the incessant Brave advertisements on Netflix, I was forced to watch Snow White, Cinderella and Aurora spin in circles, surrounded by children with their morphine drip smiles. And, it struck me. We all have a little Disney Princess in us. Disney Princess, Mom style:

The Belle Mom

She's beautiful in an unassuming way. Comfortable in her own skin. She isn't IN Book Club. She started Book Club and you had better read the book. You want to show up, drink and eat Cheetos? NEGATORY. The first rule of Book Club? You read the BOOK or Belle Mom signs you up for the wine and eating Cheetos club. (Note to self - start Drink Wine and Eat Cheetos Club) Belle Mom married a Beast so she is great at giving marital advice. Your husband wants to play poker every Wednesday? She gets you. Sister, she married an animal! She'll invite you over for venting sessions. Just ignore the claw ripped paintings in her hallways.

The Cinderella Mom

She is nice. So nice you kind of want to punch her, but, you can't because she's just so nice. She is an amazing cook and baker. She volunteers for everything. She is the first mom to arrive at every school function and the last to leave. She is ALWAYS on clean-up duty. She has never given her child a pre-packaged snack. All the kids love her. When she volunteers in the pre-school classroom (of course she does), you can find her reading to the children. There is a disturbing amount of bird carnage as thousands of birds have attempted to circle around her but died hitting the classroom windows. She married a Prince so you can't talk to her about your regular people problems, but, you can stare a hole through him as he drops the kids off at school. Because, He. Is. Hot. You want to be her. You want to kill her. You want to hire her to clean your house.

The Aurora Mom

This bitch is lazy. She sleeps all day. You kind of love her.

The Snow White Mom

You have a hard time listening to the saccharine sweetness of her high pitched voice, but, she lives with 7 men. Cocktail parties at her place could be interesting.

The Ariel Mom

She is funny. Funny ha ha and funny strange. She married young and has some Daddy issues so she has a wicked sense of humor. She is a BLAST at Karaoke. She is always tripping over her own feet. Her clumsiness is endearing. She is a vegetarian. She started the local faction of Greenpeace. NEVER offer her fish. She has amazing boobs even though she breastfed her children until the age of 2. Her husband is handsome, but, he's boring. You often wonder how they ended up together. So does she.

The Rapunzel Mom

She is shy. She doesn't get out much. She spent so much of her childhood alone so, she has overcompensated by having 7 kids in 8 years. She is sweet, sensitive and you're a little unsure you could make it work because you can't initially get a good read on her. Still, you are hopeful so you go to her house. She is comfortable and barefoot. Always. Barefoot. She paints, cooks, writes and bakes, but, she is quiet about it. Given her childhood, she is an imperfect parent. She sometimes yells. She sometimes drinks. You become fast friends. You discover she makes her own wine. You go into business together and open a winery called, The Tower.


So, which Disney Mom are you?

Online Personas vs. Real Life Personas - The WWF Smackdown

This amazing thing happens on the Internet. You become anonymous. Running a close second behind indoor plumbing, anonymity is one of the greatest luxuries gifted to mankind. The ability to create an identity - a no holds barred super-you. Anxiety? Nope. Social awkwardness? Gone. Worrying about what the mom in the pick-up line thinks? Not a problem on the www. You can take a big step to the left of "Real You" and just let the crazy fly! It's a whole new, brave world filled with creative possibility and connection. You can write what you want while wearing what you want and, while making jokes you'd never make during kindergarten pick-up. Laughing uproariously while you sit on your crappy, juice stained couch, thinking up your next blog post and grinding that fruit bar ever further into your Lego ridden area rugs. As far as everyone knows, our online selves are kick-ass, red boot wearing, cape donning, baby seal saving spies with abs sculpted personally by Suzanne Somers. Online personas give us the outlet to be our best, superhero selves. We dive boldly into the deep end of the pool. Online, we take snippets of a life and quilt them into a creation of interest.That idea is so intoxicating and appealing because the real me....well, the real me is just not that interesting.

I'm a full-time mom of four young children. I am a mom all day. I make breakfast and then clean it up. I shower and put my wet hair in a bun or ponytail where it stays in varied degrees of disheveled mess for the duration of the day. I make lunch and then clean it up. I change diapers. I wipe rears. I pay library fines...a lot of library fines. I nurse the baby...constantly. Nursing pads make unflattering lumps in my shirt that I acknowledge but ignore. I drive a minivan with windows I have to manually roll down. I help with homework. I fill kiddie pools. I am hounded for snacks every quarter hour. I forget baked goods I've promised for school events. I am constantly loading and unloading children from our car and switching laundry from washer to dryer to basket. After sweeping for what seems like eternity, I still step on Cheerios and sticky patches of foreign substances. I constantly have Play-Doh stuck to the bottom of my pants. I drink copious amounts of coffee, yet yawn all day long. I go to grocery stores. I go to parks. I color, read books and snuggle. I make concerted efforts to be patient and still get frustrated. At 5:30 p.m., every day, my brain starts to shut off and the last hour before my husband gets home seems endless. I make dinner and then clean it up. I put toys in bins. I give kisses goodnight and then plop my rear on same juice stained couch, exhausted. Rinse and repeat. This is not to say that I don't love it. The honor of being a parent is the best damn honor in the world. It is epic in its overwhelming joy and satisfaction and epic in its day-to-day redundancy.

And, while I'm being honest here about virtual versus reality, I have to admit that Real Me gets uncomfortable at parties with new people. Real Me struggles trying to make small talk. Real Me sometimes (often) chokes trying to get a thought from head to mouth. Frankly, Real Me can be a real pain in my ass. Online Me is fun. Online Me is in the moment. Online Me takes chances and gives herself a break. Online Me is an open book. An open, anonymous book where the names and places have been crossed through with Sharpie.

The pull of the safety and anonymity of the online persona is strong. The safety of a real life hiding just behind an idea of who you are or, better yet, who you want to be. No one really knows what is happening inside the recesses of my head except me and me. This is the affair we're having with our inner self.

The thing that surprises me the most about this journey is that this pseudo-self helps me embrace the real humor, in real moments, in my real life as mom. Moments that I may have glossed over before have become moments I now capture and share with a community; and, in that community, I am finding the bridge between Bad Parenting Moments and Real Me. That bridge is something I think every mom is looking for. A bridge to your kick-ass, anonymous, super hero self. A bridge that connects a healthy piece of escapism to your grounded, real life. A bridge that sweetens the sweet and helps to humorize the sour. The ability to multi-task with multiple personalities and not end up institutionalized. To not end up institutionalized...every mother's goal!

The next transition will be working on allowing the best parts of real life and the best parts of online life to combine and make me the super human I have always wanted to be, but lacked the courage (or knowledge of quantum physics and chemistry) to pursue.  This may mean nothing more than showing up at school at 3:00 p.m. wearing a replica of Wonder Woman's red boots, but, with my hair still in a bun and the strap of my nursing bra accidentally and partially exposed. Hey, baby steps.

And, when you read our posts and banter with us online, I hope you are picturing BPM like this:

"Kids, don't make me use the lasso of truth!"