Just put that anywhere.

If a man's home is his castle, then this mom's home must be a moat. I'm not quite sure when we took the turn from home to livable storage unit, but, the transition was akin to waking from a long-term coma. Instead of flowers and loving family, I awoke to paint your own jewelry boxes, glitter pens and  wooden train tracks that lead to the next episode of Hoarders. Even without worldly possessions, we are a family of 6 living in a home built to house 4 comfortably. With our treasures, we are pressed into every corner like poisonous gas permeating every pore during a fumigation. Add the cautionary circus tent, crushed cereal bar underfoot, several remote control cars and an air of disaster annnnnnnd,VOILA! Welcome to our lovely home.

Although I am a notorious night-organizer and ninja-purger, every surface of our floor and every cabinet is brimming with Grade-A crap. A virtual wonderland of items that I painstakingly, like a struggling entry-level magician "make disappear". Later in my act, these items are somehow replaced by less useful and larger items. *Poof* Magic!

Upon returning from February break away from our own home; creating messes, chaos and littering things-n-stuff over the expanse of someone else's home, I returned to find a box full of plastic bats, nine plastic devil tails and a rubber hand sitting on my counter. Useful and necessary? Check and check.

This is the magic portal of time and space. Meaning precisely that, at no time, must any space be unfilled. *ghostly whisper* If you clear it, more crap will come.

Living this way has been a test of patience and physics as I scientifically prove that, indeed, you can cram 10 pounds of stuff into a 2 pound bag and then stuff that bag into a travel sized, reusable snack bag and then that into the middle console of my van.

In this sea of confusion where toys and functionality perish, I spend more time than I care to admit (all day) searching for the items amidst the toynado. I have become my own Momgyver, fashioning band-aids out of Barbie's sweatbands and searching for the lost mates to socks in the toddler's medical kit.

The broom handle has become every lost toy's personal Bat Signal. "Diego, the broom is on the way. Sit tight, little buddy. We'll find a way to get you out of there. Is there anyone we should call? Dora is already on her way with Boots and Map."

LIVING ROOM
RADIATOR VENT
BROOOOOM HANDLE!

SAY IT WITH ME!

LIVING ROOM
RADIATOR VENT
BROOOOOM HANDLE!

The children navigate the cluttered chaos of home like professionals. Finding bliss while surrounded by their things. Unaware of their need of a junkie's intervention. Like Gollum, eagle eyes on and arms encircling their precccccccciouus.

Meanwhile, I plot. Making mental notes, developing my hit-list and filling virtual give-away boxes in my mind. Closing my eyes; imagining clean, uncluttered space. Wishing for a black hole in the great galaxy of home; knowing full well that all black holes must lead somewhere and, judging by the looks of things, they all lead directly back to my property.

The H Word.

I hate the term housewife. This is generally said as I lift a roast out of the oven. I did not marry my house. It's too old, it makes embarrassing noises and, frankly, it's a bit small, if you know what I mean. When I hear, "housewife", I channel Betty Draper. Not in the, my hair and makeup are perfect way, but in the, I hate everything and everyone around me way. Technically, I work from home; however, my house and I are not in a relationship. It is merely the storage unit overflowing with the products of the life we've created.

In the 50s, the role of the matriarch was to keep a clean and presentable appearance and home. To dress children well and ensure they were fed, polite and delivered to and from school. The picture of the well dressed mother, peering out the window to ensure supper was on the table before the wheels of the Thunderbird turned the corner and shifted from drive to park. 

Then, we changed. We grew and brave women started the hard work that continues today. We were freed from the prison of the 50s housewife stereotype. Except, we weren't.

Women are CEOs, politicians and soldiers. We have made great strides in the workforce. We still struggle to receive equal pay for equal work, but, there is no denying our progress.

However, inside the walls of home, the role of the stay-at-home care provider still struggles to find its new normal. This role has shifted. It is more hands-on. It is more engaged. The expectations of a full-time caregiver are robust. 100% tuned in to not only the physical requirements of the job; food in bellies, clothes on back, but also immersed in social and emotional development. And, you must not only be switched on to library outings and play groups, play dates and socially enriching opportunities, but, in the midst of this, you must be engaged. Present. Not just inside the home, but, in the real and imagined world of the child. At classes, at school, at sports events and recitals and classroom parties. Constantly. This hands-on/deep end of the parenting pool is newer; stemming from the emotional and natural parenting boom of the 70s. The rollover era of peace and love moving child rearing in a new direction. This move was and continues to be great, except for the quiet expectation that tagged along...the monkey on the back of progress. Yes, the 50s era housewife.

Ham! Mother fuckin' HAM!

In this brave new world of ultra-connected parenting, there is still the covert expectation that you go steady with your home. To promise to clean, organize, decorate, cook (equal parts delicious and nutritious) meals and make hospital corners until death do you part.  And, there is a ticking clock.  Attempts should be made to do it all before the doorknob twists. signaling not the end of the parenting work-day...because that never ends, but the traditional work day of someone else.

Few are brave enough to come right out and state this is the expectation, but, the nagging feeling of impeded progress is there. Sadly, we have not helped ourselves as we continue to feel the pressure internally to do more and more and then, even more with the same number of hours in the day. The expectation of perfection and the seamless oneness of our multiple functions. Measuring our proficiency of every part of our enormous role to determine a day's success. We could blame society, but, we continue to place this expectation on ourselves. Instead of separating our parenting from "housewifery", we combine them into one role. One overarching rainbow from child birth to clean toilets. On most days, I fail my home. I do not dust, clean blinds or mop. I do not scour floors or counters, but, I am an overextended and present parent. On the days when I put on my date-night pants and do my laundry, organize the roaming piles of paper and items needing attention, clean and plan elaborate meals, I am not as present for my children.

"We can have it all!" Well, we can. We do, but, only when we measure our success by the happiness of our children and stop measuring success by how many items are left on the to-do list.

I am an imperfect, stay-at-home parent. If you call me a housewife, I will hit you in the face with my Frittata pan.


 

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!"

My Daughters Were Not "Born to Shop".

I am a woman, a sister and a mother. I come from a family of all daughters - a tribe of fearless females. I also have 3 daughters of my own. 3 daughters! Boom. Pow! CRASH! Those are the sounds of responsibility hitting me square in the face. It is 2012, but, if you take a look around, the stereotypes and gender role messages from the past are as clear and loud as ever. They are not even lurking. They are slapping you right in the face. They press the boundaries of our collected comfort and continue to exploit the roles and "duties" society still obliges our young generation of women to fulfill. And, what role do we play in the passive assignment of who our girls "should" be? Are we taking a stand? Are we aware, enough, of what everything around them is telling them? And, what exactly are "they" saying? This parenting thing is tough. My brain hurts. I need a drink.

I live in the world of the Disney Princess. My little women watch with delight, mimic with gusto and dream of their Happily Ever After. They role play in scarves, ruffles and glitter. They sing the songs, they know the words. Oddly enough, I am ok with this. These are fairy tales. These are bedtime stories of fancy. And, in their own right, many of these heroines have just enough kick-ass to make them a household fixture that I can enjoy through my daughters' eyes. And, as time marches on, the princesses are changing. They are moving into an awareness of their special talents/gifts. What am I saying? I have no idea. I THINK I'm saying that my love/hate for the Disney Princesses is complex. It is effing deep and difficult to navigate. I have feelings. Feelings that overlap. Feelings of confusion, but, mostly, I just want to sing along. Sue me.


This is not a princess hating post. This is a post about my feelings about other gender stereotypes that are not complex. This is a post about my downright hatred of certain clothing phrases. You know, the statements we plaster across our babies and young girls' chests. Messages as clear and revolting as Grandma's 50s-era Spam dinner. We knowingly and often suit our girls up in ruffled phrases that mock the progress women who came before us have made. It is crazy. It is offensive. It has to stop. Please, make it stop! So, for your viewing displeasure, here are three of my most hated onesie/clothing statements:

"Born to Shop" - Dearest girl child, your life is full of potential. You are a bright star. You have every opportunity. Opportunities that women in other countries can only dream of. Here, wear this onesie that lets everyone know that you are a female and females just LOVE to shop. In fact, you were BORN to do it. You were not born to explore space or become President of the United States. You, my dear, were born to shop. Grab your plastic, Miss Fantastic and let's head to the mall.

"Daddy/Mommy/Grandma/Grandpa Thinks I'm Pretty" - You are a girl. That means it is your JOB to be pretty. Everything else is secondary. All the people closest to you think so and that is why we are letting the whole world know that this is your great gift/talent as a female. To reiterate, it's not being kind, smart, witty or talented that makes us proud to be your closest relatives. It's how cute you look in dresses. How pretty your tiny face is. Above all else, You. Must. Be. Pretty. Pretty girls rule the world. Don't ever forget that, Dimples.

"DIVA" gear - Are you strong willed? Do you ask for what you want? Are you opinionated? Are you full of personality? Well, then you must be a DIVA. That's right, girl. You aren't anything more than an attention seeking fameaholic. You couldn't possibly just be strong, opinionated, dynamic or the thousands of other words that apply. No, you are a DIVA. Add some glitter and a crown to that one word and walk around with it plastered to your chest. Let the world know that you are "hard to handle" and have "unrealistic expectations". It's time to start selling yourself short.

And, really, that's my big, core issue. We are telling our girls, in print, that we have the very basest of expectations for them. We anticipate that they will love the mall, be a beauty and that they just wont take no for an answer when it comes to sweet talking that extra $20 from Daddykins. Our pretty little diva shopaholics, the new generation of independent women. The tomorrow we've all been dreaming of. No? Not your dream? It's not mine either.

So, I'm campaigning for these new onesie/t-shirt phrases:

Daddy Thinks I Kick Ass!
Mommy's Mensa Candidate!
Future CEO!
Born To Be the Best Me I Can Be!
Tough As Nails & Smart As A Whip!

Let's have a good old fashioned bonfire for the others. However, I won't be burning my bra. I need it to nurse my youngest, bright star who was born to do great, unknown things that are too varied and wonderful to be splayed across her chest.


*Have your own hated onesie/clothing phrases? Please comment and share. Sharing is caring.*

An Obscenely Overdue Thank You

I stepped on the scale this morning...like I do every morning and the number gave me pause. It was the same number that flashed the day before my maternity leave ended with baby # 1 in 2006. In 2012, that same number means something so profoundly different. I just had a real, honest epiphany. I have spent my life hating my body. I have spent my life being disappointed, cruel, unkind and sometimes, quite violent to this gift I was given. A perfectly healthy body. A body with legs that work and arms that hold and a stomach that has carried my four babies to term. I have been so terribly ungrateful. I am ashamed.

It started how it does with any girl I suppose. A cruel comment, An unsupportive family member, the feeling that you could be just a little thinner, just a little more toned, just a little more like Sara (or fill in the blank), just a little cuter and my rear could be just a little higher, smaller and more perfect. I should be perfect. Then, you agonize, you plan, you starve, you obsess, you fight, you fail. You do not stop to give thanks.

In 2006, I looked at that scale and was disgusted. I immediately joined Weight Watchers. I worked out excessively, I measured myself weekly and participated in group weigh-ins where teams of scared women prayed for those numbers to fall. Praying that the moment of weakness we had at the family BBQ wouldn't be expressed on the scale. It worked. The numbers fell and I never looked better in pictures. So what.

Today, in 2012, I looked at that scale and cried. I cried because I am done. I am done letting a number follow me around and distract me from the amazing gifts my body has THANKLESSLY and endlessly given me. Despite all of my years of hatred and abuse, my body loved me enough to give me four healthy, beautiful children. As if that wasn't enough, working arms to hold them, working feet and legs to chase them, balance and coordination to care for them, breasts to feed them, a soft lap for them to sit on, strong shoulders to lay their sleepy heads on and fingers to grasp theirs.

Dearest, truest and most generous body of mine, Thank you, thank you. A million times, Thank You. You are so loved and I'm going to start acting like it.

(Please Don't) Send In The Clowns!

The last 3 days I have had crazy, fever dreams. Of course, they are never about anything pleasant. Fever dreams reach deep down into your subconscious and like to gently push your fears, anxieties and phobias right into the spotlight. So, my dreams? Clown dreams (shiver). Perhaps it was circus music that wafted upstairs while the kids watched Dumbo, or maybe it is just the fact that clowns scare the ever lovin' crap out of me. As a kid, I had a general distaste for clowns. Ronald McDonald? Creepytown. John Wayne Gacy? Obviously. Aside from these creepy clown "norms", life made sure I had enough terrible clown experiences to turn distaste into a full blown phobia. If you want to see a grown-up pee their pants, have a clown at your next party and invite me.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 1: At age 5 or 6, we went to a birthday party at a local park. They had a clown. He was enormous. He must have been over 6 feet tall. His clown suit was dirty. His face makeup was runny and terrifying (Granted, it was summer). His balloon animals kept popping. Clown fail.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 2: Early 20s - Las Vegas, I was in a bar. Admittedly, I had tee many martoonis. All of a sudden, a pack (yes, a PACK) of scary clowns wandered into the bar. Full costume, Full scary clown face makeup. I lost it. I started crying...hysterically. In retrospect, that probably left me with a scary clown makeup as well. My boyfriend walked over to them and said, "WHY?" and the Leader of the Crazy Clowns looked up and with the creepiest grin I have ever seen just said, "Because, it's FUN."  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Let's just say, there was a trail of roadrunner dust behind my ridiculous Vegas heels.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 3: During a lovely shopping outing with a sister-in-law in Downtown Los Angeles, while stopped at a traffic light, a homeless/vagrant clown crossed right in front of my car.  This might take the cake. This clown was covered in dirt from head to toe, his clown outfit was ripped and soiled, the wig askew and horrifying. The makeup? Let's not go there. The walk from one side of the street to the next, slow, deliberate and totally terrifying. I remember the palms of my hands starting to sweat profusely as my shaking hands grasped the steering wheel. WHAT THE WHAT?

I have had less serious clown offenses, watching Stephen King's IT too early in life, (sidebar: child murdering clown WAY scarier than the big bug at the end. Horror Fail.) and a host of parties with clown "entertainment". Regardless of the severity of the clown experience, I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something. That "something" is, "BETHANY, STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM CLOWNS!"

Will my kids ever go to the circus? Probably not with me. Bad Parenting Moment? Yes. Worse Parenting Moment? Mommy running from the circus tent screaming, "RUN! We're all going to die by that circus clown's big white gloves!!!!"

(post script - there will be no pictures of real clowns to accompany this post.  I think the reason is obvious!)

Dearest Barbie, This Is Your Intervention.

Barbie, since your launch in 1959, you have been some of the following amazing careers:

Dentist
Doctor
Nurse
Veterinarian
Paratrooper
United States Army officer
Jet Pilot
United States Air Force Thunderbirds
United States Marine Corps Officer
United States Navy Petty Officer
Ambassador for world peace
Presidential candidate
UNICEF Summit diplomat
Firefighter
Police officer
Architect
Astronaut
Computer Engineer
Paleontologist
Flight Attendant
Pilot
Artist
Athlete
News anchor
Photographer

You know what else you've been since 1959? A straight up, hot mess, tore up from the floor up drunk. Bitch, this is your intervention.

Sure, you show up at my house in your nice, clean suit, your hair perfectly quaffed and ready to teach my girls that they can be whoever and whatever they want to be. Then, we pull you out of that box and you become a love sick, drinking booze at 10:30 a.m., drunk dialing Ken, stripper shoe wearing freak.What the HELL, Barbie? No wonder your strapped in a box like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. Mattel is your captor. You just want to let your freak flag fly, but, oh no, they are going to make you a woman of substance no matter what. And, as long as you're trapped in your little, plastic box everything is a-ok.  You get out of that box and shit gets real. Way real.  Jersey Shore real.

In every house I have EVER been in, you are in the same scenario. Naked (generally, ass up), Your hair? Totally disheveled and multiple lengths. Your shoes? Platform ass kicking boots or 7 inch heels. You are generally in a compromising situation with at least 3 to 10 other naked Barbies.  Your face? Covered in marker, lipstick or glitter glue. You like to party. Hard.

Your next gig? I'm voting for a long stay at the Betty Ford Clinic where you do some big ol' soul searching with your Double Delights. Are you sad because you lack a real vagina? For all your charm, good looks and career stardom, is it the dark depression of knowing Ken will NEVER really love you? Ken digs Men, mmm-k, girl?

During your Betty Ford stay, you just might find your true calling as an Addiction Treatment Specialist. The writing is on the wall, or, it's on your face...with permanent marker.

I love you. We ALL love you. Get help.

Hit and Run Barbie?

She drank so much her arm fell off.

Eyes Wide Shut

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up/(Beauty) School Drop-Out

As "Bad Parenting Moments", I love to explore, exploit and enjoy the humor of parenthood. This is my "shit just got REAL" post for the month. I'll return to the funny next week. I promise! xo - Debbie Downer

When I was a little girl, I went through the normal line-up of prospective careers: Rainbow Brite, Princess, Veterinarian, Doctor, Lawyer, President, Ballerina, Actress on, "Hey Dude!". The usual. Then, I grew up. Well, I partially grew up. I did well in school. I was fortunate to be given a scholarship to college. Before college, I narrowed down my career choices: Lawyer and Rainbow Brite. Sadly, UGA did not offer advanced degrees in Rainbow Brite or the option to minor in riding horned unicorns over rainbows. Hey, no school is perfect. I settled for pre-law. My freshman year was a disaster. A total disaster. I was a mess. I was immature. I was afraid. I did not know who I was or what the hell I was doing. I was 18. I would like to say that somewhere deep down inside of me, where I knew I could be and do whatever I wanted, that I channeled my inner She-Ra and pulled through. Not the case. After a year of failing, I failed myself and quit. The broken pieces of my paper bag princess hopped a Greyhound bus from Georgia to Los Angeles, California (another blog for another time) and I never...ok, I rarely looked back. I started working and built an excellent career. I started at the bottom and worked my way up the "old fashioned" way. I met a boy, fell in love, had lots of babies, moved to a small town in New England and put my ideas of what I thought I wanted to be on the back burner of the extra stove you keep in the basement. What I wanted to be when I grew up was irrelevant. I was living the dream. Happy, healthy family. My greatest career? Mom, of course! Babies and joy and chaos. There was no time to examine the 18 year old I was or the Poet/Lawyer/Warrior Princess she wanted to be, but, who cared. I. Was. Living. The. Dream.

I have written about this before. The quiet need of a mother to find and/or retain who she is amidst the joy and chaos of parenthood. I write about it because I have no earthly idea how to manifest this idea in real life. A mother finds little outlet in the day to day, in the "thick" of parenting to nourish herself, EXCEPT, through the growth, happiness and nourishment of her children. That is spectacular and gratifying, but, is it enough? I don't know.

Some would label me unhappy or ungrateful for even having this thought. Guess what, I am scared to have that thought. What kind of mother am I if I say, in print, that being a mother may not nourish every fiber of my being to satisfaction. What if, I dare to say that I may need my own childhood dreams of being my own super hero fulfilled outside of the confines of "mom"?  And, my biggest fear, what if I am not the best mother I can be because I do not know who I am outside of their mother. What if I fail them like I failed at 18. Because, like stepping into the world at 18, I am afraid and, on most days, I still do not know who I am or what the hell I am doing.

Here is the difference; my complete, heartbreaking love for my children will not allow me to quit. They make me want to truly examine the desires I have to become not just their mother, but, a woman they can be proud of. In quiet moments, I imagine my adult relationships with my children. In all of these imagined scenarios, they are always happy. We are always laughing. I do not know if they will be ballerinas, doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, paleontologists, Broadway actors, college grads or college drop-outs. Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do they know who they are? Do they know that it is never too late to figure out who you want to be in the world?

And, what's next for me? Well, it is never to late to figure out who you want to be in the world. I don't owe Rainbow Brite or college for that piece of truth. I owe my children for that life lesson.

Easter Can Kiss My Keister!

(Warning: Ranting/Rambling of a non-religious person forthcoming. If you are offended, I sincerely apologize in advance. If you continue reading, don't say I didn't warn you!)

Every year since we started having children, the scene has been relatively the same. It goes something like this:

Catholic Husband  (Thursday before Easter): "I don't know what you have planned for the kids for Easter on Sunday, but, I'm going to take A (our oldest) to mass with me."

Me, Heathen Wife: "CRAP!!! CRAP!!! Easter is THIS Sunday. You are joking me? How late is (fill in the name with any super sized bargain store) open?"

Easter! You did it again! You are one stealth holiday, my frenemy!

It is not just that it always sucker punch's me in the face and then while I'm recovering, kicks me in the stomach. It's the whole shebang. It confuses me. SO, let me get this straight, Jesus came back from the dead (WHOA...that is AMAZING. Note to self: DVR The Walking Dead) and we celebrate this by buying green plastic grass, hiding eggs in bushes and perpetuating the (terrifying) myth that a 7 foot tall rabbit is breaking into our homes to bring us diabetes?

The egg hunts, the wearing of fancy clothing, the dye, the egg massacre in my kitchen, the candy, the 2:00 p.m. tantrums, the serious lack of alcohol to make any of this palatable. It is my least favorite holiday.

I imagine if I were religious (i.e. not going to hell in an Easter (hand)basket), Easter would be so much more. Respect. For me, with 4 small kids and a serious lack of religious upbringing, it is the antithesis. It is another Wal*Mart sponsored spending spree that leaves me feeling ambushed and with an additional 5 pounds of candy weight.

The DEVILed Eggs

But, I love my kids. I love them like CRAZY. So, I will SQUEEZE my post-partum body into a frock, hide jelly bean filled eggs, create baskets that would make Wilford Brimley shake in his diabetes filled boots and start downing mimosas at 10:00 a.m. . I'm a mom, it isn't about me! My little heathens LOVE Easter, so, I will pretend to love it too. And, to be fair, they are the four cutest cadbury eggs on the planet.  Sigh, Easter...you win again.

See, I manage to pull it all together.

HOLY cuteness. Easter 2009. This Easter, 2 additional bunnies!

My Body is a (Shirley) Temple (of Doom)!

Some people take great pride in the wonderful care and treatment they provide their life's vessel. Me, my greatest accomplishment (aside from carrying and birthing 4 children) is eating an entire bag of Reese's Trees in one sitting (delicious bastards). I would LIKE to say that I practice safe satiating, but, I do not. In fact, look up glutton in the dictionary. That is me (smiling and waving with chocolate all over my teeth). In fact, I should update the definition on Wikipedia to include my several proud gluttonous feats. I have eaten 1/2 a cake in one sitting more times than I'd like to admit. I don't even know if I can count that high. When it comes to self control, I have zero. If you are a delicious and tasty treat, I will eat you until I'm nauseated and then I will eat a few bites more.

Oh, and don't worry, I'm not one of those thin people that you want to beat with a 3 foot tall chocolate bunny. I'm lucky. I'm just one of those people who can eat whatever they want and just get really, really overweight. I know, just blessed with lucky genes I guess. I am surrounded by thin moms daily. I assume they work-out. I have no intention of working out. If a murderer was chasing me, I MAY run or, I may just resign myself knowing he's probably in superior physical shape. "Ok, buddy...you win! Let's make this quick."

NOTE: I save all my despicably impressive gluttony for nighttime. If the kids are in bed, you can find me on the couch with some of these favorites: 1) A "family size" bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms. 2) A bag of individually wrapped Reese's treats in the corresponding holiday shape. After eating entire bag, I like to pretend I didn't by hiding the 50 empty wrappers underneath a layer of trash in the trashcan. Can't see them? DIDN'T HAPPEN! 3) Cake. I have a serious, serious problem with cake. Case in point, I ordered a sheet cake for our children's combined birthday party. At the end of said party, there was over 1/2 a sheet left. I had a dear friend drop cake off at the local Fire Department because I knew it would come home with me and I would eat the remaining portion in 2 days. Giving the cake to the Fire Department ensured that the Fire Department would not be arriving at my house 2 days later while I choked on frosting. A backwards thank you and preventative measure. Genius.

Aside from my Dessert Outbursts (DessertBursts...mmmm, sounds like a delicious dessert!), I am a relatively healthy person. Like with any problem, the first step is admitting you have one! SO, here it goes, My name is Bethany and I have a serious dessert addiction. At my intervention, please bring Reese's Eggs.

An Inconvenient Poop

"In the Parenthood Justice System, the people are represented by only one all powerful unit. The parent who investigates crimes and the same parent who prosecutes the offenders. These are their stories."

It was March of 2008. I was a new mom for the 2nd time. My son was 2 weeks old and my darling first born was just over 2. The transition for her had been rough. The transition for me had been rough. Lots of tears. Lots of jealousy. Lots of mistakes. Lots of "learning moments". Our daughter, OLD baby, was taking a nap. I was hanging out with NEW baby in the living room, nursing, making lovey dovey googly eyes at him. You know, the usual. I then heard my daughter call for me. A very (suspiciously) sweet and light, "Maaaahhhh-mmaaahhhh". I pick up new baby and head over to the door. As I began to open the door, I was hit with the unmistakable smell of nap poop. Now, parents know what nap poop is. It is, hours old, burn the hair out of your nostrils, stagnant closed door poop. It is vile. I brace myself by taking a deep breath so I can run in, grab O.B. (old baby) and get out of the toxic fumes. Sadly, it was not just low level breathable toxins that awaited me. It was so. much. worse.

The next few minutes are a blur. I'm fairly certain I went into a sort of trauma coma. I do not know how much time passed before I recovered, but, when I did, this is what I saw.

1) Completely naked 2 year old covered in crap from head to toe
2) Crap wall "mural" behind crib (looking back, masterful artistry)
3) Crib bars, rail, mattress, sheets, blankets and stuffed friends (with friends like my 2 year old, who needs enemies) covered in crap.
4) Crap filled diaper (how much crap was in there?!?!?!??) upside down on CARPETED floor.

I managed to muster some sort of quasi sentence out. "Annabelle..what...what...happening? What?!?"

Her reply, "Mommy, I eat it? Why I do that?"

The sound that came out of me at that moment can only be described as the deep, primal, guttural bellowing that people generally reserve for grieving death. (To be fair, part of me died at that moment). I sank to the floor, still holding my newborn, and started to sob while screaming, "NO...NO...ANNABELLE! NO. NO. You did NOT eat it! YOU DID NOT EAT IT."

Annabelle begins sobbing and shrieks, "WHY I DO THAT?"

At that point, Mother Bethany bitch slapped Falling Apart Bethany on the floor. "GET YOURSELF TOGETHER! Welcome to motherhood!" In a daze, I picked myself up and began to formalize a plan of action.

Step 1 - Put. Baby. Somewhere. I set up new (and now favorite) baby in his bassinet. Ok, I can do this. One step down.

Step 2. - Find gloves. No gloves to be found. Ok, I'll improvise. Wrap hands in saran wrap. Check.

Step 3. - Retrieve toddler (from Hell) from her room. If we can even still call it a room. I remembered thinking, "We may have to move."

Step 4. - Shower toddler with bleach? No, that can't be right. Ok, no bleach.

This went on for HOURS. I meticulously corrected every foul, ungodly thing my daughter had done. At the end, not even CSI (The S, clearly standing for something else) could have detected the horrific event had even occurred.

I don't like to talk about it much. It is one of those parenting stories that will live on as family folklore. Maybe one day, a few generations from now, they'll forget all about it. Sadly, I never will. It is burned into my brain and corneas. In the history books of my time as a parent, this will be my Vietnam.

After this happened, I was not (and still am not) afraid of ANYthing. I know I can do it. And, if for a second I doubt my strength, I can count on Mother Bethany to give me a good bitch slap back to reality.

The Bitching Hour

Every day, around 3:30 p.m., my palms start to sweat and a deep seeded sense of dread takes over. My eyes get shifty and I start staring at the clock. I know what's coming, 4:00 p.m., The Bitching Hour.

I do not know what happens in the cosmos at 4:00 p.m., but, at that exact time, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY., my kids go completely bat sh*t crazy. Crazy, like, googly eyed, psycho in a dark alley crazy. Crazy, like, contemplate running outside, knocking wildly on neighbors doors while screaming, "HELP!" at the top of my lungs crazy. I have noticed that my neighbors start pulling shades and frantically pulling out of their driveways at around 3:45 p.m.

When I go to bed, 4:00 p.m. - 6:30 p.m., haunts my dreams. I have feverish nightmares about slow-motion running while covered in leftover fish sticks and boxed macaroni they are hurling at me while laughing maniacally. Please. Send. Help.

From 7:00 a.m. to 3:59 p.m., I love my kids. At 4:00 p.m., cue Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I love ya, Tomorrow!

I realized this morning in the shower, that's where I do all of my serious thinking since it's generally the only 15 minutes in a 24 hour period I am alone, that this group is growing, I am considering growing a brand, a website and, I'm asking all of you and your friends to come along on the ride with me. Essentially, I am asking for your trust. That is a big deal. It's, quite frankly, a huge deal. Most of you don't know me and, even if we pass in the streets or share a passing conversation, we don't know what each other are made of. Some of you I have never met. Some of you live outside of the United States. So, let me introduce myself, tell you some of my secrets and then, when I ask you to join me, I hope you'll say, "Wherever that crazy lady is going, I want to be there too!"
The biggest part of my life is being a mom. It is so immense that I have often thought, who am I without them? My kids define me. I would be lying if I said anything else. I do not have hobbies (outside of my children's hobbies), I do not exercise (evident upon looking at me), I do not have a career (I left that in 2008 and have been home with babies ever since). Since the birth of my first child in 2006, for all intents and purposes, Bethany Kriger Thies has ceased to exist. Since the second my children were born, I lived for them. My interests were their interests. My time = their time. My schedule = their schedule. My life? Most definitely enveloped in their lives.
I wouldn't have it any other way, but, it can be lonely. It is lonely to lose a part of yourself even when the gain is so immeasurably great. It is lonely to not know yourself outside of mom. And, in that loneliness, there is a huge pressure to be perfect at the one thing you know you are. Every year since 2006, my New Year's resolution has been to be a better mom, to be more patient, to be more present, to be...MORE. If it is the only thing I know I am, then the failures, even tiny ones, seem overwhelming and sad. Am I a bad parent? Is every impatient word I've spoken seared into their tiny brains? Will they grow up and ignore my (desperate and constant) calls on their phone?
At the end of every night, when I'm lying in bed I think, "Tomorrow, I WILL do better. I will do more puzzles. I will make 3 nutrient rich and delicious meals that my kids will devour. I will brush my hair, put on non maternity clothing and look presentable during school pick-up. I will be a GREAT mom, scratch that, a PERFECT mom." As we all know, perfection will always be denied.
I want to continue this group because since I started it, it makes me feel ok about my moments of weakness, my impatient moments...my human moments. And, in the process, maybe I can let the full-time job of molding my piece of the future generation not seem so lonely. We are all in this together and I feel that more today than I did 1 month ago when I , with a little fear, publicly announced that, every day, I have bad parenting moments. Several. Ok, more than several.
Thank you for sharing, for laughing, for reminding me that failure, when honest and owned, makes for great recovery and for coming along on this ride.
Who am I? I'm still figuring that out, but, for now, I am a proud mom of 4 and proud to share this new part of my life with all of you.

Knock, Knock(ers)? Boobs There?

My breasts are a war torn nation. They are depleted, without hope and their landscape holds no luster. They have no formal government and allow themselves to be forced into any shape, structure or form of confinement that any "expert" suggests. They have given up. Combat has killed their spirit. A freak flag no longer flies over the once proud, proud continent of my chest. Cross my heart (bra), the only thing waving over here is my white flag. I also think they (whisper) may be depressed. Look at them. What once was round is now definitely a frown and there seems to be no real hope or structural possibility of turning their frown upside down. The law of physics has won...BIG time. I guess I should embrace them and salute their service, but, it's kind of hard to look at them and when I go to say, "Gee, thanks!" what comes out instead is an extended eye roll and a guttural, "UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH". What was once Disneyland is now the broken down carnival ride that is administered by a man with 3 teeth. Meet my new chest, Carnie Earl!

WHY am I talking about this? TMI? I think not. How many of us are living this right now? I'm willing to bet that some of you are holding your breasts up right now with duct tape, wishes and dreams. Amen, sister?

So, I'm going to say it loud and proud...I can NOT wait to have chestal reconstructive surgery. That's what all the scienticians are calling it. I am going to, one lovely day, have a chest that does not meet my stomach. I will be able to wear regular shirts without looking pregnant or like a hot air balloon. I WILL, have breasts that are in the general region where breasts belong. It will be glorious. And, when I'm walking (well, strutting) around town and someone whispers through gritted teeth, "Boob job!", I'm going to turn around, hold up a SUPER High Five and wait for Judgy McJudgerston to totally leave me hanging. And, when they pass, I'm going to say, "Sorry my boobs are too awesome for you!"

Until that day, I'm going to work on constructing a super bra out of household items. On my short list, ace bandages, the plastic portion of spatulas and some minor welding of cookie cutters

Something's Gotta Give

Something’s Gotta Give

Hi, my name is Bethany and this is my BPM Creator Confession for the week of March 18th.


I am a stay at home mom (SAHM). Before I was a stay at home mom, I had a great career for 10 years in Human Resources. I want to state that because I have been on both sides of the fence. They grass has its green and brown spots on both sides.

The term stay at home mom has always bothered me. First, I feel that the term does not accurately reflect the job. My dissatisfaction with the term may come from my HR days where our copy room employees were titled, "Lead Reprographics Technicians". No, I am not joking. SAHM is such a meager title for such a huge job. And, frankly, on most days, I feel less like a SAHMom and more like a SAHMaid. Well, that is not entirely true. On most days I feel like the EXPECTATION is that I be a SAHMomandMaid. Can you imagine if the only thing mothers that stayed home did was mother? I can not. The world may stop spinning. People would be wearing burlap sacks to work and McDonalds would be the largest and most influential corporation in the world. I can see it now. So, for the rest of this post, I’m going to refer to SAHMs as Directors of the Societal Development of Quality Humans. That is a working title. It has not yet been approved by Compensation.

I find, sadly, that during my day, I feel guilty that I am not accomplishing more stuff (sh*t, really). I am disappointed that laundry goes unfolded. I am disappointed that I have been unable to mop a floor since COUGH. I am disappointed that my home is cluttered, dusty and that my kitchen does not smell of fresh baked goods or Lysol. I am disappointed that I can not find a home for all the crap that “lives” in my house. I look outside and see leaves that need raking, dirt that needs seeding, decks that need cleaning. I struggle to plan and make dinner every night. EVERY night. When dinner comes together, I feel victorious and then, a) no one eats it or b) complains loudly about its (varying degrees of) grossness throughout the meal. Then, I see my happy, healthy kids and I remind myself that their health and happiness is the goal. DUH!

The expectation is too high. We are too hard on ourselves. Society is too hard on us. Sometimes, our partners are too hard on us. Our job is to create and nourish the development of quality human beings. It takes a lifetime and it is hard work. We spend so much time sweating the small stuff at the expense of celebrating the BIG stuff.


So, my new checklist goes something like this.

Did my children smile and laugh today?
Did I laugh at their jokes?
Did we read together?
Did I encourage them?
Did I hug and kiss them enough?
Did I protect them?
Did I really listen closely to the things they were trying to share with me?
Did I do my best to give them everything they need to thrive?

I am the Director of the Societal Development of Quality Humans. The laundry can wait.