whole parenting family
emily rumsey photography I’ve had a number of friends and family say to me . . .That’s so nice that you blog, but do you ever feel weird sharing so much about your life? About your marriage? Pictures of your kids’ faces? Why do you share all that? I have given it quite a bit of thought, and arrived at these thoughts. Lots of thinking for a person who doesn’t think a lot. Firstly, I share because motherhood in its first few years can be exceptionally isolating. I live with my mom (part-time) and my sister (soon to be no-time as she’s bought a sweet little house down the road), I’m on the phone with my other sister in New York constantly, I have regular coffee dates with my oldest sister who lives across the river, and I chat it up almost weekly with my sweet sister-in-law. You’d think I have the complete village like days of yore when women were supported by their families and their tribe and yadayada. Yes, I am exceptionally blessed with women close to me, emotionally and physically. But even so, the trials and tribulations of young motherhood are particular to us as a generation. We face different pains than my mom’s generation, insta-gram-envy, for example, or maybe the pressures to bottle feed if your workplace isn’t supportive of breastfeeding or the backlash of bottle feeding if nursing didn’t work out for you. I was more than a year ahead of having kids than my oldest sister, and…
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Did he just eat that? Did he just say that? Why is he making that face while he’s apologizing? Does that negate the apology? Should I ask him to do it again? When he urges his toddler brother to hit his preschooler sister with a carabiner, should I not only confiscate the weapon but ban all other of said weapons as punishment? When his follow-up is that he doesn’t care about them anyway, do I confiscate all paper airplanes, legos, and Jim Weiss cds or is that overkill. Just the cds? How do I make the impression that I’m serious beyond shouting or frowning? Those don’t seem to be making the desired impact. Try quiet volcanic rage? Try ignoring? When he says that he already went to the bathroom but he didn’t, and I know he didn’t, and he knows I know he didn’t, do I stand outside the bathroom door to make sure I hear him actually go this time, or is that just really draconian? When he literally cannot sit still but doesn’t want to join me in a funky kitchen dance party because apparently I’m borderline not cool anymore (??!!??), do I make him run laps up the back stairs, then down the front, or put on his winter gear and explore the backyard? What about when he is so antsy-in-the-pantsy but pretends to be “simply exhausted”? Forced fun never hurt anyone, right? Will he ever not love the Hardy Boys? Will he ever choose a career…
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I’ve been thinking a lot about Thanksgiving and what it means. It helps that I have kids old enough to ask questions about it. Pilgrims, Native American Indians, turkeys, friends and family we are grateful for . . . Minnesota finally embracing the winter after a unseasonably warm fall. And then I think about my husband and what I’m thankful for with him. Not what he doesn’t do quite right. Not what I wish he would think of. Not what I wish he would remember. Not that I want him to follow my instructions regarding the kids’ getting dressed to a T. Not that these days we’re just hanging on to dear life with serious 18 month sleep regression (well, he only ever slept well for about 2 months after we stopped cosleeping, so let’s be honest–survival has been a bit of a way of life). Not just that all I want in life is dessert and have to battle my sugar deep deep wants. My conscious three steps for showing my gratitude: 1) Instead of asking him to do something for me, asking if I can do something for him. I get lazy quickly. It’s a habit from three pregnancies riddled with throwing up the whole time. I ask the people around me to “just grab me quick” something or “run downstairs and get me” something else. I have to fight that habit. So instead of asking him to get me something to drink at night, I hoist out…
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Oh you know, typical mom confession time over here. It’s been a wonderful fall and I’m sure winter is peeking around the corner, waiting to dump a ton of snow on us so I’ve been taking stock of what’s worked and what hasn’t and how I can improve and all that stuff. When I was out of town last weekend, I picked up a copy of Gretchen Rubin’s Happier at Home. I’ve already read the Happiness Project, which I loved, so I figured this one would be a jumpstart for my soon to be given up New Year’s Resolutions. But no! it really had such great ideas about improving areas of your home life. And it got me to thinking. What have I given up on as a mom since having three kids? And am I ashamed? Many things. And nope. Christy’s post about bloggers being just bloggers and missing that got me to thinking, I’d better share this #momfession because three or four people might identify. 1) Tidy house When I just let it go and tidy after the kids are down for the night, or have them help me after we eat and before AA comes home, it’s so much easier. Otherwise I’m in a constant mental panic about each room we’ve trashed that day and how if I don’t get to it then someone else in the house is going to tidy it and be annoyed with me (intergenerational living first world problems). And I think my kids…
Read MoreMolly has lived in New York for over a decade. We have been best friends since I was born, except for that brief stage where she liked her cat stuffed animal Felix better. We lived together in college. We talk or text every day. Many times. Often on speaker. Just doing our daily lives while periodically chatting but mostly containing the chaos around us. She has two kids, four and under. I have three kids, five and under. It’s busy. If I don’t hear from her for a day or two and she hasn’t responded to my 17 phone calls, I’ll text her husband. The last time this happened, turns out they were at their anniversary dinner. OOPS. Sorry, Aron! Real romance means interruptions by your sis-in-law. A sistermoon is like a honeymoon, only the romance is replaced by sisterly talking. And the hours in bed are for doing said talking. Or watching Men in Black III because they filmed some of it on her old street in Manhattan and we were trying to spot it the whole time (didn’t see it, still loved the movie), followed by hours of exegesis on the merits of different schooling methodologies. When the cabbie asked us how we met as we rode to the airport, away from the Florida paradise, we said, “Our parents introduced us.” This is what our sistermoon looked like (in case you didn’t follow along on instagram or her instagramz): Necklace from Far & Wide Collection, a gift from my sister!…
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Since BabyLoves is really more like PowerBoy these days at almost 18 months, it seemed appropriate to make mental notes of what a third born child actually uses as a toddler, versus those reams of items you think you need (and, indeed, you do need!) the first go ’round. His personality is both insanely sweet and totally fire-breathing dragon. He will utter “gggeeenntle” before biting me while nursing. He will snuggle up with my dad for days on end, and swing a bat at his sister’s head, or lob a candle at her. He has been walking since ten months, running since ten months and two days, and went through a climbing phase that has led me to believe he will be a mountaineer. Right now he understands pretty much every direction, and is fairly compliant with most of them. Except removing the humidifier water jugs. Those he drags around at every opportunity. And throwing books into the toilet. That, too, is a mystical experience for him, punctuated with tearing pages out of them first. His do-or-die toys // activites consist of: 1) Books: his latest ones Little Blue Truck: gift from his Godparents and the lyricism is just great! Roadwork: great cadences and lots of outdoorsy stuff he likes. Slide & Find Trucks: slide. find. trucks. win. Colors: Bright Baby: gift from a dear friend when my daughter was born but he’s obsessed! 2) Cardboard box Anything that he can sit inside. Like a cat. Or be dragged around in…
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