To my daughter who will soon be a Kindergartner:

Abigail Grace, there absolutely aren't enough words in the dictionary that could adequately describe my love for you. I have spent the last 5 years of your life watching you grow into this amazingly spirited child. You blow me away with your kindness, love and unwavering ability to see the best in everyone. I have spent the majority of your life as a stay-at-home parent and have enjoyed every beautiful moment at home with you. In the very few moments I spent away from you, I delicately picked those who would watch over you. I placed people in your life who I believe are people I can trust with you. I have hand picked your friends, and mine, to be within your worthiness. However, the barrier that I have placed around you, at some point, has to come down. I have to allow you to meet new people. I have to give you the room that you need to grow into the person you will someday become. I have to allow you to make your own mistakes, and sometimes that means allowing you to fall down. I can't begin to describe to you how much this terrifies me. How much I wish I could keep you close always and never let anyone hurt you. I've seen the look on your face when someone is mean to you. I've always been able to step right in, dry all the tears and make it all better. As I send you into a world that is cruel, and unforgiving, surrounded by children who have been hurt and are sometimes hurtful, I just want you to know how amazing you are. You light up our lives with your smile and personality. You are uniquely beautiful. And I love you, beyond measure, beyond words. I will always be here, as your rock, as your cheerleader, as your friend and most importantly, as your Mother.

I. Mom.

It's been a while. Why has it been a while? Oh you know, because I'm a Mom of 3 screaming, crying, tantrum throwing children. Yep, that about covers it. I hear and see a lot of people commenting about how stay at home Mom's don't do anything, or that they don't do enough. Not that I'm not a biased party due to the fact that I am a stay-at-home parent, but let me just tell you, the rumors you hear, coffee from the drive through, Netflix watching, dancing around the house in your pajamas....it's all true. Except, you are only getting a coffee in the drive through because you just spent 26 hrs of soothing a screaming, teething toddler and they want chicken nuggets and you need to stay awake long enough to drive home. My Netflix watching consists of Curious George and Caillou while juggling housework and 50 other tasks. I also just danced through the living room in my pajamas because it was the only way to get my teething toddler to crack a smile and it had been way too long since I had seen that. Oh, and I was wearing my pajamas because you do not even want to know how long it's been since I've showered and when I put said pajamas on I had just gotten out of the shower and was ready, for what I thought, was going to be a goodnight's sleep. No, not all days are this crazy, just most of them

Anyway

I wasn't a great Mother today. Today I was upset with my 5 year old for not knowing how to do math, I was irritated with one of my 2 year olds because she undressed herself for the third time, I was aggravated with my other 2 year old because she wouldn't go to sleep and lay down when she was suppose to. Today I spent more time arguing with my children, than enjoying them. Today, I failed.

Some days I'm really proud of my parenting, in fact, most days. I read articles about kids who were given drugs and brought out to the woods to be burned, and about parents who forget their kids in the car, and here I am, bashing just about everything I did today. My kids were fed, properly cared for, given hugs and kisses, played with, and still I feel guilty. I yelled when a ball was thrown and knocked down the mirror, I yelled louder when the same ball was thrown and knocked down our clock, and I yelled again when I went to their room and found them awake for the hundredth time I've been in there trying to get them to sleep. I scolded the kids for running in the house, fighting, throwing things, not eating their food, throwing said food on the floor, yelling in the house, slamming doors, getting into things they weren't suppose to, and whining about every. single. thing.

Every day is not like this. Not every day is this difficult. Most the time when these days are difficult, they aren't doing anything out of the ordinary, they are being 5 and 2 year olds, they are doing what they do best. It's really not them, it's me. I was anxious about everything today, exhausted, nauseous, irritated, frustrated, and completely not myself. Although I will say, they usually listen better too. I'm beginning to think that when we have these days where we clash heads all day, it's all of us having a hard day at the same time.

We all can't be perfect every day. I can't be incredibly patient, understanding, relaxed and carefree every day. Life isn't perfect, and neither am I. So today I yelled, I argued, I was frustrated, but I fed them anyway, I played with them anyway, I changed them anyway, and I loved them anyway. Lets just try again tomorrow, shall we?

The Fourth Child

As many of you already know, we are expecting our fourth child. We tried for only a few months before we got pregnant. Actively trying to conceive a child was a whole new experience for me. As my other pregnancies were "accidental." I never saw myself with 4 children. It wasn't in the plan. I wanted 3 children, 3 years apart, 2 girls and 1 boy. This was all suppose to happen after my nursing degree. My plans were laughed at when my second pregnancy was twin girls. And now, here we are, carrying the child that will be just under 3 years younger than our twins. Number 4.

My Mom had a friend when I was growing up that I can easily say had a hand in raising me. She was there for my family during many of our rough patches, and for that, I will be forever grateful. She had 4 children. I loved being at her house. There was always something going on, always fun to be had, and always a lot of kids around. No, they weren't rich, and didn't always have the biggest house, but she always decorated it beautifully and made it home. The amount of love, excitement and joy in their home made me never want to leave.

I hope someday to be that house. The house that all of the children gather at to have fun because there's just so much excitement. I want my home to be chaos. I want to always have something going on and be surrounded by my children and their friends. I want to hear the echos of children laughing all through my house for as long as I can. No, we aren't rich, and I do plan on finishing my degree in order to make sure my kids can go to college, but I know my children will never go without. They never have. They have closets full of clothes, food in their bellies, and the largest amount of toys I've ever seen any kid have. Our kids have what they need not because we are "well off," but because we sacrifice anything and everything we have to in order to give them the life and things they deserve. We've been doing this for 3 children, why not 4? I'd be lying if I said that the thought of having 4 kids never overwhelmed me, but it brings more joy than panic, more love than sorrow, and more calm than chaos. I'm so ready to complete our family, to sit on our couch with our 4 kids and look over and smile at my husband in complete and utter content. I'm ready.

Parenting, despite anxiety.

I am a Mother. I also have an anxiety disorder. I could say that I am a Mother with anxiety. But I am not. I am a Mother DESPITE my anxiety. My anxiety and I are not friends. We do not work well together. In fact, they hate each other.

Anxious me and rational me are two very different people.  Rational me thinks that calling every hospital in a 50 mile radius because my husband was a half hour late is over kill. Anxious me is just doing what she has to do to get through. And let's face it, we are all just doing what we have to. So I'll call, until I see him pull into my drive way. I'll take my child to the ER because they are breathing just slightly funny and while it's probably just because they have a cold, they could have pneumonia and die in their sleep before I'm awake. And then I'll have to face something that I'll never live through. Something that no amount of anything can fix. I won't survive it. I know me, and I know what I'm capable of handling. Losing a child isn't one of them.

I could tell you that my anxiety makes me less of a Mother, or less of a Wife, but I don't believe that. I often think that it makes me a better Mother, a better Wife. I double check everything in our home for fear of my children getting injured, and not just like any normal parent would, but obsessively. I check doors, things that get hot, the temp in my girls rooms, the weather, and anything else that may injure them through out the night. It takes a toll on me. Sometimes I can't sleep because I worry I forgot something, so I get up and I do it all over again. I worry obsessively about my kids. It's exhausting, it's trying, but do I think it makes me less of a Mother? No. I worry about my Husband in the same way. I worry he is constantly going to run off into the sunset with an easier woman, again, rational me knows he loves me and he's not that kind of man. However, irrational me would rather we do things in order to prevent that from ever happening. So I do my best to put my issues aside and try to be good at it all, without fail. Because in my head, there's no room for failure, ever.

I'd be lying if I said it never interfered with my parenting. Ever had a panic attack in the middle of Walmart? Well, when that happens everything I was going to buy is suddenly unimportant. I leave the cart in the middle of the store, walk straight to the car, and we go home. I manage to disassociate from it when my kids are up, and they need me. I have this way of pulling out of whatever I have to pull out of to do what I have to do, for them. I do my best to stay busy, because if I'm busy with rational thoughts, I have no room for panic. I have no room for mistakes. I don't get to think about what it means that this person is texting me a few words at a time and they probably hate me now. I don't have time to think about how the rash on my childs arm could be some kind of flesh eating bacteria and I have to obsessively hover over it to ensure they are okay. I don't have time for anything but this ballet recital, teaching my twins how to count to ten, or making sure my husband has work clothes and food. I don't have time to worry.

However, my anxiety doesn't care. Because there it is, in the back of my mind, nagging, frustrating, controlling every single horrible thought. So I worry about the car, the kids, the house, the pets, money, the bills, my knee, the faucet, this event, that event, this friend, that family member, and it goes on...and on...and on. I get up, every day, and I be the best possible parent that I can be, despite my anxiety. I love them unconditionally and without fail every single second of every single day, and because of that, I'll stay up all night because one of them is coughing. I'll worry about the big things, and the little things, and the things that don't even matter, and I'll do it while being a Mother. I'll just continue to keep the faith that one day, this won't be so hard. One day, I will worry a healthy amount and nothing more, some day, but not today.

Shame in the check out

Why does needing assistance mean that we have to choose between our pride, our ability to stand up tall, and feeding our children?  It shouldn't.  As a whole, we should be less selfish.  We should be glad we are alleviating a heavy burden from struggling parents.  We should be grateful we live in a country that has a system to help them.  And I know that some abuse the system,  or don't try to help themselves out of the situation they are in, but that doesn't give us any right to throw them all into one category. 

I'm grateful my family is in a better place.  But a year ago our lives were very different,  and every time I had to swipe that card, I tried to do it as quick as I could. I didn't want anyone to see. I felt ashamed.  I felt judged.

Yesterday,  I watched a young Mother with her 3 kids.  She avoided eye contact with the cashier,  looked at the ground,  hoped no one would notice.  I saw the blue card swiped and quickly placed in her back pocket.  She watched the prompts nervously hoping it would go through. She was me a year ago.  She looked at her 3 small boys and then I smiled at her. I told her she had a beautiful family and she thanked me before pushing her boys and groceries out to the car.

These families on assistance are not horrible people. A lot of them are people who put their pride aside and risk being belittled so they can be sure their families eat. A lot of them are even our Veterans. So next time you see a well dressed Mom, a stressed out Mom, a single Dad or a large family on welfare, just smile and tell them they have a beautiful family.  You don't know everyone's story,  you don't know their burdens, but maybe you can help them feel a little less small.

Let's be kind to one another, life is already hard enough.

Why I shouldn't buy stamps.

I bought stamps the other day. Not just a couple, but a whole freaking book. When I have stamps in my house I for some reason feel the need to send things out, or write letters. While writing letters can be fun, when you have as many estranged family members as I do, it's like gambling.


I haven't spoken to my Grandmother in over 3 years. And we were barely talking then. My Father has been dead for almost 10 years, and when he died, most of our family did with him. No, not literally, but might as well have. You would think that they would have wanted to be there for us during our difficult time, instead, they all decided that we were guilty of things that didn't happen, or weren't in our control. I was 13 when my Father died, and my Brother was only 19. We were children. We were sad and broken. We needed them.


There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of them. Think of the kind of Great Grandparents they would be to my children, think of the Great Uncles they could have had. I always wonder about the kind of stories they would tell my children about my Dad. I'm a sentimental idiot. I constantly want to try to make amends and bring our broken family back together. It kills me to see what has happened to it. So, when I bought stamps, I decided to write my Nana. I decided to tell her how I feel, and try to repair what has broken. I did what I always do, and I put my heart on the line.


It could go well, and we could start talking again, we could be the family we really are. I'll do my best to pretend I didn't hold it against her for years, and she will try to put everything in the past and love me anyway. It could end up good, or even great. However, there's also a good possibility that it could end badly. So badly that things are never repairable. I can be rejected again and feel that horrible pain. I could have my heart ripped from chest again. It could feel like losing my Dad all over again.


I want my children to know them. I want my children to know who my Father was, in ways that I can't describe to them. I want them to have a complete family unlike my very broken one. I don't want them to know even a little bit of what this abandonment feels like. I want them to know all the love in the world and never have to deal with the pain and the hand that my brother and I have been dealt. I want things to be perfect for them.


So here I am, staring at a letter with a stamp, ready to send. I have a lighter on one side, and my coat on the other. I put my coat on and curse myself the entire walk to the mailbox. I rolled the dice.


I shouldn't have bought stamps.