80's Love

I am thankful for many things. Not the least of which is my love for the 80's: The big hair, obnoxious shoulder pads and killer synthesized music. Pretty sure that will be the decade of choice in heaven.


So apparently I've spoken fondly of this time span on more than one occasion to my girls, because this happened ...

I took Megan shopping for some warmer clothes in preparation for her week of Outdoor Education camp in the mountains.

After showing the dressing room attendant our items, she looked at Meg and said, "Pick any room that suits your fancy."

Meg looked at me and I gave her the Don't say a WORD look.

Once we were in the dressing room with the door closed, she looked at me and whispered mockingly, "Pick any room that SUITS your FANCY." And started cracking up.

Me:  Have you never heard that phrase before?

Meg:  NO! Why, is that a saying from the EIGHTIES???"

Me:  Ha!! No.

Later that night we were sitting at the table with my husband and sister, and Meg wanted to tell them about the oh so hilarious phrase she'd heard earlier that day. After she was done ...

Meg to my sister: My mom's favorite singer from the 80's was called Princess.

Me:  PRINCE not Princess.

Meg: Whatever.


My husband then pointed out that Prince wore enough make-up and feminine clothing to be called Princess. 

It was then MY turn to say, "Whatever."

Spare the Rod, SAVE the Child? My Messy Beautiful.

Motherhood. Do I even remember what my vision of motherhood was before I had children? 

It wasn't one of me being told that my baby needed an MRI to rule out spina bifida.

And it wasn't one of me locking myself in the laundry room, just to distance myself from my fifth grader who had successfully pushed every one of my buttons, not once, but TWICE, and was just one closed door away from meeting her Maker. 

It certainly wasn't one of me holding down my screaming 11 year old daughter, on a doctor's table, while she endured the lancing and draining of a MRSA staph infection boil, ON MOTHER'S DAY no less.

They say, "Motherhood is not for sissies." 
I say, "And HOW!!"

The other day I got to experience yet one more messy motherhood moment ...

My 10 year old, Megan, informed me that she needed new tennis shoes. She was on her second pair for this school year, and they were wearing out. Now what you have to understand is that each shoe shopping trip with Meg, except for the miracle trip of August 2013, ends in harsh words, huge tears, lots of hurt feelings ... AND NO SHOES. So needless to say, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of trying to find a THIRD pair of tennis shoes in the same school year.

Nevertheless, I took her after work on a Wednesday when I had exactly two hours before having to be at a choir rehearsal. It's a good thing I'm one of those moms who never EVER needs "down time", because those two hours were spent driving to four different stores, and coming home empty handed footed.

The next night Meg was wanting to venture back out to look for shoes, but she had math homework. I told her we would go after she finished her math, and she actually complied and started pushing her pencil. 

After knocking out a few problems, she asked if we could go. I reminded her that she had to finish her math first.

Now I'm sure most 10 year olds would reply to such a reminder with, "Yes Mama." MINE, however, began screaming things like ...

I DON'T WANT TO!!  
I HATE MATH!!  
I'M NEVER DOING MATH AGAIN!! 
I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT!!
AND I HATE YOU!! 
I WISH I WAS NEVER BORN!!! 

Then she ran to her room and slammed the door.

At least she doesn't get worked up over the little stuff.

A few minutes later, she came out of her room completely composed, apologized, and finished a few more math problems.

Then, apparently, it was time to replay the previous scene.

That's right ... she asked if we could go shoe shopping, I told her we could after her math was done, she yelled like she was trying to break a world record for highest human voice decibel levels ever reached without electronic amplification, ran to her room, slammed the door, came out a few minutes later to apologize and tackle another few math problems.

FOR. THE. LOVE. OF. GOD.   WHO DOES THIS?!?!?!?

I sat watching her in disbelief. Who yells their bloody head off at someone, then 5 minutes later apologizes and just moves on with life like nothing happened?

It was soon after pondering this, that Megan started in ...

Meg:  I said I was SORRY.

Me:  I know you did.

Meg:  Then why don't you FORGIVE ME?!

Me:  I did forgive you.

Meg:  Then why do you still act MAD?!!!

Me:  Just because I've forgiven you, doesn't mean I'm not still hurting from the way you treated me. You just yelled at me TWICE. You said you HATED ME. That's gonna take some time to get over.

Meg: I KNEW you didn't forgive me!! You HATE ME!!

Cue: Running to bedroom and slamming door.

And no, it wasn't me doing the running and slamming, though I was awfully tempted.

Okay, fast forward 30-45 minutes, and we've now run that same scene FIVE TIMES. I'm not even kidding, but somewhere in the midst of it, the wretched math homework got done, and I sprouted at least 50 grey hairs. There was still 40 minutes before I had to leave for an appointment, so in the spirit of the message I'd just heard at church 3 days prior about God being a God of 1001 chances, I decided to extend some MAJOR GRACE and still take her shoe shopping.

Can we all pause for a moment to meditate on what an AMAZING GRACE FILLED MOTHER I was for those 5 minutes?

Thank you.

I didn't see the next tantrum coming. I really thought we were done. Like I'd gone through all the transitional labor, pushed, delivered and now it was gonna be cuddle time.

Wrong.

All I remember is sitting in the car, waiting for Meg to come out. She walked into the garage and started going off about me not really forgiving her, so I just started backing the car out onto the driveway in hopes that she'd calm down and get in.

Oh she got in alright, but as I pushed the button to close the garage door, she jumped out of the (still parked) car and ran back into the garage before the door shut. All the while yelling at the top of her lungs about not wanting to go unless I really LOOKED like I'd forgiven her.

I glanced over to see my neighbor pretending to focus on the sweeping of her porch, wondering what she must think of me. Then I remembered that she's raised her kids, has grandkids, and a few years ago assured me that screaming children just go with the territory.

To shorten a ridiculously long story ... after Meg went back and forth to the car two more times, I snapped. I. WAS. DONE.

She knew the look on my face was one to run from, so she did just that as I pulled back into the garage and closed the door. I went straight for the kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon, then marched to her room where she had run for cover.

As I gave her a piece of my completely frazzled mind, and let her know how hard the spanking was going to be, I had a brief moment of sanity where I realized that I was in no frame of mind to spank my ornery and obviously emotionally hurting daughter. I knew right then that I could not carry out that kind of physical punishment without doing some serious damage, so I did the next best thing ...

... took away her iPad.

Boy did THAT get the tears flowing!!

That evening, this mom, who believes whole heartedly in spankings, chose to spare the rod in order to save the child (and relationship.)

When I got home later, this handmade craft from Megan was sitting on my side of the bed:

And that is my "Messy Beautiful." 

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior

P.S. ... I just had lunch with a dear friend and mentor, who upon hearing of my struggles with Megan and her temper, highly recommended the book Battlefield of the Mind (kids edition) by Joyce Meyer. I plan on getting it this weekend and look forward to giving my precious girl some tools on how to control her actions when she feels like exploding all over us in a fit of rage. You can find it on Amazon here for as little as 99 cents for a used copy.

Intruders

I was rockin' my pj's yesterday afternoon by 4:15 p.m.  It's something I do whenever I come home from work and know I'm in for the night. Evenings like that are rare, so I certainly make the most of them when they happen.

It was a stormy night, and I was home alone with my girls when there was a knock at the front door.

I was in the front room, and my girls were in their bedrooms. I thought to myself,  I'm not expecting any visitors, it's dark and rainy outside, and hello? I'M IN MY PAJAMAS. Clearly I was NOT going to answer the door.

Of course that's about the time that the doorbell started ringing, and I heard talking and laughing outside on my doorstep between a male and female.

Okaay.

I peeked out the front blinds to try and catch a glimpse of them as they left (our door has no peephole, just a long glass window on the side of the door, so once you set foot in the entryway, you're pretty much committed to opening it or awkwardly explaining through the door why you won't be opening it.)

The backsides of the door knocking people looked harmless enough as they walked back across our driveway, but I still felt confident in my decision to let their knocks go unanswered, because again, PAJAMAS.

It was then that I got a text from Megan asking if he was gone yet:

Um, wait. She saw him LOOK IN OUR HOUSE?!?!

I headed back to her room and she met me in the hallway. I asked her what she meant by him "looking in our house?" She said that when she came into the entryway, he was looking inside the side window by the door.

EWW.

But that's not all.

She said he had been IN THE BACK YARD,  KNOCKING ON HER BEDROOM WINDOW!!!  WHAT?!?!?

I started for her bedroom door, but she begged me not to go in because he would see me.

I assured her it would be alright, and did so WITHOUT FAINTING or anything scaredy-cattish like that. 

I know. Impressive.

I cracked the door open and slid my hand over to the light switch to turn it off. Then I slowly opened the door until I could see if he was still in our backyard.

HE TOTALLY WAS.

For a split second, I freaked out, on the inside. Then my mind began to process what I was seeing:  The man was trying to repair a board in our shared fence that had come down during the storm! And THEN I realized that once he finished the repair, he would be LOCKED in our backyard!! Lovely. I was gonna have to go out there. BLASTED PAJAMAS.

So I threw on my long coat, grabbed an umbrella and went out back ...

Me:  Helloooooo.

Him:  Hi there.

Me:  Sorry about not answering the door earlier, but I was ... in my pajamas, so ... yeah.

Him:  No problem. I fixed the board. Would you mind letting me out? I was afraid I might have to scale the fence.

So I led him out, THROUGH THE HOUSE, thanked him for the repair, and that was that.

SURREAL.

Welcome to Womanhood

Meg, like most women, does not like shopping for jeans. This can be a problem when all of your jeans from the year before are too tight. Thankfully, her aunt and uncle took her clothes shopping last July for her birthday - right before school started. Somehow they were able to get her to try on clothes at Justice, and walk out with several items INCLUDING one pair of jeans. Woo hoo!

Call me crazy, but as a mom I had some lofty idea of her starting school with more than one pair of jeans, so I took her shopping at another store. After much frustration, she found a pair she said she liked. That's all I needed to hear. Purchase made. Mom happy.

Fast forward 8-10 weeks, and I can't get her to wear ANY other jeans, except the birthday pair from Justice. I asked her why she doesn't wear the other pair I bought for her, and she said, "They're not as comfortable as these." UGH. And since I only do laundry on the weekends, they're pretty much walking around by themselves come Friday.

Last weekend, out of desperation, I made her go with me to Justice to buy a few more pairs of these magical jeans, because you KNOW the current pair is going to fall apart during some stretch exercise in PE, and THEN what?! She'll have no choice but to go to school half naked, and I know for a fact THAT is not in dress code.

We went to the rack, found the EXACT same style and size that she currently sports 24/7, and THEY DIDN'T FIT. Are you EVEN KIDDING ME?! That's right, they were too tight. So we went UP a size, and they were too big. SERIOUSLY?! Where's the JUSTICE in THAT, I ask you?!

Sadly, we left without new jeans. The problem now, because I think she's actually starting to outgrow them, is that they're too tight after coming out of the dryer.

This morning ...




Me:  Have your jeans stretched out a little after wearing them yesterday?

She replied in a tone that demanded the snapping of a "Z" afterwards, and made me wonder if she was somehow part African-American ...

Meg:  Yeah. Yesterday they were squeezing things that SHOULD NOT be SQUEEZED.

And all I could think (after throwing my head back laughing) was, "Girl, I hear THAT."



It's not easy raising girls, and I will most likely pull the majority of my hair out in the process, but at least there will be times like this morning when we can just laugh about how absurd womanhood can be.

Worst Mom Ever: PROOF

How can a child who makes you laugh so hard one minute, turn you into a raving lunatic the next? I'm beginning to think it's a gift. Just not for me.

Megan is being stretched this year to read one book every month. Approximately 10 pages per day during the school week is what's expected. Each month there's a different genre to read, and this month is Mystery, so naturally I suggested a Nancy Drew book.

Um ... mistake? Let me go ahead and solve that mystery for you: YES. HUGE.

When is the last time YOU read a Nancy Drew book? They're worded so ... so ... old fashioned, for lack of a better term. I never thought anything of it back when I read them, and Amanda didn't seem to be bothered by the 1940's vernacular, but Megan isn't feeling it. AT ALL.

So that means that we (Henry and myself), have been reading with her every night, to make sure she understands what she's reading.

Last night did NOT go well. (Sometimes I wish I were a truck driver or drunken sailor {no offense} so that I could use some more colorful words to convey just how NOT WELL it went.)

The evening started off fine enough, but after "dinner" (Do microwaved chicken nuggets count as dinner? Don't answer that.) I asked Meg if she wanted dessert before or after we read? She stated that she didn't want dessert, because she was still hungry for regular food and therefore wanted a snack.

Me:  Okay, what would you like?

Meg:  Peaches. PLEASE tell me you bought PEACHES.

Me:  Sorry, I bought produce at WalMart last night, and they didn't have any peaches. We have apples, pears or frozen berries.

This was not what she wanted to hear. So I listed half a dozen other snack suggestions, all of which were shot down because, "You never buy anything good!" And on and on she went.

Guess who was in NO MOOD to be criticized by a 10 year old after a long day at work?! THAT'S RIGHT. So I told her I'd heard enough, and that she could go find something herself.

From there things went from bad to worse at ludicrous speed. Since there was nothing good, in her opinion, to eat in the house, and she was done putting me in my place as far as grocery shopping is concerned, she decided we might as well get to reading. Only there was a tiny problem with that: I NO LONGER WANTED TO READ WITH HER. EVER. She'd successfully pushed every one of my buttons, not once, but TWICE, and I WAS DONE.

I told her I wouldn't be reading with her, because she'd made me too mad and I had no interest in reading while I was so upset.

She didn't get it.

So she proceeded to hound me until I actually heard myself say, "You need to STOP. I am NOT going to read with you. If you continue to bug me about this, I'm going to start YELLING at you." Seemed like a fair warning to me.

She continued.

So I YELLED. A LOT.

She continued. SERIOUSLY?! 

So I yelled another warning, "YOU NEED TO STOP AND LEAVE ME ALONE OR I AM GOING TO PHYSICALLY HURT YOU!!"

CLEARLY this child has never had a severe enough spanking to be concerned about such a threat, because she KEPT ON BADGERING ME TO READ WITH HER!!!

It was then that I fled (read: power-walked) from her and into the laundry room where I locked myself in and texted Henry that he best be home ASAP if he wanted to remain a family of FOUR.

It was a VERY LONG 25 minutes in that laundry room, because the ENTIRE TIME I was there, Meg was texting me:

And after about 40 of these texts, I received the grand finale. 

Are you ready? 

BEHOLD:

That's right. Just when I thought the night couldn't be salvaged, and that I'd be in that foul mood for all eternity, she texted me a photo of MYSELF with the words, "WORST MOM WHO WOULD NEVER READ TO ME!!!!"

Oh my WORD. Is that not PRICELESS?! What a KEEPSAKE!!

I fully expect to see it hanging in our Post Office by the weekend.

GO ME!!

Baked Tacos. Sort of.

A few weeks ago, Henry made baked tacos for dinner. Have you ever? Well you need to. They're AH-MA-ZING. The girls LOVED them, ESPECIALLY Megan. (Click here for the recipe. You're WELCOME.)

After tasting them, I was convinced I'd never be able to make them myself, because I don't cook, remember? But Henry thought I could, because I've actually browned ground beef before (a miracle in and of itself, I'm aware.) Then you just add a few things to the browned ground, sprinkle cheese and bake.

Tonight I thought I'd give it a whirl. I told Megan of my intentions, and she was majorly on board. Amanda, on the other hand, reminded me that they already had Mexican food a couple nights ago, which hello? What kind of totally awesome-sauce of a week is it when you have MEXICAN food TWICE?! Anyway, it was Taco Bell, to be exact, because Henry & I went out for dinner ALONE to celebrate 19 years of mawidge (ala Princess Bride). I know. NINETEEN!!! Crazy.

Alright, so since Henry was working late, and Amanda was gonna have some microwavable fare, it was just me & the Megster for baked tacos, which was fine with me.

I made them. Let me say that again. I. MADE. THEM. Aaaaand they were FABULOUS.  I'm not even kidding. The baker in me, who's most comfortable working with the likes of BUTTER, SUGAR and CHOCOLATE in the kitchen, actually COOKED tonight. WITH MEAT. 

As Meg got down to her last 3 bites ...

Meg:  Why are these so runny? Dad's weren't this runny.

Me:  Well I used DAD'S recipe, so they MUST have been this runny.

Meg:  They weren't. What's in these?

Me:  It might be the tomato sauce.

Meg then proceeded to gag on the food that was in her mouth, which 2 seconds ago was perfectly yummy.

Meg:  GROSS!!!

Me:  There's nothing gross about tomato sauce! You were FINE with them when DAD made 'em.

Meg:  Blech. I'm done.

Me:  So I guess this means I NEVER have to make THESE again, huh?

She shook her head and walked away. 

Me:  FINE! GOOD! This is why I NEVER COOK!!


They can eat cold cereal for dinner the rest of their live long days for all I care. As if cooking every night isn't lame enough, cooking for KIDS is just STUPID.

I am officially on strike.

The Hell that is Shoe Shopping for Kids

I am a woman. I love shoe shopping. The two always go hand in hand, or so I thought.

Once Megan was old enough to pick out her own shoes, I knew something wasn't right. I mean, she likes trying on women's super high stilettos that are usually only worn by strippers and tiny Asian gals. No offense. She HATES trying on real shoes for herself.

This is a problem when a new school year is about to start, and the only tennis shoes in the closet are too tight with holes in the soles.

Knowing what a chore it would be to find her new tennis shoes for school by August 12th, we started back in June while on vacation. We spent an hour at an outlet mall on our way down south, with high hopes that she'd find something at one of the 3 tennis shoe stores.

Yeah right.

The Nike tennis shoes all came up too high on the ankle. 

This crushed me. I mean, LOOK at how DARLING those black and hot pink shoes are!!! I should have bought a pair for myself just out of spite. How were we able to walk away from those? I'm still shaking my head, which is bad, because it's been 3 months and people are starting to think I have a tick.

On to the Sketchers store where NOTHING worked. Not even the to-the-knee-high-tops with like 6 rhinestone buckles, which would have been PERFECTLY PRACTICAL for outdoor PE in 110 degree weather. Of course, just when I thought all hope was lost, she spotted a $65 style containing some kind of magical memory foam inserts. Praise GOD they didn't have her size, because I would have been willing to skip several meals or hitchhiked the rest of the way to San Diego if it meant that the shoe shopping torment would come to an end.

The last stop was the Vans store.

Here's the deal with Vans: Megan has wanted a pair for a long time, but apparently all the surfers and skaters who WEAR Vans have wide feet. Like WIDE feet. Unfortunately, Megan inherited my narrow arrows. Not that that stopped her from dragging us to 3 different stores in the mall several months ago, convinced that one store would carry different widths of Vans than another store.

Alright, so with that Vans history, I was fairly confident that searching the Vans outlet store was a major waste of time as well as a meltdown waiting to happen.

Shocker: I was right.

Not sure if she tried on 3 or 300 pairs, all I know is that they all "slipped" in the back where her narrow heels tried their best to be all wide and stuff. Make no mistake, Vans cannot be fooled.

So we headed back to the car before her frustration could boil over and ruin our then 2 hour old vacation.

A few days later, being gluttons for punishment, we took her to the mall on a quest for new sneakers. Um, let's just say BAD IDEA. The meltdown began as soon as we walked into the first store and announced that we were there to find her some shoes.

At this point I seriously started to consider homeschooling, because I'm pretty sure that's the only school where a 5th grader can go all day BAREFOOT. Grrrrr.

Fast forward to August 10th. Two days before the new school year starts. The girls and I returned to the outlet mall with friends to finish up our back-to-school shopping. I will admit that I was somewhat panicked regarding the whole Meg shoe situation. So when she announced that she wanted to go to the Vans store first, I bit my tongue, HARD.

In a total and complete act of mercy, God allowed Meg to find her dream shoes, in her dream color, and IN HER NON-DREAM-FOR-REAL-DEAL SIZE!!! When she tried them on and said those blessed words, "They fit," it was all I could do to not hug the crap out of every person in that store. I even  texted a photo to Henry of the Miracle Shoes:

A sight to behold, I know.

"Too good to be true," you say? 

Uh, yeah, PRETTY MUCH.

That's right. After wearing them to school a few days, she broke the news to me that they kinda slipped on the heel.

Thinking back, she really should have just switched out my contact lens cleaner with jalapeno juice. I'm pretty sure that would have been less painful.

Sooo after purchasing two different types of heel inserts, and being told that they felt weird and still slipped, I gave up. Forever and ever amen, because I was SO DONE with her uncooperative mini-me feet!!

Then, just like His mercies being new every morning, the next day she put the Vans on and headed out the door!?

Me:  Wait! What about your shoes?

Meg:  What about 'em?

Me:  I thought they slipped in the back and stuff?

Meg:  Well, I thought they were slipping, but I guess they weren't. They just felt like they were.

And that's the last thing I remember before waking up in a padded cell.

5:00 AM = MY TIME!!!

I am NOT, I repeat, NOT a MORNING PERSON. Forgive me if I've mentioned this 500 times before. After this morning, it bears repeating.

I've always been in awe of the woman described in Proverbs 31. Especially verse 15 which reads, "She gets up while it is still night ..."  At least, I USED to be in awe of that verse ... until I had children. Then I realized, that the only way to get ANYTHING done for yourself, or have any ALONE time, is to GET UP WHILE IT IS STILL NIGHT!!

This is why I hobble out of bed at 4:45 in the A stinkin' M. It gives me time to do what I need to do in the bathroom, then exercise, then shower and so on. As much as I despise mornings,  it's something I've just had to accept.

So today, after removing my pajamas, but before putting on my workout clothes, I stepped on the scale.

Now. Please tell me I'm not the only woman (or man?) in this country who weighs themselves in their sweet nothings first thing in the morning?! Everyone does this, RIGHT???  I'm going to assume you're all nodding your heads with me and yelling, "You bet your sweet bippy!"

Okay. I believe I've also mentioned before that our bathroom door does not lock, so if I ever want complete privacy, I have to remember to lock the BEDROOM door.

Of course, I pretty much felt like I was safe leaving it unlocked at 4:45 in the morning!!

I'm stupid.

Don'tcha know, RIGHT as I looked down at the number on the scale to see that I was actually down a pound (woo hoo!) HERE COMES MEGAN. SERIOUSLY?!?!?!?

She was quite nonchalant about the whole thing ...

Megan: Hi Mom.

Me:  Uh, hi?

Megan stares.

Me:  Thanks for knocking.

Megan:  Huh? 

I motion to my nakedness.

Megan:  Oh sorry.

It was then I realized that she was there to stay, so as quickly as I could, I frantically began stuffing my 43 year old body into the same workout shorts and sports bra I wore in my 20's. Sadly, I'm not even kidding, because why buy new exercise stuff when we all KNOW I'm gonna' be back to a size 4 in a few weeks? Clearly I'm all about attainable goals.

Me:  Did you NEED something?

Megan:  My alarm went off and it was all, "EEE-oh-EEE-oh-EEE-oh."

Me:  Yes, I heard it. Were you gonna' shower in here or what?

Megan:  Oh yeah.

Me:  Then why don't you get yourself a towel?

Megan:  Okay.

For the rest of the morning, I couldn't stop thinking about her expression as I clumsily stepped off the scale, all uncovered and stuff. I'm guessing she was looking at me, just like I looked at my mom so many years ago when I thought, "I will never look like that when I'm a mom."

I might as well break the news to her now. It happens to the best of us. We think it never will, but then one day you're shopping at a thrift store and the only jeans that fit your current body type, are from Coldwater Creek. And that's when you know ... you're all mom ... and you must ALWAYS LOCK THE DOOR.

Carol Brady: Offender

So far I've purchased seasons 1, 2 & 3 of The Brady Bunch for my girls. They love them almost as much as I do.  


The other day ...


Megan:  Amanda, it's your turn to pick an episode.


Amanda:  Um, how about one from season 3?


Megan:  NO!!  I will NOT watch season 3 ANYMORE!


Amanda:  Why not?  What's wrong with season 3?


Megan:  Mrs. Brady's HAIR!!  Have you SEEN it?!  It's TERRIBLE!!


Me:  Oh, it's not that bad, is it?

Megan:  MOM.  It's all short like a boy in the front, and then long like a girl in the back!! Show her Amanda.






Me:  Oh yeah.