 Sigh. Alright people, this thing needs some scrutiny, so lets mull it over for a minute, yes? Raise your hand if you are pro-breastfeeding. Wow, look at that, so many of you. Congratulations! That's fantastic. And now please raise, or keep your hand up, if you also believe that formula happens to be an excellent source of poison, disappointment, and lies. Man, would you look at that, still quite a few of with your hands up. Job well done ladies. No really, I'm serious. Being able to comprehend that "Breast is Best" while also managing to be a judgmental, shame throwing, twit sounds exhausting, so give yourself a pat on the tits, you've earned it. And now shut the F**K up. Truth be told, I'm only talking to a select few of you, but the few of you ass hat wearers know who you are. Except that...you don't. You have no freakin clue, actually, that you have an ass-shaped hat, resting atop your mom-shaming noggin, and I'd like to take this friendly opportunity to point it out to you. Why don't we begin by giving a brief description of what these ass-hat wearing, shame throwing moms might look like? You know, Just for fun. Like hypothetically... because i've DEFINITELY never met, or HAD similar thoughts to any of these types of moms, at ANY point in my life. *clears throat and invisibly elbows the unsarcastic dolt reading this post* The four moms mentioned below are unquestionably sporting an ass hat, can you relate? How To Get Ready For Pre-school Drop off With Three Littles: A Sh!tshow Of Epic Proportions9/13/2016  It started out simple enough... isn't that always the way? It was just a typical morning, trying to get my children ready to leave the house for my oldest son's preschool drop-off. But the catch here is that this is how EVERY MORNING goes in our house, give or take a few crazies. Now, do I always have to drive my preschooler and his brothers to school and do drop off? No. (Thank you mom!) But do I have to deal with getting three adorable sanity terrorists in, and out of, the house to at least go SOMEWHERE every day? You bet your sweet mom ass I do. And by choice! Because as crazy as it is, I'd much rather take the circus out, than to stay home with it and watch it parade around my home like a clutter breeding, snack destroying stampede. But there is no embellishment needed here, as I actually can't even imagine how it could get any more hectic....well, scratch that... actually I can, but let's not go there, alright? I'm more than fine with just the three littles in tow at the moment. People with 4 or more, you're my heroes!! And so here you have it, a typical preschool morning in 79 quick and easy steps:  I'll admit it.
Just a few short years ago, I frequently imagined early parenthood to be this beautifully complex conglomeration of teachable moments, studded with innocent giggles, and affectionate evenings spent curled up next to my sweet babies. I pictured myself being able to effectively tackle each unfamiliar rising challenge with a touch of my thirty-something wisdom, adequately gracious, and just clear enough in the moment to be articulate. I'd be authentically patient, and brimming with the astonishing amounts of mental energy that it takes to keep up with the countless questions, and daily antics that little people bring. And then one day, something incredibly eye opening and uniquely bizarre happened. I gave birth to an actual human child, on THIS planet. Fast forward three and a half years, and it appears that my wisest and most current interpretation of what parenting in the moment is, can best described as: "Hands OFF YOUR PENIS!!!!" "I said get DOWN!! No No NOOO!!! WTF Did you just lick his BUTT?!?!" Right. So... apparently, my induction into parenting could also be sufficiently summed up as: "Hello, I'm having a challenging day with my small flock of children, and an unfortunate bout of Tourette's Syndrome, how are you?!"  Parenting three children is oddly similar to carefully looking both ways before crossing the street, and then getting hit by an airplane. And while I haven't technically been through the pregnancy and infant stages at three separate points in time, somehow over the past three years I feel as though I've been through it 6 different times, with 9 different children. I suppose when your uterus starts favoring multiplication over addition, thereby bringing forth two children at a time into the world when your oldest is only two, then it's normal to feel this way? And quite possibly, time to stop having children altogether? Not sure, and I wouldn't know the difference anyways, but that doesn't change the fact that there is a peculiar normality that exists when you are parenting for the first, second and third time around. In fact, I've discovered that the extent to which my heart enlarges, and my capacity to love noticeably increases with each additional child, it is also directly and inversely proportional to the degree to which I give a shit. About the small things, that is. A sequential parenting phenomenon, if you will, that conversely influences our ability to concern ourselves with the mundane things that once seemed so important as they were when we first became parents. Like wipes warmers, for example -- what mastermind is decisively buying these? That would be me. Actually I'm kidding, but once upon a time I strongly considered it. Why? Because I knew nothing of how to co-exist with a tiny human, and I thought to myself "Surely the little chap would appreciate some warmed-up, ass wipes, right?" Well thankfully, that purchase never actualized, because as it turns out asses do in fact adapt to how you treat them, and continually seem to adjust to the cold or warm circumstances at hand. Because, of course they do. But I don't want to talk about husbands right now, just parenting, so let's get back to it.  If parenting has taught me anything, it's that I can do just about everything with only one hand. Actually, many things can even be accomplished with zero hands and one foot... but that's another ridiculous post entirely. There is an endless amount of hilariously crazy times to be had when you live with tiny humans, and the following relatable truths are no exception. Unless you happen to be a perfect parent... in which case, that's too bad. 1. Your current housekeeping style is best described as: "There appears to have been a struggle."  Even if it was immaculate one hour before your little people encountered it.
It's early morning.
Just a Monday. I lie half awake, luxuriating in the final moments of quiet that I'll have for the day, when I suddenly overhear my 3 year old alarm clock thump out of his bed, and dart down the hallway towards my room. Already? My door flings open, and I purposefully keep my eyes closed just to make sure that he knows I'm still "asleep". I hear him dash across the floor, and the bed shakes as he haphazardly crawls up to snuggle next to me. 6:40 am cuddles have been the norm since he's been able to climb out of his big boy bed. Thankfully today, it's not 3:40 am. Before I even have the chance to tell him "Mommy's still sleeping buddy" he's restlessly clutching my face, kissing my cheek and excitedly saying "it's morrninng mom!" in that permanently loud, yet innocent little boy inflection of his. He's yet to fully grasp the concept of an "inside voice", if such a thing even exists when you're a 3 year old boy. Above his familiar commotion, I make out the faint back and forth babbling coming from the twins nursery down the hall. Lately when they wake in the morning, they're comforted by the very sight of each other, and will sit for a while peeking through the crib rails while exchanging their chatty twin banter. A very welcomed variation from exhausted months past, when I was often awakened at a much earlier hour, by the ear-splitting melodies of their hunger driven wails. Sleepily, I roll myself out of bed and gradually make my way down the hall to their room, right as my big boy flies past me to extend his greetings for the day. A favorite pastime of his, no doubt. Walking in, their cheerful eyes meet with mine and I notice that their morning expectations of my presence is different lately, suggesting more of a joyful amusement, than that of a necessity or requirement. Such a subtle variance, yet today it's oddly palpable. They squeal up at me and clutch the crib rails as they pull to stand, resembling the big boys that they're too rapidly becoming, their wide eyes beaming at the pair of us. And although nearly imperceptible, in this curious moment my heart can practically see the slight chubbiness of their once cherubic faces transform from baby to toddler. Their bowed out, chunky baby legs becoming longer and leaner, and their voices somehow sounding slightly older. Cheerfully babbling my name now, "Mammama" they're reaching for me, and as I lean over to grab one, feeling his strong little arms hugging tight so he doesn't fall off when i go to scoop up his brother... It hits me. Like a bullet to the chest. In almost one week my babies will be turning one, which absurdly promises that in about seven short days, they'll no longer be considered babies. One week? As I hesitantly stand before such a perplexity, all I can do is contemplate the fact that this mind numbingly hard and inexplicably magical chapter in my life, of growing and birthing little miracles, and mothering newborns, and babies, is somehow coming to a close. This magnificent phase that began the instant that I learned I was pregnant with my first, that opened up to an eminant precipice on which I nervously stood, staring into the unknown abyss that is new motherhood, that so often seemed dauntless and never ending, is actually ending now and I can never have it back. No more middle of the night, helpless cries for mommy because they're starving and they need me. My very last taste of what it feels like to have tiny creatures who depend solely and completely on me for their very existence. No more home from the hospital excitement and tears, and newborn sounds and smells, and tiny hands that fit perfectly inside of mine. All of it now, forever but a memory. How did this happen? Or better yet...when? Did I over count, or skip a month somehow? No. Of course I didn't. I've been too busy counting down the months until life would be easier again. Easier for my firstborn, easier for the family as a whole. Easier for me. I've been beyond preoccupied with pushing forward to reach every new milestone, celebrating each tough phase that passes, considering that each passing one gradually makes life feel more manageable, and similar to how it once did. And, unless there is some kind of miracle unplanned surprise package in store down the road, I only have one week left (at least in my mind) that I will be the mother of babies. I suppose I've been cognizant that their first birthday was looming, as I've been fantasizing about that very notion for the past 11 months, but on this particular morning my heart is having a difficult time grasping the weight of such a concept. In short, It appears that my sappy and sentimental thoughts on the matter have drop kicked the $#it out of my poor old heart, right to the point that it causes my aching chest to give rise to pitiful, nostalgic sentiments that well up through my throat, and fall from my eyelids onto the damn floor.
Have you ever found yourself so incomprehensibly tired, that you've somehow managed to fall fast asleep while teaching your free spirited 2 year old to crap into a tiny toilet, at the very same time that two infants simultaneously sucked the ever living $h*t out of your nipples? Only then, to wake up to yourself catching one of the babies that's definitely rolling off of your nursing pillow, as you visually scan the room to discover your toddler pissing in the corner? No? Cause that's one jolly hell of a good time, if you ask me. It also happens to combine all three of the following regrettable subjects that you'll likely become experienced in, once you become a parent. And if not, then congrats to you my divergent friend, because you have somehow figured out how to rise above these proverbial conundrums, in which case do share your secrets. Or don't, because I'll probably not buy into your impressive B.S. anyways. 1. SLEEP DEPRIVATION
Also known as, the seven exciting stages of waking up when you're a sleep deprived parent. You know, what they say is true, you actually don't know the complete meaning of what it is to be tired until you become a parent. And believe me, there is a massively staggering difference between simply being "very tired", and being SLEEP DEPRIVED. I don't say this to sound like a cocky lack of sleep know it all, but more as a slaphappy, experienced friend. Because before having children, I definitely had my fair share of days that I could've sworn that I was sleep deprived. You know, from the typical "pulling an all nighter" while studying for an organic chemistry, and anatomy & physiology exam variety, to the "hit the floor tanked" at 6:00 am, dance party and mixed drinks induced kind. And absolutely, after being up all night and then hurrying off to school early the next morning, followed by a strenuous work schedule in the afternoon, I was extremely tired, and possibly quite hungover, depending on which scenario you choose. But, the obvious difference there, is that I was able to then casually depart from work at my leisure, drive my tired butt home, walk straight up the stairs to my room and happily fall down into my unshared bed, only to slip peacefully into a deep and restful slumber, right through till morning. And I probably even slept in until 7:15, although at the time I probably thought of that as really f*cking early. 
By Macgill Frutchey  Does your preschool aged child have "selective" hearing sometimes? Wow... my fingers had a hard time even typing such a ludicrous question. To say that my 3 year old, or any other that I've ever known for that matter, can have selective hearing at times, would be incredibly generous. Most days, I believe the more pertinent wording is "disregard every meaningless word that I just said, and do whatever the %*$& you want" hearing. It simply must be too boring for our little ones to follow our directions the first time they are given. Likely they're thinking, "Why should I do what mommy says right now, when running away and watching her chase me is infinitely more fun?" Whatever the cause, one thing remains when it comes to preschool aged children: Whatever we are laying down, they are only half-assed picking up. If you happen to have a preschool aged child, then chances are, you have daily experience with some of the following predicaments, where your thoughts and theirs, don't even begin to match up. WHAT You SAY VS. |
Macgyvering My Way Through Motherhood
