Sorry Dr. Laura. I didn't know I didn't want to raise them until after I had them.

If I have to choose between parenting my children and driving them to an activity, I’ll pick the activity every time.  Before I had multiple children, I judged parents who over schedule their spawn. Of course, I also bought into Dr. Laura’s “Don’t have them if you don’t want to raise them” slogan. Sadly, I didn't know I didn't want to raise them until after I had them.

Children fight. This isn't shocking. Thanks to my brother, I still hold a grudge over my nickname, Chewbacca, not to mention I’m slightly obsessive about shaving. So instead of allowing my children to damage each other, we separate them as much as possible by enlisting them in every activity they show marginal interest in. This philosophy has served us well. At school, our kids are viewed as well-rounded leaders. During the few hours the kids are home, they’re too tired to argue.

Which leads to my current problem – summer. Everyone loves summer. Everyone except me. You’ll never hear me complain about winter or cold. (Although I might have a full-on coronary when school is cancelled for snow.) Summer combines everything I hate most: a lack of routine, a house full of bored kids, and heat.

As of next Thursday, I am taking over for my kids’ teachers and coaches. As a stay-at-home mom, summer is my busiest season.  It’s the time I have to train them for everything they’re missing in their life curriculum plus reinforce school topics that either require extra assistance or are lacking altogether.  That sentence sounds great in theory, doesn't it? Like something from a parenting magazine. But the truth is that it’s freaking hard work and I don’t mean for them – it’s hard for me.

I’ll supervise and instruct our kids as they complete assigned tasks at home. These tasks take 10x longer and don’t meet my expectations when my children help, so I will bite my lip and attempt to be positive (and if you know me at all, you know that’s a lot of work in itself).

 I will tutor them with supplementary schoolwork. For the past few years, I've assigned a math sheet every day and one book report a week. It takes me longer to prep and check the work than it does for the kids to do it, but they don’t backslide during the summer months.

Don’t get me wrong – we don’t run our house like a boot camp – but we crave routine. We’ll swim every day and play tennis, but I’ll set aside an hour for school work and an hour for chores so that the kids will appreciate their free time. Sometimes I wish my kids were content sitting in front of a television, but then I remember that I’m not either. So if the choice is to schedule them or listen to them fight, I’ll still pick the activity every time – even when I have to do all the work and teach them myself. But I'm counting the minutes until the teachers take them again.

Have you ever felt like you were destined for something greater than you are?

Do you ever feel like you were destined for something else, took a wrong turn, and ended up in your current life? Like there’s something out there that either you wasted or that's waiting and you can’t quite figure out what it is?

I spent most of my life feeling that way. In high school, I read magazine articles about models being sighted in airports or television stars who were discovered randomly walking down the street and I waited patiently. I felt like I was waiting my turn and something was destined to happen – someone would approach me and change my life forever. Maybe I was arrogant, but I truly thought someone would pluck me from my life and transform it, like a movie. My favorite book is The Beast in the Jungle by Henry James because, like John Marcher, I've always been waiting for something and, like May Bartram, I've felt like everyone looks past me.

As I settled into adult life and had children, I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't special and I might never be. My life is wonderful, probably more comfortable and stable than most, but I felt like that spark – the thing that would differentiate me – was gone.

Last year, that feeling, the one that told me I was supposed to be doing something different, reappeared with a vengeance. At three o’clock every morning, I’d wake and run to the computer to type. By the end I’d written a novel. Before my novel, I hadn't written anything longer than a manufacturing procedure since college.

I finished the manuscript while sitting in a hotel room – a room that inspired the last scene in the book, because for the longest time, I struggled with how to end it. As I wrote the last words, I cried because I knew that even if no one read it, I had written something special for myself. I thought I’d be fortunate if a few friends and family members were interested enough to pick it up and if I didn't offend all of them.

Fast-forward to today. Almost every day, I feel special. This morning, someone I don’t know wrote to tell me she is reading my book today. It gave me chills when I read her message. Two other people told me they read it cover to cover yesterday. When people take time out of their lives to read words I've written and then care enough to contact me, it overwhelms me.

So today, I’m going to post a few of the comments people have written to me personally because there is nothing better than someone telling you that you’re special. It’s something we all need to feel and the comments I've received reach further into my soul than you can possibly imagine. To everyone who has helped me, supported me, contacted me, or taken the time to read anything I've written (even if it isn't the book), thank you. It means more to me than I can convey. I’m not waiting to feel special anymore – you guys make me feel like I already am.

 

 

They couldn't possibly live without me. Could they?

My mom said something a few weeks ago that still bothers me. “It was really nice of him to do it.” Sounds like a benign statement, right?

Who is he? My husband. What was it nice of him to do? Watch his own children on a weekend when he had nothing better to do. She said this in reference to a baby shower that I attended. Apparently, kudos are awarded when I obtain permission to leave the house.

But this may soon change. I am considering going back to work full-time. Actually, I wasn't considering it until late last week, when an unexpected contact resulted in what might be my dream job. At first I completely dismissed the idea. My children couldn't possibly live without me. Our four year old hasn't even learned to swim. Our eleven year old needs too much tutoring with homework

But, as my husband quickly pointed out, we’re through the hard part. Everyone is walking, talking, and potty-trained. Even our four year old attends all day preschool. I’ll require some help in the afternoons, but nothing like the pressure of finding a full-time daycare. Waiting a few years will make no difference in the children’s demands of me, but it might make all the difference in my sanity.

What kind of mom leaves her children voluntarily? I guess the kind that I want to be. I've spent years emphasizing how important education is to my eleven year old daughter. I try to instill self-sufficiency and pride in using her intellect to solve problems. But I don’t practice what I preach. I sacrificed my education, my career, and my entire identity to become a ghost of a mother and wife. And that might be great if I enjoyed it, but I don’t. What began as putting all of their needs in front of my own transformed into placing all of their wants in front of my own needs.

I’m sure this post will be controversial. And that is the problem. I absolutely hate that men are praised when they contribute the smallest amount of effort to their children’s upbringing, but women are vilified if we don’t sacrifice our lives in child-worship. I love my children. I love them enough that I want to be a positive example, not a depressed shell of a mother. I love them enough that I don’t want to live through them. I want my own identity so that I can allow them to have theirs. I want them to experience the joy and sorrow that result from their own choices. I hope they never feel forced to complete any task simply for my satisfaction – it is not their duty to meet my expectation or live up to my standards. Their only job is to be themselves.

So now that I've established that my kids can survive without me, the first question in my mind is, who calls off when a child is sick? If I do it, is it “nice of me” to do so, or is it only nice when my husband does it?

11's Birthday Story (or a summary of my day)

If you ask me what we’re having for your birthday dinner,

I’ll ask what you want.

And when you say spaghetti,

I’ll remember we’re out of pasta.

So I’ll add it to the grocery list.

Then I’ll have to find my boots.

On the way to the store, I’ll notice the windshield wiper blade is separating.

So I’ll stop at Auto Zone to have it replaced.

Then I’ll remember we need gas.

And when the car is all finished, I’ll fight my way to a parking space.

Then I’ll want to find a cart without a squeaky wheel.

Walking into the store will make me realize we’re out of sidewalk chalk.

So I’ll go to the craft aisle.

In the craft aisle, I’ll remember that your four-year old sister has to bring a painted egg crate to school tomorrow.

So I’ll have to buy some paint.

And once the paint is in the cart, I’ll need brown eggs for their paper carton.

I’ll probably sigh and roll my eyes.

When I pick up the eggs, they’ll remind me that I’m hungry.

So I’ll start toward the ice cream aisle.

I’ll grab a bag of chocolates and three rolls of paper towels along the way.

On the way to the ice cream, I’ll pass the pasta aisle. It will remind me about the spaghetti.

So I’ll grab a box and throw it in.

When I arrive at the register, I’ll notice I left my credit card in the car.

So I’ll annoy all the customers and shuffle out the door to find it.

Once the groceries are paid for, I’ll drive home.

Then I’ll ask you to bathe your little sister while I unpack.

And once the groceries are done, you’ll ask, “Did you finish dinner?”

And I’ll ask, “What did you want?”

Then I'll send your sister to her room for screaming and write it all down instead of cooking it for you.

And that’s why I don’t remember. I love you. Happy Birthday 11.

The Things We Think But Do Not Say

Recognize that title? It's from Jerry Maguire, my favorite movie of all time. And a fitting reference for today, I believe, since it's the title of Jerry's memo. His co-workers are touched by his honesty, they applaud and congratulate his efforts, then he's fired because no one likes to discuss or admit an ugly truth.

Yesterday, to no fanfare and to my shock, I received an email informing me that my book is now for sale on Amazon. I had to walk away from the computer for a while to compose myself. That’s how I deal with everything. I walk away from it until I can figure out how to handle it. There is probably something wrong with me. I should be over-the-moon, cracking-open-champagne excited. Instead, I’m terrified.

I’m not used to being scared. Through school, my career, and even as a mom, I’ve always felt confident. Especially when it comes to my career, I’ve actually never considered myself anything but competent. However, this book puts a whole new spin on things.

When people label me as a writer, it makes me uncomfortable. I’m not illiterate, but I have no delusions of grandeur when it comes to literature. My book was a silly project. It gave me something to do, to think about, to talk about other than my kids and husband. I never truly thought I’d finish it, much less find someone willing to publish it. Each step of the way was a small challenge, and Lord knows, I can’t resist a challenge.

This is the first time in my life I’ve done anything I don’t already know I’m good at. And I’m doing it in front of everyone I know. They’ll see a side of me that they never knew existed. Everyone thinks things they don’t say, but to put those thoughts into words – to explore your mind and place it on a table for public consumption – is much more frightening in actuality than it was in theory.

My husband asked me what will happen when our kids are older and want to read it and I told him that it doesn’t bother me. I want to teach them to both achieve and fail with equal grace. I want them to feel free to be themselves with the knowledge that I’ll love them regardless, and part of that will be admitting that I’m just as weird as they are. Or possibly a little more so.

So I hope you want to read it, but as I tell everyone, it isn’t a condition of friendship. If my book becomes the world’s most time-consuming paperweight, I’ll still be proud that I wrote it.

Available in paperback on Amazon - click here

Available for Amazon Kindle - click here

I hate playing with my kids. I really, really hate it.

I haven’t blogged in a really long time, mostly due to the fact that the great state of Ohio has no interest in educating my children. During the month of January, my kids only had 17 scheduled days of school. Three of those days were modified as either an early release or morning delay for snow. One was cancelled entirely. So for the month, my kids had 13 regular school days.

What did I learn during those other 18 days sequestered in my home? I learned that I hate playing with my kids. I really, really hate it. I love my kids, but playing is just not my thing. I will help them with their homework. I will support their plethora of after-school activities. I will balance their meals and ensure they have proper rest. But please don’t make me play pretend – not Barbies, not stuffed animals, not toy trains. I spent enough of my life playing pretend. 

It didn’t start that way. We chose to have kids. I didn’t make any large life mistakes, just a series of small compromises. When we had our first child, I sacrificed a little of my career and worked part-time. When we had our second child, I sacrificed my entire career and we moved so that I could stay home.

As a stay-at-home mom, I’ve felt like a failure. My identity has always been synonymous with accomplishing goals. When I clean mashed banana out of the sofa four times a day, there is no reward. What is the goal in raising a child? To survive until bedtime without cracking open a bottle? I thought that I could fake my way through mommyhood until I realized that there is no finite endpoint in child-rearing.

I spent years pretending to be happy. I’d sob on the kitchen floor when my husband left for work in the morning because I was jealous and missed my job. Then I’d host play dates, help with preschool parties, and attend Bunco groups, all while feeling completely out of place. For a while I even volunteered in my kids’ classrooms. I did anything to fit in with the mommies. And there is nothing wrong with any of those things; I just didn’t enjoy any of them. What began as small compromises consumed my entire life.

I’ll never be content to live through my children. I don’t want to be a member of the PTO or spend my evening frosting classroom party cupcakes. I don’t get excited on snow days. I do not want to host a birthday party for a plastic cat. I’ll never care more about my kid’s sports team than I do about my own workout. I’d much rather balance the checkbook and prepare our taxes than perform any child-related activity. Any process excellence expert can tell you that cutting a kid’s food into crazy shapes is a waste of time. According to society’s stay-at-home mom standards, I suck. I’ll draw you a fishbone diagram to prove it.

Is that a bad thing? I don’t think so. I love my kids for whoever and whatever they want to be. I will support them, but I will never try to live through them. I don’t expect them to compromise their lives for my happiness, nor will I compromise mine for theirs.

Maybe having a mom who is comfortable with herself will be beneficial. I hope it frees them to be the people they want to be and that they’ll never feel forced to succumb to outside expectations of who they’re supposed to be. Or maybe it will just result in a large therapy bill. But either way, now I can handle it.

Why are lies in marriage normal, while honesty is radical?

When I was single, marriage was the holy grail. I spent my days searching for chemistry and fun, which led to passion, and, if I was lucky, proceeded to intimacy. From there, my relationships stabilized for a short time, then ended. Except for one.

Is there a reason marrying is synonymous with settling down? I loved my husband more than anyone on this planet the day I married him, but in every relationship, I believe there comes a choice to settle for what is left or move along.

People change over time. Before marriage, I was a long-term relationship girl. Almost every time, I left the guy confused because he didn’t anticipate the break-up. The relationship began with passion and intimacy, but over time, I would maintain that façade of stability as I changed internally. When the internal change became too great to maintain the illusion – boom – end of relationship.

I spent 13 years in the declining bliss of my marriage. And it was blissful in the beginning - we were everything to each other. But careers, children, and the mundane toll of daily living pushed me into denying myself, my true self, to maintain the illusion. This is normal, even expected, although no one admits it out loud. If you ever need proof, create a Twitter account.

The things I want today at 38 are not the same things I wanted when I married at 23. I’m not the same person as I was a year ago, or even six months ago. As I grow and change, sometimes it is the most difficult to convey that growth to the person who has known me the longest – my husband. He loves me for what we were when we met, for his idea of me. Trusting that he will continue to love me through those changes, placing complete and total faith in him, is terrifying. Lies are a normal, expected part of marriage, but total honesty is radical.

The problem is that every time I deny myself, I scold myself into not living. I place the value of my husband’s life above my own. Over the years, he became the man I loved so much that I had to protect him from the real me.

A marriage, like a child, has to mature to move forward. I’m finding that our teenage years are similar to any others. We’re experimental. We test boundaries. We search to explore and redefine ourselves because it is no longer fulfilling to contain ourselves within the old façade.

The last year has been the hardest of my life. It has also been the best. Life is a collection of experiences and those I turned down simply for the sake of my husband became the road not taken, the regret list. I don’t want to end my life with regrets and I don’t want my husband to either.

So we choose honesty. We choose to acknowledge and share pieces of ourselves that aren’t socially acceptable even within the confines of our home. It isn’t easy, but we made a conscious choice to grow and adapt instead of living our lives in the rut we spent 13 years creating. It is freeing, exhilarating, and terrifying, but we are finally learning to love each other without limits.