Silly String Mom

Three years ago I decided it would be a great idea to wake up Tommy with silly string on his very last day of Kindergarten.  I have no clue how I came up with this idea, but it sounded like a fun time.  Of course he loved it, even though it made an insane mess in his bed.  He woke up laughing and confused and even though we had to wash his sheets and vacuum his blankets, I knew it was worth all of the smiles and giggles from my boy.  That day, I picked him up early from school, took him to eat at our favorite restaurant and treated him to a special toy for working so hard all school year.  And just like that, a sweet mother-son tradition was born that day. 

As this last week of school approached, Tommy began bubbling with anticipation.

"I can't wait for the last day of school!  You'll wake me up with silly string and we'll go to Alamo Cafe and we'll have fun together!  I'm sooooo excited."  He told me this every night all week long that I tucked him into bed, and I have to admit, I was just as excited about it as he was, and not just because it meant leaving work early.

The last day of school came, and so did the silly string wake up call.  We shared queso  and laughed as we talked about everything from Ironman to his silly what-if questions and the things he was looking forward to about summer.  As I sat across the table from my almost eight year-old, I noticed the light and joy in his face.  He looks so much like me and he's still at the age where he thinks I'm the coolest person he knows because I share his love for superheroes and Star Wars.  Our conversation comes easily and I know that he knows. 

He knows how deeply I love him.  He knows how much I enjoy him - who he is, what he loves, his sense of humor. He knows that he is completely and utterly loved just as he is.

As we walked out of the restaurant to the car, he wrapped his arm around me and made a quiet "Hmmm" and sigh sound as he looked up at me with a small grin.  I looked down at him, though not far down, because in one more foot from now, he will probably be as tall as I am.

"You're the best mom ever," he said.  I felt his words hit me and I wanted to dismiss them, because I know how untrue that feels for me most of the time.  I usually feel like I'm missing everything or I refuse to play, I snap at him or lose my cool and say things I wish I hadn't.  I blow it so many times and he knows that I do because I apologize and admit when I'm wrong. 

I hugged him back and kissed his head, and replied, "I know!  I am pretty awesome.  But, you're the best Tommy ever, and I'm only the best mom ever, because I have a you."  And then he smiled and then burped a loud, obnoxious boy burp and we got in the car and picked up his brother to head out for more last day of school adventures together.

Mothering the Wild

He still crawls up into my lap each night after his bath and brushing of his teeth.  He sits there with his soft blue blanket and ragged white puppy and asks me to sing to him.  I sing the familiar lullabies softly in his ear, my chin on his head, cradling his little boy self in my arms.  Sometimes he sings with me, others he lays quiet on my chest reminding me of his infancy when he would finally still in my arms after a long day of what seemed like endless fussing and crying.

Jacob is a wild mess of sweaty blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes full of mischief and a wonder, and he has a smile that could light up a whole room all on its own.  He is adorable and he knows it.  Most days, he is running from one end of our house to the other dressed as Captain America or Batman off to save the day and take down the bad guy.  I’ve lost count of the walls and surfaces he has managed to color on, the remnants of his scribbles still found in my kitchen and our dining room table.  Dark, black permanent marker and bright red crayon, sharp jagged marks and hard lines that reflect his aggression and intensity.

He is my second born and couldn’t be more different than my older son both in looks and spirit.  He pushes back against every rule, feels everything with intense and strong emotion and requires much one-on-one time and attention.  He needs a large amount of activity every day to get out all of the energy he has in his tiny little body.  And he throws fits – big, large nasty ones that involve throwing, hitting, scratching and kicking, though now he has at least directed that aggression into objects instead of people.  Progress!

Many labels have already been put on my Jacob.  Strong-willed.  Passionate.  Spirited.  Energetic.  And more negative labels like defiant and hot-tempered.  Lately, I’ve gotten into the habit of calling him my threenager as I’ve endured some pretty dramatic episodes that I couldn’t make up even if I tried.

It’s funny to laugh about sometimes – the things we as mothers of young children say, experience and witness first hand.  When we dream about these little “bundles of joy” coming into our lives, we don’t imagine ourselves having to say things like “Please, don’t lick the table” or “No, we don’t taste our pee.”  We hope it will never be us that has to escort our screaming child out of Target while everyone looks at us wondering what kind of awful parent we are that our child is behaving that way in public.  

And all mothers have a poopy crib story.  I still shudder remembering my own.

But moms, we imagined things didn’t we?  We had dreams and sweet visions of what it would be like to care for and nurture our children.  Like reading stories before bedtime and making precious memories on summer vacations and Christmas holidays.  And even the basic everyday things like feeding and bathing and clothing our children – of course without any incident, because what incident could there possibly be?  

But, my world right now?  If you give my child a piece of toast and the butter hasn’t melted all the way into it, he will scream at you until the toast is fixed or you break down and let him have a popsicle instead.  And if a drop of water gets on his eye in the bathtub, we reach DEF CON 5 freakout level.  And long pants are a terrible, terrible idea and mine throws himself on the floor because I had the nerve to pick out jeans for him to wear.  Or the socks are wrong.  Or he doesn’t like how that t-shirt feels on his tummy.

Seriously?

Recently, we went to a restaurant with my family and Jacob was laying on the floor as we waited in line by the counter to order.  Everyone was looking at me and giving me these judgmental stares that said, “Um, your kid is laying on the floor and that’s gross and why aren’t you making him behave more civilized?”  And all I was thinking was that my kid isn’t screaming at me in public and he can lay on the damn floor all he wants.

This is not the motherhood I imagined.  I am not the mother I imagined I would be either.  I lose it.  I scream back at him.  I slam doors.  Sometimes I let my anger match his and later when I’ve calmed down, I regret it and feel horribly guilty. 

Motherhood is rough ya’ll.  I mean, it’s gnarly.  Between the shit (literal and figurative), pee, puke, sweat, tears, and blood, the verbal assaults add insult to injury.  Jacob has already screamed that he hates me on several occasions and I suppose I assumed that these words wouldn’t come until at least teenagerdom, but here we are.

I have actually and for seriously cried every single day for the last several weeks.  Earlier this week, what was supposed to be a fun family cookout around our fire pit turned into another dramatic screaming session because the marshmallow inside his s’more was too gooey and he couldn’t eat it. Todd took him inside and put him to bed, while I sat there and sobbed as I threw his blasted s’more into the fire watching my motherhood dreams melt and burn in front of my eyes.  

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be!  It shouldn’t be this f*cking hard!” I shook my fist to the sky and threw my hands in the air.  I’m not sure if I was yelling that at God or myself or my own mother.  I know for certain that my imagined mother self didn’t say f*ck as many times as I have in recent days either.

*sigh*

I’m scared that I’m failing at this.  I’m scared that I’m screwing him up and I’m not doing something right and that I’m failing his precious little heart because I can’t handle all of the screaming about all of the things all of the times!  I want to be the patient, loving, gentle mother he deserves but those words don’t describe my mothering most days.

The truth is, I want him to always be a little wild.  I want him to push back sometimes and question the rules.  I want him to discover things on his own, form his own beliefs and vocalize his thoughts and feelings because they matter.  I want him to be the kind of person that feels deeply and engages this world with the passion he clearly possesses.  But for the love of all that is pure and holy, I want him to stop screaming about everything.  Every day.  All the time.  

I know this season will end.  I am anticipating the shift that comes with him turning four.  And please God, let there be a shift when he turns four.  

But I guess what I really need, is for my own mother to look me in the eyes, cup my face and tell me I’m doing well.  That yes, this is hard and no, it's not possible to enjoy every moment.  That God picked me to be Jacob’s mama and no one could do it better than me.  And that I’m doing a good job.  Because a mother needs to hear from her own mother about mothering and it’s another place I don’t have her that feels like a loss.

So I’ll say this to you, mama’s.  The weary ones with the strong-willed children.  The ones whose children scream at you or lay on floors in public.  The ones who have to escort your fit-throwing threenager out of the store while keeping your game face on.  The one who exhales deeply after they are finally in bed or a trip to the grocery store alone is your happy place:  

I see you.  I’m with you.  You’re doing a good job.  It’s going to be okay. You’re not failing.  It’s hard and it’s not what you imagined.  Let's grieve that together.  To you, I raise the box of tissue for the bad days, the sweet ones, and the gloriously easy days that take you by surprise.  

Let’s mother on.

The Blogs I could write

Title: Threenager fit-throwing

• "Mommy won't give me another Bandaid for my tiny scratch that healed three days ago so I'm going to scream to the point of making the neighbors think she sawed off my arm."
• "Mommy won't take my pants off so I can pee even though I can do it myself, so instead I'll stand here and scream "bad mama" because elastic pull up waist bands are so confusing."
• "Mommy won't give me a snack - she had the nerve to give me dinner instead.  And when I'm hungry, I want a snack, I don't want food."
• "Mommy put me to bed and she's watching TV in the living room so I've decided the noise is bothering me so much that my ears hurt to the point that it feels as though someone is ripping them out with a dull spoon."

Title: Healthyish Living

• On Greek yogurt and how much it doesn't taste like breakfast tacos
• Also, how much salad doesn't taste like cheeseburgers
• Eating toppings off of pizza because it's way healthier
• Knee sweat.  Ew.
• And a handy tip on not ever carrying a plum in your purse for a healthy snack later - it doesn't end well for the purse

Title: 90 Freaking Degrees

• This is the worst fall we've ever had in the history of San Antonio because it's almost 90 freaking degrees every single day
• Buying leggings, boots and long sleeves was totally in vain because it's 90 freaking degrees
• Wanting to eat yummy things like chili and tomato basil soup, but you can't because it's 90 freaking degrees
• Also, it's NINETY FREAKING DEGREES

Title: Lego Drama

• The chaos, the insanity, the madness!
• Hunting for Superman's head because all figures are for some reason, immediately dismembered
• How it's totally worth it to buy 2 of the same tiny Lego set, because if that tiny set comes with Batman and your threenager loses Batman, then you have a backup Batman and can save the day.  Don't ask what happens when both Batmans are lost.  I don't want to talk about it.
• Threatening to throw them all away after fight #457 of any given day, but knowing you wouldn't follow through with it because you're pretty sure that you've spent at least three solid paychecks on Lego sets
• The meltdowns when the little one breaks the big one's ship and no one knows how to put it back together again.  And the only thing worse than a threenager fit, is a seven year-old fit who's brother has destroyed his Star Wars clone carrier
• Apparently, building Legos is not playing Legos and playing Legos is a whole different ballgame

 Title: Hashtag Blessed

• Obligatory I'm-so-thankful post on how grateful I am for all of my blessings because even though Greek yogurt tastes like feet and we are having beach weather in October and Lego's are the bane of my existence and my three year old might burst my eardrums with his constant screaming, I really am totally, completely, overwhelmingly blessed.

Girl Friday

The thing about loneliness is that it's so lonely.  It's especially lonely when you're a married working mother and you think that having a family and keeping a semi-full schedule means that loneliness should never find you.  I think regardless of how many friends we have or how many children need something from us or how loving our husbands are, loneliness comes with the territory of being a woman that is full of unspeakable longings.

For the last several months, I have to come to absolutely dread Fridays.  Life right now means that Todd either works late and then drives for Uber every Friday.  Or he takes a nap after Friday evening dinner and then heads out to Uber until I'm already in bed.  Saturdays look similar as we need the extra income right now.  All of this had added to my loneliness as my weekends are wrapped up in being alone with my boys with nothing else to do or look forward to or be with.

I've discovered that between work and mothering, I get depleted of all delightfulness.  I'm a wrung out sponge with nothing to soak in. And don't get me wrong - I love, love being a mother.  I love my boys so much it hurts.  And I'm also tired and discouraged and weary.

Last weekend, my youngest was slamming his door open and closed over and over again because he did not like the consequences I set in place after he acted out repeatedly.  At one point he was in his room screaming that he hated me and I burst into tears because he is three.  He ended up being put to bed earlier than usual and I cried as I sang him his lullabies because mothering him has felt so hard lately and I feel like I'm failing at it and failing him and I don't know what to do about his anger anymore.  

Motherhood feels disappointing right now and I don't like the mother that Jacob's anger invites me to be.  I have a passionate, emotional, strong-willed child and he takes all that I have.  I'm ashamed that my oldest has to see these parts of me.  I am aware of all that I try to shield him from seeing or knowing - wanting to spare him from the death and the wounds that I have known from my own mother and trying to be everything for him all of the time.

My Friday self feels sad and broken. She feels done with life and children and everyday stresses.  And she's so lonely.  She blames herself for that loneliness as if it's someone's fault, and thinks of those in her past that she's hurt and excluded and left behind and believes that she deserves to feel this alone and this miserable.  My Friday self usually turns to Netflix and vodka.  Time to numb out, to forget and to stop feeling.

It's Friday morning. As another weekend was approaching I knew I had to do something different this day.  I asked my boss yesterday if I could come in a little bit late today and he gave me the okay. Right now I have the house to myself.  Hot coffee beside me, window open because it's cool and gorgeous outside.  I spent some time journaling and reading and praying.  And crying too.  Being close to God and taking some time to soak up something my soul has been so desperately needing.  

I don't know if I feel any less lonely. But a couple of hours on a quiet morning, sipping coffee and doing some writing without having to referee playtime or change someone into a Batman outfit is good for the soul.  I'm reminded that I have a choice of what kind of Girl Friday I'm going to be.  I get to choose if I'll numb out, if I'll rest, if I'll feel how hard and lonely and desperate it all is instead of run from it.  I get a choice to find moments to take care of myself when I can.

Mr. Personality

Jacob.  Jacob is....

Jacob is something.

If there was ever a picture that captures his personality and who he is, it would be this one.  Eyes full of silly, wonder, and mischief.  The cutest grin on the face of the planet.  He's up to something, wheels turning, mind racing, pondering what kind of trouble or havoc he can create in his little world. 

Jacob experiences his world with his entire being.  He runs the fastest.  Screams the loudest.  Smiles the biggest.  Cries the hardest.  Laughs the longest.  I have always seen this light in him, something bright and big that gives me a glimpse into the man he is going to be someday.

I've been vocal with my friends about what a challenge he has been to raise and mother.  He has a fiery, emotional personality.  He is passionate, stubborn, and strong-willed.  He can be explosive and raging angry.  And he is precious, affectionate and adoring.  He knows how to work his big blue eyes and convince me to give him anything, which is why he may be accustomed to having a popsicle for breakfast from time to time. 

And we have had to grow together.  I have had to learn how to help him calm down and teach him how to do it himself.  How to deal with him in a quiet and persistent kind of patience.  I've learned that sometimes we have to get to a quiet space away from a situation so he can hear me, hear himself and find some peace again.  I've learned that he has to get out and have plenty of physical activity if I want him to be able to listen and still when needed.  Some days are better than others, and some days I completely fail him and I lose it.  Jacob has the ability to bring out the very worst parts of me and I hate that.  I hate that he has to know me in these places.  I hate that he is like me in these places.  That his rage, his anger, his explosiveness comes from me.  That some days, I discipline him for the very things he has seen me do.

He is a challenge and he is hard.  It has made motherhood feel hard and I have envied my friends whose children have more even temperaments and better manners.  I have the child that may punch yours in the stomach if they take his toy.  I have the child that might say shit because he heard it in a movie and yes, we let him watch a movie that had the word shit in it and now you know that because he's three and he's cussing.  I have the child that doesn't like to share.  I have the child that squirts an entire tube of toothpaste all over the bathroom sink.

And I have the child that is the source of deep, from-the-belly laughter in our house.  Who reminds me that discipline is always followed by hugs and kisses.  I have the child that invites me to embrace the world and to live life more fully than I would if he weren't in it.

Jacob.  Jacob is.....

Jacob is something.  And I'm glad he's mine.

And Both

Around eight o'clock on any given night, I have Jacob in my lap, his fine blonde-haired head tucked comfortably under my chin and my arms wrapped around him.  His fingers touch mine as I sing him the familiar lullabies I've sung to both boys since infancy.

Jesus loves me this I know....You are my sunshine, my only sunshine....I love my Jacob, oh yes, I do....

I rock a little as I sit with him.  Our nightly bedtime routine with both of the boys is one of my favorite places to mother.  Bedtime invites me to be soft.  It requires me to be gentle, tender and still.  And it's as if they look forward to the quieting down we all share together and lullabies are the last thing before bed.  They come after baths and teeth brushing, prayers and reading a story.  Jacob knows that after I sing to him, I lay him down and it's time to sleep.

A few nights ago though, I found myself holding back tears as I sang.  After I had tucked him in to bed and he kissed me and hugged my neck, I went in my room and cried.

There was something about realizing Jacob's smallness that night.  He is my littlest and our last baby, and he won't be little for much longer.  He is two and a half, potty-trained (hallelujah), speaks in sentences and very much has his own opinions about everything.  Soon, he won't fit perfectly under my chin on my lap and bedtime will look a little different like it does now with Tommy.

Perhaps it's knowing he is our last.  Since we have closed the door on having any more children, there is this ache I hold inside. One of want and longing.  Of wishing life had maybe gone a little bit differently and my nest would have three babies in it instead of two.  If I had been able to stay at home, or if my body were different than maybe I would have the three like I had always planned on having.  I'm also aware of where I am at peace too.  I have peace with our decision we made to not have any more biological children because of my health and medication issues surrounding my RA.  We have been dreaming about adoption too but we aren't certain on the ifs and whens of any of that.  But I am looking forward to the life we get to share with our boys, the things we can do together as a family of four. 

And so I find myself in this familiar place of holding two opposing emotions.  The ache of wanting a third and the peace I have about not having another too.  I'm okay, and I'm not.  I'm at peace and I have a deep longing.  I'm happy and I'm sad.

Sometimes, often really, I feel the "and both" of my choices, of life, of my story.  And right now, the lullabies and nighttime snuggles, is a place where where I am holding the and both of my life.  Enjoying precious moments with my children, longing for the memories and moments I don't have, and being grateful for their lives. 

And that I get to end all of our days with lullabies.

Graduated

It's been one of those days that I'm feeling all those mothery feelings.  Where I've laughed and cried and have been humming the tune to Sunrise, Sunset, staring in wonder at the life of this boy who is mine.  This heart and mind and life I am shaping, molding, teaching and guiding.  He is growing up.

And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

He is down one tooth, and another loose.  He reads, writes, adds and subtracts.  At any given time he will give you random information about the cycles of the moon and metamorphosis and Texas history.  He prays for those at school who are mean to him or others.  He is approximately seven thousand feet tall.  He is smart and so very, very kind.

His teacher told me that he was a gift.  That she's had a difficult year personally, and Tommy's faith in God has helped her with own during a time of struggle.  She said that he is brilliant and kind and talented.  And that she thinks he's a future preacher/Christian rockstar. 

I cried and then I gushed and then cried some more.  What mom doesn't want to hear those things?  But all of that she said about Tommy - that's just him. His character, who he is even when I'm not there to guide or remind him, he is good and giving and mindful others thoughts and feelings.  That is Tommy.

Today, I watched him sing some songs with his fellow classmates.  Cleverly sung to the tune of Taylor Swift's Shake it Off, he sang a song called First Grade. 

Well, they say I'm growing up, up, up, up, up.  I'm ready to move on, on, on, on, on....first grade, first grade.

And then I was crying.  Because it's like I can see into the future and imagine my 18 year old son graduating from high school and all of this bringing up and raising and teaching is sort of over.  And omigosh, I only have 13 more years left before he's an adult with opinions and is out in the world making his own mistakes and paving his own way and I won't be there in the same way.

He's growing up.
He's moving on.


Kinder graduation is what you might expect.  Three hundred excited parents with balloons and camera's there to catch their child's special moment.  Everyone present thinking their child is the very best, because they are.

As I sat there today taking all of this in, I was reminded of my dad growing up.  What his face looked like any time he came to a play or a choir performance or any other thing where I was either a big or a little deal.  He always made this face where he would kind of hold his head up and to the side, clearly choking back tears and smiling at the same time.  This look of pride and adoration where he looked both happy and sad as if he were celebrating something and losing something at the same time. 

I got that today.  I totally felt it.  And I'm pretty sure I made the same face as my dad.

What struck me most though was watching all of the Kindergarten teachers engage with their class, tears filling their eyes and trying to hold themselves together much like us moms in the audience.  It means the world to me to see up close and personal how much these teachers love our children.  How invested they are and how emotional they are to watch them grow and move on.  Teachers have one of the hardest jobs in the world and we have done our best to support and encourage and thank his teacher throughout the year. 

Ms. Lozano was the answer to the prayer of my heart.  I was so anxious for him to start school, fearing what he might encounter or what could happen without me being right by his side.  But his teacher gave her all to our boy and he adored her.  He was excited to go and to learn.  I tried my best through tears today to hug her tight and thank her.  I gave her a handwritten card and a basket full of fun summer goodies to express our gratitude for her impact and influence on our son though that feels so inadequate.

And now, we are on the cusp of summer.  Somehow, it's June and we have our first year of school officially under our belts. 

Tomorrow, Tommy has a half-day at school and he's done.  I plan on waking him up with silly string and taking him out for some fun to celebrate school being out and kicking off a fun summertime.  I'm not sure who is more excited - me or him.  I think maybe me.

 

Goodbye kinder!

Hello 1st grader!

And let's go summer!  It's on!

Super Family Fun Day

We called it "Super Family Fun Day."  We had promised Tommy a fun outing and we all needed some time to be together, to laugh and play and enjoy. 

We spent the morning at a fun children's museum.  We ate lunch together at Sonic complete with ice-cream cones.  The afternoon was spent playing outside with waterguns and we splashed in our little plastic pool and felt the sun shine down on us as summer let us know it was nearly here.  We grilled burgers for dinner and played a game and snuggled up on the couch for stories and cuddles.

We don't get many days exactly like this one, but it was perfect and needed and so much fun.  And hopefully we are leaving our boys with memories that will last a lifetime. Not just of enjoying the food and the things and the places - but memories where we enjoyed them.

 Shopping at "the store."

 

 I'm a scary bat!

Astronaut Tommy!

Ice-cream cone trance.

Sunshine and the love of my life.

Daddy won.

Motherhood - or - Forgetting your deodorant and saying shit a lot

Motherhood has been messy lately.  And I don't mean that in some emotionally frilly way - I mean it quite literally.  It feels like every ten minutes of every single day I am busy cleaning up something.  And I have to admit, it's hard not to loose my cool after mess #8, because there are only so many spills or accidents I can take before it gets to me.  The diapers, the "leak-proof" sippy cups that make milk puddles on my carpet, and runny noses and picking up dirty socks for the millionth time.

Jacob threw his plate on the floor with great force this week.  Some nights, dinner is great and he eats and laughs and is a complete joy.  Others, he only eats ketchup, screams at me, and throws his mashed potatoes on the floor to emphasize how displeased he is with both me and my dinner selection.

Tommy somehow had an accident with his applesauce that somehow resulted in my hall closet door being covered with it.  I don't even know how this happened.  Also, stepping in applesauce is a real treat for your toes.

Jacob ripped up daddy's Hunter's Almanac because I had the nerve to go to the bathroom and didn't see he had it.  And there I was all giddy that I was peeing alone.  Silly me.

For some reason, I take pictures of these things.  I even add a filter for who-knows-why.  Maybe it's so I can remember that I lived through them.  Or so I can remember that this season of life was always so much more than smiley boys and Chuck E. Cheese outings.  And probably in all of my memory-keeping and tucking away of moments, I want to remember the hard things just as much as the good.

We have been attempting to get in some kind of new groove the last few weeks, but I can't exactly say it's going well.  With my new schedule, I go in to work earlier (hello 5:30am wake up call!), but I am off when Tommy gets out of school.  That was something I always desired when I had kids - to be home when they were done with school.  Our time in the afternoon is now filled with homework of mostly reading and writing and trying to entertain Jacob at the same time that I'm giving instructions on how to properly make the humps in the letter "m" or that the number "6" doesn't have any straight lines.  I've attempted to clean my bathrooms or fold some laundry some days, but that has seemed senseless when there are applesauce accidents and and 18-month old who you have to constantly remind that Legos or foam darts or leftover food from the dining room that mommy hasn't picked up yet are things he shouldn't be trying to eat.

This morning as I left with Jacob on my hip to drop him off at his daycare place, I was thinking I had something together.  I remembered his bag and diapers and he had milk and his blanket.  I had my lunch packed and super healthy breakfast smoothie made.  I grabbed my bills to be dropped in the mail and was feeling organized and on top of things because I had somehow remembered everything and packed everything and made it out of the door on time.  I was maybe getting the hang of all of this.

It was then I realized I totally forgot to put deodorant on.  Shit.

I know I should give myself a break, and I do most of the time.  But some days I am a mess.  Some days, like this one, I say shit more than others.  I get discouraged by my inability to do it all as well as I'd like to.  There is little time for me to sit and write and or talk to God and read and pray and I wonder how on earth I am supposed to keep pouring out when there is so little being poured back in to my own heart and soul.  Some days I feel overwhelmed with my role, as if I am going to be consumed by motherhood.  I get lost in it.  And most days, especially lately, I feel like I'm sucking at it because I lose my shit in front of the boys time and again and I'm having to constantly go back on a daily basis to Tommy and apologize to him for losing my shit. Except I don't see shit.

Like any bad day, I know this will pass.  Things will even out and we will get used to homework and applesauce spills and perhaps I will make peace with all that is left undone and in a mess around me.  But today isn't that day. 

Today I am overwhelmed.  And I'm starting to smell.