Women support women

I am a feminist.

I feel really lucky to be living in a time when the word feminist doesn't automatically mean anti-male nor does it mean anti-feminine. To some, it may still mean one or both of these things. But for the most part, when I claim feminism, most people yawn and say, "ok" while they think "what else you got?"

Two years ago I wrote a blog post staking my flag in the feminist world and while I still agree with most of what I wrote, I have become a lot less sure of what others think and more confident in what I think. Funny how that works: you get older, you learn more, you claim to know less.

On International Women's Day, this is what I believe: Women are divine. Men are divine. Individuals are divine. There is no one gender greater nor one lesser. I am grateful for the feminine qualities that I have and for those parts of me that may be deemed "masculine" just as I am grateful for both characteristics in my husband.

There is no one right way to be a woman. I take that back. The right way to be a woman is to BE A WOMAN. To be confident that you are worthy and valuable. In the end, I hope my daughter feels worthy and declares her worth. I hope my sons feel worthy and proclaim their worth.

Might I leave you with this feminist thought that I posted over on my @thingsaretheworst Instagram account today?

To celebrate women today, I plan on telling all the women I see how incredible and valuable they are. Maybe smile and knowingly wink (although I can't wink for beans). I hope today that you know YOUR worth. We can be UNSTOPPABLE.

a

Slamming Doors

What’s with the slamming? This is how I know that I am getting old: I notice that everyone is slamming everything all the slam time. 

Our cars are no longer giant jalopies that need our force to get those doors shut. They shut pretty easily by their own design, we just need to nudge them a bit. Same goes for the little compartments in our cars—the console, the glovebox, and the little cupholders that fold away when not in use. I promise, they are meant to open and close with very little effort. You don’t need to put your weight into closing them.

The front door does not need to be slammed. "Shut the front door" is not just an idiom said to be humorous; it's also something that one can easily do, especially to keep the house free of flies and the temperature comfortable. The back door can close pretty well, too, without extra pressure. I live in a home that is nearly a century old and the doors still close without needing to be slammed.

Oh, and the bedroom doors! Don’t even shut them, kids. Unless you need a moment of privacy while you change clothes or if you are wrapping a surprise present to your mother. Otherwise, keep them open and I am telling you, if you slam your bedroom door, you will hear from me. Loudly. Until you pay for a house and all of the doors in it, you are not allowed to slam the doors. And frankly, “your” room is totally on loan. It’s my room. It’s your father’s room. It is a great space where you can have some privacy, hold your stuff, and sleep, but you don’t get carte blanche in this borrowed space. It’s not really yours, so show a little gratitude that we gave you a space and keep it clean-ish, respect the door rules, and do not roll your eyes when I walk in. 

Don’t slam the refrigerator door, either. It’s an amazing machine, the refrigerator. It keeps our food COLD. Does that even impress you as much as it impresses me? There is a giant box in our home that keeps our food at a temperature (two, sometimes three separate temperatures) so we can avoid spoilage and keep even more food at the ready to eat. It is freaking amazing. Don’t slam the amazing doors that keep so much deliciousness chilled. 

Same goes for the oven, the microwave, the dishwasher, the washer and the dryer. These are incredible machines that will be hellacious to replace if broken. Trust me when I say that you do not want to see your mother react to a broken appliance door. It’s not going to be pretty. Respect the remarkable machinery.

Stop slamming each other into the ground, on the couch, on my bed… all this wrestling is getting out of hand. I know that there is snow on the ground outside, so when I say, “Take it outside” that means you would need to put on all of your snow clothes and you don’t wanna. I get it. But please get that I don’t wanna deal with the broken home that comes when two of you get together for some slammer time. MC Slammer has left the building. Just Stop! (no slammer time)

I have an idea: go read a book! That's the only kind of slamming I don't mind—the slamming shut of a book once finished. I know how that feels good to do, whether you loved it or hated it or wish it never had ended. Slamming a good book shut is so rewarding... and relatively quiet. Sigh, if you must, or cry, if it suits you. Just go read and keep the doors open!

Dry skin help FTW

My three boys have had dry, red skin every winter since they were babies. Their hands get super dry and rough, so bad sometimes that they end up licking the backs of their hands to get respite (which of course makes it more cracked). Their hands always end up bleeding sometime in the winter. It's so sad, really. They get other spots of eczema and dryness, but it is the back of their hands that are so extra tragic from all of the hand washing and use.

We have tried prescription lotions, homemade balms, natural remedies, oils, you name it. Sometimes they help a little, but often they cause discomfort and stinging. Or the smell is so strong and the little guys can't handle it. If it hurts or stinks, the whole process is a struggle every morning and night.

I was so glad to try out Mustela's Stelatopia line for eczema and dry skin. It is fragrance, colorant and paraben free, which is a huge plus when it comes to smell and discomfort. My boys use the cleanser at bath time and the creams before bedtime and before school. It makes such a difference in the dryness and cracking of their hands. Their eczema spots are relieved, as well. 

I just wish we had discovered Mustela's Stelatopia line sooner.

You can win one of two Eczema Essentials Bundles from Mustela ($52 each) by following them on Instagram and tagging a friend (or more) on our Instagram account under this picture:

Do your children struggle with eczema or really dry skin? Have you tried Mustela? I'd love to know what you have tried and what works for you.

*This post was sponsored by Mustela, but all of the opinions are 100% mine and true.

Am I Mother Gothel?

Spoiler Alert: In the movie Tangled, Rapunzel's "mother" is actually not her real mother. She is a witch. I am so sorry to have told you anything that you didn't already know. Mother Gothel is a sarcastic, needy witch who keeps Rapunzel locked up in her tower, safe from all of the evil of the world (except from the evil of her "mother").

Ahem.

Every single time that movie has been played at our home (which I would say is more than a dozen, but less than a thousand), I have laughed at Mother Gothel. She is so funny and oddly likable. But horrible, of course. And yet understandable, in some ways. But evil, too. Super manipulative and controlling... but did I mention she is funny?

See here:

When she pulled that line while looking in the mirror, I legit laughed out loud. I know that's the point. But her song about "Mother Knows Best" is also pretty much my theme song. "Sure, go ahead and don't listen to me, but don't be surprised when YOU are wrong and I am right!" haha. ha. ha?

My favorite line of Mother Gothel's, which I feel I must have said to my kids before is, "I'm just teasing; you're adorable; I love you, darling."

I am a sarcastic mother (don't gasp. you've read my captions!). I have been known to tease my kids when they are being dramatic. And when my teasing goes too far, I quickly add, "I'm just kidding; I love you; you're my favorite!" 

I do not, on the other hand, brush my children's hair. So there is that part which makes me less like Mother Gothel. I don't brush their hair for power nor for less tangles. I mean, I've done it on occasion, but with three boys and a teenage daughter, there's not a lot of hair brushing sessions happening at our house. I also don't lock them in their rooms nor do I make them stay inside... always. I'm pretty much the opposite of a helicopter parent, even when it negatively affects my kids. Oh well, right?

While I know I am not a witch (don't tell my kids), I find it interesting that even without taking an online quiz, I can ascertain that the Disney character I am most like IS a witch. A sarcastic, all-knowing, mildly protective, fast-talking witch. And I am mostly okay with that. Halloween costume, perhaps.

How about you? This isn't a quiz, I am so sorry (no I am not), but which movie or story character are you most like as a parent?

Anna

All In School, Let's Go (one)

I'm home alone. For the first time in fourteen years, I am all alone during the school hours.

My youngest turned five last December and immediately said, "When do I start school? You said I would start school when I turned five. I'm five now. When do I go to school?" I had decided that instead of sending him to preschool, we would do a daily "Mommy school" kind of preschool and then find neighborhood friends to play with for socialization. I let him know that he would be able to go to school like his older siblings when he was five. Not "turned" five, but explain that to a barely five year old.

Mommy school worked for us. He learned a lot and we had a great year exploring and playing. It was all that my mother heart needed to finish out my WAHM years. 

And now he is in kindergarten. All day, I might add. I walk him (and his brothers) to school at 8:10 in the morning, I'm back home at 8:30, say goodbye to my husband, and then...

silence.

Silence and choices.

Oh, the choices!

Do I spend the day writing? Cleaning? Organizing? Finding new work opportunities? Developing a new hobby or talent? Working on getting that elusive (to me) hot body? 

I'm not necessarily asking for advice. Because I am getting it. A lot of it. And I am already filling my own head with guilt and pressure. Suffice it to say that this feels like a completely new chapter in my motherhood. I am excited to find what it holds and what I am supposed to do with it. I am slightly worried that I have to do more than I am prepared for, but that remains to be seen. I hope my own journey helps someone out there find their own. Journey! ha, what is this, the Bachelor(ette/ in Paradise)? Amazing. 

Anything you learned in a new chapter of parenting?

Anna

Hospital Room Mother's Day

I rarely feel guilt as a mother. I’m confident that I am not totally screwing up in helping these four humans become self-sufficient members of society. But when Mother’s Day rolls around, all of the guilt I could have felt during the rest of the year hits me in one gigantic ball of “you’re not good enough” guilt. I also feel guilt for not loving Mother’s Day when there are so many women who would like to be mothers, miss their mothers, or miss the children who made them mothers. It’s a complicated day. 

Today, though, I sit in a hospital room waiting for my child to return from surgery. It’s nothing too serious; he broke his femur last year and they want to take the plate and 12 screws out so his bone can continue to grow and reduce his risk of breakage at the growth plates. But its a weird thing, sitting in a hospital room doing nothing but writing on your laptop while your child is being cut open and worked on. 

I can hear the cries of children in neighboring rooms. Some cries sound awfully young and others sound like they are in awful pain. I wonder what they’re here for, and my heart aches for them, but also for their parents. Watching your kids go through pain (physical and emotional) is so much more difficult than going through your own pain. That’s what you cannot understand until you have had children. Until you have raised little human beings, you think that you know empathy, but it is so much heavier than you knew possible. 

When my son first broke his femur, I had just returned home from a long trip with the youth from my church and was unpacking WHILE trying to pack for our family summer vacation we were to be leaving for the next day. I heard cries coming from the backyard and when I saw him clutching his leg on the trampoline, I said the same thing that I had said every other time someone got hurt on the trampoline, “You’re fine. Just hop off and go chill out somewhere.” At this point, you might be thinking what a wonderful mother I am. Where is my Mother of the Year trophy?

It gets worse. 

He was still crying and clutching at his quad—he was not going to move on his own. So, I grabbed him and carried him over to a patio chair. Are you cringing yet? Yeah, I know. This is one of those “maybe you should feel more guilt on days other than Mother’s Day” moments. “Dude, you’re fine. Just breathe,” I said. He tries, but the deep breath sends a shock of pain to his leg.

My husband and I look at each other and know that we have to take him to the hospital. Every slight bump or turn in the car and my little boy lets out a small shriek. I am realizing the severity of the situation every minute that we get closer to the hospital. His cries are now sending little jabs into my mothering heart. After we are admitted to the ER (and I get the first few of many disapproving head shakes reserved for those who own a trampoline), my son lies on the hospital bed and lets out the most pathetic sounds. I try to give him kisses and hold his hand, but he pleads that I don’t touch him. “Can someone give him something for the pain?” I ask anyone who walks by our room. 

I have turned into the Mama Bear. Just one hour before I was questioning his pain level and now I am demanding to get some professional attention to my poor baby. He’s a little guy and fairly quiet, so to hear him crying in such agony was wrenching my heart. Finally we are told that he has broken his femur and will be admitted. The break will require surgery. Because he had eaten dinner shortly before jumping on the trampoline, they wouldn’t be able to begin his surgery for hours, which turned into the following morning. All evening, they gave him doses of medicine, but he continued to feel a lot of discomfort. As soon as he would start drifting to sleep, his muscle would spasm and he would shriek at the pain. This went on all night. He went into surgery in the morning and the surgeon told us that it was significantly worse than the single fracture they had thought. He had three separate fractures going every which way on his femur, and she could not say enough about how much pain he must have felt. 

My small eight-year-old boy got smaller in the following months as he wasn’t able to play, swim, or participate in most of the summer activities. The first two weeks of the third grade, he pushed around a walker and wore a big brace that we called his “bionic leg.” He smiled when people brought him treats, but silent tears rolled down his face when we went to family and neighborhood parties. 

The subsequent doctor and physical therapy visits were taxing, but mostly because we saw so many children with issues MUCH more difficult than my son’s. My heart broke for these kids and their parents, grateful for the patient nurses and doctors, for the hospital and all those who contributed to it. Life can be sincerely difficult, and a messy room, a broken tv, or a ruined tube of lipstick all seem wonderful and fun when you put them on the scale of human experience. 

Today the anesthesiologist asked my son what flavor of sleep gas he wanted. After considering it for a few seconds, he asked if they had “glazed donut” flavor. The doctors and nurses all laughed and mused about such a great idea for a flavor of medicine. One of the residents, looking over the medical chart, said, “It’s so nice to have a healthy kid,” mostly to himself, but I couldn’t agree more. 

It is SO nice to have a healthy kid. Being a parent can be frustrating and trying and exhausting, but it is the best thing I have ever done. Mind you, I have done a lot of amazing and fantastic things in my life. I have travelled, worked, created, taught, accomplished, and continue to do these things. But having a kid (four of them!) has by far been the best thing I have chosen to do. I understand that some people do not wish to have children and I don’t think anyone SHOULD have kids if they don’t want them (plug for the gift of ADOPTION). But if they don’t want to have children because they don’t want anyone accidentally breaking the television, waking them up early Saturday morning or spilling cereal on the carpet, then they are MISSING OUT! 

Mother’s Day is a tricky day, to be sure, but somehow it’s got to stop being about comparing what kind of mother you are, were, or want to be and what kind of mother you had. It’s got to stop being about the brunch and what presents you give and get. This year, Mother’s Day for me is right now, sitting in this empty hospital room, realizing the gratitude I have for the chance at being a mother. It is thinking about the hugs my children give me that sincerely feel like they are filled with healing powers. It is reminiscing about my mother sitting in her chair with her needlepoint project and grateful that she made the choice to have me. 

My kids may never say cheesy sentiments about me being their angel mother (I’m looking at you, Abraham Lincoln) or send me to a spa while they clean the house and make my favorite dessert. That’s okay by me. I’m just glad I get to be an imperfect mother of imperfect kids in an imperfect life that I love. 

Happy Mother’s Day, imperfect people.