When it's hard...

Friends, you know I like to keep it real. And I'm going to be honest with you here. I'm sure this is going to come as a real shock to you all. 

Being a mom is hard.

I mean it. It's really hard.

The day in, day out of the job of raising small humans. The never-ending piles of dishes and laundry. The non-stopness of it all. 

And that's not even the crisis times. That's the normal. Some days, it's enough to drive a person to the edge.

And there really is no way out. As a mom, you have to put on your big girl pants and deal with it. Because, well, after all, you are responsible. It's kind of your job. Some people have to stock shelves or work in an office. You, mom, you have to clean the pee off the floor, explain to the short ones for the bazillionth time why it is NOT okay to eat boogers, and manage to convince them all to eat enough real food to actually nourish their growing bodies.

There are certainly perks to the job. Kisses and hugs and macaroni art are great fringe benefits. Bedtime stories and snuggles and belly laughs are pretty good, too.

But, if I'm honest, there are times when I'm just not feeling it. 

It's not that I don't love my boys. I do. Absolutely. I'd jump in front of a train for them...me and Bruno Mars.

But...there are times when I don't really like my boys. Times that I feel disconnected from one or all of them. Days, weeks, when I just don't understand them. When I don't really want to sit down and hang out with them any more than I absolutely have to. When I feel frustrated and irritated by them more than I enjoy them.

Those times, when I just don't...those times are hard. Harder than the normal hard. Dark.

Maybe I'm on my own here. Perhaps I'm really the only one who ever goes through this kind of phase. I'm going to go out on a limb here, though, and guess that I'm not. I'm going to guess that we all have times when we are struggling to connect with, to enjoy, one or all of our children.

I think this is one of those things that, as moms, we just aren't really allowed to talk about. I think we feel shame. We feel guilt. We feel inadequate. We feel...alone.

As moms, we are supposed to think our kids are amazing! All the time! We can't wait to spend more time with them! They are our best buds in the WHOLE! WIDE! WORLD! And if we don't have that kind of relationship with them, well, what kind of mother are we? If your experience is anything like mine, you're reminded of this at least once a week when some (probably well-meaning) woman approaches you and reminds you that "they grow up too fast," that "one day you'll miss this," or that "the days are long but the years are short." Thank you, lady, for that mountain of manure guilt you just piled on top of my already difficult day. Thank you, ma'am, for making me feel like an even worse mother because I was currently not savoring every moment as my child disobeyed me for the umpteenth time today.

I'm here to say that we are fine. We are normal. I am fine. I am normal.

But I also need to be proactive.

I need to work on my attitude in these darker moments of parenting.

It's so easy for me, when I am frustrated with a person, to focus my attention on all the negative parts of his* personality. Every little thing becomes an annoyance. Even things that would otherwise be endearing grate on my nerves. I could so easily compose a funny little blog post about each kid (or the hubs) and his idiosyncrasies, playing it off as "cute" or "funny." Saying how much I "love" the little bugger. All the while, though, my heart would be ugly. I would be focusing on the negativity, the irritation. Not on the lovely. Not where my attention should be focused.

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things." Philippians 4:8

So, here I am in the midst of one of those ugly times, finding it so hard to enjoy my boys. Struggling to savor the moments. And I'm challenged to change my heart attitude. I am not going to passively wait for it to pass, as I know it will.

I am challenging myself to celebrate my boys. Each one of them.

So over the next few days or weeks or months (let's be realistic here), I am going to write a post about each of the Wild Things. With nothing but the lovely, the noble, excellent, and praiseworthy about him. Because everyone deserves to be celebrated now and again. 

It's important to put it specifically into words. And it's important for them to know that they are being praised publicly. Because, let's face it, there are plenty of times they are shamed in the middle of the grocery store for the whole world to hear.

So you'll have to bear with me as I brag on my children for the next few posts.

My hope is that I can encourage you if you have struggled with this at times, too. You are not alone. It doesn't make you a bad mom. 

And, even in the midst of the darkness, you can find lovely things to actively celebrate in each of your children. 

Maybe you'll even join me in writing some public celebrations of who your kiddos are.

Mine are pretty cute.

*Grammar Nerd Alert! I am using the word "his" very purposefully here and for multiple reasons. One, I have no problem with the masculine singular being used in a gender-neutral sense, despite the fact that it is going out of fashion. I'm just old school, I guess, and lots of other languages have the same thing going on. Two, most of the folks I focus my negative energy on just happen to be boys: 1 grown up one and 3 small fries. Outside of that small circle, I'm not so mean.

Conjunction Junction, what's your function?

It's been a hectic week for me, getting everything we need for school plus a few other things taken over to the new place and organized. But I did it. I might have eaten nothing more than Dr. Pepper and Jalapeno chips this week, but I did it. We were ready to start school this morning, right on schedule.

We started our day off right, with a breakfast of champions, sure to sustain us to lunchtime.

After we finished eating, we hurried out the door. We didn't want to miss the bus on our very first day. What a disaster that would be! We took the obligatory pictures lined up for the bus. Naturally.

Then I hopped into the driver's seat, and we drove from the old house to the new. We excitedly entered the classroom and even tried to take pictures at the desk with the teacher.

We may need to work on our photography skills this year. Oh well. They were just excited that they each got a turn with my good camera, something they are rarely allowed to touch.

We finished our beloved FIAR at the end of last year, so we are launching headlong into new curriculum. Previously, I had loved the freedom and flexibility FIAR allowed us to have. I loved the fact that it was all based off of great children's books. I was able to really tailor or days to what we were interested in. However, after over 2 years of year-round school, I was growing weary. 

What I really wanted was for somebody to just tell me what to do each day. 

But I wanted it to be challenging.

And I still wanted some control.

And I wanted to be able to have the same core for two different grade levels.

And I didn't want to have to locate things every week at the library.

And I wanted to be able to do it in a 4-day week.

And I wanted to be able to custom fit math and reading levels for each child.

And I wanted to use real books.

And...

And...

So we settled on Sonlight. I was giddy the day EVERY book I would need for the entire year arrived in the mail. I was also a little intimidated. Second grade for the big boys, baby. Intro to World History. This stuff just got real.

It's too early to say how much (or whether) we love the new routine. Day 1 was a success, though, and I can say that I am looking forward to teaching my crazy, curious little men this year.

These boys are getting so very big. They amaze me every day.

Today we had some great conversations.

Some of those conversations were about Star Wars and whether Mace Windu should have been able to defeat Chancellor Palpatine. Or whether Luke would have stood a chance against Darth Maul's double light saber.

We also chatted about what they would like to be when they grow up. You know, typical first-day-of-school stuff.

Mr. N wants to be a zoologist in charge of his own zoo/aquarium. He was very specific about the "in charge" bit. He wants absolute control over every aspect.

Mr. W wants to be a firefighter and a lifeguard. He basically wants to be a superhero. To save people. And perhaps swim while doing it. He almost kind of still wants to be a zoologist. But he thinks he'll just visit with the animals every day after work.

Little Mr. L has been unwavering in his desire to be an artist and illustrator for many years. He actually would like to be a Caldecott-winning illustrator. But...since that's not entirely within his control, he didn't add that to his sign. He's in "catapult" kindergarten this year (as opposed to "cuckoo" last year) because he's being launched into elementary school.

Then there's me. My life goal is to one day become a beach bum. I really just want my hiney in the sand and a pina colada in my hand.

Hey, a girl can dream, right?

Just Not Pinterested

During this, the week after Mother's Day, I'm finally getting around to something I've been sitting on for a while. I can't really think of a better time to say say it than now, though, as we have just finished celebrating what it means to be a mom.

A few weeks back, I needed a solution for some of our clutter. Specifically, I needed to reclaim some space for their clothes. It seems that, as they keep getting bigger, so do their pants and shoes. Go figure. I decided on wall hooks for hoodies and backpacks and lofting Shorty's bed to add drawers or shelf space. I didn't want to spend a fortune doing it, either.

It didn't seem too daunting at first.

One trip to the thrift store.

Two crafty little projects.

And, as it turned out, a whole lot of stewing, frustration, and mom guilt.

You see, we live in the Pinterest generation.

One quick internet search for DIY coat hooks, and you are bombarded with images of beautiful designs carefully painted and distressed to perfectly compliment any decor.

And check out a few of the DIY kid's loft bed suggestions.

It seems we have added a whole new dimension of competition and judgey-ness to motherhood.

As if it weren't bad enough already, comparing children's behavior, activities, and accomplishments with each other, we now have social media dedicated to making us feel like our furniture, parties, decorations just don't stack up to the standard. It is no longer enough to buy a bed frame and a set of Holly Hobbie sheets for your kid's room, and use an old dresser to store their clothes (as was the case with my childhood room). Now you must find a free wooden pallet or two and transform them into a personalized headboard. If you are lucky enough to have that hand-me-down dresser, you've just saved yourself days searching thrift shops for the perfect item. However, you can't just use it as is. You must sand it and paint it. Then distress it, because it can't look new. You need to put new hardware on it, too. Maybe even decoupage something on the drawers to add some interest or texture.

We have bought into this idea that we are somehow less successful as a wife or a mother if our house isn't some wonderland of perfectly coordinated DIY items.

So my little plan to add more space and organization began to feel oppressive to me.

Between cleaning the house, doing laundry for 5, cooking 3 meals a day, homeschooling 3 bright and active boys, and finding time for the hubby, I barely had time to shower. How was I going to find time to create these amazing pieces to add to the boys' room?

Could I skip a shower for a month, cut out some of my play time with the kids and quality couple time to get it done?

NO.

I drew a line in the sand.

Just, no.

I let the boys paint the coat hook any way they wanted while I figured out how to get some storage out of Shorty's bed.

It's so crazy, but it's so them. They owned it, and it makes them happy. Plus they got some great bonding in while they collaborated on the design. You aren't going to find this on any idea boards or in any design magazines, but I don't care. Why does everything have to coordinate, anyway?

And for the loft bed design, I found a bench, an end table, some shelves, and some small craft pallets (from the store, NOT repurposed -- gasp) to help with extra height where needed. I got some spray paint when I was still thinking about making it look Pinterest-worthy, but I haven't used it. 

The boys begged me to leave a "doorway" so they could have a secret hideout under the bed. It's their favorite feature...and I didn't even have to make it look like a real door or clubhouse. There's a hole where you can peek out through one of the pallets, and they call it their "mailbox." They don't want me to change what the internet would consider a design flaw.

I was able to get it all done while they painted the coat hooks. It was so fast...and imperfect...and not coordinated with the rest of their bedroom.

And not once have they asked me to change it so that it is.

Come to think of it, they haven't asked me why their dresser is the same color it was when it was part of my granny's bedroom suite. They haven't asked me to give their room some sort of theme. They don't feel like their lives are lacking anything because I didn't even bother to take the labels off the jelly jars that hold their craft supplies or why their toys and supplies sit on plastic storage shelves instead of cute painted and papered ones. They actually kind of like the fact that their marker bucket is just a free plastic container left over from a few Halloweens ago and there is an old green and pink Easter basket holding the glitter glue.

In fact, they have never once asked me to spend more time sanding and painting, coordinating and decorating their room so that we can post some pictures to Facebook and see how many "likes" we get or how many people compliment us on our decorating skills.

What they HAVE asked me to do is to spend more time with them. To play games. To run races. To cuddle up and read a book. To have a family movie night. To go bowling. To look them in the eye and give them my full attention.

So if you want to spend your time searching for your next project on social media, executing it, and then posting the results to social media...you go right ahead.

As for me, I'm just not interested.

I'm going to go play soccer.

Finding Beauty

Less than a year after her death, I find myself living just 2 hours away from the town where this lady spent her childhood. Where she grew up, learned to be who she was. Where she took us several times a year. Where she and my granny filled our heads with stories of people we never knew, but whose lives had touched theirs. And by this touching, they became a part of us, as well.

It has taken me these few months to prepare myself to go there. I knew the journey was coming, and I knew that I needed it to come. I needed to do more than just drive by this town, catching a glimpse from I-70, and saying to the air, "That was my mom's hometown." I needed to go, to feel, to remember. I needed to listen to the whispers of the past and to say goodbye. I needed to go back in time so that I could move forward.

I wasn't sure where to start. The place is small, though, so there aren't really many choices. The prettiest spot in town is the cemetery. It also happens to overlook the family farm. A fitting place to start listening to voices from the past, I thought. I was the only one there, and as I wandered around looking for the names of people I knew and people I had never known, I was struck by the beauty and the peace. 

We engrave "Rest In Peace" on the headstones of our loved ones, but it is our hearts that are often left searching for that peace, or even, that piece, that is missing in our lives once someone has gone. There is a vacancy where someone once resided in our hearts. It is uncomfortable to be empty. Hungry. Longing for something that we cannot have. Just one more...something...with that person. One more phone call. One more day. One more chance to say, "I love you."

As I walked the hill behind the Old Stone Church, looking at names, I was able to have "one more" with my mother. I listened as she told me again the stories of the people whose names were written there. I shed tears as I remembered. I shed more as I knew there were so many that I failed to remember. I smiled upon seeing people whose names were "Dicey Boot" and "Friend Roy." My heart was full for the family who so lovingly cast their daughter's grave marker...backwards. And I was full of good feeling as I saw the grave of a woman I had never met, but who has a cake named after her. The recipe for "Carrie Butefish Cake" is scrawled in my granny's cookbook, and it was her favorite. It was nice to finally meet you, Carrie.

After several hours of resting there, I was truly able to see the beauty of the place, the day, and the lives that had touched mine, directly and indirectly.

I moved from one cemetery to another, of sorts. The house my granny was a girl in with her brothers sits on the edge of town, a monument to a time that has moved on. I drove down the overgrown lane, climbed out of the car, and trespassed through the weeds to take a look.

I was only in this house once, when I was just a girl, right before it went for auction along with everything in it and the half of the family farm that it sat on. Each time we visited the town, we would shake our heads at the state of decay of the old house, and we would wonder at the lack of care from the new owners of the property. It always made my mother feel sad as she remembered happy times there.

For me, it has always served as a monument to history. It reminds me of the importance of preserving what we can, placing value on things that are otherwise worthless. Teaching our children to do the same. However, it also screams that this world is temporary. Time is marching on relentlessly. We cannot cling to the past. It will decay in our hands. We must look toward tomorrow.

Looking toward the future and feeling more light-hearted, I headed into town. I remembered summers spent visiting here. It was a time of innocence. My brother and I would ride our bikes to the market, money shoved into our sweaty socks, to buy a treat before heading to the playground. Happy memories broke as I saw that the park was much unchanged in the past 30 years. The same shiny metal swings were there, ready to burn the legs of any child desperate enough to swing on a sunny summer afternoon.

Nostalgic, I climbed the ridiculously steep stairs to the top of the slide. The same slide I had gone down again and again. Then I did it. I had to. I burned my butt sliding down that thing. It was worth it, just as it always had been.

Even though I was the only one at the park that day, I swear I heard the laughter of a couple of kids, visiting from out of state. I had found another something beautiful there at the playground.

The last few hours of my day there were spent finding beauty. I found that there is beauty in the harvested wheat fields.

I found that there is beauty in a patch of sunflowers growing in a ditch by the side of the dirt road that leads nowhere you thought it did.

I found that there is beauty in catching a glimpse of the creek in whose waters you waded as a child and upon whose banks your mother and her brothers started their arrowhead collection. There is beauty in the pain. There is beauty in the remembering. There is beauty in the past and in the future.

 "The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs." -Norman Maclean

Moms Day

I woke up early yesterday morning. After checking the overnight Facebook action, I washed the dishes, put a load of laundry in, cooked myself some eggs, and had breakfast before the storm of activity that is my life with twins plus one awoke.

It's Mother's Day.

The hubby had an extra long work week in Kansas, plus some house hunting. He was tired. He was sleeping in today. I expected no fanfare this morning. It's fine.

The boys got up, and within five minutes we discovered that someone (likely that handsome guy who is snoring in the other room) clogged the toilet in the night. Unfortunately, we didn't discover this until after Thing 1 peed, didn't notice the clog, and then Shorty dumped his own clog- worthy load into our house's only toilet.

Fifteen minutes of plunging. Happy Mother's Day to me.

I live a very glamorous life.

I was taken by surprise at the intensity with which I felt the loss of my own mother. I wanted nothing more than to be able to hand her some flowers and a card and thank her for who she was and who she had helped make me to be. But I couldn't.

When I get sad, I get mean. It's one of the ugly bits of who I am. So I decided to pick a fight with the hubby as soon as he woke up. I worked myself up to it while he was still sleeping so I could ambush him with my ire. We had our little row, but he knows me well and diffused my anger before things got really bad. 

As I was telling him why I was sad, I realized that I was being very selfish. I lost my mom and was unable to celebrate with her, but I could still celebrate who she had been. Other people in my life have mothers who are still living, but still are unable to celebrate as the holiday says they should. Their mothers are not and have never been the stuff of Hallmark cards. They cannot hug their moms and say, "Thank you for all you have done for me. You are the best mom ever." 

I am blessed.

I had a great mom. I miss her. But I am blessed to have had her.

After I got over myself, we got on with our day. We swung through the drive thru at BK on the way to the art museum. It was the Mother's Day lunch that dreams are made of.

At the art museum, the first thing the four of us did was head through the labyrinth of galleries on our way to the restroom. Wait. Did you think we were a family of five? You are right. That wasn't a typo. Four of us went to the restroom. One of us got lost in the shuffle. I had one twin and thought the hubby had both Shorty and the other twin. The hubby had the other twin, thinking I had two kids with me. It wasn't until we all emerged from the restrooms that we realized that we were missing the Tiny Man.

Mother's Day parenting FAIL.

I have never run so fast in heels up steps in a museum in my life. Back by the front door, there was Shorty. Chatting away with the ladies at the desk. He had done everything right. He stayed put. He didn't panic. He told the people at the help desk who he was and whom he was with.

After we were reunited, he was pretty excited that he had done something "all by himself."

Needless to say, the rest of our time at the museum was much less eventful.

On the way home we grabbed some hot-n-ready pizzas for yet another perfect celebratory meal on paper plates at home. Dessert was frozen custard with a free cone for Mom...that ended up being eaten by the kid we almost lost. Small price for his safety.

I ended my day by cleaning pee off the floor of the dining room. The day had truly come full circle.

There was no breakfast in bed. There were no flowers, no chocolates, no fancy dinners, and no gifts. But I woke up this morning knowing the greatest Mother's Day gift of all was mine. The greatest gift I have ever received is the privilege of  being a mother. That gift is mine today and every day.

www.jillheupel.com

I am blessed.