I Do Stand-Up Comedy!

2016 is my year. It's my year to do whuteverthehell I want. Whuteverthehell! So, I chose stand-up comedy. Whuuuuut???

That's me!

Why I'm Quitting Stay-At-Home-Mom

Standing near the produce at the Food Lion grocery store when I was eight, my mom promised me, "If you go to college, I'll pay for every cent." Deal.

And now, I'm standing in front of my life choices, watching them play out in slow motion. What the hell have I done?

source

I Quit Homeschooling

"My oldest is really advanced." The elementary principle rolled his eyes at me. "Every parent thinks that," he said. "I know, but, just test her," I replied.

Source

Dissolved dreams afflict moms.

I'm not the only one! Remembering my last post, here's a fantastic follow-up on moms pursuing dreams, written by Nicole Carpenter, a KSL Contributor:

"I believe there is a silent epidemic of dissolved dreams afflicting women who have put many dreams on hold to be a wife and mother...Those dreams don’t truly go away because they are a part of who we are, a part of who we are meant to be. They will weigh heavy on your mind, or offer a burning sensation in your heart, and you should believe because all dreams are real."

Continue reading this moving article.

My dream fulfilled: circus acrobat!

Mom, where's your fun self?

The fun, daring part of me was lost and buried when my new identity became "Mom."

As a young, naïve mom, I expected myself to find complete satisfaction in life by cooking, cleaning and tending to my sweet babies 24/7, all between the walls of my little home. Like so many other moms, I thought it was selfish to do things by myself and for myself. Have you ever felt this way?

After 4 years of full-time, serious motherhood, I wasn't vibrant or vivacious anymore. I wasn't excited or interesting.

Painting ceramics without kids at Color Me Mine with my sis-in-law.

I mean, I used to be fun! What happened to that girl?!

Weaning off Zoloft sucks.

Image Source

Brain zaps. Migraines. Vertigo. Memory loss. Sudden anger. Digestive issues (ahem). If you've ever had withdrawal symptoms from going off Zoloft (Sertraline), you know what I'm talking about.

I started taking Zoloft about 4 months after I had my boy because of severe post-partum depression and post-partum anxiety. My body was chemically thrown into the stratosphere after his birth. Nursing him until he was 1yo just sustained the issues.

Does your husband clean? (Revised)

Dear Cinderella,
        Let's discuss gender rules. Why is it that my husband spouts how he isn't one of those 1960's husbands who feels its soley the wife's duty to clean, and yet there's only about once a month it occurs to him that he, too, is responsible for the task of keeping our home clean?
        Pointing out this fact is dangerous and usually ignites a fight which will generally end in one extra day of effort from Prince Charming to place his pants somewhere other than the back of my dining room chair.
        I have a good man. He is hard-working. He is honest, kind and a great father to my children. However, there are times I wonder if I'm alone in my desire for him to help me clean. Many nights, I'll wait for him to sleep before I begin, because cleaning while he merely sits on the couch reading or watching TV generally makes me just more bitter. Am I alone? Am I having a wave of crazy irrationality and need to step back?

—The Scullery Maid

Dear Sculley,

Please excuse me, but I am revising my previous* answer to your question. My husband and I talked this evening and I realized my initial response didn't account for his view of our situation.

So, I think the only way to truly describe how we resolved it, is to bring him in on this one.

Let me first say that from my perspective, I'd beaten this topic into the ground. I had come at my man from every angle, begging for help around the house. I tried being kind and sweet. I cried. I got angry. I tried to ignore it. Nothing had any lasting change. I would always end up sucking it up and cleaning by myself, feeling alone, forgotten and resentful.

Mom on strike goes to therapy

I went on strike two months ago. I was on strike against the Homemaking Union. We have no rights, no freedoms, no pay, no one standing up for us making sure our work isn’t ruined.

I, like many of you, was so exhausted from constantly redoing housework that I tried so hard to do that was constantly being undone. It’s seriously like chasing your tail. And since I’m an intelligent woman, I finally admitted I wasn’t ever going to catch it. So I said, “Screw it.”

Buried alive

Today, the walls around me are caving in. I want to cry. My chest is tight.

I try so hard to be kind, thoughtful, forgiving, compassionate and mostly, nonjudgmental. I really am a good person with a very open heart.

It crushes me, though, when someone sees my messy, chaotic home. It feels like my home is seen as a direct reflection of my character; that when it's filthy, it must mean I'm a slob; that when it's in shambles, it means I'm not caring for my kids.

The evening rush

Evenings are intense. Working moms are exhausted but want time with their kids. Stay-at-home moms are worn out and want silence.

My sisters are the perfect examples. My little sister is a single, working mom. My older sister is a stay-at-home mom for her two kids and our little sister's two kids. They are both busy and over-worked 24/7. And on top that, they LIVE together.

So, obviously their time is precious. Both need breaks in the evening and have been struggling to make it work. Making dinner is a tiring chore and cleaning up is even worse. The working sister wants to spend time with her kids but is dragging by then. The SAH sister wants time to herself and a quiet house.

We all want those things! So, here's a re-make of our evening schedules to maximize quality time with the kids and free time with ourselves:

Mom Exhibit: Another mom fights the dust

I'm not alone! My girl, Deb, sent me this email the other night and I just about peed my pants. Let's give a shout-out to our newest Mom Exhibit contributor. I know she'll feel welcome here!

My name is Deborah — and I am the mother of a messy house.

For 6 years, my family and I lived in a fabulous neighborhood. I was surrounded by amazing people, and yet...I can count on my left hand the number of people I ever invited INto my house. And I know of only ONE person whom I ever felt 100% at ease with just "dropping" by at any time.

Quit while you're ahead...or behind

Why, why, why does my house look and smell like the county dump every single Monday morning? I'll tell ya why—I don't have time to clean on the weekend.

So, imagine how good I felt about myself as I started cleaning the kitchen this morning! While I'm at it, the boy makes a stinky in his diaper. I get that cleaned up. Back to the dishes. He screams at me for food, "Maaaaaahhhh!" I quiet him with a squeezable applesauce and a sippee cup of milk. Back to the dishes. He climbs in the dishwasher and flings knives, cups and bowls onto the floor. I put up the baby gate. Back to the dishes. He douses the carpet with milk. Bahhh! I clean it up and get back to the dishes. He grabs the bag of veggie chips off the table and dumps them all over the floor. The girl helps pick them up. Back to the dishes. After getting all of that under control, I'm feeling confident and happy. I walk in the living room...

Oh brother. The kitchen's not done, but whatever. I'm done.

My success is your failure

So...the Mom Exhibit. That was pretty fun, huh, to see another mom's unedited house?

Well, here's the problem. While I was totally willing to share images of the messes, I was too afraid to share successes because I didn't want to make anyone feel bad.

I got going and had moments where I was succeeding, when I stayed on top of the dishes for 24 hours, when I completely cleaned my bedroom (and it has stayed clean), when I vacuumed 2 weeks in a row, when I had a warm dinner on the table each night for an entire week.

I was judged by my mess

This morning, I woke up with a spark. As I washed the dishes, my mind raced, feeding the beast, growing it until I thought I would burst.

Recently, I was excluded from something. The part that hurt the most was that I was blind-sided. No one said a word to me. I was just cut out. I whole-heartedly believe it was because of my blog, because maybe I appear to have too much on my plate, like maybe more time at home would help me get my affairs in order. I don't know, really. I was going to ask. But, then I realized it would be in vain. #1. I didn't want anyone to think I was whining. #2. Do you really think anyone would honestly tell me the truth? No way.

So, to spare myself some respect, I sucked it up and said, I won't let it get me down.

I knew divulging so much about myself on this blog was risky. I knew there would be some consequences. I figured there'd be a few hoity-toity people that would think less of me.

I just didn't think it would be these people. I'm bummed that they didn't get what I'm trying to do here.

So, what am I doing here?

There is a mom culture in our society with silently-defined expectations. This culture measures our self-worth by the tidiness of our playrooms, shine on our kids' cheeks, promptness of our families to events, the capacity of our memories.

It's wrong. It's women being hard on themselves and hard on each other. It needs to stop.

The worth of a mom should be measured by her love for her kids. It's invisible to the eye and is manifested differently in every family. For some women, it means they have to work to earn enough money for their kids to live in a safe neighborhood. For others, it means they get up extra early in the morning to braid their daughter's hair.

I just want moms to compare themselves to themselves, not the chick down the street. You know your best. You know what you're capable of. You know how much you love your kids. And you, only you know what that looks like.

So, to anyone who may doubt my abilities or may think I have too much on my plate, I'm sorry, but you're wrong. Please don't judge me by my mess and my Zoloft prescription. I used them to prove that, by my own definition, I do have it all together and this is what that looks like for me.

Please, I beg you, don't fall victim to the naïve, ignorant standards of mom culture.

Secret to a clean house

There is one, right? A secret to a clean house?

I think most of us are sure that there is, indeed, a secret that we just haven't figured out. When my first baby turned one, I set out to discover that secret.

Image Source here

It started on the internet. I read blog after blog with all kinds of tips and tricks to keeping a clean house. I tried many with no lasting success. So, I got serious. I marched right into my tiny town library and checked out a book, "The Ultimate Career: The Art of Homemaking for Today," by the cutest little lady, Daryl Hoole.

I read that book and set my mind to follow through with Daryl's advice. My favorite of all her secrets? Clutter attracts clutter. (Read a great synopsis of her book here.)

But, I want to stop there with the cleaning advice, because really you all know I'm not qualified for or interested in cleaning advice.

I want to point out the true secret to a clean house.

Fancy footwork: Mom Exhibit

I'm inviting BYU's football team to come workout in my house. It's guaranteed to keep 'em on their toes. It's impossible to walk in a straight line in any direction. If you don't keep your eyes down, you're sure to step on land mines (little plastic toys strewn across the floor).

Christmas came and went like a storm of tornadoes. And here's the aftermath.

Sorry—blurry pic.

Holiday meltdown: Mom Exhibit

Girl. Let me tell you.

I. am. pooped.

I've got one of those haven't-slept-well-in-nights headaches and my shoulders are so heavy. For the past 2 days, I've wanted to post about a million different things.

But, then I remember the whites that have been soaking in the washer for 2 days when it was only supposed to be over night, the dishwasher that has sat 1/2 full and the dirty ones in the sink I could just throw in real quick to get it started, the vacuum I need to pick up from the repair shop (30 min away) so I can finally clear the carpet of the 3-week-old food chunks, the gifts I still need to make for Christmas, the wrapping (ooohhh the wrapping—worst part, right?), the car that we still can't drive because it needs to go to the shop (it's been sitting in the driveway for close to 3 months), the realization that the kids have no clean winter clothes as of 4 days ago.

Tis the season.

It's too much to think about. So, sorry—it felt like too much for me to take a pic of the house, hook up the camera to the computer, download pics, edit lighting in Photoshop, save the image and upload to blogger. Just look back at other Mom Exhibit posts. Nothing's changed.

Take this, Charlie Brown: Mom Exhibit

Oh, Christmas tree...

You're looking pretty pathetic these days...pretty sparse on the bottom half. The girl's constantly rearranging and the boy whacks at ya with drum sticks. Your surroundings don't help.

What matters most, though, is that you're loved. Mostly loved. Because the girl "likes everything except for one thing: the bow on top." "Because I hate bows," she says.

So moms, don't stress or apologize to visitors. We understand. You tried to make it look nice. There's a time and season for everything. And this season isn't the season for Martha Stewart-esque decor.

Link up below and show me your "kid-proof" tree. Click the link below, "Click here to enter."

Faking postpartum anxiety

Postpartum Anxiety.

PPA.

That's what I like to call my issue. However, deep down, I know that having babies only amplifies what I've had going on my entire life. I've always had anxiety. As much as I'd like to pretend and tell people it's only a postpartum issue (blame it on pregnancy and suddenly you're not crazy), it's really not.

Down under: Mom Exhibit

Deep down under the dining table, lying in the dark abyss of the ocean floor, live undiscovered, unclassified beings. Some are quickly ingested by the local carpet creatures. Others lurk, waiting to embed bare feet with their sharp, stinging edges.