We Will Be Sorry

Someday we are going to be sorry.

Not one fiber of my being is being judgmental. Trust me. I am on the exact same ship as everyone else. But it's a ship that all of us parents are on, and for the life of me, I don't know who is steering the boat.

But as sure as I sit here, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are all going to be sorry.

We are going to be sorry that we didn't take more family walks. We are going to be sorry that most of our springs and falls were spent running from one sport to the next. And please don't get me wrong, I am a HUGE fan of sports. (If you need proof of this, my ring tone on my phone is Centerfield by John Fogerty because I am so pumped about upcoming baseball season.) I think sports are great for kids. I think they teach life skills, are great exercise, and they keep kids out of trouble. But I do think we will be sorry we did SO MANY sports, and that we did them so many nights a week, and that we will be sorry we didn't take more breaks.

We will be sorry that our children can beat the neighbor's high score on Mario Kart, but doesn't know how to skip a rock across the water. I'm ashamed to admit that my children have never even played charades.

We will be sorry we didn't throw the DSi's off the balcony, and put on our rubber boots and jump in every rain puddle we could find.
We will long for days laying in the grass looking at the clouds. We will wish we had read more, rushed less, and been more laid back.
Someday the laughter we hear outside will not be our children's, but the laughter of the children of our new, younger neighbors.
We will think back, and I don't know about you, but my heart and hugging arms will ache.

What if some of the money spent on traveling teams and hotel costs, Under Armour, and over the moon birthday parties was spent on family trips to interesting places like Nantucket or Washington D.C. There is a place-- in Oregon of all places-- where you sit around a campfire and tell stories at night, ride horses, and sleep in beautifully lit and incredibly high tree houses at night. I want to go there so bad it almost makes my stomach ache. And why don't I? What is keeping me from doing something so beautifully crazy? I could just go to Oregon, with the family, for no reason other than the knowledge that you only live once.

Why not? Why the heck not?

I can honestly say that there is not one minute during the day that I am with my children that I don't feel rushed. Even if we are reading together, I am still thinking about how I need to be starting supper, and the fact that we need to hurry because they need baths or showers, etc., or they won't get into bed on time and then they will be tired and won't do as well in school. In the morning I am a Marine sergeant with bad hair, sheet marks on my face, and an attitude. Our day is never started on a calm note. My oldest might as well be catapulted through the bus window with his jacket half on.

Recently, I have heard a clock ticking. A BIG clock. And it's not a biological clock. It's that clock that when you have children, begins to tick faster and faster each year.

It begins when you realize you are not their whole world anymore, when you realize that they would rather hang with the kid down the street for the umpteenth time than go with you to the movies and eat loads of popcorn and M&M's. It begins when they tell you something crazy great that happened at school, but it's news from a week and a half ago because they forgot to tell you. And it reminds you of those times when they were smaller and jumped into your car from preschool instantly and insanely ecstatic over a piece of paper with one purple line on it that they made for you.

And for those of us with sons, you lay there at night realizing that more than likely your son is going to follow the girl he falls in love with wherever she may go, and it's probably going to be somewhere like Nebraska. And if she wants to spend Christmas with her family almost every year, they probably will. Because she is the girl, and he is the boy whose job is to make her happy.

It's going to hit me one day. Did I really not play Scrabble so I could just finish that last load of laundry? Isn't striving for an uncluttered living area important? Won't that make us an even happer more efficient family?? Won't it??

But the truth of the matter is that one day they will be gone, and there won't be anything much to do except laundry.

That's when it will hit us. That's when we will be sorry.

Because once they have waved to us from that graduation line and gone on to Harvard, or Auburn, or the local commumity college, they are not going to want to learn how to skip rocks anymore.

The time will have passed. 

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Tuna Trouble

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Tuna Trouble: This blog today is dedicated to all of those moms out there who are still dealing with temper tantrums. I am fortunately past that phase wi...

Tuna Trouble

This blog today is dedicated to all of those moms out there who are still dealing with temper tantrums. I am fortunately past that phase with my children, and I really don't think my oldest ever really had a bad temper tantrum. I do recall having to carry him, kicking and screaming, out of a park once. So that certainly qualifies. And I have blocked out one episode at Target which left me sweaty and crying in the parking lot for over an hour. But this is the child that as I was changing his diaper said, "I feel so dehydrated." So he has been pretty verbal which eliminated many tantrums. My second child talked early too, but was born with colic and LOTS of emotion. More than his little body could sustain. The other day I found an e-mail that I had sent my friends about one of his tantrums. Even if your children are older, or even if you don't have any children, this still might give you a laugh. I don't really even remember being all that mad during this tantrum because it sort of seemed like a lab experiment gone wrong. It was scary and maddening and fascinating all at the same time. I never dreamed that I would offer up this e-mail from years ago as fodder for a blog, but it's just too strange not to share. Maybe there are some moms out there who will see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The funniest part is that I sent it out in response to a church morning devotion, so that was the title on it. I forgot to change the title to everyone at my church. It is clearly not a morning devotion, more like a morning glimpse of hell. So I retitled it. Here it is...

Tuna Trouble

 

This is most certainly not a morning devotion, but nevertheless might make someone smile out there
who is having a bad day.

This all started when I offered my youngest a bite of tuna fish. I was making a batch for
myself, and since he had never tried any (I was always hesitant because of all the mercury),
I decided to offer him a bite. BIG mistake. HUGE.

I asked if he would like to try some. He said yes, so I put a little piece on a fork and held it out to him.
He approached cautiously, but smiling. He got close to the fish but then backed away. This went on
over and over again. He wanted it, but then again he didn't want it. After going back and forth with this
one too many times, I finally gave up and put the bowl of tuna fish back into the fridge.

He completely melted. He began sobbing at the refrigerator door, begging for the tuna fish. This went
on for a while and against my better judgement, I got him one more bite. The same thing happened...yes,
no, yes, no. Exasperated, I threw his paper plate with a clump of the untried fish into the garbage. He
went into complete spaz out mode. Red faced. Glazed eyes. Sweating. Screaming bloody murder.
He gets the fish out of the trash, and I take the plate away from him, put it back in the trash, and then
stand in front of the trash. He throws himself down in front of the trash and rolls around screaming,
occasionally hurting his head on the hardwood floor because he is thrashing so much. I get disgusted and
leave the room and go to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Mommy needed a time out. He comes back there totally hysterical,
and doesn't see me laying on the bed. The bathroom door is shut and he thinks I'm behind the door. He
stands at the door sobbing until finally he sees a pile of clean clothes lying on the recliner. He (while still in
the full throes of a red-faced screaming fit) decided to throw all the clean clothes on the floor. I guess to
get me back for my mishandling of the tuna. Finally he sees me and follows me back out to the kitchen.
I begin laughing because it's either that or end up at the funny farm sitting in a corner chewing on my own
socks. Sooooooo......he sees me laughing and gets so mad that he is jumping up and down and hysterically
crying even harder. Ok, so there is one tiny piece of fish for him left....this is it....it's the finals. I give
him a Gerber fork with tuna and a piece of pickle. This is his chance to redeem himself. Well, he gets even
more hysterical, knocks the tuna and pickle off the fork, and is freaking out rolling around on the floor in
circles around the fish.

 

I have mentally decided that this child will never again be offered Omega 3's in his life.
I lean in to pick up the pickle and he hits Mach 3. Apparently I am supposed to step away from the tuna.
I at least manage to put the tuna back on the fork, which is now laying in the middle of the kitchen floor.
(It's been a half an hour by the way). So now he's on the floor having a fit, rolling around the tuna on the
fork like a beached mackerel. Finally after exhausting himself, he is just sprawled on the floor staring at the tuna on the fork, like
it's the holy grail or something. He is so tired from screaming for so long, his breathing is labored.

 

Finally, after what seems like hours, he gets up with the fork and tuna and wields it like he is doing the last lap of
the torch handoff at the Olympics. I clearly don't want tuna all over my house so I put the tuna away and
try to distract him with cartoons which doesn't work. He's in such a frenzy that I think his neurological
system is shutting down. He simply CANNOT calm down. So I take him downstairs to the
playroom...far, far away from any tuna or any mackaral, halibut, or bass for that matter. He WILL NOT
settle down, gets even more hysterical and then proceeds to vomit red berry Juicy Juice on my carpet.
That was it. He was done with the fit (approaching an hour long) and went off to play. He even handed
me something, I thanked him, and he said, "You're welcome," like nothing had ever happened.

Anyhow, I decided that day that I hate tuna fish.

 

Love,

Mel

Just Pressing Pause

Just Pressing Pause

Basically this is just a quick message to say that, no, I have not stopped blogging. I love it too much. It has changed me in ways that didn't even seem possible. I'm serious. I didn't realize how much I missed writing and how much it is a part of who I am, whether anyone reads it or not. Of course I love the company and feedback, but I know now that I HAVE to write no matter what. I've had friends tell me this, and I should have listened much sooner.

It completely and totally blows my mind that there are people in Germany, Russia, Canada, and the Ukraine reading this blog. I would sooooo love to hear from you guys. I am curious and excited beyond belief. That is simply mind-blowing and humbling. The fact that anyone is reading it other than my immediate family is mind-blowing.

I have been posting about three times a week, but I wanted to explain why I haven't lately, so that hopefully you guys will keep tuning in and hang with me. Basically, our area was hit by a tornado this past week. And with all that is going on and with there being so many people in need and suffering, it just didn't seem right to blog about the crazy, quirky parts of life with all the truly important things going on right now.

Anyhow, to make a long story short, I plan on starting back up again this weekend.

Please just keep those who are suffering in your thoughts and prayers.

Love to all,
Melissa

Crazy? Who me?

First, before I get started, I must make a public service announcement that right now, as I sit here, I have one of the worst migraines I have ever had. I have even had to close my right eye for a large portion of the evening...when I could hold up my headj, that is. Why am I sitting here writing, you ask? Well, that is a good question. But for a large portion of my life, much of my creative expression whether good or terrible, has occurred in the midst of a migraine. I think there have been some studies on this sort of thing, but you clearly didn't visit my blog to hear about all of that. Just letting you know beforehand, in case I don't make any sense.

Tonight I was reminded of a wonderful quote I heard that really resonated with me...or "marinated" with me, as I overheard a girl say at Starbucks while I was trying out my new Kindle. It was funny to hear her say that word, but over time it has grown on me. Marinated could work. We sit and mull something over, "marinate" in it, until we soak up the spices, the understanding of it. It could be a brilliant word.

Anyhow, I cannot to save my life remember where I read this quote, but it was something about how the best gift we can give our children is to discover who they TRULY are and then lead them in that direction.

In the amazing book, Wild Things by Stephen James and David Thomas, they say, "That is why we think 'nurturing' is a better mind-set. It first takes into account who a boy is created to be, and then looks secondarily at our role as influencers on that design. In the classic nature vs. nurture debate, we like to say, 'It's our job to nurture the nature.' Boys need us first to recognize who they are. Then they need the help of wise and committed adults in navigating their way from boyhood to manhood."  

This of course applies to girls as well. But for those who have boys, I cannot recommend this book enough.

But as my children grow and thrive, I seem to be reminded of these quotes more and more every single day, and the deep truth within them.

We all have dreams for our children, and at times, it's hard not to push those onto our children. Just go to any sporting event and watch some of the parents. Sometimes you would think you're at the Olympics, and you have to remind yourself that you are REALLY at a 5-year-old sporting event. Three years ago, I had no idea that coaches actually "scout" five-year-olds. I have so much to say about this, but that will be for another blog, another time.

I do believe that there are huge environmental factors at play with our children. I believe we can can take the characteristics and personalities they were inherently born with and help to mold those fascinating qualities in wonderful ways. But I also know that my children are each very much their own little people. I know that my oldest child was born logical, cautious, and has a very dry, laid back sense of humor. He is truly one of the wittiest children I have ever known. Not everyone knows that, but they do if they are around him long enough. He is amazing at chess and building things with Legos, and is really improving as a baseball player. I am pretty confident that he will never be an amazing tackler on the football team. Not because I don't believe that he couldn't do it if he set his mind to it, but because I know that he will probably never have any interest. He has no desire, and for me to push him in that direction would be ridiculous and not true to who he really is.

My second child, however, I believe was born knowing how to physically take people down. (I'm not into children playing tackle football at a young age, but I'm not going to get on a soapbox about that.) He is rough and tumble, and loves nothing more than making people laugh. But, on the flipside, he is one of the most sensitive children I know. Every time he sees an animal, he immediately wants to know where its mother is and wants to make sure it hasn't been abandoned. There is not a cautious bone in this child's body. He is all impulse. This became abundantly clear when at age two he purposefully rode his little riding car down a flight of stairs. As I helplessly watched his body tumble head over feet over plastic vehicle all the way down the stairs, I was ready to call 911. Without shedding a tear, he got up, put his Batman mask back on and asked me if I had any chocolate.

Just as I know that my older child will always be cautious, I also know that my youngest will always be a free spirit. I cannot change who they are. I do, however, feel it is my job as a parent to be sure that the "free spirit" in him knows that it's not okay to jump off the balcony into the swimming pool on a dare during his high school spring break.

We can help mold them, but we can't recreate them. And why would we want to? Every child is beautiful in his or her own way. It is just our job to help show them how to spin their traits in the positive direction.

And when I say my boys are complete and total opposites, I mean that in a physical sense as well. Physically, they don't look like brothers. Heck, they don't even look like cousins.

I remember one particular post-partum incident that is now hysterical, but at the time, not at ALL. It occurred after my first child was born. And let me tell you that it's a blessing that my first-born looks EXACTLY like me now, or I think this incident would possibly still be haunting me.

One night while I was still in the hospital after giving birth, I was all jacked up on morphine after my emergency C-section. It was dead in the middle of the night when a nurse flung the door open. Don't you love how they fling those doors open and turn on the lights in the middle of the night like you are a lazy teenager who has slept until noon on Saturday instead of mowing the lawn?HELLOOOOOOOOO, just a few hours ago my spleen was laying on my chest, could you give me a few more minutes please?

Anyhow, this nurse entered the room and was actuallly a little quieter than the others normally were. I heard hushed voices as she spoke to my husband. Apparently my new baby had lost his identification bracelet from his wrist in the middle of the night. As I faded in and out of semi-consciousness, I heard something about how some papers needed to be signed and a new bracelet needed to be given. And somewhere, in my hazy, foggy mind, I knew I had suddenly become a victim like every horrible Lifetime movie I had ever seen.

The next morning I was unstoppable. My baby had been switched. There was an evil nurse somewhere in the hospital and she had taken my baby. My hazy mind began collecting evidence. He did look a little different after they gave him a bath. My mind was racing. Then later, while walking down the hall, I saw a baby that resembled the way mine had looked before his bath. It was him. There was no doubt in my mind. Some other couple had my baby. My poor husband knew I was crazy, but probably figured it was easier to let me roll with it than it would be to stop my intense investigation. I got up, in all my abdomen-stapled glory, and was on a mission. I was hunched over and could barely walk. I threw a robe on and grabbed my husband's arm and began shuffling down the hallway. I was going to find my baby. I'm surprised we weren't arrested as I scoped out all the babies in the nursery. Finally I saw him. I identified the last name and cased the halls for his room. I had to get one more look. A close look. Finally, in my crazed state, I found the room. Ha! They weren't fooling me. I knew what had happened. I refused to be the subject of the next made-for-TV movie. Then I looked on the wall. My so called "stolen baby" was a twin.

Alrighty then.

And I calmly went back to my room to nurse my baby.

Watch Out for UFOs

     You can put down your phone. No need to report it. It is actually NOT a UFO. Oh, it's a flying object all right, but I'm getting ready to identify it. If you get out your telescope you might be able to see the small Weight Watchers emblem on it as it flies throught the dark Alabama night. Yes, it will be, in fact, my scale.
     Just a few hours ago, I shuffled into the kitchen with my hands on my hips. "Our scale is broken!" I exclaimed. "I need you to go get on the scale RIGHT NOW!" My husband was in the middle of something at the time, but you know what? As I sit here thinking about it, he never did go "test" the scale. I think there is a message in here somewhere. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with him emerging from the restroom days ago and finding me sitting on the bed not able to button my jeans.
     It's been a good scale, right in line with the doctor's office scale. But tonight, just hours ago, it undoubtedly broke. That is my story, and I'm sticking to it. I mean, there is NO POSSIBLE WAY someone could gain eight pounds in six days...is there? I was on steroids for a week for my "food allergy incident." But I'm not sure it's even possible for me to blame it all on the medication. Could it be that all the temptations of yummy Christmas food has worked on me like a runaway train? Could it be that since I have had insomnia for several weeks now, the late nights are making me resort to my favorite hobby? Could it be the popcorn and orange chocolate I just wolfed down? After all, how could I be gaining weight? I just pinned a great workout from Pinterest. Umm, pass the coffee Haagen Daas please.

     All of these TV shows talk about emotional eating, anxious eating, and all other deep-rooted psychological reasons for constant eating. But folks, I'm just going to cut to the chase. I know EXACTLY why I eat so much. Bottom line...I'm always hungry! It's very simple. I love the way food looks, I love the way it feels in my mouth, and I love the way it tastes. I just love food. Plain and simple. My whole life I have luckily been blessed with a crazy fast metabolism. That pretty much lasted until I was 32 and had my first child. But I am proud to say that while pregnant, I put my child FIRST! If he wanted a 770-calorie milkshake from Chick-fil-A, then by golly he was going to get one. In fact, if he wanted one EVERY day he would get one. He really liked strawberry. It didn't even phase me when my OB showed me a food pyramid, and then pointed out that ice cream was nowhere to be found. I remember passing my husband's weight. None of it phased me. If I was hungry, I ate. Toward the end of the pregnancy, and 60 pounds later, I began to hope that possibly I was having a 40-pound baby.

     My next pregnancy was the same. Sixty pounds exactly. Instead of thinking my pregnancy eating was out of control, I just took it as a sign that my body was pre-rigged for 60-pound pregnancies and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it. I embraced it. I was with child, and I was beautiful. In retrospect, looking at pictures, ummm, not so much. By SeaWorld standards I was beautiful. Up until I was about six months pregnant I was okay, but then...

     Let's put it this way, there is a horrific picture of me on the hospital bed right before my emergency C-section (who TOOK that picture?) A friend of mine saw the picture a couple of years later and was actually unable to identify my bare leg. I'm afraid she thought it was the trunk of an American Beech.

     But up until this Christmas, I was only about seven or eight pounds away from my target weight. I was so excited. But then Christmas came. And then the allergic reaction and the steroids. I honestly did not know it was possible to gain so much weight so quickly.  

     I'm trying to remail calm about it all, but I want to be healthy. I'm not obsessed with a number, but don't exactly want to go buy a whole new wardrobe. And the voice of Dr. Oz talking about all the dreadful things you are at risk for if your waist is more than 34 inches is ringing in my ear. Maybe it will straighten itself out. Maybe it's just the time of year. Maybe I am like those winter squirrels who store nuts in their cheeks. Perhaps I am storing things for the winter. Perhaps I am storing actual blueberry muffins in my muffin top.
     Once again, I think everyone should be healthy, but not obsessed. Did anyone see Angelina Jolie at the Golden Globes? It was shocking. These poor girls who are seeing these images as they grow up.
     I had a cousin who once purposefully put on 20 pounds because she was upset about her pointed nose. She thought the weight gain might spread out her nose a little bit. I don't think it really worked, but I liked her attitude. In all honesty, I would rather be a tad over my target weight than be underweight like so many of these skeletal looking movie stars. Being too skinny makes you look older and have more wrinkles, while a couple of extra pounds can plump up your face and make you look younger.

     But healthy is key...for everyone. And I have heard that just 10 pounds can make a big difference in your blood pressure. So I suppose trying to hit that target weight, eating right, and exercising is what I need to focus on in the new year. This late night eating is becoming a problem. 

     However, in exactly 10 weeks I will turn 40. And I am starting to see some lines I've never noticed before. I wonder if a few more pounds would...nahhhhhhhh.

      

Open Apology to the Applebee's Mom

      Today there was a teeny tiny, microscopic, miniscule, obscure, hidden molecular part of me that almost...ALMOST...bought Lego earrings. Sadly, I am not kidding.
     I was at a Brick Convention with my husband and two boys, and it was hard not to get swept up in the Lego frenzy. My husband had a perpetual grin on his face which I suspect was due to the fact that I was unabashedly embracing my inner nerd. Toward the end of the event, near the door, I saw that they had even found a way to sneak in a little Lego for the ladies.
     Thank GOODNESS I didn't do it. If I had, some Pajama Jeans, a Snuggie, a Banana Clip, and a Fanny Pack are the only things that would have completed the ensemble.
     Thankfully, I know a team of very hip, trendy, with-it moms who I KNOW would have organized an intervention. These also happen to be the same moms who bought me margaritas for my birthday and then made me bikini shop, but I have learned to forgive. Thankfully their intervention didn't end up being necessary, but the fact that it even entered my mind is extremely scary to me.
     It all brings to mind a very specific event that occurred before I ever had children. Of COURSE it was before I had children because if it hadn't been I wouldn't have even THOUGHT the things I was thinking. We all talk really big before we have kids. We would never wear THAT, or let our kids do THAT. We all do it. And we were all stupid. One of my favorite "Mom" books is titled, "I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids." Yep, that pretty much sums it up.
     I remember how I was sitting with my husband at Applebee's after church one Sunday when a couple and their two children walked in and took their seats. The man was handsome, with a button-down shirt and khaki pants. The boys were handsome as well, in their little polo shirts, with stylish haircuts and cute mischievious grins. The mom, however...well, THAT was another story. We have all used the phrase, "looked like she rolled out of bed." Well, I really think she might have. Her haircut was outdated and looked like it hadn't been brushed in a week. My memory is a little hazy now, but I think she was wearing a sweatshirt and wrinkled pants. She had no make-up, and basically just looked like she didn't give a rip how she looked at all. I remember telling my husband that that would NEVER happen to me when I had children. Here she was with this handsome man and beautiful children and she just didn't even CARE anymore. She had flat given up!!! I was appalled.
     Well, here goes. On behalf of my younger self, I would like to apologize to that woman-- wherever she may be. I now know...SHE LOOKED LIKE THAT BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO BUSY TAKING CARE OF EVERYONE ELSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
     I remember right after my first child was born, I was exhausted but somehow managing to shop in a popular boutique. I don't remember what I was wearing, I think because my subconscious has blocked it out so that I can now move forward and lead a normal life. But I do remember that I had spit up on me and was too tired to care or make the effort to just wait and try to go back to the boutique the next day. At the time, getting out of the house might have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I recall meandering around the store when I saw her...Super Mom. She was not only pretty, but THIN...ugh. She was also wearing cute clothes, had manicured nails, and looked well rested. Her toddler, who had bouncy curls and a pricey outfit, wanted a snack. Before I could bat an eye, the child's mother plunged her OPI-fied hand into her purse (Coach, I'm sure) and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a snack inside. The mom was prepared, and the snack was a healthy one. At that moment I was sure of two things, one--she was on drugs, two--I wanted to kill her.

     I'm kidding of course...sort of. But I was, and remain, very, VERY skeptical of moms who seem to have it all together, all of the time. I don't fully trust them. Behind the scenes I wonder if their mouths are smeared with bright red lipstick while they scream about no more wire hangers...although we have all had those moments as well:)

     I guess what I am saying is that when we become mothers, sometimes our preconceived notions of what we will and what we will not do, change...a lot. I know for a fact that there are tons of you who swore otherwise, out there totally digging the convenience of your swagger wagons. And I happen to be sitting here typing this in a baseball mom T-shirt. Yep, and I wear it to games too.

     I also confess that there are times after I get my hair cut, colored, and blown out, that I run errands all over town in hopes that someone, ANYONE, will see me and know that my hair can in fact look good when someone else fixes it. But unfortunately those are the times I see no one. BUT, put me in sweats with no shower all day, no makeup, my husband's dark dress socks on with a white pair of tennis shoes, and I see enough people to think I'm on an episode of "This is Your Life." 

     This doesn't mean I've given up on cute outfits or fixing my hair. And there are still even date nights where I see glimpses of my former self. It simply means that as busy, exhausted moms, well, we just can't be on top of our game all of the time. We may have our fabulous moments, or heck, maybe even fabulous weeks, but we also have our weeks when the kids have projectile vomiting and our husband is in D.C. Those are the times we don't need people closely inspecting our armpits or noticing the waistband of our pants is held together with a rubberband.

     Motherhood can be a battlefield, and sometimes those front lines aren't pretty.

     So to the mom at Applebee's nine years ago, I deeply apologize. You did not look frumpy. I now know that you were beautiful. Beautiful because you were taking care of your family. And right now, wherever you are, I hope your time has come. I hope you are rocking a cute pair of jeans and a blowout fresh from the best salon. Because you deserve it.

     In fact, every once in a while, we all do.