Category Archives: mom fail

Teen Green….

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Nope, not talking about cash. That’s what many, my girls included, would think of first. Nope. Talking about that green eyed monster: Jealousy.

In our big messy house, we’ve been running into a lot of jealousy. I have. I am telling you that this spring, but oh my goodness even more so, this summer, every time I turn around one or another of my girls is jealous of a sister. As they say here in the south, “You can’t swing a dead cat” without hitting a jealous sister. I know, yikes!

Jealousy. It’s the grown up, breathing, creature risen from the little kid version of sibling rivalry. This has morphed from little kid “gimme’s” and grabs to a stewing breath of resentment and envy. It’s jealousy. I think especially for girls, it’s a serious monster that waits in the closet, needing only a crack in the door to step out. Especially for teens. Especially when it comes to teen sisters. {And there are many who can/will point to the idea that we/I haven’t ‘formed’ them well enough….maybe. But I think this is part of our human nature, and it peaks in the toddler and teen years. And with the complexities in our family and it’s forming, well, I’m not sure how we could have sidestepped this entirely…But maybe I’m just being defensive; it could happen!}

Now, most of the jealousy ’round here centers around time with me. Which, on one level, is grand. They like me! Or, more to the point, they need time with me. And they WANT it! But on another level, it’s tough. It’s a pressure. Because I do make a point of trying my best to make sure each kid gets time with me, one on one, face time, checking in, sitting by them, ears and heart open…etc etc. Typically, the jealous version plays out around the idea of…wait for it….shopping. No surprise that, eh? If one of them needs something from the store: another pair of shorts, a new sports bra, heck, more conditioner…… then if I take them to the store to shop and/or get it…..then I can be quite certain that when I get home one or several will now be “jealous.” {Which explains why I try to do a great lot of the shopping alone, when they are in school….but it’s summer…..yeah, circling back to the problem now….} Heck I can lay money on it. They don’t seem to be nearly as jealous of time spent with me chopping vegetables for dinner….hmmmm…

Michael D. Edens, “Jealousy”

It’s wearing me out.

So, this is a post to ask for ideas from anyone who has multiple teen girls at home: How do you soothe and settle the green eyed teen? How do you address the cries of “H first! (no fair, me jealous),” “It’s just that I NEVER get to go with you.” “You NEVER get me stuff.” You only take/buy/do for ____fill in the blank____?” All of these statements have a fractional basis in reality – in that I cannot buy for every single child every single time another needs something. We’d go bankrupt. And I cannot take every child every time; nor can I take every child every day or week. I’d simply drop dead from insanity or sheer exertion.

I have four teen girls right now. I love them so. Each of them is an amazing individual; each with so many great qualities. But, collectively? The sisters, the hormones, the drama, the JEALOUSY?? It’s making for a LONG summer. And summer has only begun….

Moms?? Experience, tips…anything??

Resolutions Redux: simple tuneup?

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So, Christmas is now, really, finished.  I have just spent the morning taking down all the decorations and stowing them, vacuuming the needles, giving thanks for having my college boy home to help.  I’ve also completed a minor existential meltdown, and am now lurching out of the hangover from it.  The only way I know how to move out of a surprise trigger overwhelmed exhausted meltdown is not – as my dear husband suggested with concern – to take a nap and blow off the chores.  Rather, it’s to brainstorm and take a clear hard calculating look at just what isn’t working in this house and problem solve to fix it.  I’m guessing that once again renews my membership card in the “Type A” club.  So, yup, you guessed, that takes me right zippity back to those shaky resolutions!

As I ponder those loose resolutions of last week a bit further, I see a trend. I know, I’m a little slow on the uptake, you all were way ahead of me.  Bear with me.  But I see that what I am really yearning for is not just order and control, though of course I am (by my very nature) ALWAYS seeking order and control…but rather, what I’m yearning for is the peace, PEACE, that comes from an orderly manageable life.  I always have my worst snaps of temper when I feel overwhelmed by just having too too many things to do and not enough help to do them or time to try, plus too many moods and attitudes to surf on top of it all.  I’m not saying that to excuse my OWN temper or mood, but rather to sort it through my own dense thick brain stem.  So yes, mom fail today.  Ok, daily, on small to big things, but still……

To allay that sense of kicking through the chaos and detritus in my house, literally and metaphorically, I am kind of resolving, here (eek, publicly)  to resolve a bit better.  (I know, still hedging…..baby steps people, ok?).  But instead of simply resolving to tighten the budget or declutter the house and/or get my aging legs in gear, I am resolving to order the systems in our house a bit. To simplify.  Simply: I want to create a haven.  Our home needs to not only be the required stopping spot, the dumping ground of backpacks and groceries.  Rather our home needs to be a peaceful, happy, haven where kids can come and breathe deep and with a smile.  I want that “Ah” feel, that exhale.  It needs to be  “AH, HOME.”

Too often that exhale gets sucker punched by the latest kid snit or tantrum or pushback; the waves of moods (and their disordered mood/selves, for some, for reasons just beyond their control) can pound our little/big family.  This morning I daresay it got sucker punched by mine.  Sigh.  So.  The need is there.  My desire to do the job to make the systems work for us all to be able to have a calm ordered life, amidst the hustle and bustle, is palpable.  Thanks to my dear son for stepping in and helping with all hands on deck this morning, lifting me right back up.

So, to fine tune those resolutions: Yes, I am being frugal at the market and glad for it.  Yes, I am considering the media firehose that is aimed at my teens, in particular.  Yes, I am decluttering and ordering the house some, but more so, I am eyeballing the systems in place  and tweaking them (laundry/clothing/closet systems, storage, smart use of space to minimize clutter/effort).  And, I resolve not only to take better care of myself by exercises that bring me endorphins AND solace, but I resolve to get enough rest/sleep because I just don’t have the buffer any more to, um, buffer the stresses.

So, Christmas is now finished. We are back to Ordinary Time, liturgically speaking.  Which is ok.  Now is the time to find and order, our ordinary home.  I’m not  promising perfection. But I want to just try to make a little progress.  To simplify a few things.  That will be a good start.  Baby steps, one at a time.  First up, the little boys’ room.  Whoa…..Onwards.

Slam Dancing in Adoption: co-dependency.

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Welcome, please join me in the mosh pit…that lovely loud place we call home and family life.

What, you ask? Have I moved the family into a strange new world, am I trying to reclaim a not only lost but never went there youth (yes, once again, dating my old self)? Slam Dancing? I mean, really, what?

Well, ok, what I’m really gonna talk about here is the idea that if you look closely, sometimes, you can find a not so great Co-dependency in adoption. You know: that term where you kind of lose yourself and you stop having your own feelings about things, instead all your feelings are what the other person is feeling. They’re having a bad day? Bummer, you too! They’re ticked? Oh no, I thought my day had started well! Dang! They are sad? Oh, now I have to be sad for them, and with them and…instead of them? Ah, I know what you’re thinking: Again, really, why have I started in on this? Isn’t Co-dependent stuff all about middle aged women who have dysfunctional relationships and/or low self esteem? Or, isn’t it about living with an alcoholic or workaholic and enabling them at the expense of yourself? Isn’t that the baggage for women who just get a little lost along the way? Isn’t it all just that big mess O’ psychobabble???

Well, yeah, it can be those things. Not sure about the psychobabble. But, sure, it’s a much more common issue than we like to realize, unless you overstate it by seeing way too much daytime tv talk shows…you know, the ones where ALL you see are the dysfunctional families and the morose middle aged gals.

But, at the risk of being flamed, here is what I’d like to just mention: This thing, we’ll whisper it: “co-dependency“, can happen, before you know it, when you adopt a kid from hard places, a kid who has more needs for whatever reason (organic or imposed), an older kid from hard places, especially.

Now, hang on. Think about it.

The bare breakdown of that term is not the problem. And I can and have written MUCH about how MUCH we are all dependent upon each other and made for each other and to help each other. I’ve gone on (and on) about the sheer awesome beauty found in that. And I will.

But. Here. In this post. What I’m saying is that the tendency towards this modern, less beautiful, sense of co-dependent feelings and behaviors is almost a set-up with the nature of older child adoption. The adoption process itself nurtures this tendency….it’s all about making things ok. What things? Well, EVERYthing(s)! We have to make sure every paper is signed on the proper lines, certified, sealed and delivered. We wait after getting our referral for the courts to do the same and worry sick over the child stuck waiting too: will they be ok, are the eating well, do they know about us, are they ok or scared, are they safe, will they love us? We become massive caretakers, not only that, but we become the majordomo of ….everything we possible can, when we are in the process of adopting. It’s what we are pushed to do and what we kind of self select to do and be and really, it’s encouraged. Heck, it’s lauded.

..and if I

And it can be a great thing to be a gal who can do much and arrange much and make stuff happen. It feels great! It looks great! It makes things work great! Right?

Well, the bear trap snaps shut and moves from great to not so much when that tendency, that behavior, that need, that desire….starts closing it’s center down on a person….or in this case, the child. And on you. Let me be clear, I am not saying don’t care for or about any child. But, if the urge to care for a child slips beyond the boundaries of what can actually be accomplished by any one human person…then that one human person has just slipped onto the slippery slide toward co-dependency.

Ok, instead of blathering and talking around it, let me give you a for instance from my turf. It’s taken me a long time, heck darn near two years, to realize that what my husband has been telling me all along is true. He didn’t use these words but he pegged it just the same: “You’re too connected to HER feelings, they are not yours and don’t have to be. That doesn’t actually help.” By which he does NOT mean for me to be an insensitive ogre; but rather, to be able to step OUT of the vortex of her feelings that whip up in an instant…the ones that aren’t rational, the ones that are simply trigger response. Seems simple, no? But, oh, so very not. Because when you have a kid from hard places, and or an older child who is new to your big old family, and or has special needs…you want, with every fiber of your being “TO MAKE IT ALL OK.” For them. For you. For the other kids. For the family. Just, because. You have a huge need to pull everything into alignement. To control and direct how it all connects and how it all is gonna play out and how everyone is gonna feel. That’s the majordomo part. Admit it ladies, it happens. If not, then it’s just my own freak, I’ll claim it. But there it is.

But, the trick is…it doesn’t work that way. So, you intellectualize it and realize you can’t actually make it work that way. You can’t majordomo emotions. But then you are staring into the maw of that need. Those emotions. Hers. You can’t actually effect or control or help them, not really, they are HERS. But, if she does A then you all are gonna feel B, and if she feels or does B then you all are gonna feel and or have to do C. The math gets all mucked up and it triggers it’s own little alarm bell in your gut, in direct reaction to your frustrated control instinct. A clanging, even.

Right at this point, is when the band starts playing. The punk new rave music tunes up. Here is the center of the mosh pit; here the co-dependent dance begins. And it’s not a lovely elegant waltz or a breezy two-step. It’s a jangling punk slam dance that bangs up every piece and part of each of you.

Really, once you allow her feelings to dictate yours, then not only are you not helping or being able to rationally address said feelings, you have just been pulled into the chest slam head bang twist of it all. You cannot empathize with her underlying fear or grief or insecurity if you are trying to stem your panic and fear at the recognized loss of control over how things are gonna move. The beat was changed and you didn’t orchestrate it, again. And again. But since her fears and insecurities that launched this dance are simply trigger responses and or reflect her inability to dance any other way, to this music…she’s not gonna be able to regulate that beat either. It’s all you.

What do you do? What now? You’re pulse is racing and your head is banging and you don’t wanna dance this dance. Look away from the fray. Co-dependent feelings suck. Especially for a high ranking majordomo brigadier, the top ranking one: the mom.

Well, the only way out is to let go. Not of them, not the kid. Of you. Of your misperceived ownership and responsibility for every nuance of their feelings. Let go of the grasping tension and flailing pulse. Let go of the control you thought you had because you didn’t have it in the first place. The only way to pick up a dancer/your kid, winded and bruised from the mosh pit is to stand on the sidelines, and be ready to catch them. Call to them to see if they can see their way out through to you. And then wait for them to get there. And then soothe them with a hug and hold them til their breathing steadies. Because let’s face it, if you’re in their getting banged up too, being co-dependent and letting their disregulated moods dicate YOURS, then you are actually no help at all. You actually become part of the problem. I’m not saying to dismiss or move away from that child. Sometimes you have to meet up with them and weather through that clanging hellish beat. But I’m saying you can move out of the emotional slam dance. You must, in order to actually help her. Or him.

So step out.

This isn’t the dance for you. It isn’t for her either, or your child. But it takes time to learn a new one. For both of you. Lessons can help. And they’re a lot of work too. But as with anything, practice makes better. Not perfect. But, better. And lately, working on this…I’ve been able to put my “steel toed doc martins” in the back of the closet sometimes…and I have, a little more often, pulled back out some of my softer dancing shoes.

Bank Deposits, kid version

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So, this is in many ways an oldie but a goodie….this concept of banking with your kids.

No, I’m not talking about the allowance or financial planning; coins and greenbacks.  I’m talking, rather, about the most important kind of banking: the Bank of Our Children.  What I mean is this, an old parenting nugget is to make sure you make “deposits” in  your child’s bank account of affection, daily.  Sounds simple, no? Simplistic even.  That very aspect, so basic, doh, makes this an easy nugget to drop or brush off. It’s easy to nod in agreement and then blithely trip along on our daily treadmill.

But that would be a mistake.

It’s one I’ve made all too often and even too recently.  This has been an intensive summer, to say the least.  You all know that.  But numerous other events and things have been cranking up the pressure as well and with that vise, something has to give.  That would be me.  Or, more precisely, that would be my equanimity and even on some days, my kindness and affection.  One of my kids, in particular, has born the brunt of this, fueled by my frustration and disappointment in some of their choices, but aggravated by the general stresses of this summer and simply, mostly, by my sheer laziness and/or burnout in keeping that razor sharp tongue and lightning fast temper locked up.  Happily, Coffeedoc is most excellent at doing this, he doesn’t fall into that bear trap of temper and intensity.  He’s the most even keeled guy I know.  Thank goodness for such gifts.

Suffice it to say, I’ve made more withdrawals than deposits in this bank account lately.

So, I’m once again, flipping back the pages to the basics for a refresher course in parenting basics 101.  And the most fundamental one is: make sure you make sure your kid knows you think they are great, good, even awesome.  Even if they are frustrating you, you (ok, me) can look ’em in the eye and kiss them on their forhead and smile at them with soft eyes a couple of times in the day.  You can tell them “I love you,” without it sounding snarky.  Really, you can.  And if you can’t, you can touch their shoulder as you pass by them in the kitchen and you can let them see you looking at them with a smile.  Really. You can.  Ok, that’s right, I can.  But some days, some of those hard brittle parenting teen days…or five year old days, or kids from hard places days…..you have to intentionally MAKE yourself do it.

That’s right, you have to MAKE yourself do it.  Because you might want to growl at them, you might want to tug their ear to get them to listen, you might want to hold up your palm toward their face and glare instead of hearing them.  But that would be a mistake.  Because then your ‘bank account’ {by which I mean: THEIR bank account of this resource too} of closeness and affection with that kid, your kid, is draining like a sieve.  And if you (ok, me) can just pull them into even a half shoulder hug….you’re changing that pattern and building that interest and that reserve back up again.

But, this particular bank account….it’s not only your best resource for happiness and heck, even retirement (fair warning children!) but it’s theirs.  For their future too.  It’s their most important IRA, it’s  an IKA  – Individual Kid Account.  And you are the steward of it.  Those deposits may seem fleeting and ephemeral, but they are worth more than platinum or gold.

>Shuffling shoes in Oz

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>I wrote, not too long ago, about being mom to a large family and how humbling it can be trying to keep all the pins and schedules in place.
I didn’t, at that time, write about the shoes.

Van Gogh, “Shoes” 1888.

Oh, my goodness, the shoes.
I mean, really, think about it.  We are a family of ten.  We each have two feet.  If we all have only ONE pair of shoes then that is twenty shoes, right there.  I know, I know, you’re saying “Hold up, shoes are counted in pairs.  So twenty should be twenty pairs.” (So, follow me, in my house that would be forty count – to be precise you know.) Well, um, nope.  Not in MY house.  In my house we count SHOES.  Single shoes, usually unmatched, in no proximity to each other.
Sounds kind of disorganized, I know.
That would be because it is, disorganized,….that’s how we roll, er, or perhaps I should say “march?”

You all know we have more than one pair each, we are most fortunate that way.
Heck some of my kids are growing so fast that I swear they need a new pair about once a month, not kidding….

Shoes are gonna be the end of me. 
Or, more precisely, shoes are going to be the blessed downfall, eventually and until I can finally let it go, of my endless stubborn pride.
Shoes are, almost daily, my “mom fail moment.”

Let me illustrate what I mean, another “so not the great and powerful Oz” moment:
A week or so ago, I was being getting ready to take kids to another Saturday basketball game…by which I mean, I was settling down at my computer to read some emails and surf some favorite blogs.  I had just poured my first fresh cup, ok maybe my second, of coffee and had waved my hands at the kids telling them we would go to basketball in an hour or so.  See, on top of the job….

The phone rang, a number I didn’t recognize, but local so not a salesperson (which I would have ignored), so I picked up.  Turns out, it was the mom of one of my first grader’s classmates.    Now, let me clarify, this mom is one of those moms that I am  not, nor can ever be.  She has two children (there might be a .4 in there somewhere, I’m not sure) and she is practically perfect in every way.  She is very pretty, she has great hair that is low maintenance, she has cute clothes, she is  young and fit though not an amazon type that you can write off just because they are freaks of nature…. Her car is clean and tidy (I’ve seen inside at pickup, even the cargo area is organized. I covet this.  Not that I’m snooping, those rear doors open right in front of you when you’re in line, ok? But I digress), and what’s more, she’s always on time.  Plus, she’s nice.  Really.  So, you know what that means: yup, I’m kind of intimidated.  Heck, she probably crafts too.  I’m pretty sure she’s been the room mom before and will be again.  You see what I mean.  She IS “the Great and Powerful Oz!”  But that is supposed to be ME, right? Ha, never.

Anyhow, so she started talking to me about Anthony and her son and shoes.  My mind was racing ahead as she talked, trying to figure out what this meant and what my kid had done and how could I fix it?  I heard her say something about different sizes.
What? Different sizes? Same shoes?
OH! As my dear goddaughter would say, “I’ve got this!”
So I breathed a quick sigh of relief and interrupted her, “Oh! Well, hey, if X has my Tonio’s shoe I can give you the other one.  Tonio just grew out of them over Christmas! I’ve ordered up a size, no problem!“
And I blathered on about how funny it was that his feet were so big so fast and he’s a size 5 now and Marta wanted his shoes because they fit her and they were the unisex school shoes and she thought they were cute…until I realized that phone mom had fallen silent.  Oh.  Dear. Then I realized what she had been saying: shoe mixup at school somehow, the boys brought home each other’s single shoe.
OH! “No, ok, right then.  You want me to FIND your son’s shoe and bring it to basketball?!! Of course! Of course we will! Sorry, not enough coffee yet today, doh!“
I hung up quickly and even more quickly went to make an espresso to wake up my soggy brain cells.  Doh, indeed.  And of course, then began the great, loud, furious (because now I was totally embarrassed) hunt for the shoe.  Which gave over to much drama and loudness and gnashing of teeth, because said shoe was NOT to be found.
Finally, it was time to leave.  No shoe.  Oh, we had Tonio’s shoe in a plastic Target bag, all right.  NO, I don’t know what I was thinking I just somehow felt the need to bring it.  What can I say, I’m a dolt.
I knew what I had to do…hope like mad that we’d find his shoe in the afternoon and bring it school…..
Until my Chris, deciding to go with us to the game at the last minute, broke the news to me.
He asked me about the odd bag with the single shoe.
I told him my tale.
He said, “Uh oh.  Is it a brown shoe with a velcro strap?“
Oh dear, my heart sank, I knew before he said it, what he was going to say.  I sighed, “Yes.”
“Well, I found one of those all soggy and wet when I was cleaning the backyard.  I threw it in the truck and took it to the dump.  Later I found another……” and we both looked at the bag.
Yuh.  We had thrown away this boy’s shoe.
And I had to tell the mom.
You might guess, I dreaded going to that basketball game.

But I did.  And I saw her in the stands, so I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath and went right up to her.
I blurted out before it hurt too much, “I’m so sorry! Please please give me  your address so I can send you another pair of shoes, I can get the same shoe at zappos, you will get them Monday.“
She looked at me, and looked at the bag and said, “No, it’s ok, see there’s the shoe.” 
I choked out, but fast, “No, this is still the wrong shoe, wesentyourstothedump.  We sent yours to the dump.  I’m SO sorry.  Tonio left them outside, they got rained on, snowed on, Chris was cleaning and saw it a mess and took it to the dump. I’m sorry! Please let me replace them.“
And, because she is practically perfect in every way, she smiled over her bewildered gaze and said, “It’s no big deal, don’t be ridiculous.”
Which of course just made me feel worse.  I am ridiculous, our house is ridiculous…because we leave our  many mismatched single shoes out in the yard to get snowed on and ruined even when they are not ours.  Because I didn’t even know any of this until she called me. Because I cart single used shoes to basketball games in Target bags even though no one wants his old shoe.
She refused to give me her address. 
I’m pretty sure she thought that was a safety move.
Sigh.

So, any of you who might think that I think that I’ve got it together…..I so know better.  I am the mom who is NEVER behind the curtain.  I won’t even begin to describe the random plops of unmatched shoe or shoes that we trip on here there and yonder in our house, or my nagging to pick them up or how often or how quickly they wander out of their closet or cubby …. But just let me say “Do the math.”  Mom fail – think of the shoes, people.  And have pity. 

Still dreaming of those magic ruby slippers….

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>Behind the curtain….

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>



Yeah you moms know what I’m talking about…
It’s really really great to act like and try to make the world, or at least your own little family unit, think that you are the “great and powerful Oz.”  Right? Right.
And much of the time we can fake it.  Or we can fool ourselves into thinking that we are making or faking it. And when we are really “on” we make it look effortless.  {Insert maniacal laugh here.} 
Sometimes we’ll even have other folks say to us, “Oh but  you are so pulled together!” Yeah.  That’s it.
But then, now and then, you run into those times when everyone gets to see behind the curtain. And the truth is revealed. Not only are you not the “great and all powerful Oz Mom” but you are pedaling and pushing the levers as fast as you can, sweating even!

Yup.  Mom fail.  It happens, to the best of us.
Some of us however have more opportunities to fail…yeah,  you moms, you still know what I’m talking about.  I believe that the number of kids you have is a direct correlation to the number of fail opportunities that will present.  Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  So, follow me here: if you think about it….with my eight kids (and I get extra chance points for having some with particular needs…) I have, um, let’s see…approximately 11,000 chances per week.

And, today I got another.  I got the Christmas version, oh boy oh boy.
You see, most of my kids got out of school last Friday on the 17th.  One of my daughters is at a different school and had a few days left in class this week.  Three.  Or so I thought.  So she said.  So I thought the website said.  And don’t get all snippy and ask why I didn’t get the schedule handouts.  Because I didn’t get the schedule handouts. I don’t even know if they had schedule handouts.  Because this daughter doesn’t let me get to her backpack and go through her papers often, it becomes a battle and therefore I choose not to.  But I digress.  Anyhow, so even this morning, she traipsed off to school and as she got on the bus she I said, “2:30 pickup?” and she said, “Yup.”

Off she went.  Back in the house I went.  Then I went off to the market and flipped the laundry and checked in with the other kids and so on.  As soon as I made it in to start wrapping her teacher gifts, my cell rang. It was her school. It was her principle.  Uh oh?  So, I picked it up and her very nice principle, we’ll call her Ms. Principle, said, “Is anyone coming to get Sarah today?”  “Wha??,” was my eloquent reply,  “Aren’t they done at 2:30?” Genius, right?  “No,” says kind and long suffering Ms. Principle, “they are out at 10:30 this  morning.” “Is today the last day of school,” I say in my flash of numbingly stupid insight, “I thought it was tomorrow! Oh no! I have her teacher gifts right here.  Ok, Ok, I’m on my way.”  “Are you far?” asks Ms. Principle because now it’s after 11 and she wants to go home.  “No, at home, on my way now!”
Sigh.
And I threw the yummy teacher treats in gift bags and taped their cards to the front so fast it was like a cartoon.  And I grabbed my purse and coat and box of gift bags and keys and went outside to find that my son had taken my car.  And I went back inside to dig through the drawers to find the truck key. And I found it and raced up to the street and threw the box and purse and self in and took off to school.  Clock ticking, I knew the principle and maybe one teacher was waiting patiently as my sweet daughter sat in the office, last kid at school, waiting for her slacker mom to come pick her up.
I screeched to a stop in front of the school in the almost empty parking lot, grabbed my keys and box of gift bags and raced inside the now empty school building.  Two of the teachers were still there, plus Sarah’s and the principle.  They were all ready to go.  Oh dear.  Bad mom.  I crashed into the office, and smiled crookedly at Sarah, and said, “I am SO sorry!  This is why God gives babies to YOUNG women (line stolen from best friend’s dear mom, thank you Jean!) !”  Now they were all sweet and kind and made nice polite small talk, so as not to embarrass me further.  
But, they knew.  
Mom fail.
Christmas edition.
Bah…..

See that mom behind the curtain??? She’s working those pedals and levers and buttons as fast as she can….but sometimes the whole contraption clanks to a heap.
Maybe I need me some ruby slippers….

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