Do the damn laundry so I don’t have to air it

It’s 8:17pm on a Sunday. I have to get up early for work tomorrow, as many of you do. And I just sat down after giving the kids dinner, putting them to bed, cleaning up the kitchen and then folding two heaping mountains of tiny kid laundry. Oh, and putting it away as silently as possible while my 20-month-old nugget slept quietly in the crib just feet from me.

Why should you care? It’s not so much that you care that I’m doing laundry. It’s WHY I’m doing said laundry. And before I get too far into this, Jeremy said it was okay for me to write this blog. He is great and does a lot for our family. This is just one thing that comes up so often it’s now somewhat comical. In his own [text message] words about me writing this blog: “I deserve it tho.” (Though*)

You see, I had to fold this laundry because one clean basket of it had been sitting in our room for probably three days. Then Jeremy hastily threw in another load today right before he left for an out-of-town work trip. He did manage to switch it over to the dryer, but it was still there waiting for me. As well as one more load of kid laundry that needed to be washed, dried and folded.

I’m not great at math, but let’s add that up. One huge load of clean laundry that was loitering around, annoying the hell out of me for three days. Then two more loads of laundry today. In total, these three laundry loads created the two heaping mountains mentioned above.

It took me just over an hour to do everything. Not too bad, right? But if it only took me that long, why wasn’t it already done?!

Did I mention the laundry to the hubs yesterday since we were home for hours in the afternoon/evening/night? Yes. Did I [firmly] suggest to him that he should “just get it done so that it is done” and so that I wouldn’t have to keep nagging? Yes. Every yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Okay, let’s stop here for a second. I hear some of you wondering why I’m complaining and don’t just do the laundry myself. Well, we divide and conquer around here. We both work outside of the home full-time during the week, so I do most of the cooking, dishes, straightening up and bathroom cleaning, and Jeremy handles the laundry and running all the errands like Costco, Target and getting gas. Sound like a good split, right? It is.

But the difference is that, like in many relationships, one of us just likes to get things done so that they’re done…and the other likes to do one thing, like throw a load of laundry in the washer, and go on with their day until six hours later when they realize they literally threw in one load of laundry in an entire day and haven’t even put it in the dryer.

That literally drives me crazy. Insane. And it’s a common topic of [less than friendly] conversation in these here parts. Can anyone relate? If I washed a dish every six hours, we’d have no dishes to eat off of. If I only fed the kids once a day, they’d probably be upset. If I cleaned the toilets once every six months, we’d have no friends. Get my drift?

I’m by no means the cleanest, neatest person in the world. Believe me. But I am someone who likes to just get things done as soon as possible so they aren’t lingering over me — and so there is some semblance of order amidst our chaos.

And I’m not saying that my way is the “right way.” It is however the “done way.”

So, come on…just do the laundry.

 

My postpartum anxiety was no joke

When we had our first daughter, I struggled with the normal sleep deprivation and crazy hormones the first couple of weeks. I literally cried every single day for two weeks when my husband would leave the room. I was scared of being alone with the baby. What do I even do with this tiny thing? What if she cries and I can’t make her stop? I was terrified. That subsided once my husband headed back to work and, while the sleep deprivation went on for longer than that, I felt like my hormones and crazy mood swings were pretty much leveled off after that.

My experience with our second daughter Piper has been completely different. I had postpartum anxiety like no other. Not to be confused with postpartum depression–I wasn’t sad. I was anxious, I was angry as hell, and I was ready to go on a rampage at any moment. Jeremy can tell you about the times he probably thought my head was going to explode.

He won’t, though. If he knows what’s good for him. (I kid, I kid…#ordoI?)

The first four to six weeks of maternity leave after Piper arrived felt a little like torture to me. She was SO GASSY (Amelia never really was) and would scream every time I nursed her. Which in turn led to me being annoyed with breastfeeding. We tried the gas drops, we tried the gripe water, we tried the probiotics, I cut out dairy. Nothing worked. Finally, her gas troubles seemed to just subside on their own and today they’re almost non-existent.

But on top of this, all I could see every day was how messy our house was. How dusty it was. How much crap we had. I felt like the house was closing in on me and I was angry every day. Thoughts I had included throwing EVERYTHING in the trash and starting from scratch. Or just selling the house so that when we move I can throw stuff out that we don’t need. These are the last things I should have been worrying about when I had a newborn to take care of, but I couldn’t help it.

I’d lie awake at night thinking about finances with two daycare payments coming up soon. I’d also wonder what we would do if a sinkhole opened in our house and we had to figure out how to save the girls. How far could I throw the baby up to Jeremy if I was in said sinkhole? Would he be able to catch her?

Seriously.

This is the stuff that was racing through my mind while I should have been sleeping. While the baby was sleeping. (Did I mention that this baby sleeps 8-10 hours a night, usually?!) Yes, the baby was sleeping. But, I was not.

I was a mess. I was mad at Jeremy for not cleaning the house every day. I was mad at myself for not being able to clean the house every day. I was mad at everything. I snapped at my mom when she’d come over to help. Everything everyone said annoyed me. I didn’t want to see anyone or go anywhere. I wanted to be in one room in the house where I felt like I had a little control.

After the first couple of months, these feelings slowly calmed down. I still worry about things all of the time, but I think that’s just part of being a parent. That part will never change. But the uncontrollable feeling of being anxious ALL THE TIME has gone away and I am feeling more like myself again. (Which, I’m sure Jeremy would say is still kiiiinda intense. In his head, though. Not out loud.)

I’ve read lots of blogs about this and I was happy to see that I wasn’t the only one who felt like this. It’s something that people are finally starting to talk about more. And that’s good. Because suffering in silence just makes it worse.

Here’s to all the new moms out there who feel like everything is crashing down around you. There is light at the end of the tunnel. If I found it, so can you.

What you do matters

Today was the day. I took Piper (our now 4-month-old baby girl) to daycare for the first time. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d done this. Amelia is almost 3 and she’s been going to this daycare since she was 5 months old. She loves it. We love them. They’re like family. That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

I put on my happy face when I walked in. I told them about Piper a bit. Letting them know that when she gets tired they’ll know because her cry sounds like an “ay yay yay” when it’s her sleepy cry. I smiled. I left.

I got in the car. I cried. Is it because I’ll be away from her for a bit? Maybe. But it’s mostly because this is the last baby I’ll take to daycare for the first time. We have two. And that’s all we’re going to have. I’ll never take a baby to daycare for the first time again.

Now, flash forward a few minutes. I stopped at Starbucks on my way home…because basic mom on maternity leave. But, really, I just wanted to order something and sit by myself for 20 minutes and actually enjoy what I ordered. Maybe even remember consuming it. With the threat of tears looming behind my eyes, I ordered a venti coffee with almond milk and [the only food item I could order because my husband and I are on a diet right now] the bacon/cheese egg bites.

Got my coffee and sat down. Then the egg bites were ready. I dug in. First bite warm and delicious. Second bite…cold. I cut into another area to see if it was warm. Nope, cold. I wanted to cry. Not because of the stupid egg bites, but because I am sad about my baby so everything is the end of the world right now. And, I hate being that person–the one who complains if something isn’t “perfect” for them. This, though, was not a case of being needlessly needy–the eggs obviously weren’t warmed up long enough. I went up to the counter and told them that they were still cold inside and asked if they could just put them back in for a bit.

This could have gone one of two ways. I’ve been in fast food places where they act like you’re inconveniencing them with your request (when they are the ones that messed up. I’m looking at you, El Pollo Loco) and make you feel horrible for asking them to fix it. Then, there are places like Starbucks today. The guy apologized and said they’d fix me some new ones. I said they didn’t have to and could just warm mine up and he said no really they can’t put anything that’s been eaten at all back in the stove. Alright. Sat down. Then they were ready again. And they were the best damn egg bites I could have dreamed of eating. Browned on the outside to perfection.

Wow, that was a long story about egg bites. Sorry. I just wanted to be sure I explained it well. If I had gone up to the counter and they acted annoyed or gave me “the look” I might have actually stood there and cried. And they would have thought I was just some crazy lady who loves eggs and cries when they aren’t warm enough. But, it would have been because I just wanted some time to sit and wallow and drown my sadness with hot coffee and something edible [that is allowed on my diet].

What you do matters. You don’t just serve coffee, you start someone’s day. And how you do that can have a big impact. And you don’t know how one small thing can make a difference. Today, it did.

What you do matters. Whether you’re a barista, a cashier, a mechanic, a janitor, a CEO, a stay-at-home parent, a marketer…you have the power to make or break someone’s day. We all do.

Let’s make as many as we can.

P.S. This was a quick blog–please excuse any typos!

The hardest part of being a parent

When you’re pregnant, the hardest part of being a parent is dealing with morning sickness, trying to get comfortable in bed when you’re so big you feel like a bus, and fitting in some exercise when you can. (Of course, there are other things that can happen during pregnancy—I am referring to a non-eventful pregnancy).

When you have a newborn, the hardest part of being a parent is functioning on little to no sleep. Amazingly, it can be done. (In addition to checking their breathing every 5 seconds and making sure they aren’t too hot, too cold, or too anything in between.)

When you have a toddler, the hardest part of being a parent is the mini heart attacks you get every time they take a tumble because they’re being too brave for their own good. (Or because their dad thinks it’s cool to let them flip off of his lap. It really isn’t.)

But none of that is the hardest part of being a parent.

The hardest part of being a parent, at least for me, is the unknown. 

Especially lately (probably due to pregnancy hormones from baby #2), I have been terrified. The things I’ve seen in the news (from little kids losing their battle with diseases, to elementary school bus crashes, to the soccer team that was killed in a plane crash, to what is going on in Aleppo) have been hanging like a black cloud over me and sometimes I fall asleep with tears in my eyes and fear in my heart.

I know that is no way to live, but I can’t help it. I don’t want Amelia to go to school in a few years, I don’t want Amelia to grow up and venture out on her own, and I don’t want Amelia to be genuinely terrified for one second in her life (except for when she comes home late and fears the wrath of mommy). This isn’t possible, of course. Or realistic. Or sane. The hardest part of being a parent is the fact that I can’t protect Amelia 100% of the time.

This isn’t something that will ever change, and maybe it’s something that you slowly get used to after you’re a parent for longer than two years. But for right now, it will continue to be the hardest part of being a parent for me.

(blog photo credit: b.wise photography)

The world I want for you…

My sweet little Amelia Mae. Yesterday I saw you chasing bubbles for the first time ever. Care-free with your baby mullet blowing in the wind. I saw the innocence in your eyes and the beauty that you see in the world. The simple moments that I wish you could experience for the rest of your life. When you were first born, I wrote about the kind of person that I hope you’ll turn out to be. No, that I know you’ll turn out to be (as long as your dad and I have anything to do with it). But, today, I want to let you know the things that I wish I could give to you. The world I want for you…

A world where I don’t have to joke with my friends about whether or not I’m going to use a baby “leash” because the thought of not knowing where you are in a crowded place terrifies me. (Yes, friends, I’m still on the fence about this one.)

A world where you’ll be able to go to a concert and get an autograph from your favorite music artist without being scared.

A world where you can enjoy a night on the town with your bffs without looking over your shoulder.

A world where it literally doesn’t matter what color your skin is because people aren’t ignorant.

A world where even if you don’t agree with someone else, there are still only kind words said between you.

A world where politics doesn’t make people turn so ugly.

A world where whether you believe in God or not, everyone still gets along because we want the same thing: to do good, help each other and make a beautiful life.

Unfortunately, though, I can’t give you this world. At least, not right now. And I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry that when you are old enough to go places with your friends and do things on your own, I may hesitate to let you go.

That when you’re able to drive, I’m going to be thinking about you every second until you come back home.

That when you go out at night, I probably won’t sleep until I know you’re safe in your bed.

That when you move out, I’ll be in the bushes outside of your house every day making sure you’re okay.

Alright, maybe not the last one. Just maybe.

I know you’ll think it’s because I don’t trust you, that really isn’t it. It’s because I don’t trust some of the other people in this world. And yes, it’s only some. The majority of people are good people–remember that. It just so happens that the bad people do things that mommy has to see online and on the news, and it scares her.

I know you’ll be one of those good people. And I hope that you, along with all of the other good people, can turn this world into a place where a blog like this will never be written again.

For now, though, keep chasing those bubbles.