There is something that has really been bothering me lately. An issue that I feel needs to be discussed. Something I can honestly say most women struggle with. And something we are passing onto our kids WAY too soon.
Body image. Ugh. The worst.
As a woman, it is something that has haunted me from the age of about ten. It’s something that’s continually on my mind. Especially when talking with friends. We are all complaining about weight gained, weight lost, our latest diet, how we shouldn’t be eating this or that, plastic surgeries we hope to get one day, the newest laser treatments, and the list goes on and on.
I have an almost three year old little boy and another baby boy on the way in about eight weeks. And I have absolutely zero idea what I am doing as a parent. I am completely and totally clueless. I thought by now I would have learned something, but I continue to be thrown into completely unpredictable situations by these tiny humans.
I honestly thought I had a good chunk of it figured out with Henry, my toddler. The kid is wild and crazy, but can also be so sweet and melt my mom heart with one hug. He loves to climb, jump, and do things that are insanely dangerous but manage to charm everyone in his warpath.
Mother’s Day is this Sunday. I love that there is a day dedicated to the women that pushed a tiny human out of their bodies or had it surgically removed from their uterus. Then didn’t sleep for months and sometimes years to take care of that little human and try to make sure he or she turned into a respectable human. Then endured years of tantrums over broken bananas and not being able to wear a pirate hat to church.
Can we get two Mother’s Days a year? Or four? How about once a month?
You all know by now that my track record as a parent has some major blemishes on it. Actually my entire track record as a human has some major blemishes on it. I have admitted that at times I am just an okay parent. Many days I am the parent that struggles to just make it through the day without having a nervous breakdown.
I share my #momfails all the time. Encourage people to not take them too seriously. We can’t take ourselves too seriously. If we did, we would all be miserable. And I have been there. I have had my downright miserable times.
Shockingly, I wake up every morning before my two-year-old and get in an early morning workout. I am serious. It surprises me too. I know, you can throw things at me now. This is one area in my life where I excel. I do deserve one thing, right?
After I get out of bed and before my workout, I enjoy a glorious twenty-ish minutes of alone time. I drink my coffee, scroll through my phone and just enjoy the silence of silence and nothingness. Pure bliss. The best way to start my day. It’s become a habit of almost three years and I can’t imagine starting my day any other way.
I’m doing it again. I’m putting it all out there for the world to read. I’m openly admitting that I have some really sh*tty days as a parent. And that a lot of the time, I am just an okay parent. And I am learning to accept that it is okay to be an okay parent.
This post is about some of the hardest moments. The times when you just don’t know how much more you can take. The time when you end up locking yourself in the bathroom and crying. When you talk about how bad you need a break and dream of a few days all alone, with no kids yelling for you.
Forget boot camps and Insanity workouts! No need to waste money on barre classes, gyms or even yoga mats. If you want to burn some real calories, get your toddler dressed when you have less than two hours to get out the door, a limited amount of patience and a list of things to be accomplished out in the real world.
When Henry was an infant, I remember absolutely dreading having to put him in his pajamas before bed each night. My husband and I would argue over whose turn it was. We would do bath time, lotion, diaper and then he would go in his crib where I would brace myself for my nightly cardio.
I am not a cool mom. Not at all. I do not have a smidgen of coolness in my mom body. And one day I will use it to make my children extremely embarrassed of me. And I can’t wait.
I know that when Henry is older, he is going to look back at this blog and be absolutely irate I shared so many stories about him with the world. He will probably ask me to delete them all and cry about how unfair his life is.
My response will be, “No way kiddo! Suck it up! This blog is like a time capsule of your adorable little life!” Then I will lecture him about how lucky he is that he learned to use an iPad as a toddler because all I had was Oregon Trail in the fourth grade.
Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow afternoon, my husband and I will head to the doctor’s office for my twenty week appointment. We will get to see our sweet baby and hear his or her heartbeat and find out if we are having a baby girl or a baby boy.
I am so excited. I feel like finding out the gender of your child makes it seem real. Then you can really plan and decorate and give that little peanut a name and talk to it and get everything they will ever wear through their first year monogrammed with their initials.
These days, there are a lot of things that make me cry. I am sixteen weeks pregnant with my second child. My two-and-a-half year old, Henry, seems to be growing up way too fast.
What exactly makes me cry? Let me show you a list:
Commercials with puppies
That sums it up. Everything makes me cry.
I knew I was pregnant with Henry when I laid down on a Saturday morning to watch an episode of Glee on the DVR. It was the one after Cory Monteith had passed away. I literally SOBBED the entire time. Like, I could barely breathe.