Category: TSM

TSM blog posts

Just Call Me Stuck-in-a-Rut Mama!

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Originally, this post started as me venting about how stuck in a loop I’ve been feeling. How much some days I want to let the kids take control. Nothing will shake you out of a routine like a winter in New England.

C came into our room around 1 AM — not really that abnormal — and couldn’t/wouldn’t go back to sleep — also not that abnormal — until I gave him some melatonin. While he got back to sleep, I was fully awake, playing Solitaire on my phone when A’s alarm went off at 4:30.

As I lay there lamenting my lack of sleep, A came rushing back to our bedroom, letting me know it had snowed overnight — it was raining when we went to bed — and he wasn’t going to have time to shovel our “only annoying that it’s big when it snows” driveway, so I’d have to do it to clear it for the school bus! Yay.😑

Somewhere in the middle of clearing the left entrance — we have a U-shaped driveway — the call came in that school was cancelled for the day. Why? I’m not really sure. They’d already cleared the street, and there was only about two inches in the driveway.

So my loop was interrupted by the weather and school cancellations. While the one day interruption was “pleasant,” it won’t fix the stuck way I’ve been feeling as of late.

My loop currently looks something like this: wake up. Work out. Get C dressed. Make C breakfast. Make and pack lunch and snack for C. Find something for J to eat because he doesn’t like eggs. Shower. Brush C’s teeth. Get him on the school bus. Spend the day entertaining J/cleaning/attempting to work on side projects. Rinse, lather, repeat.

I also find myself having the same conversation with the boys every day — “Stop fighting!”, “Pick up your toys!”, “Go to the potty!” It’s a miracle I still know other words in the English language.

There are some days when I’m so sick of the routine that I want to just let the boys go wild(er than usual) and let the chips fall where they may.

Of course, I can’t do that. I’ve been working on potty training J this week and have to make sure he doesn’t pee behind the couch…again. The boys also have a tendency to get into wrestling matches, usually at C’s instigation, and I have to make sure they don’t kill each other. So what’s a burnt out, stuck-in-a-rut mama to do?

Keep calm, take a breath, and soldier on. Also, hide in the pantry and eat snack pack Pringles…and pour a glass of wine while making dinner.

But seriously, I think I need to find something to balance out the everyday mundanity. Committing to my #65in365 goal is helping to keep me a little bit sane. I get most of my reading done when J insists that I can’t work, and I must watch Cocomelon/Little Angels/Blippi/Spidey and his Amazing Friends with him. Outside of that, though, what’s a stuck-in-a-rut mama to do?

I know that these things I’m complaining about are all part of motherhood, but isn’t that all the more reason to find a way to achieve the “just treading water” feeling of only communicating with toddlers all day? What’s your thing to help combat stay-at-home mom burnout?

The Burden of Being the Favorite

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Sometimes I envy my husband’s position as the second parent in our family. In every family, one parent is always to go-to. The one the kids find first when they’re sad, when they’re happy, or when they’re tired. More often than not, moms are that person. I’m for sure the preferred parent in my house. This is not to say my boys don’t go to their father, but he’s the pinch hitter. To them, Mama is the one who hits the home runs.

Pre-covid, pre-J, we had a good balance. C knew he could rely on us equally to fulfill his every need. Except for when I was breastfeeding. A – hubby – told me that C would start fussing a few minutes before I walked in the door like he knew his food supply was nearby. Since the beginning of the pandemic, however, I have become the primary caregiver. A is an essential worker, so he went into his office daily. Gone was the beautiful balance that we’d created.

Now, I can’t sit down for a moment or complete a task without one of the boys running to me. Just this week, J came to me while I was making dinner for help when the show he was watching ended. A was sitting at the dining table reading something on his phone. What he was doing needed far less of his immediate attention than not burning the house down. He had to be convinced to ask his dad.

During bedtime, both the boys want to cuddle with me, which leads to the three of us – sometimes four if A is invited to enjoy the fun – scrunched up on one of their twin extra-long beds to get to sleep. Some nights as I lay there waiting for J to fall asleep because he fights sleep until the bitter end, I dream of what it would be like not to be the preferred parent. How much more reading I would get done (#65in365), how much more writing I would get done, and how much more up-to-date I would be on shows I watch/want to watch. Over Christmas break, A managed to Eternal, Shang Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, and Clerks 3 largely uninterrupted. Guys, I still haven’t finished The Woman King!

Even during the writing of the post, I’ve gotten up several times at the boys’ request. J refused to let A clean him in the tubby. He wanted “Mama to do!” C came and got me to help with his melatonin, not even two minutes after I told him to go to his dad.

I hope I haven’t made it sound like A just lays back and watches while I do all the things. He does not. When it comes to the husband/father lottery, I really did win the jackpot. He does everything except cook, although he is capable. If he’s in earshot – and paying attention – when the boys are pulling on me to do something, he steps in and asks if he can help. It still doesn’t lift the burden of being the one they go to first. I often find myself feeling frazzled because I can’t complete a thought, or I feel guilty because I snap at them when I just need thirty seconds to pee!

As I’ve said before, I know one day I won’t be the person they go to first when they are having a hard time. I know one day I will be replaced by a best friend or a girlfriend – or boyfriend – but it doesn’t mean that being the preferred parent right now isn’t a lot. It’s draining…and it doesn’t stop when they go to sleep because, at least in my house, they wake up and come to me in the middle of the night…and fight over who is going to cuddle with me. I don’t sleep because my kids love me too much. Am I an ass for complaining about this? Let me know in the comments.

Loud is Trouble; Quiet is Trouble

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What is it with kids and water? Something so simple can provide hours of entertainment…and this BEFORE they discover 20-foot high water slides.

Last night as I was working on my laptop and my husband was sitting in the office with me on his phone, we heard the water running. Then it stopped. Then little feet ran down the hallway. Then back. Then water. Then back. I think this happened about five times before hubby said, “What are they doing?” I replied, “I don’t know. I’m working. Why don’t you go check.”

Next thing I know, he’s back at the office door saying, “You’re the one who wanted them to have the toy kitchen; you get to clean this one up.” I rolled my eyes and went to the playroom. Our little cherubs took it upon themselves to fill the sink in their play kitchen with water. It took about fifteen minutes, a Tupperware container, and a turkey baster to get the mess sorted.

Then this evening, just to keep things spicy…J grabbed a large bottle of Italian seasoning and spread it ALL OVER the house. I must have left it on the lower counter, and he grabbed it while my back was turned. I didn’t realize he’d done it until I walked down the hall to collect C for dinner, and I couldn’t escape the scent of oregano. I tossed the toy room looking for the bottle. Then I notice piles going down the hallway and into the living room. J was hiding behind the couch with the empty bottle and a container of watermelon. Not really sure what kind of scenario required him to empty a completely full 6.25 oz bottle of seasoning.

I spent all tubby time vacuuming the playroom, the hallway, and the living room. You might or might not be surprised to hear that most of the bottle ended up between the center cushions of our couch that cover the pull-out.

Sometimes I wonder if they choose when to be ninjas and when to channel to elephant march from The Jungle Book. Yesterday, we heard the running water, the footsteps, and the giggles. This evening I heard NOTHING. I wasn’t playing a podcast or music as I often do most evenings. I was just focused on not burning the house down.🤷‍♀️

I’ve learned my lesson on vigilance. I must always be on at all times. Even when I’m trying to complete a simple task such as dinner.

Good God, no wonder I’m so tired all the time!

Well…Those Resolutions Were Short-Lived

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So…two of my resolutions are already out the window. I know it’s still January 1st, but I’ve already given up. Don’t judge me! Here’s what happened…

Resolution #1: Make healthier dietary choices.

After an early morning of cuddles and being climbed all over, because let’s be real, there is no sleeping in with toddlers. J declared that he was hungry and wanted pancakes. We all made our way to the kitchen. While hubby made eggs for C, I pulled out the pancake mix and a bowl. J wanted to help, so I scooped out a cup of mix, brought the bowl to his level, and handed him the measuring cup. He neatly dropped it in the bowl. We repeated the step with the water and mixing. Then I asked if he wanted chocolate chips in them, and of course, he said yes. He’s a toddler; there was no chance the answer was going to be no.

With the batter mixed, we heat and butter the pan. He adds the batter — when I can, I let the boys cook; I’m raising them to be self-sufficient — and we wait for the pancakes to reach the appropriate flipping doneness. Once they were ready, he had two yummy chocolate chip pancakes. There was enough better for two more pancakes…and there went my first resolution.

I know what you might be thinking, “Two chocolate chip pancakes to celebrate the start of the new year isn’t so bad” or “You still had better left, you were trying no to be wasteful.” Reader, you would be right on both accounts. And it would have been fine had I stopped there. After breakfast, hubby ran to Home Depot to grab hooks we need for a basement organization project. I put The Grinch on for the kids, because they are still feeling the Christmas spirit — C asked to see Santa today — and went to my bedroom to fold laundry and watch The Woman King. Clearly, I’m done with Christmas. I got about two minutes in before the kids came running in for help with turning on the giant piano mat my youngest brother got them for Christmas. Fun fact, FAO Schwarz makes toys; I thought it was a dead brand. The more you know.🤷🏽‍♀️

The interruptions kept coming, and I kept pausing the movie. Then J pooped, and we got into a fight while I tried to clean his bum because he REFUSED to stay still. By the time we finished, I needed chocolate. He chased me down the hall crying as I went to toss the diaper and go down to the basement to pull chicken from the freezer. I closed the door behind me so he couldn’t follow. It may sound like I was overreacting to my kid wanting me, but this is also the kid that woke me up and tried to drag me out of bed at 6 AM to turn on Spidey and his Amazing Friends in the playroom.

Hubby came back as I went downstairs, so he picked up a crying J and gave him a hug. On my way back to my bedroom to restart my movie — which I found out hubby turned off in favor of the Patriots game — I grabbed two Lindt milk chocolate balls only for C to catch me in the act of eating the first one and subsequently start cry when I pop the second one in my mouth. I know, I’m an asshole.

J soon realized that I had chocolate, slid out of his father’s lap and declare that he wanted chocolate too. I told the boys if they gave each other a hug — since I’d managed to upset them both AND I’m trying to teach them to lean on each other during the tough time — they’d each get a chocolate. They did. They both got a chocolate ball, I gave one to hubby and ate two more myself. SEE resolution is all shot to hell!

Resolution #2: Yell less; give “gentle parenting” a fighting chance.

My boys are not built for gentle parenting. I’m not built for gentle parenting. That’s not true. I’m not built for sustained gentle parenting.

J — today really wasn’t a good day for he and I — declared he wanted a cookie while we were watching the Pats game — I wasn’t super upset that my movie had been turned off; I love the Pats, they’ve just broken my heart a lot this season. I said, we don’t have any cookies. A few minutes later my very capable 2.5 year old came back with a Tupperware container of leftover cookies from holiday baking we’d done that I’d completely forgotten about. I had a cookie, C grabbed a cookie, J took two cookies.

Halftime hits and hubby heads to the basement to organization project started. I’m lying in the middle of our bed and J is behind me. I get up to head to the bathroom only to turn around and see that J has DECIMATED a gingerbread cookie on our bed. He ground it into a FINE dust of gingerbready goodness. I let out a frustrated scream, kicked him off the bed, and grabbed the dustbuster. I also had to tell him to take off his pants because they were covered with gingerbread dust.

This was not a gentle parenting moment. There were no calm words. There was only “why did you just do that?”, “get off the bed and take of your pants!”, “don’t come back up here!” yelling moments. I commend parents who are fully committed to gentle parenting and make it work for them. I have toddlers who talk back and give me evil laughs when they do something wrong.

I’m starting to think that they find my emotional outbursts funny, though. This morning C kept playing with the Santa salt and pepper shakers that I haven’t decommissioned yet. I told him sternly but calmly — before I gave up on gentle parenting — to put them back and leave them alone. He said, “Are you mad?” I replied, “No, but I would like you to listen when I tell you to do something.” He asked me if I was mad twice more, then I gave in and made an angry face, which got an uproarious chuckle from him.

I give up. I’m just going to sit in a corner and eat chocolate for the rest of the year. Catch y’all in 2024 when I start from scratch again if diabetes doesn’t set in and remove me from this mortal coil!

Happy New Year!!🎊 May you have better luck with your resolutions than I did.😳

Quiet is Never Quiet Enough

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C requested that we make gingerbread cookies after learning about them at school last week. I figured, sure, why not. I found a recipe, and J and I picked up the ingredients I didn’t already have in my spice cabinet. The suggestion of cookies was actually perfect as I decided we’d package them up and give them away to C’s bus drivers and his teachers as a “thank you”/Christmas gift. I love it when a plan comes together!

The boys and I combined and mixed the ingredients in the afternoon when C got home from school, then set the dough to chill. Fun fact that I did not know going into this: gingerbread dough needs to chill before the cookies can be cut.

Dough chilling, I make dinner, hubby comes home, we eat, and take a tubby. Then the boys and I head back to the kitchen to roll out the dough and bust out the cookie cutters. We make gingerbread men, gingerbread women, gingerbread kids, Santas, reindeer, ornaments, and candy canes. I pop the first batch in the oven, and the boys stare through the window to watch them bake. Another fun fact: although the dough needs to chill forever, the cookies back up in about ten minutes!

Once all the cookies are made and set out to cool, we head to bed. Around 2 AM, C wakes up. It takes about thirty minutes, but I get him back to sleep. I, however, am wide awake. I decide to be productive. I went across the hall into our junk room-turned-my-office to create labels for the cookie bags. I was still fussing with spacing and print alignment when my husband walked by and said, “There you are. I was wondering where you were.”

After he left for work, I decided that at 5 AM, with the kids still asleep, this would be the best opportunity to get my workout in alone. Usually, the boys wake up, follow me to the basement, and lay all over me when I do floor exercises.

I sneak into my bedroom because, of course, they are sleeping in there, change my clothes, then go down to the hall to our other bathroom to pee and put my shoes on. Guys, I promise you I made ZERO noise until I flushed the toilet on the other end of the house. Our house isn’t that big, but they shouldn’t have been able to hear the flush. Either way, I go down into the basement where, during COVID, A (my husband) went a little crazy filling it with gym equipment. I was just throwing my leg over the exercise bike seat when I heard it. Little, pounding footsteps going down the hall. J comes down the stairs and stops in front of the bike, and with sleepy eyes, he looks up at me and says, in a tone that doesn’t match his tired eyes, “Hi, Mommy!”

I laughed so hysterically that I thought I was going to cry. He reached his little arms up, and I had no choice but to scoop him up, soak up all that cute sleepy warmth, and snuggle my baby for 22 minutes as I rode the stationary bike. He wouldn’t let me put him down because he was scared. Of what? I have no idea. I finally convinced him that if he got down and handed me the remote control, he could watch anything he wanted on the television while I finished up.

I finished my ride, then proceeded to my floor exercise routine, which involved J trying to lay on me when I went down from a sit-up or sitting on my lap between sets. The whole time all I could think was: I should have just let it mellow…

I’m a Living, Breathing Comforter Object

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A few weeks ago, as we continued to work through C’s sleep issues, I found myself covered in children. Both boys made their way into our room in the middle of the night, as is typical. J used me as his mattress while pushing his brother away whenever he got close, trying to cuddle. Not being able to curl up next to me, C took my outstretched arm and adjusted it like a pillow, made himself comfortable, and went back to sleep.

I lay there for a moment, baffled by what just happened. My body stopped being my own, and I was a comfort object. A wubbie. A blankly. A favorite stuffy. I’m my kids’ comfort object.

As far as non-mommy comfort objects go, C had two: his wubbie and the baby blanket my godmother made for him. He loved his wubbie. Whenever he couldn’t find it, he’d walk around the house saying, “Wubbieeeee, where are you?!” We tried to ween him off of it with varying degrees of success depending on the day and his mood. We did a good job of it until the pandemic hit, and his world shifted. I decided to let him keep it and restart the weaning process later. As we were broaching the topic again, he decided on his own. One night during bedtime, he was upset, and we tried to give his wubbie to him, and he said, “No!” And then he never asked for it again.

The blanket he still uses from time to time. It lays at the foot of his bed, ready to be used at any moment. The other night when we were settling into bedtime, C got the blanket. He also brought in J’s version of the blanket, proceeded to tuck him in, then made himself cozy under his. My sweet boy.

J never really latched on to anything other than me for comfort. He likes his blanket well enough, and his stuffies are alright, but for him, there’s nothing like lying on my chest to fall asleep. This is equally sweet and frustrating. Sweet for the obvious reasons of bonding, love, etc. Frustrating because sometimes, after a day is being pulled and pushed in multiple directions. The last thing I want is to lie prone while he finds a comfortable spot to fall asleep on. I may sound like an asshole, but this kid tosses and turns over my body like a freshly caught fish flopping on a dock.

As I write this, J is curled up next to me in my bed, using my shoulder as a pillow. I know I should, and I do cherish these moments because there will come a time when cuddling with me is the absolute last thing they’ll want to do. It’s just a struggle sometimes to find some autonomy for myself while being any and everything to my boys.

Elf NOT on My Shelf

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‘Tis the season to be jolly…and stressed out and overwhelmed with holiday to-do lists. Sometime in the last fifteen-ish years, moms across the country (maybe the world; I don’t know) have been moving a creepy little doll around their house to encourage their children to be on their best behavior. While the concept is good in theory, the perceived one-upmanship that parents (mostly moms) engage in to have said elf end up in different silly positions every morning is a little too much for me.

Every year since I’ve had my boys, I’ve hemmed and hawed about introducing the red velvet-clad whimsical creature into our home, but then I see all the scenarios that my girlfriends, acquaintances, and perfect strangers create for the doll, and I tap out. While acknowledging their creativity, I also see the mess I would have to clean up. I get tired just looking at the toys spread from the living room to the toy room, not to mention the toy room itself. I look at those chaotic, albeit funny, scenes and think, “Nope. I don’t want to clean that up.” Hence, we don’t have an elf on our mantle, in our pantry, or emerging from the toilet tank…

I also think it’s a weird lesson in voyeurism that I don’t need to teach my boys. There are already enough places in the world for them to get questionable messaging. Teaching them that this doll is doing recon for Santa Claus, so they better behave, doesn’t quite sit well with me. Hell, I’m grateful that they haven’t started asking questions about the big guy yet because that’s another mind fuck that I don’t want to explain. My kids ask questions. They want to understand. They’re kind of unique and annoying that way. Also, poor J already told me he’s afraid of the dark. I don’t need to give him another reason to look over his little shoulder.

I can also say with 97% certainty the whole elf thing will backfire on me. C and J will find different places for the elf to hide, and I won’t be able to find it. I’m still looking for one of J’s water bottles that he used FOUR DAYS ago!

So no, there is not now nor will there ever be a spritely elf on any self in this household. I wish hearty good luck to all the parents who partake in this tradition. I’ll be over here watching the inventive disorder on my cell phone as I avoid my last-minute shopping until the last minute and try to keep the kids away from the gifts that have already been purchased.

A Mother’s Love Through Criticism…

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In my junior year of college, I came home at the end of the first semester exhausted. It had been a particularly trying semester, and finals week came with a snowstorm. Sufficed to say, I was happy to be home when it was all said and done. My mother, with ever the keen eye, looked at me and said, “You look unkempt. Here is some money. Go get your hair done.” Before taking the money (obviously), my response was, “I’m sorry I’ve been more focused on passing my finals than what my hair looks like. I thought that’s what you were sending me to school for.” While annoyed at the comment, I did appreciate her hooking me up with the cash for a bit of self-care.

My mother has been notorious for commenting on little things like this my whole life. She does it to my brothers too. I used to think it was just her nature until my girlfriends would share the perceived f’ed up stuff their moms would say to them too. In my teens and 20s, I resented her for it a little bit. Why couldn’t she be a little nicer? A little less brusk. Usually, these comments came when and about things I was already frustrated about or keenly aware of, so often, my reaction to them was less than pleasant.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the comments aren’t from a place of malice or ill intent. It’s coming from a twisted Boomer place of love. I can’t totally blame this on being a Boomer because my paternal grandmother does the same thing. I generally brace myself before stopping by to see her. But I digress…

Since having my boys, I’ve come to appreciate her observations…that’s not 100% true. I only really appreciate it when she tells me I look tired because that is always followed up with, “Bring the boys by, and we’ll take them for the weekend.” This past weekend, for example, she took them home with her after Thanksgiving dinner and kept them for three days. When she does things like that, it’s kind of hard to stay mad at her for telling me I look like shit…

So remember, this holiday season when your mother is lobbing criticisms at you, she’s likely coming from a place of love. Also, remember that we can correct these behaviors with our own children, and these patterns need not be repeated with the next generation.

Chocolate and Wine Make Me Happy…and Might Lead to My Demise…

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Often in my life as a mom, I’ve found myself taking a few minutes after the dishes are done and before I dive into tubby time to take a deep breath. I also either inhale a chocolate bar or chug half a glass of wine. Whichever I choose depends on the kind of day I’ve had. Sometimes it’s both. It’s my slow descent toward either diabetes or alcoholism. Not really with alcoholism, but diabetes might be a real possibility…

Before mommyhood, I wasn’t a stress eater. I think that’s because the things that stressed me out were tasks. Tangible action items I could go about completing as long as I buckled down and did them. Attend a planning committee meeting? Check. Finish an article or research paper? Done. As long as I planned my time accordingly, I was good. Hell, I was kind of annoying. In college, I would finish papers a week before they were due; I was that good at time management.

Now, though? Time management is a foreign concept. You can’t “time manage” being a mom. No matter how hard you try. Get the kid to sleep by 8? Sure, if C doesn’t have to use the potty five times or if J will stop talking through the bedtime story. Get the house clean? Sure, J doesn’t insist that we watch the SAME EPISODE of Blippi for the 500th time.

There’s no more shutting the world out by blasting music and banging out a paper. There is no more on time or showing up early. If we do show up early, it’s 100% an accident. Heck, there are no more running quick errands. Now that I’m home with J, every time we have to leave the house, he wants to know where we’re going and what we’re going there for. The only place that doesn’t require a detailed explanation is the library.

As moms, we all have to find our coping mechanisms to help keep our sanity when all feels lost, and the kids won’t stop screaming for five minutes so we can have a complete, uninterrupted thought. Speaking of uninterrupted thoughts…it has taken me FOUR days just to write this short little post. In the time since I started writing this post, I’ve eaten three Snickers bars (two full-sized, one snack size), Gummy bears (chocolate is not my only sugar-based vice), and five Lindt milk chocolate balls. Two of those Lindt balls were consumed in the last twenty minutes while I multitasked signing up for a warranty on a device, checking for an update on my community post about my broken printer, starting Home on one tablet, and Pinkfong and Baby Shark’s Space Adventure on another, then turning off both tablets ad getting the boys in the tub.

If I weren’t already exhausted and didn’t have to finish tubby and get them to bed, I might go back to the kitchen for a glass of wine… Alas, the bottle will stay corked until Thursday, when our families descend for Thanksgiving. That doesn’t mean I can’t have one more Lindt ball, right? Sign me up for the insulin shots now, people!

The Family that Screams Together, Stays Together

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When my brothers and I were kids, my mother had this saying that she’d use whenever we were impatient, stubborn, or whiny: “When God was handing out [insert frustrating behavior], you were first in line.” It usually garnered a shrug, smirk, or eye roll from my brothers and me. Now that I have my own children, I find this phrase running through my mind multiple times a day.

When my children were being molded, they were given a robust set of lungs that they use recklessly. After their stubbornness, their scream is their biggest…asset, I guess. Their favorite time to scream is…well, any time, really. For this post, I’ll focus on whenever we have to take something from them, either because they refuse to share, they’ve done something wrong, or it’s time for bed.

One minute everyone’s cool, then the fighting starts. Once my husband and I go in to intervene then, the screaming starts. You would like that we’d tied them to a chair, and we’re pulling their fingernails out with a pair of pliers. Sometimes I look at them and think, “What is this? Why does taking a toy amount to a torture session for me?”

Depending on how close to the end of my rope I’m feeling, I start screaming right along with them. The first time I did this with my older son — who will now be referred to as C — he had shock written all over his face. It was palpable. I stopped screaming about a second after he did. We stared at each other for five seconds, and then he busted out with the biggest fit of laughing I’d ever seen. He laughed so much that he fell over. And I couldn’t help but laugh as well.

Sometimes now, we just scream with each other for the heck of it. Once my younger son — who will forever be referred to as J — caught on to our game (after looking at C and me like we were nut jobs), he joined in too.

This little cathartic screaming game does not always stop them from screaming like bloody murder when they don’t get their way. At least diffusing the situation can be stress-relieving for me too.