Bird’s Birth Story

This post talks about miscarriage, problems conceiving, and pregnancy difficulties. If that’s not your cup of tea, you should skip this one.

My beautiful boy, your beginning begins with an end.

In early March, 2015, I miscarried when I was eleven weeks pregnant. The very first thing I thought was, “it’s ok. You’ll be ok. You’ll survive this and somehow be better for it. You’ll start exercising, lose weight, start writing again. You’ll be better.” And my second thought was, “what kind of horrible person thinks about exercising at a time like this? It’s no fucking wonder this is happening to you. You don’t deserve another baby. You are worthless. You are nothing.”

And I was broken. For a really long time. I took a few days off work, because I could, I binge watched happy shows about strong women, I mourned. And then I moved on. But I was still broken, still stuck with this empty feeling. My belly should be growing, little feet kicking. But I’m empty. I focused on things I couldn’t do if I was pregnant. I dyed my hair pink. I drank. A lot. I ate rare steaks and drank unpasteurized juice. I got hermit crabs because I really wanted them when I was eight years old so goddamn it I was going to have hermit crabs. It was a strange time.

And after some time passed, we started trying to get pregnant again. And after six months of trying, I was convinced that something was wrong. A woman can only pee on so many sticks. So I called my doctor for a referral.

In January I went to see the woman my doctor had referred me too. I felt good. Proactive. This doctor would tell me what was wrong and help me fix it. I show up early and get signed in. I fill out the paperwork, there’s a problem with my insurance. The doctor I have the appointment with doesn’t take my insurance. In fact, there was only one doctor in the building who took my insurance, a man, would that be alright? Well, it’s not my first choice, but I’m a big girl, I can deal. I just want to get pregnant. The receptionist leaves to see if the doctor can see me at the time of my original appointment.

While she’s gone a pregnant woman comes in and sits opposite me. Tears start to fall, I can’t stop them. When the receptionist comes back, I’m sobbing uncontrollably. I can see in her face that she thinks it’s because of the mix up with doctors. I tell her about my miscarriage, about having trouble getting pregnant. She hands me tissue. Tells me her sister miscarried last year. She’s still not over it.

And then she tells me the doctor can’t see me then, but he could see me later. Could I come back in five hours? Sure, whatever, I just want to get pregnant. She tells me what a good doctor he is, how everyone loves him. She tells me his name. It sounds German. My maiden name is also German. In fact, his name, and my maiden name are only two letters away from being the same name. And, his first name is my dad’s name. Which means that five hours later than my original appointment with the female doctor I would be seeing a male doctor whose name was only two letters different than my estranged father’s. At this point I’m convinced that not only is there something wrong with me, but also that the cosmos are fucking with me.

I wanted a doctor to tell me what was wrong, and boy, is that what I got with Dr Almost-Dad. He told me it was probably because they didn’t do a D and C after my miscarriage (darn those midwives), he’d schedule an ultrasound. I mentioned having trouble nailing down when I was ovulating, he told me I probably wasn’t ovulating, as soon as I was done with him I needed to have blood drawn to be sure. And, while they’re drawing blood, they’ll take a look at my testosterone. Because I have hair above my lip…….. Dude. Cheap shot Dr Almost-Dad. And for the record, I’ve never needed to wax or bleach my upper lip like millions of women, so it really felt like he was grasping at straws, and furthermore, he’s a big stupid butthead and I don’t like him. He did a Pap smear, ordered the blood work and ultrasound and sent me on my way. Now feeling broken AND self conscious.

The blood work came back first. Dr Almost-Dad, who I shall now call Dr Downer, called with the results. One of my hormone levels was lower than it should be, it would appear that I wasn’t ovulating. (My testosterone level was fine, by the way.) Than my Pap smear results came back. Dr Downer called again. I have decided that Pap smears are the medical equivalent of a Magic 8 Ball. Dr Downer let me know that my Pap was abnormal. But he couldn’t say if there was anything to worry about. I’d have to have another test done to be sure. It was the medical equivalent of “Ask Again Later”.

In the midst of all of this, all this bad news, it happened. You happened. I came home after a brutal day at work (and more bad test results from Dr Downer) and all I wanted to do was take a scalding hot bath and drink a bottle of wine. Two things that are definitely not recommended while pregnant. My period was supposed to start that day, and I had one extra pregnancy test, so I figured what the hell. I’ll pee on this stick while I draw the bath. And I was pregnant. While I felt so lost, so completely unsure of myself, you came to be. I called for your dad. I looked at that stick, and I laughed. And I cried. And I released a breath I had been holding in for almost a year.

The next day I called Dr. Downer, naturally he had more bad news. With where my hormone levels were he didn’t think I would keep the pregnancy. I needed to see a doctor yesterday he said. He was writing me a prescription for progesterone to hopefully get my hormones where they should be, and I needed to find another doctor because Dr. Downer didn’t handle pregnancies anymore. So, some good news, I’d never have to talk to Dr. Downer again. I left work early and started making some calls. I found a doctor who could see me the next day.

Now, granted it has been awhile since all of this happened, my memory probably isn’t 100% accurate, but the new doctor looked exactly like Putin. He had a firm handshake, a tacky gold watch, and while performing my pelvic exam, he told me my cervix was funny. I should keep taking the progesterone, set up an ultrasound for when I was at seven weeks to see if there’s a heartbeat (and my heart stopped, IF there’s a heartbeat?), and leave the paperwork I needed signed for work with his nurse.

The next few days I called his nurse’s line probably about ten times. First I called because the progesterone (or one of the other two medications he prescribed me) had made me break out in a hideous and very itchy rash. The first nurse I talked to told me to cut back to only one dose a day. The rash went away. A different nurse called back and told me to go back to two doses a day. I explained that it gave me a rash. She said it shouldn’t, I said, but it did. There was a lot of back and forth, never once did Dr. Putin call me himself. I also called several times to see when I could get my paperwork for my work signed. It basically said that I was pregnant, and might need to miss work occasionally for pregnancy related issues. Pretty straight forward. After a week of run around your dad went down to his office and was told by Dr. Putin that he doesn’t sign paperwork like that.

So I once again started looking for another doctor. This time I knew just where to go. I asked an old coworker of mine who her doctor was. That way I knew he’d take my insurance and sign my forms and at this point that was all I cared about. The very first thing he did was sign my forms. Then he told me that I seemed very healthy and he was sure it would be a fine, healthy pregnancy which after Dr. Downer and rashes and medications, I really, really needed to hear. He made terrible dad jokes, and while I was googling him I found out that he had “left” his previous job after finding a gun and throwing it in a trashcan instead of telling the police, but at that point I was like, good enough. Nobody is perfect.

And I was pregnant. And I was happy. And throwing up all the time. And scared. My “Ask Again Later” pap smear results came back with bad news. There were abnormal cells present. Dr. Dad Jokes referred me to a specialist. I didn’t realize it was a cancer specialist until I was filling out the forms. So that was scary. But everyone seemed to agree that there was nothing to suggest that I couldn’t wait to treat it until after having you, so that’s what I did. Your test results were also problematic. Everything was always “on the cusp of normal”. My hormones remained “on the cusp”, your development was always “on the cusp”. So there were extra visits with Dr. Dad Jokes and extra tests. But there were also extra ultrasounds so that was nice. We got to see you almost once a week. That was one thing where you weren’t “on the cusp”, you were growing so big. 99th percentile big. You just kept getting bigger and bigger.

You were due October 3rd, a year and ten days later than my previous pregnancy’s due date of September 23rd. At my last visit with Dr. Dad Jokes, in the middle of September, he didn’t bother having me make another appointment, he knew you were coming soon.

On September 22nd there was a thunderstorm. I was in bed reading and listening to the rain.  Your dad came to bed late, around 11:45. I said I had to pee one more time and then we could turn out the light. I went to the bathroom and my water broke.

We woke up your sister, dropped her off with your grandparents, and headed to the hospital. The nurse on duty asked if there was a storm. Apparently the change in barometric pressure that accompanies a thunderstorm can cause labor and I was the seventh woman who had come in that night. They were a little short staffed that night.

Dr. Dad Jokes popped in around 4am, ordered pitocin, and said he wouldn’t be delivering, as he had just finished a twelve hour shift. The doctor who delivered you was a woman, sweet and supportive. I was glad to see her. I was done with male doctors. Also wonderful was our nurse, who not only helped me through labor, but also chased off visitors, mainly your grandparents. With your sister I had let people in the delivery room and it had been very stressful, so with you, I wanted it to be just me and your dad. And the doctor and nurse of course.

And then, at one in the afternoon, on September the 23rd, thirteen hours after my water broke, you were here. Big, beautiful, and healthy.

You’re two years old now. You love those around you so easily. You give the sweetest hugs. It’s funny to look back on it now. To remember just how hard, and scary the whole thing was. To think about all of those “almost bad” test results and scares. To remember just how desperately we wanted you and how hard we fought for you. I love you with my whole heart, my little bird.

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“I Love You Even Though You’re My Daughter”

Sunday night was the most scared I’ve ever been. My almost two year old son fell into a pool. He’s completely fine and my husband and I are recovering slowly. We were at my mom’s house and we wanted to take the kids outside after dinner. While my husband and I were attempting to control the dogs, our kids, almost nine and almost two, took off. When they got to the end of the patio my daughter veered left and my son veered right, straight towards the deep end of my mom’s pool.

I shouted “NO!” and closed the distance between us almost immediately, but not quickly enough to stop him from jumping in.

You always hear that time slows down in those type of situations, for me it was more like my brain sped up. What surprised me was how many thoughts I was able to have in just that split second. My first thought was, “jump in”, naturally. And then (this sounds silly and horrible) I thought about whether or not I should take my shoes off. You always see it in movies, people taking their shoes off before diving in to save someone, but then I thought of how long it would take to take my shoes off. After having all those thoughts, I realized I just needed to grab him and pull him out. His hair wasn’t even wet, my brain had just gone on super drive.

And then everything slowed down. We stripped his wet clothes off him, my husband got a big fluffy towel from inside, we wrapped him up and I held him. I put his head on my chest, wrapped him up in my arms, and rocked him. I wished I could put him back inside me, have him be a part of me again. Keep him safe. I wished I had a kangaroo pouch I could carry him and his sister in. Keep them safe.

I spent that night in his room, awake, aware of every breath he took, every shift he made. In the other room, my husband had nightmares.

Traumatic experience aside, it’s been a very nice week. There’s been a lot of fun and a lot of catching up with dear friends I don’t see often enough. There have been coffees, lunches, playdates and drinks. All with other kick ass moms I’m lucky to know and have as friends. Some of these moms are new moms, and some have been doing it awhile. With all of them the conversation turned to motherhood.

When you get together with a new mom there are always questions. Simple, casual enough, questions that only hint at bigger questions and concerns. “When did yours start sleeping?”, “Do you get out a lot?”, but what you really want to know when you’re a new mom, what I wanted to know, was, “Is this normal?” and “Does this get easier?”.

Yes, it’s normal. Normal to be exhausted, normal to miss your independence, normal to wonder in the back of your head if motherhood was a wise decision. Normal for your baby to not sleep, or not poop, or sleep too much, or poop too much.

No, it doesn’t get easier. Because sleepless nights turn into toddlers running towards pools or eight year olds screaming, “Are you happy now?” before stomping into their bedroom.

My wonderful week of mom time was capped off with drinks with my own mom tonight. I mentioned all the other moms I had seen, the conversations I’d had, and how difficult motherhood can be. She said….

“What no one can understand until they become a mother, is that it’s all the time. I thought I would have you, but then I’d go to class, or work, and not be a mom for awhile. But your kids are always with you. And then, I thought once you were eighteen it would be this relationship between two adults, but I’m still a mom. Even when your kids are in their thirties and have kids of their own, that need to provide, to protect, and make sure you’re happy, it never goes away.”

As we said goodbye she hugged me and said, “I love you even though you’re my daughter.”

“Jesus mom,” I scoffed.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

Yeah, I do. I love you even though I had to give up parts of who I was. I love you even though you make me second guess myself and worry constantly. I love you and sometimes wish I could stuff you in a big kangaroo pouch and protect you from the bad things. I love you even though you make me tired and crazy. I love you because even as you grow apart from me, you are still a part of me. The very best part.

 

 

 

 

A Mother’s Diet: Guilt, Shame and Brussel Sprouts

A few months ago I was getting dressed and my pants were tighter than normal. I looked down at my belly, my rolls, and thought, “Oh my God, I’m a f**king Before picture.” I wanted to scream. That morning I decided to lose weight. But it wasn’t that simple, nothing ever is. I almost immediately started to argue with myself.

“Why do you want to lose weight?” the voice in my head asked, “Are you insecure? You shouldn’t be insecure, everyone is beautiful.”

“Don’t focus on your weight, that’s one small aspect of who you are. You’re being vain.”

I started to spiral, worried that people would judge me for wanting to lose weight, worried people already judged me for not losing weight, but my biggest concern was my daughter. How could I consciously try to lose weight without setting a bad example for her? I remember growing up around women who focused on their weight, I remember thinking how silly they sounded, but what if my daughter didn’t think it was silly? At almost nine years old I know that she is already receiving those messages that weight is important, despite our best efforts to avoid them. How could I, her biggest influencer, in good conscience add to the narrative that thinner is better?

I remember her mentioning her stomach one time after coming home from school and my heart broke. Always, always with her we talk about health and what her body needs and wants. When she mentioned her stomach I told her it was exactly the right size for her. We talk about food we talk about eating lots of different kinds of food because that’s what her body needs to be healthy and grow big. When she gets an upset stomach from too much sugar, we tell her that it is her body’s way of telling her it doesn’t like having all that sugar.

I have been so careful about how ( and how much) we talk about health and diet, not only so that she grows up healthy, but also so that she has a strong sense of ownership that it is HER body, and no one else’s….. Why wasn’t I doing the same thing for myself? After years of breastfeeding, being pregnant, trying to get pregnant, my body finally feels like mine and mine alone again. So why did I feel my wanting to lose weight was up to anyone other than me?

So, I started to exercise and I started to diet. I’ve lost twelve pounds so far and I feel great. But honestly, that great feeling has so little to do with losing weight. I feel great because I’ve put myself first. For just a few hours a week, I am no one’s mom, daughter, friend, I’m just me. Focused on myself and getting stronger, and faster. And doing that for myself, caring for myself first, has made me that much more present for the people I love.

Today I walked farther and faster than I ever have before. I started to tear up. I realize, I’m not a Before picture. I will always be an After picture. After becoming a mom, after becoming a wife, after losing a pregnancy, after dealing with depression, after, after, after. It’s not Day One, or Day Twenty, it’s just another day. I won’t discredit where and who I’ve been before, because they’ve gotten me where I am today. Happier, stronger, and healthier.

Goodbye Summer

One of my favorite things to do as a mom is walk my daughter to school. Walking feels almost like a remnant of a bygone time, so I treasure it. Her school is a couple blocks, and one big grassy park away, and only takes us fifteen minutes to get there. Sometimes if the weather is really awful we’ll drive, but I try to walk as much as we can. We watch for our neighborhood family of roadrunners on the way. We say good morning to the dogs. Today we met Stella and Luna, very good dogs indeed.

The walk is calm until we get to the park. Once there you can hear the crossing guard’s whistle, and kids yelling to their friends. Sometimes they’ll yell at my daughter and we’ll walk the rest of the way with friends. The girls walking in front, talking, the grown ups and my son following close behind. It’s loud, and energetic and joyful.

And then the bell rings. Kids go to class, parents go to work. My son and I walk home. The once bustling park is now quiet and empty with the exception of a few joggers and retirees. It’s a completely different place. We listen to the wind in the trees, and watch out for robins and sparrows. It’s peaceful.

Today was my daughter’s first day of third grade. It also marked the end of my first summer as a stay at home mom. I’m not going to lie, I was nervous about this summer. I mean, I love my kids, but spending all day every day with them? I don’t love anyone that much. But, we survived! We all still love each other, and we even had fun! Of course we didn’t accomplish everything we wanted to. My daughter wanted to go to the beach and that didn’t happen. My house is not as clean as I was hoping to get it, and I didn’t write as much as I meant to. My kids watched way more television than I had wanted. But we had fun. And I got through it.

And we had adventures! There was the girls weekend my daughter and I took with my mom at Tamaya Resort, where we spent all day at the pool and ordered room service. We spent two weeks outside of Durango at the family cabin. We had family friends come stay with us, marking my daughter’s very first sleepover. It was a summer of firsts and also the familiar. And I don’t think I would’ve changed a minute of it.

The “Perfect” Week and Writer’s Block

Last week I challenged myself to accomplish two goal this week. The first being closing all my activity rings on my Apple Watch, and the second being blogging every day this week. They were relatively small goal, but I’m still proud to have accomplished both of them. But it got me thinking about writing and my relationship with writing.

I started writing when I was in third grade. I wrote and illustrated a series of books about a kingdom of mice, and while the books have been lost to time, I feel confident in saying they were epic. When I hit puberty I started using writing as an outlet for working through all of my normal adolescent frustrations. By the time I was in college my two main ways of coping were writing and killing off facsimiles of people on The Sims. Hey, it’s better than drugs.

The thing is, I’m not subtle. So to use writing as a coping mechanism meant that I had to give zero fucks about what people thought. I once wrote a play about things ending badly with a guy and named the villain after the guy. I had an acting teacher I didn’t get along with so one of my characters cut out the tongue of her acting teacher. A stranger once called me a bitch in a supermarket so I murdered him with a shopping cart…. in a play that I wrote.

I was really good at not giving a shit. It was fun, liberating, and made me feel like a badass. But all of that changed when I became a mom. Kids are usually a package deal. When I became a mom I also became a partner to my (now) husband, a daughter in law to my in laws, so many different things to different people. And quite suddenly I went from giving zero fucks to giving allllll the fucks.

I bit my tongue, I tried not to curse (which I really enjoy doing and believe I’m pretty good at), I tried to be so many things to so many people, that a part of me got lost in the shuffle. I worried about what people would think of me and how they would judge me. And I couldn’t write anymore.

I kept getting into my head and shutting myself down. I was worried. Worried that the people around me, who cared about me, would judge me. I mean, the idea of telling my Christian in laws that I was writing a feminist, vampire erotica sounds awful.

Even worse somehow, is that all those fucks I suddenly gave were for people I love, but who also annoy the shit out of me occasionally. My husband and I are incredibly lucky to have built an amazing support system for our family. But what do I do when that support system pisses me off? I can’t write about mowing them down with shopping carts, they are an amazing support system, they read everything I write.

The whole thing has made writing incredibly hard for the last eight years.

Which is why, tonight, I’m patting myself on the back for reaching my goal of a perfect week. I wanted to end the week with a post that’s a little more personal, a little more raw. Try to get back some of that catharsis writing used to provide. Honestly, it just feels good to write. About anything.

An Ode To Motherhood

AKA My Latest Trip To Costco

In honor of Mother’s Day coming up, I thought I’d share with you my latest adventure as a Hot Mess Mom.

Yesterday started out so well. I woke up in a great mood, ready to take on the world. I figured, since it was such a good day, I should go to Costco. It’s been on my list of things to do. So while everyone is eating breakfast, I text my mom and start planning my day. We decide to go to Costco together, because the more the merrier, and we decide on meeting there at 1pm, after my mom’s pilates lesson and after my son has had a nap and lunch.

I ask my son (who is one and a half) if that would be fun and he gets super excited. He went with me on my last Costco run and fell in love with the place. He loves to eat so he was all about the free samples. My daughter, who is in second grade, starts to pout. “I wish I was going to Costco”. No problem, I’m thinking, confident in my parenting and planning skills. So I text my mom, she’s ok with pushing it back until my daughter is out of school. My day is set, my kids are happy, go me.

The day continues to be smooth sailing. My husband and I both get some work done, and some cleaning. My son is his usual chipper self. I manage to stick to my new exercise routine which I’ve been doing now for a whopping three days straight! I’m feeling so good, I even decide to wear a dress just for the hell of it. No special occasion, just wearing a dress to take my kids shopping. Like one of those moms who is put together and stuff.

Three o clock rolls around. I get my son into the minivan and we go to pick up my daughter. We get there a little early, so I let my little guy roam around in the grass near where my daughter is let out. He’s having fun, dressed in the matching outfit my mom bought for him. He has fun, for a minute. But then the bell rings and he no longer wants to be in the grass. He wants to be climbing the stairs where a hundred kids are running past, eager to leave school for the day. I calmly tell him we can’t do that, it’s not safe, and I pick him up and sit on a bench to wait for my other kiddo.

He does not want to do this. He makes this known by not only screaming, blood curdling screams, but by arching his back as far as he can. I’m doing my best to hold him and calm him down, but the cute matching outfit my mom got him is made out of a slippery material and it is not easy. He’s flailing, kicking, screaming, and I am no longer feeling like a put together mom. People are looking, he’s still screaming, and my daughter is running late.

She saunters over after what felt like twenty minutes and the first thing she says; “I don’t wanna go to Costco anymore. I’m too tired.”

At this point I am so far from a put together mom. I can feel my jaw clench and my ears get red. I stand up, carrying my son like an unruly sack of potatoes, and through gritted teeth tell my daughter to keep up with me. I stomp back to the van with my two bewildered children in tow.

My daughter asks why I took the van. I told her it was because we were going to Costco, but honestly, my voice was probably so shrill at this point that only dogs could hear it. I get everyone in the car and buckled, and drive, in silence, to Costco.

Once we got there everything was fine. The very first free sample was cake, so the kids were instantly appeased, and as soon as I entered the store I was greeted by a large display of already mixed margaritas on sale. It’s as if Costco knew.

Doldrum Days

Give Me Wine, Or Give Me Death

Act 1 Scene 4:
Kim walks into the Seven Eleven. She’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, no bra, a gray hoodie and flip-flops. She looks tired but determined. Despite never being in this place before she quickly finds what she’s looking for in the back. Wine. Her eyes narrow as she zooms in on the decent chardonnay sitting between the pink moscatos and sparkling strawberry wines. She clutches the bottle and goes to the checkout.
Dave (the clerk): ID?
Kim fumbles in her wallet while Dave and the other clerk make small talk. Kim hands her ID to Dave.
Dave: Thanks Kimberly. So how’s your night going?
Kim laughs with bitterness and exhaustion. Dave will never know.
Kim: My four-year old won’t go to sleep. I can’t find the right stuffed animal. I just want it to stooooppppp!!!!!
…..
Dave: Credit or debit?
End Scene

The above is a Facebook post from four years ago, when my daughter was four years old and Mark Zuckerberg wasn’t being investigated. Four years ago and as soon as I reread it, I remember it like it was yesterday. We have always been BIG on a set bedtime routine. Same time, same number of books, same number of songs, same rituals in the same order every night. We had the blackout curtains, we only watched loud movies with subtitles, nothing disturbed the sanctity of bedtime.

Except when we couldn’t find the right stuffed animal in a sea of fifty stuffed animals. Then all hell broke loose. But four years later I can remember the frustration, the tears (from everyone in the house, not just my daughter), I remember it perfectly because even though it was four years ago, the same frustrations continue to pop up. As a parent, some days just plain suck.

Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain

When this memory popped up the other day it got me thinking about how I present myself, specifically as a parent, to the rest of the world. Sure, we all talk about what a mess we are, and how we struggle, but very rarely do we put it out there on display. When we do, it’s usually with an exasperated chuckle and a shoulder shrug. We aren’t pulling out a magnifying glass and examining our short comings with anyone anytime soon.

Take my above story. I played it for laughs, I never mentioned that my daughter was screaming so loudly that I was legitimately concerned that a neighbor was going to call the cops. I don’t talk about how much of the wine I drank that night, or the enormous feeling of self-doubt that stuck with me long after my daughter calmed down.

And yet, it’s those tiny glimpses of things not being perfect, of being down right hard and exhausting, that most resonate with me as a mom. With that in mind, here are two (more) examples of me just kind of sucking at this mom thing.

Not A Hot Mess, Just A Mess

I’m pretty proud of the pictures I’ve been able to put on this blog so far. My husband, shoot even my daughter, have way better eyes than I do for photography, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job of making my food look appetizing.

But I’m going to let you in on a secret; the reason I tend towards close-ups isn’t because they look better, it’s so I don’t have to clean as much of my kitchen.

The picture on the right is what my counter looks like right now. I tried giving it an artsy filter, but it is what it is, a mess. I’m sure I’ll get to it after I’m done writing this. If I don’t get distracted by some game on my phone.

IMG_1425

Thomas The Tank Engine Is A Real Jerk

Above is a cute photo of my husband reading to our son. I captioned it, “Story time” with a few heart emojis and shared it with the world. What this photo doesn’t show? How fed up my husband and I both are with the book he’s reading and how close I am to burning it.

There are two stories, in the first one Thomas can’t pull the heavy cars filled with people so he strands the people all around the island in cow pastures to lighten his load, in the second he wants his picture taken so he puffs his way into everyone else’s pictures, ruining all the photos. I’m sure both stories end with Thomas learning a valuable lesson, but we never get to the end because my son gets bored halfway through. So the only thing his developing brain is taking away from them is, “Hey kid! Are things not going your way? Just dump on those around you to get what you want!”

Doldrum Days

So there are my examples of me not winning “Mother Of The Year”. I share them with you to remind myself that nobody is perfect, nor does anyone need to be. If you are having “one of those days”, I hope this helps, and know that we’ve all been there.