My Secret...

In hind sight, I can maybe, kind of, sort of see why POPSUGAR didn't want to publish this. Yet, at the same time... I feel like I cannot be the only one that feels this way. Statistically, it would be an impossibility for me to be the lone person in this category. Now that the holiday has come, and passed, I feel even more comfortable posting this...

Alas, I present another failure - may it make to laugh a bit, and send it off to the people in your life that would appreciate it the most.  

There’s One in Every Family

As Halloween drew to an end, I began to notice Christmas décor popping up in stores. The inner sigh I heaved was as deep as any I have ever heaved… Christmas before Halloween is just wrong. Yes, there is such a thing as decorating too early for Christmas. Yes, there is a “war on Christmas”, but it’s not exactly what you are initially thinking. My war on Christmas is strictly to keep Christmas in December, where it belongs. I don’t want sparkly trees, elves, and the fat man to show up while I am pigging out on small Snicker bars, and wolfing down mini-KitKats! I just don’t. At the beginning of November, I saw people hanging Christmas lights up. I heard some local radio stations playing Christmas music! Discussions of how many Saturdays were left before the big day arrived kept popping up in radio ads. As I deep eye rolled over this I realized, and not for the first time, that I am a Grinch.

There is one in every family.

I am the one in mine.

This actually doesn’t bother me the older I have become. I hate Christmas. There, I said it… I hate it. I won’t lie, pictures on Facebook or Instagram of the piles of presents under people’s Christmas trees make me want to shout profanities. Is it a status symbol to be able to fill the entire underneath of the Christmas tree? I hate it. I hate feeling like I have to buy Christmas gifts. To me, it cheapens what Christmas really ought to be about, and no amount of colored lights, loud singing, or candy canes make that feeling go away. Because I am pretty sure that is all my kids care about, and I am sure that is all your kids care about… the freaking Christmas gifts.

I usually wake up dreading all the bills we will have to pay come the first of the year over all the toys we had to buy for our children. There is nothing more brutal than trying to keep up with Black Friday ad’s, Toys’R’Us commercials, and the children’s little friends whispering about how awesome all their many things are. Last year at Christmas we were visiting family, and I literally cried as I bought Christmas gifts for everyone. It was so bad, that I washed my hands of buying Christmas gifts ever again. My husband is now in charge of gifting at the holiday, and it is honestly the best choice I have ever made.  

As a parent, I always find myself walking a fine line between spoiling our children rotten, and giving them the bare minimum. My oldest is old enough to thoroughly understand the concept of embarrassment, and jealously. As a young girl, there were very few Christmases full of the flurry of brightly colored paper; there were very few Christmases were I felt a feeling of abundance. I don’t want my own children to feel the feelings I have about Christmas, but I also don’t want them to expect the world offered to them each Christmas morning.

Furthermore, I am not sure Santa is really a great idea either. Don’t get me wrong, Santa is a’coming to our house, but I don’t think I like Santa. There is something about a giant fat man crawling down the chimney, peeping to see if you are sleeping, and then leaving gifts that just screams Horror Genre. Then he flies away on his sled pulled by eight tiny reindeer? Please. It’s a believable as the damn Elf on the Shelf… which we do have, and is currently riding in the Millennium Falcon that lives on top of the kitchen cabinets.

………..

The good news is, I am extremely good at faking Christmas cheer. Even more good news is for every Grinch like me, there are literally dozens of others that are exclaiming their love for Christmas from the roof tops… literally, in the form of their many colored lights, and animatronic deer set to Jingle Bells. I guess I am glad for that, because otherwise the world would be pretty drab around Christmas if we were all Grinch’s.

I probably won’t ever like Christmas, but I will continue to fake smile my way through the many renditions of Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, and The Little Drummer Boy. I will trim the Christmas tree in grumpiness, hang the stockings with care, and then wrap the gifts. I will always be an active participant in the season, despite hating it, because I love my children and I love my husband. My hope is that they will remember that, like the Grinch, I was there year after year to catalogue, critique, and be present for each Christmas. I’m their Grinch, and I think they need me around just as much as I need to be around… because nothing makes a Grinch more of a Grinch than being left out.

Btw - your welcome.

I guess I Write Now

A funny thing happened, and I suddenly had one thing published to a favorite online news media outlet. It's called My Parenting Style Isn't For Everyone, and I Am Not Embarrassed To Admit It . Funny thing, that title.... I actually was deeply embarrassed when it popped up - thrilled that someone thought I was worth reading, but so embarrassed also.

Like, welcome to my messy fucking life, world.

Anyway, I have since sent several things to them that have not been selected for the site. Sad, but whatever. I remembered I had this blog, and while they might not want to read and publish everything I write, it doesn't mean I can't publish it here. On that note, I present my thoughts on pooping at a friend's house.


.......

By far the hardest thing to do while managing a nomadic life as an Army Spouse is making friends at the new places you are moved. This is made even more difficult when you are moved somewhere there is no Army post. Occasionally, as an active duty member, you can get some pretty sweet jobs around the country - it’s cool, but it just means your built in network of people who “get it” are far and few between. The current place we live is delightful, but I have struggled making friends. I am not a ray of sunshine, and have a fairly good case of RBF. I counted it a lucky thing that I had made THREE friends, and then I was not surprised when two of the three moved away. Such is our life.

Before my best of the two friends moved away we all decided to do a pizza night at her house. I was like, “Yes, friend. Carbs and wine… that’s heaven.” She made the pizzas from scratch, and I made the sangria. Husband and I packed up the goods, made the children go potty before we left, packed swimsuits, and set off four house up the street to have pizza night.

The evening was going amazingly. All three of my kids, and both of her kids were getting along wonderfully - no fighting, no crying, and they all ate fairly well. They played in their swimsuits, and threw water balloons at each other, and their dog. I actually felt relaxed, and was able to put my worries aside for a moment.

Big mistake.

The three younger children wanted to come inside, and change back into clothes so they could play with the toys upstairs. They go upstairs to change, and all four of us adults think nothing of it - they are all over the age of three, surely they can put their clothes on. The older two stayed outside to play for a little bit longer before going upstairs to change.

Now, this is where things go horrifyingly hilarious and annoying. My friends kid goes upstairs, and he suddenly says, “Umm… you guys? Can you, like, come up here?” We are all like, “No?” “Wait. Why?” He says, “There is poop on the toilet.”

My heart sinks. Like, yes, of course there is poop on the toilet… but I was feeling optimistic that is would be an easy clean up job, maybe it is just A turd. Oh how I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. I get upstairs to discover MY three year old with poop in his underwear, on his shirt, on his shorts, and it is SMEARED all over the toilet seat and down the side! Like, DOWN THE SIDE?! Why? How? What? I call my husband upstairs, and I am like “Help me.” He is like, “No way, I cleaned up J when he did this at X’s house.”

Oh. Did I forget to mention? The middle one did the exact same thing at someone else’s house the month prior. I was unaware of the situation, and my husband had to clean up all the poop off of middle child, and the toilet solo. That instance required the throwing away of underwear…

So, with shallow breaths, I strip down Tiny. To his credit, my husband goes down stairs and explains the situation to our friends. Suddenly all three of them are standing there looking at me, I have tears in my eyes, and am trying to get poopy clothes off a squirming three-year-old. Our friends are laughing, husband is kind of laughing, the other four children are looking on horrified, and I am trying to not throw up all over the place. At this point, I have to add that this is the first time we have ever had dinner at their house, and I want to crawl in a hole and die.

I get all the poop soaked clothes off Tiny, and wash him thoroughly in the shower. Husband cleans the toilet, God Bless that man, and our friends bring bags for the clothes. Some of those clothes there was no saving from the sheer amount of poop on them, and they were thrown away. Goodbye, Paw Patrol underwear! The tee-shirt we managed to save. My friend comes back with lime green girl panties, tiny booty shorts, and a bright green and blue tee-shirt for Tiny to wear. Somewhere amongst all the poop is when it was decided that our families were now friends forever... a pact sealed with laughter over a poop smear toddler.

………

True mommy friendships are hard to find, and worth the fight to keep. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss my friend, and I feel that way about all the true mommy friends I have made over the last eight years of being a mommy. There are lots of people I fell out of contact with for one reason or another, but some that I still have the absolute privilege to remain friends with. These women are the ones that have helped me laugh when I feel like crying; they have helped lift me up when I have felt I couldn’t go on.  

After all, the one thing mommyhood is always teaching us is that $#*! happens. Literally.