When Life Gives You Lemons, It’s Okay If You Just Want To F*cking Chuck Them At People

This post is for anyone who is struggling.

For anyone who is sick and tired of blow after blow after blow.

For anyone who feels like they can’t catch a fucking break.

And I hate vague posts. Vaguebooking.

You know,  when someone posts something on Facebook along the lines of I just don’t know what to do anymore…

Or  even better, just one word.

Shattered…

But as much as I hate it, I’m about to do it.

Sort of.

I received some really shitty news yesterday.

Really shitty.

It’s not something I can share. Not right now anyway.

And before you go crazy trying to figure out what it is, all my family members are healthy. Nobody is in the hospital. There has been no infidelity in my marriage.

To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what the bad news is.

Bad news is bad news.

It’s fairly major bad news.

And you know what?

I’m fucking sick of bad news.

I’m sick of hardship and sadness and worry and anger and anxiety and the fucking resulting depression.

I’M FUCKING OVER IT.

I know better than anyone else what I need to do to get through this.

I need to ask for help where I can get it.

I need to continue to exercise.

I need to get enough sleep.

I need to eat well.

I need to find a therapist. Like yesterday.

I need to take a shower and continue to show up for my kids.

I need to take care of myself so I can take care of them.

Because if I fall apart, then things will get seriously fucked up.

But you know what? I don’t want to do any of those healthy things.

I’m sitting here at the computer typing.

But I really want to be on the couch, binge watching Netflix in an effort to forget about reality for a little while.

I want to eat every single carb in my kitchen. And my neighbor’s kitchen.

I want to call in sick to work and drink a bottle of wine.

I want to call one of my friends who has a “prescription” for medical marijuana and go get completely out of my mind stoney baloney.

I want to be numb. Because this fucking blows.

You know what else I want to do?

I want to punch every single person who tells me that “God has a funny way of teaching us patience” or  “Sometimes you’re not getting what you want because something better is planned for you instead” or “God never gives you more than you can handle” directly in the face. Hard.

The Fall down seven times, stand up eight tattoo I got on my forearm in December?

I want to Indian burn that motherfucker right off of myself.

I don’t want to be inspired. I don’t want to be motivated. I don’t want to be challenged.

I don’t want to be positive or optimistic. I don’t want to look at the glass as half full.

I don’t want to fucking do anything.

I’m frustrated. I’m worried. I’m angry. And I’m fucking exhausted.

But my kids are counting on me.

So as soon as I hit publish on this post, even though I want to do every possible unhealthy (and ultimately ineffective) thing there is to do in order to deal with the bullshit I’m experiencing right now, I’m going to get out of this chair, exercise, eat, take a shower, and then get ready to go to work.

I am going to do my best to show up. I’m going to think about the people who are counting on me.

But I really, really, really don’t want to.

I just want to sit here and cry.

If you are in the same spot, if you are struggling, if you feel like you can’t catch a break, if you are fucking over everything, I’m not gonna try to pump you up.

I’m not going to tell you that Tough times don’t last; tough people do. I’m not going to tell you You’ll get through this. (But you will).

 

I just wanted to tell you that if you are tired and dejected and feeling hopeless because of whatever your string of shitty things is, I know how bad it sucks. It fucking blows.

I totally get it. Hang in there.

I’m right there with you.

 

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Get In The Picture

This past Sunday was Mother’s Day, and Facebook was flooded with pictures of people with their moms.

My friends had some really great pictures of both themselves with their mothers as well as with their children.

And it occurred to me as I was looking at all these pictures that I have very few pictures of myself with the kids, both as a group and individually.

Part of this is because we moms tend to be the ones documenting things and are on the other side of the camera.

But for me, I think a bigger part of it is that I don’t want to look like shit in pictures.

I’m older than I used to be, I’m heavier than I used to be, I’m wrinklier than I used to be, and there are less and less flattering angles these days.

But my kids won’t care about any of that stuff in ten or twenty or fifty years.

They won’t be bummed about how thin or fresh faced I look.

But they’ll be bummed if they are looking for a picture of the two of us when they were kids and they can’t find any.

So I was thinking about this, and I was thinking about a friend of mine who is a photographer, and last year she did a photo project where she took a picture of a moment with one of her kids every day for a year. And at the end of the year, she had 365 pictures of her kids.

She wasn’t in most of the pictures (or maybe even any of them), but it got me thinking.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to take a picture a day.

And I don’t want to feel pressured to take a picture a day.

But I definitely want to have more pictures of myself with the kids than I do now (which isn’t really that grand of a goal because I hardly have any as it is).

So I’m done worrying about angles and how fat or old I look.

Instead, I’m focusing on giving my kids some memories to look back on.

Like this one:

That was actually taken on Mother’s Day night. Number 6 had a loose tooth that he wouldn’t let anyone pull out. It had turned almost sideways.

He’s the kind of kid who won’t let you touch the damn tooth at all. No matter how loose it is.

But it was so bad that I couldn’t take it anymore.

So when he was in the bathtub, I snuck my hand into his mouth real quick when he wasn’t expecting it and flicked that little f *cker right into the water.

He cried because he couldn’t find the tooth. But then he found it under his butt, and he thought that was funny, and we all had a good laugh.

It was a moment for all of us because Number 6 had been looking like a jack-0-lantern for a long time and we all just wanted to pull that damn tooth out.

Then today I got this picture:

Number 7 had her kindergarten music concert.

It’s the last kindergarten concert I’m gonna watch. Number 7 was hilariously loud.  I’m so glad I got this picture! And it’s not a big deal, but it’s a picture I wouldn’t have taken a week ago.

Another milestone documented.

I’ll be honest. I’m having a hard time not focusing on all my imperfections in every picture I take.

But every time my brain goes there, I give myself a reminder about what it really is I should really be focusing on.

It’s not the wrinkles and the pounds and the angles.

It’s the memories in the pictures, and the memories I’m preserving for my kids.

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Don’t Wait For Your Family To Give You A Mother’s Day Gift

On Mother’s Day,  Facebook is flooded with articles of What Moms Really Want For Mother’s Day.

For most of us, it’s nothing major.  It’s a day where we don’t have to take care of anyone else. Where we can sleep and have some alone time.

An opportunity to recharge.

But for many of us, it’s simply an appreciation for what we do every day.

My friend’s husband wrote this message on her Facebook timeline today:

Happy Mother’s Day to the glue to our family!  The lady that makes it all happen!

Oh, yes. YES, YES, YES!!!

Acknowledgment!

That’s it!

And this isn’t to say that husbands don’t do a lot or that they aren’t an integral part of the family machine.

But boy that would be nice to hear.

Because moms get shit done. And they get it done with efficiency, forethought, and an attention to detail.

 

They perform some seriously impressive logistical gymnastics.

They keep things running smoothly when all hell breaks loose.

If it’s lost, if it’s broken, if it’s due in twelve hours, if it’s impossible, moms find a way to make it happen.

Even when they are sick.

And so, Moms, I’m putting this out there to you.

On this Mother’s Day, don’t wait for your family to give you the perfect gift.

Give it to yourself.

Give yourself the gift of self care.

Because you are the glue.

And when the glue breaks down, then the family falls apart. And then you’re all fucked.

In the long term, take care of your body. Break a sweat every day.

Make time to rest. Get enough sleep. Sleep is the zamboni for your brain.

Invest time in finding a person (or people) you completely trust to spend time with your children. Because there’s no greater stress than feeling like you are the only one who can take care of them.

Find something that makes you happy. Really happy. And then do it. Regularly. Just because you have kids doesn’t mean you don’t get (or need) to have fun anymore.

Ask for help when you need it. We all need help sometimes!

Spend time with your friends.

In the short term, if you like having fresh flowers, don’t wait for someone to get them for you… get them for yourself. Book yourself a massage. Take the damn day off. Schedule a man-pedi. Go to the movies. Book a weekend at a hotel. Whatever gift you’d really like, get it!

You’ve earned it!

Sure, it would be nice if someone did this for us. But that’s not always how it pans out.

This Mother’s Day, don’t wait for your husband or your children or anyone else to do this for you.

Acknowledge and appreciate yourself.

You deserve it.

And just in case no one else has told you today, Happy Mother’s Day to the glue in your family!

 

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Today’s “You’re Not The Only One Who F*cked Up Today” Moment Is Brought To You By Me

I fucked up last night.

So I thought I’d share this with you just in case you are beating yourself up over your own fuck  up.

First of all, let me remind you of this:

Whether you have one kid or ten kids, whether this is your first kid or your last kid, whether you are a young mom or an old mom, whether you are single or married or divorced, whether you are fat or thin or tall or short or organized or disorganized…

WE ALL FUCK UP.

Okay. Back to my story.

Every night I coach the swim team. I coach three different practice groups from 5:00 – 8:00. Number 4, 5, 6, and 7 are in two of those groups.

Number 3 swims in a whole other group that practices at a different pool. He’s done at 6:30. Sometimes when his practice is finished, if he doesn’t have a lot of homework, he comes to where I am and plays basketball until I’m done coaching at 8:00 and then I bring him home with me.

On those nights when he wants to play basketball, I text my friend whose son swims with Number 3 and who is also his BFF, and she gives him a ride to the Y.

So last night Number 3 wanted to come play basketball after his practice.

I dropped him off at the pool and told him I’d see him later.

Then I totally forgot about him.

And I also totally forgot to text my friend.

I went to the pool and coached my practices.

Two-and-a-half hours later, Number 3 came walking onto the pool deck at 7:45.

As soon as I saw him, I realized what I had done. Or what I hadn’t done.

“Oh My God. I totally forgot about you. I’m so sorry,” I said to him.

He was actually very understanding about it.

He had called me a bunch of times, but I don’t take my phone out on deck with me when I’m coaching, so I didn’t see the calls.

Number 3 waited until the practice after his was done, and he got a ride to the Y then.

He was super bored and a little bummed that he missed out on playing basketball, but he was fine.

So we learned a couple things from this latest fuck up.

I was reminded that although Number 3 had to sit at the pool for over an hour and wait for someone to give him a ride, he survived. He’s not traumatized. Boredom never killed a kid.

I’m reminded to make sure I don’t wait until 5:00 to make sure driving arrangements are put in place.

I’m reminded to go easy on my kids and my husband when they mess up because it happens to all of us.

And I’m reminded that when I don’t point fingers, blame and get defensive, when I sincerely apologize (without adding a “but…” after), and when I take complete responsibility for my fuck up, my kids are pretty good about it.

Hopefully I’m teaching them a thing or two from this.

I know they are definitely teaching me.

When all is said and done, we are all a little bit wiser for having experienced this latest fuck up.

And in the end, it didn’t end up being such bad thing after all.

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