How do I do it? Like this.

When I first had the notion to start writing this blog, I envisioned a place where moms could come for some relief.

Where they would know they weren’t alone.

Where they could get some reassurance that they are doing a good job, that we all make mistakes, and that sometimes your kids, well, your kids suck.

A place where it’s okay to acknowledge that sometimes being a mom just isn’t fun.

At all.

I hoped the blog would provide a tiny break in the day. A laugh.

A reset button.

Last night, I read this comment in repsonse to yesterday’s post:

Thank you for this post. About 10 mins ago I was hiding in the bathroom from my 2 yr old thinking how am I going to survive this kid!!!! I took a moment and thought let me read what Susie has to say. Today you where my sign.

There was a mom out there, hiding in her bathroom from her child, using words that I  had written for a little bit of relief.

Mission accomplished.

Fairly often I will also get a message from someone looking for some help. Some guidance. Some hope.

I’m no child expert. I don’t have a degree in child psychology.

But I’m almost 2 years into the 7th kid. So I do have some experience under my belt.

And if you read yesterday’s post, you know I’ve been around the block. Quite a few times.

This morning I woke up to this message:

I have 3 kids, 7 girl, 2 boy, 1 girl. My boy is a nightmare, your powder sugar incident is a normal kind of occurrence at my house. Most days I want to hide and cry because I just can’t do it anymore. I know a lot of people have it harder than me and I just need a better plan or frame of mind but I can’t help feeling like I’m going to lose my mind. How do you do it? How do you turn what I feel as frustration into being able to laugh at it and move on?

First of all, I like how the powdered sugar incident has become infamous. It now deserves to be capitalized.

If you don’t know what the Powdered Sugar Incident is, you can read about that here.

Secondly, 15 years ago, the visions of the mother I thought I was going to be and the mother I actually am, are not even remotely close to each other.

I pictured cutely dressed and accessorized children.

With braids, and ponytails, and ribbons.

I envisioned children making crafts.

Opting for reading a book over watching television.

I pictured myself teaching my girls how to do needlepoint and sew their own clothes.

Cooking with all the kids in the kitchen.

Trips to the library.

Going for hikes and exploring nature.

I envisioned princessy bedrooms for the girls, and camouflaugy bedrooms for the boys, decorated to Martha’s satisfaction.

I pictured well-balanced, and varied, family dinners.

I pictured family movie nights, and family game nights.

Basically, I pictured 19 Kids and Counting.

Minus 12 kids.

And the frumpy outfits. And the bad hair. And the super religious stuff.

Then reality set in.

My kids are rarely dressed in matching anything.

And they are almost never accessorized.

When they are, it’s usually Number 6 carrying a purse and wearing princess shoes.

And Number 6 is a boy.

My house is a shithole.

I’m not one of those people who exaggerates.

When I say my house is a disaster, it really is.

It’s not neat. It’s not clean.

Every wall has something written, or drawn, or smeared on it.

I spend half my time moving from one mess to another.

Managing messes.

I’m outnumbered by my children, and I’m quite sure Numbers 5, 6, and 7 are conspiring to destroy the house.

My dinners lately have been cringeworthy.

A bowl full of carbs, processed, without a vegetable in sight.

I sometimes find myself telling the kids they have to watch tv.

Last week Number 5 emptied a whole bottle of Elmer’s glue onto her rug, and instead of attempting to clean it up, I let it dry, and we now just avoid walking on that spot.

My children are definitely crafty.

But in the way they construct elaborate plans to do things which will put me back in the nuthouse.

Not crafty like in an I’m-going-to-turn-this-towel-into-a-potholder kind of way.

I’ve accepted this reality.

My house will not be neat for the next few years.

The only way to really clean the kitchen at this point is to either repaint it, or gut the whole thing.

Right now, my goal is just to keep the kids alive and make sure they don’t turn out to be total assholes when they are grown up.

And yeah, sometimes I get pissed.

It’s not fun to clean up a bowl of cereal that’s been thrown onto the kitchen floor, spraying milk, and 300 Cheerios, in every direction, and onto every surface of the room two, or three, or four times a day.

Every day.

Sometimes I want to grab one (or two or all) of them by the arm, drag them to their room, throw them in, and lock the door.

The monotony and frustration of motherhood is no fun.

But the years go by fast.

And I try to remember that.

I am getting ready to write a post about our highchair.

I have been waiting, and waiting, to get rid of that thing.

And now the day is near, and I’m longing for those early days of the highchair to be back.

I don’t hate it as much as I thought I did.

Just like I don’t hate this messy, tiring, frustrating, and draining phase of childhood and parenting as much as I sometimes think I do.

It isn’t really as bad as it seems.

Your little man is still safe in your house.

Okay, maybe when he’s dragging the chair over to the counter, climbing up when you’re not looking, and getting a big-ass knife from a spot you thought was “unreachable,” then he’s not so safe.

But the rest of the time he is.

You know where he is.

You know who he’s talking to.

He still wants to hold your hand.

He still wants you to rock with him in the rocking chair.

When you come to the front door, he still sprints to it, yelling “MOMMY!!!”

And that right there is a big one.

He still calls you Mommy.

Yeah, when your name goes from two syllables to one, well, that to me is much worse than a box of powdered sugar blasted all over my kitchen.

So when I feel like I am reaching my breaking point, I try to remember those things.

I inhale. And exhale.

I work out. That really helps to wipe the slate clean.

And I always try to put things in perspective.

No, my life as a mother is not really turning out the way that I had originally expected it would.

And parts of it are maybe a little disappointing.

Or a lot disappointing.

But other parts of it are really surprising.

Who would have thought that a little boy catching a baseball would bring me so much joy that I would burst into tears?

Or that watching a three-year-old in a dance recital would be one of the happiest memories of my life?

Not me.

I thought I’d get those feelings from the perfectly dressed and perfectly behaved kids, and the perfectly decorated home.

But really, it’s the messes that help me to appreciate those really simple, baseball catching, ballet dancing, hand holding, rocking chair rocking moments.

If the only way I can get those is with some messes along the way, well…

I’ll take ’em.

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