D'Garebear is establishing rolls on his arms. We are swimming along.

Cinco is partaking in NICUschooling. It's like homeschooling, only it's done in the NICU. For those people who just aren't challenged enough by homeschooling. Or, for the parent who feels the need to school in semi-public in order to prevent meltdowns. And by prevent meltdowns, of course that only applies to the mother.

Cinco has mastered the art of looking forlorn and miserable with a single tear sneaking out of her large brown eyes. I have mastered the art of rolling my eyes at her and saying "suck it up buttercup." Mostly when it comes to reading. Because I make her read and she thinks that's a cruel punishment more befitting a totalitarian regime. Then again, I've read the BOB books, more than once. They are fairly tedious.

Cinco also doesn't cry, she squeaks. And the weight of the entire world rests on her shoulders as she is forced to read "bat, cat, fog, log." Ok, she might have a point, it is painfully uninteresting. (side note, I just spent 45 seconds trying to delete an errant period, turns out it was a random speck on the screen, no wonder the child doesn't trust me to educate her.) Well it's uninteresting except for seeing how cruelly oppressed Cinco is by the English language.

X-Man really wants to be homeschooled. I told him once he stops having meltdowns at school, he can be homeschooled. Cinco really wants to go to school. I told her once she stops having meltdowns during homeschooling, we'll talk. I see it as a win-win.

Baba is awash in English lit books. Right now she's reading The Scarlet Letter. Shockingly, I had extremely strong opinions on just about everything I read, especially in high school. And my opinions were so forceful, they alarmed my mother. Well probably more the fact that I was, and still am, incapable of any sort of nuance view. But I never let that stop my rantings about various characters. And one in particular I remember Arthur Dimmesdale, from the Scarlet Letter. First off, his name is Dimmesdale, and boy is he dim. And worthless. I never bought the whole, Hester Prynne, strong independent woman, fell for wimp-head Dimmesdale. The willing suspension of disbelief that required was a bridge too far for me. He was nothing except annoying. Which explains Pearl, who herself was bizarrely irritating too. Hester should have sent her to live with Dimmesdale. Now that would have been a book I enjoyed reading. Since Hester had the time to bedazzle a scarlet A, one does wonder why she never made a pair of man pants for Dimmesdale. Yes yes, he was probably too weak to put them on, but it was worth an effort.

And why didn't a branch just fall on Chillingsworth's head during one of his walks through the woods? Also, why not Dimmesdale? Seriously, how did those two not set off every hinkey gut feeling of the neighbors? Speaking of the neighbors, they did give me my favorite line every from anything I read in highschool “Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter; and, of a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!” WHO TALKS LIKE THAT??? My mother tolerated a larger amount of mockery of that line than she typically did. Which just goes to show you, the whole situation was absurd. 

The hard part now, is that in theory, I'm grown up and mature and am supposed to be helping to educate Baba. I've bitten my tongue more than once while going over her study questions with her. But last night I lost all control and blurted out "How much do you hate that pansy Dimmesdale?" She responded "Who?" Apparently her response to fictional characters she doesn't like is to not think about them. A novel approach. 

Life's happenings.

X-Man has a "special rock." He keeps it in the freezer. Somehow this makes sense to him, which is all that matters. He recently acquired another "special rock." Which he introduced to his "special rock" and its sister rock. Again, this all seems to make sense to him. In case you were wondering, they are both actually rocks.

I did find him laying on the kitchen floor one summer day with his "special rock" resting on his forehead. After a long satisfied sigh, he returned the rock to the freezer and ran back outside.

X-Man is nothing if not his own person. In Kindergarten his class wrote a book about their favorite animals. X-Man selected the vampire squid to write about. His teacher had to google if it was a real animal or not, no judgment from me, I had to do the same thing. The book is rather amusing, pages of  elephants, horses, dogs and a vampire squid. His teacher said in the twenty years she had been doing that particular project, this was indeed the first appearance of the vampire squid.

X-Man continued his unique streak through to first grade. This time he was working on his own book, in the style of Eric Carle. All the students were supposed to pick an insect or arachnid to write about. X-Man picked......a cockroach. He explained to his teacher that he liked cockroaches because they could eat a lot and sleep during the day. Pretty much his ideal life. And again, his teacher said that in the eighteen years she had been doing this project, this was the first appearance of a cockroach.

So it really should not have come as a surprise that X-Man had an opinion as to what D'Garebear should be named. He immediately declared that if he was having a little brother he would name him "Robin." Robin because, of course, X-Man would henceforth be referred to as "Batman." He's stayed wedded to this idea as the weeks roll on, correcting himself when he uses his brother's given name. Given the tenacity D'Garebear has already exhibited, I'm not sure how long he'll tolerate being X-Man's sidekick.

In case you were wondering, X-Man has shown no interest in ever being seen as Mac's sidekick. Both boys kowtow to Cinco's every whim. Which I'm sure led to her sincere opposition to the dynamic being disrupted by one D'Garebear.

I tried to be the Perfect Mother. I Almost Died. Part C

So, my attempts to be all things and all places for my children really just resulted in high blood pressure. Really high blood pressure. In all honesty, there really should be a "has children syndrome" to go hand in hand with the "white coat syndrome." That just seems responsible.

So, I had an appointment for a geriatric ultrasound. You know, the kind they do when you are old and still having babies. To make sure that as your mind fails you still can grow responsibilities. I was tempted to postpone it, I had a good reason. It was the best day to take the kids to the fair, like I had told them I would. My ultrasound was right at noon, which was a highly inconvenient. The father figure said it was absurd to postpone it. This is important for later. 

Mac, X-Man and Cinco were up at their grandparent's house. Because we had destroyed our kitchen. Our home is nice, but small. It was small before D'Garebear showed up. After he showed up, well it became absurdly small. Even without him being present in the home. So, we decided the best thing to do as I entered my third trimester was to redo the kitchen. We redid the bathroom during my first trimester. Looking back, I think it would have been more bizarre if I hadn't developed blood pressure issues. But anyway, in our attempts to prepare the house for sale or rental, we decided to destroy it, while inviting more children in to live. We thought it through. 

So, three kids were away at grandma's. Baba was off to take care of the house she was house sitting. That left Baby. So I invited her to come see her little brother at my AARPsound. And so we set off.

The geezersound went well, I thought. D'Garebear mooned us and refused to show his face, but nothing seemed amiss. Then the doctor came in. She said there were some things that she didn't like about me, well get in line lady, and she wanted me to go hang out at the hospital for a little to make sure that all was well. She admitted that she was the "Princess of Darkness" always seeing the worst possible scenario and that she was probably overreacted. I tried to reassure her and she told me everything I was telling her made her even more concerned. Well, I tried.

So we all headed over, across the street to the hospital. I encouraged the father figure to walk with me in order to lower my blood pressure. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible because I hadn't eaten yet that day. I had visions of the pleasant lunch after all the excitement. By the time I got to triage, I was rocking triple digit blood pressure readings, both systolic and diastolic. After a few of those readings, things got a bit more serious. Blood tests were started, magnesium sulfate was started and they gave me a steroid shot for D'Garebear's lungs.

When I'm uncomfortable, I resort to humor. The father figure was getting more and more anxious, and visibly so. While I was supposed to be relaxing and thinking low blood pressure thoughts. So I reminded him that there was no way I would die. God wouldn't allow it. Not because I was a wonderful person or anything. But because I would enjoy watching the father figure try to wrangle six children and trying to juggle their schedules. There's no way God would drop that much suffering in the father figure's lap while I enjoyed the spectacle. The theology is solid.

Furthermore, I comforted the father figure by telling him is odds of finding everlasting love on a Christian dating site as a widowed father of six. He was basically a walking twenty first century Von Trapp family. He'd been inundated by starry eyed twenty somethings with visions of matching outfits and melodies. Baby understood the hilarity of the situation as well, and joined in. The father figure got so agitated he actually started pacing. Threatening to haunt the father figure and his new and improved bride, if she was more attractive than me, did not help lower my blood pressure.

Instead, they announced I was being admitted.

So the father figure took Baby home and I thought about how I was missing lunch. Those thought morphed into how I was also missing dinner. The father figure returned, with a cell phone charger for me and I expected my blood pressure to immediately lower. It did not. Even with drugs, it did not.

The "Princess of Darkness" Doctor entered the room around 6:30pm. This is important because my ultrasound was at noon. And I was hungry then. Now, I was hangry.

She told us in her blunt and straightforward way that I was very sick. Surprisingly sick, for how I looked and how active I was. My kidneys were quitting, my liver was quitting and my blood pressure was begging for a stroke. So, she said, I had an over 50% chance of having an emergency c-section that night. All depended on how my numbers reacted to the medication. And, if I didn't have the baby that night, I would be remaining in the hospital until I did, which best case scenario was at 34 weeks gestation.

I was at 28 weeks.

The father figure looked rather ill and I promptly thought, this is my kid. He'll respond well to the treatments and I'm going to end up in hospital arrest for the next six weeks. Crawling the walls. Seriously, I wasn't allowed to walk anywhere, I had the option, if my blood pressure lowered to be pushed places in a wheelchair. More importantly because they didn't know if I would have surgery, I couldn't eat. Pretty much everything was horrible.

D'Garebear cooperated and there was no c-section that night. The following morning I tried to negotiate a release, I didn't feel all that sick, what's the worst that could happen? Apparently a stroke and/or placental abruption. I was told I'd only be allowed to leave if I signed a form acknowledging I was leaving against medical advice. And I called an Uber because there was no way the father figure was going to bring me home. Meanwhile, the father figure had decided that by shooting down my plan to skip the ultrasound and taking everyone to the fair, he has saved my life. And he became just a wee bit insufferable because of this.

I stayed for two days, doing better, getting very antsy. But I also managed to get two doses of steroids in me, which caused what they call a "steroid honeymoon." I felt better, my numbers were slightly better and D'Garebear continued on swimmingly. They hoped they could get me twenty four hours past the last steroid dosage. And so, 28 hours after the last round of steroids, things started deteriorating. I got physically very ill, and developed nose bleeds. The OB on duty came in an said if things didn't improve I was most likely going to have a c-section. I was annoyed because it was almost ten pm and I just wanted to go to sleep. I felt like I had every night at home, puking before bed was just  a "normal" pregnancy ritual. And then, something happened.

D'Garebear disappeared from the monitors. They had put them on an hour earlier just to check how he was doing. He had been fine. And now he was gone. Not a slow heart rate, no heart rate. Something was wildly different because three nurses burst into the room joining the OB and nurse who had been hanging out with me. I had just tried to text the father figure, but there were so many people doing things, I couldn't get my hands to work. So I called him. I wasn't sure what was happening but the business indicated something seriously amiss. The father figure answered and I told him "Things are getting interesting, you should come up." And then a nurse put an oxygen mask on me and the conversation was over.

They had me try differing positions, quickly and yet there seemed no sign of D'Garebear. Honestly, I don't know if his heart rate returned and was just slow, or what. But within three minutes, we were running down the hall. Ok, I wasn't running, I was on the bed and they were running me down. Putting a hair net on me and commenting on how calm I was.

I was calm because there was nothing else to do. This was happening. I just hoped the father figure would make it up in time because it sounded like I was going to be knocked out. Approaching the OR, D'Garebear's heart rate returned, strong and healthy. This bought time. I got a spinal instead of general. It also bought me time to think. I'd love to say I had beautiful thoughts about my son, determined to make sure he was brought into the world surrounded by peace and love. But no, that's not really what I was  thinking. I was thinking "It's cold in here. I'm not wearing much in the way of clothing and there are a lot of people here." Also "this is all surreal."

The anesthesiologist  was wearing a scrub cap with stormtroopers on it. I asked him if I should really accept drugs from someone from the dark side. Apparently this had never been asked of him and he found it hilarious. He repeated it for the father figure when he appeared. And then the c-section began.

It was unpleasant, but birth isn't ever particularly fun. At 11:30pm D' Garebear was brought into the world. They pulled down the sheet and I laid eyes on my son for the first time, behind a plastic screen. And I thought my little man looked rather simian. And his squeaks added to the monkey resemblance.

D'Garebear was termed "floppy" when he first arrived, but the nurses said the benefits of the steroids were clear. He was two and a half pounds, micropreemie size, but solid and big for how very young he was. He was fifteen and three quarter inches long. He came ready to fight and he has been. His disapearing heart rate was due to a partial placental abruption, just what the Princess of Darkness had warned us would happen.


D'Garebear has passed the baby monkey phase and now look more like an old man. As he chubs up, his baby features become more obvious.He's not a fan of the cpap and has pulled it off a couple of times. He needs time, but he's remarkably healthy and strong.


And I just love him to pieces. 

I Tried to be the Perfect Mom. And I Almost Died. Part Deux

If you are reading this to get tips on how to be a perfect mom......well I got you to click so there's that. But don't hold your breath, you'll pass out before you learn any impressive tips.

So, the thing about being pregnant is eventually you need to admit it to some people. The first people we told were the three older kids. It want something like this.....

Baba: Unimpressed and slightly annoyed. She had said last year she didn't ever want more siblings because she wouldn't really get to know them before leaving for college. It's a reasonable position. And well, she was less annoyed than me so I didn't really worry.

Baby: Super excited. Promptly volunteered to babysit "ALL THE TIME." Considering how that worked when it came to the dog, I will taking care of D'Garebear full time within a week.

Mac: As excited as Baby with less impulse control. We asked them all to not tell anyone else, so he didn't actually tell X-Man and Cinco, he just told them I might be pregnant.

X-Man: Nearly had a stroke with excitement. Promptly assumed that the whole nine month waiting period was created by me just to annoy him. Announced that he wanted a little brother, who would be named Robin. To complement his Batman-ness, of course.

Cinco: Wildly annoyed. She was perfectly comfortable in her role of youngest and queen and tyrant. Very aware the strength of the challenge coming at her and put off that she would have to take it on. Furthermore, she was insulted that while she didn't want a younger sibling X-Man wanted a baby brother and was getting what he wanted. Somehow that made everything worse.

So, there we were. X-Man actually counting down the minutes to the birth, Baba serving as Vice-President to Club Denial.

Early on I knew I had blood pressure issues. I had them with every pregnancy and they were the leading reason why we had decided that Cinco would be our family's final act. And I made the assumption that being active was the best thing to do for my rising blood pressure. If I wasn't pregnant, that actually would have been true. But apparently, that's the exact opposite approach pregnant women should take. Taking the exact wrong approach to parenting has been my modus operandi so far, so at least D'Garebear can rest easy knowing that I cared for him as I had all my other kids. In the worst possible way. I'm consistent.

So, I just kept life as "normal." Which meant insanity. Sixteen years into parenthood and I'm still trying to figure out how to get the "home" into "stay at home mom." All five kids were in martial arts, which meant six classes a week. We originally enrolled just X-Man and Mac as they both could benefit from the slower moving exercises. But the studio's policy is once you've paid for two students, the rest of the family can attend for free. Well not free, there's a lot of stuff you have to buy, but classes are free. As Baba is driving herself now, I wanted her to be able to beat people up so off they all went. Then all three girls are in soccer, X-Man swims and has his therapies. So, even if I had thought to take it easy, it would have been impossible. I was determined to not drop activities because I didn't want D'Garebear to be blamed for that.

On top of life, I was trying to make the most of the summer. Our last summer without a baby or toddler crimping our plans. X-Man's birthday is at the end of July, so I decided we should all visit a water park. Because those are good for the blood pressure. Especially if it takes two hours to drive the to the water park. Not to say the drive wasn't fun. I got to introduce the father figure to the classic Paul Anka hit "Having My Baby." I'm not sure which was more enjoyable for me, watching the father figure fight off an asthma attack while laughing or Baby and Baba's faces while the dulcet sounds of "I love love love what it's doing to me" filled the car. Just in case they weren't disturbed enough by the whole situation. About fifteen minutes from the park, X-Man started wailing that he was missing his entire birthday and we needed to go home.

Eventually X-Man laid eyes on the water park, realized we weren't just driving for the sake of driving. His tears stopped and the long list of all the slides and rides he had to ride on immediately began. And with his excitement, my plans to spend the day floating along the "lazy river" on an inner tube were shelved. The father figure took Cinco, who viewed all rides involving water with great skepticism. I took X-Man and spent the rest of the day climbing stairs to ridiculously tall slides. Apparently my blood pressure was not impressed.

The next day I was at a soccer tournament with Cinco. It was her very first and at the end of July so of course it poured rain in the morning and was 87 degrees. It was simple enough, until I had to yell at two other coaches reminding them that they were about to come to blows over a game being played by six year olds and that their use of f-bombs was absurd. I scared them both. Cranky pregnant women serve an important role in society.

I returned home without my ankles. It took three days for them to find me. Probably because the father figure decided to help me relax at home. It went something like this:

"Lay down. Why haven't you laid down yet? Lay down. Lay down. Lay down!" 

Super relaxing.

"Why aren't you feet up. They need to be above your head. Here have more pillows. Keep your feet above your head. Are you eating? Why are you talking? You need to be resting!"

I think he enjoyed this a little too much.

Of course wherever I decided to rest, I was found. Inevitably I was tasked with solving a significant issue, such as getting a straw in a juice box, or gluing Mario's arm back on. And of course the father figure would get involved.

"Why are you talking to your mother? Shes resting. Come here. I can do it. Leave your mom alone."

"SHE'S FIXING MY TOY! IT'S MY FAVORITE AND CINCO RUINED IT!!!" 
"I DID NOT! IT'S X-MAN'S FAULT. I NEVER BREAK TOYS!"

In case it's not clear, they were in separate rooms, yelling.

When you think about it, it's really amazing my blood pressure held it together as long as it did.

I tried to be the perfect mom. I almost died. Part the first.

It's been exactly two years and one day since I last blogged. A few things have changed. For one, I'm writing this while sitting in a NICU room.

A quick update on our lives in the last two years to set the stage.

Baba and Baby are both in high school now. Baba made the varsity soccer team as a freshman, which then justified the previous ten years of sportsing in my mind. (this matters for explaining my mentality later). Baba is known as "Beast Mode" on the soccer pitch herself and has hopes of making the varsity squad as a freshman herself. Although she likes the option of booku playing time should she make the JV squad.

Mac is the most sensitive of all my children. He is the most aware of others needs and really is the peacemaker in the family. He's not as aggressive on the sports field, he clearly thinks his moves out and often ends up about half a second behind the action as a result. Which frustrates him, but I kinda enjoy because I can see his mind working away.  He's found that martial arts is the best speed for him and he's very invested in it.

X-Man. X-Man is my little hero who drives me bat guano crazy. X-Man has some sensory challenges which we have been working through in multiple therapies. His schedule is rough and busy as a result of these, but he makes the most of his opportunities. These take up a lot of our time and are the main reason I stopped blogging. His working through his various challenges is his story, not mine and he doesn't need me sharing it all over the internet. But I will say, the boy can swim something fierce.

Gestated Cinco is seis now. She is basically an anime character in the flesh. She mostly uses the power of her massive brown eyes for good. Mostly. She runs the house. When she grows up, she told me she wants to be a soccer player or a nail person. Not construction, but beautification. She's very girly girl, including when she plays soccer on a boys soccer team. Efficient and to the point. She got tired of having to out run and out muscle six year old boys who REALLY didn't want a girl to out score them. So she perfected her chip shot and just took to shooting it over their heads.

Oh and we added a dog the the mix. We adopted a golden retriever, who was four years old at the time. She's ideal, except the the shedding. The shedding is......insane. And I say this as mom to Baby who has ten pounds of hair on her head.

And now there's D'Garebear. Who is kangarooing away as I write. Snuggled up next to my heart. Where he belongs, but where he wasn't always welcomed.

The Father Figure and I have been married 18 years. We began the year with five children. We have a pretty good idea how all these tax credits ended up in our lives. I'm not the best at biology, but I do know we don't typically reproduce by spores. I say typically because well, I don't know how D'Garebear got here. Medically speaking....he couldn't have. Yet, I'm pretty sure he's real. His dirty diapers are real. I know age can do some interesting things to both the male and female reproductive systems, but spontaneously reproducing shouldn't be one of them. But whatever, the boy is here, warm and snuggly and the spitting image of the Father Figure so we all know who to blame.

I wish I had a better story to tell, one that involved surprise babies and happy cuddly feelings. There's a surprise baby for sure, but lots of tears and despair. Truly despair. My plate was super full, too full and I still don't know how on earth I am going to do this. Love is infinite, but time, energy and life is very finite. And my children need me. X-Man in particular needs me. But they all do. And it's hard with a big family.

I wanted to be a "different" large family. I did not want my kids to "pay the price" for being one of many. As parents we all want to give our kids the world, and to make the most out of every opportunity, and just because the father figure and I chose multiply the heck out of our fertility, I didn't want our children to pay the price. I wanted them to be able to do the activities they wanted, have the freedom to explore things and in general enjoy growing up. I was determined to not make my girls substitute moms and exploit them for free labor. Considering how they do their chores around the house, this was NEVER going to actually be an issue. I didn't want them to resent or regret anything growing up. I was raised in a large family and I have great memories. I wanted them to have the same and maybe even be open to having a bigger family of their own because it was a positive in their mind.

But, I have a good grasp of my limitations and I knew five children was stretching my abilities. I wasn't homeschooling all five, X-Man might be the only child in the world who actually does attend public school for the socialization. Which, well....the benefits for him still outweigh the rather alarming things he hears on the playground. But he also returns with such gems as --post a MLK lesson---"I have peach skin. Because my skin is furry like a peach." Baby and Baba take some courses at the local high school too. Because I know my limits. I write this sitting in a NICU with a sixth child. I know my limits and I abide by my limits are two different things.

So, in a nutshell, I wanted my children's lives to be perfect because they deserved nothing less. Which is an entirely reasonable life goal.

So D'Garebear shows up. And I was not just unhappy, I was truly miserable. The father figure, who is not one for exaggeration, told me it was a scary dark place. Now, I realize a large part of this was due to a placenta that was actively poisoning me. Which is a relief in way. But I did not want another child in my life. Because I KNEW I could not give him what I wanted to. And I KNEW I could not give my others what they deserved.

I've thought a bit about putting these thoughts to "paper" where any of my kiddos, but especially D'Garebear could find them. I've decided I should. Because some day, each and every one of them will hit a crisis in their lives. Something will go wrong. Their plans will be upended. And they will have to make a choice.

I hope they choose to embrace the unknown, plow through the doubt, ignore the fear. Even if that means refusing to tell anyone they're pregnant because denial keeps the worry at bay. Even if that means forcing themselves to wear non maternity clothes, augmented with rubber bands at the waist, because if you're not in maternity clothes, you're not really pregnant. I hope they do what they need to do to keep putting a foot forward and staying in the moment. Fixing the immediate problem and believing and trusting that those greater looming issues will crest before crushing them.

I hope they choose to live and love not because some kitchy barn house chic sign says so, but because there really is no other way. Nothing else matters if you can chose to will good for others in your life.

And D'Garbear, you are not in this family because we needed you or we wanted you. You are in this family because Someone, before the dawn of time, saw you. He saw you, little tiny you struggling to learn to breathe on your own. He saw your frightened and worried mom, holding you in awe. He saw you, big strong man who gives X-Man a run for his money. He saw you and He called you good. And He willed the good that is you into existence. And that, my boy, is why you are here.

It's not an accident that your name means "full of goodness" even though we didn't know it when we picked it.

And it's not an accident that we see your presence in our lives as a gift. Not something we needed, not something we thought we were missing. But something good given to us despite our shortcomings.

You're part of our family because before time, Someone saw all of us together and called it good. What more could anyone want?

You might have noticed that I don’t really blog anymore. It’s mostly due to the lack of toddler escapades and constant going. X-Man has a full schedule of things that are strengthening him and really helping him. Unfortunately, he can’t yet drive himself. Nor can any of the children drive themselves anywhere. So that’s why I spent the weekend out of town at another soccer tournament. I believe it was called the “Out of Our League” games. I can home in time to be able to drive Baba to 8am conditioning for her future high school team. So while I was sitting in the car, not exercising like I was supposed to be, trying to figure out how to get three children to four places at the same time, I got an email.

I have done this to myself. I know. 

It wasn’t the email I was hoping for. I’ve gone and created at “storyline” for myself I suppose. I have five children enrolled in fall soccer. I have all the regrets. There was that fleeting moment where it seemed like a good idea….I LOVE fall soccer. The weather hovers around 70 degrees, but there’s a light breeze with just a touch of crispness in it. And who doesn’t want to watch four year olds chase a ball around? It’s fun and cute….until the older kids have games an hour away. And practices.  Practices are the true challenges because somehow everyone seems to practice at the exact same time in very different locations. I have almost everything planned out….but I’m stuck waiting for an email from X-Man’s team letting me know how big a monkey wrench they’re gonna throw into this mess. 

So now I hover on edge, figuring my life is about to become vastly more complicated but not knowing how. It’s frustrating.

But that was NOT the email I received. At all. Instead it was a request from a radio station to do an interview about an article I wrote. At 4:30am my time tomorrow morning. And I can’t remember this article, which may or may not be an issue. But I’m assuming if they want to talk to me about “The Vocation of Motherhood” I should remember what I said. Then again, maybe they too misread the title and saw it as “The Vacation of Motherhood” which I did at first and then cried.

I’m also guessing they are unaware of the fact that my blog title is “Moments in Mediocre Motherhood.”  I mean, I wouldn’t really take advice from me. But that’s worthwhile advice I suppose.

So I still don’t have a clue what next week’s schedule is, but I have plans for 4am tomorrow. Provided I can find whatever it is that inspired them to contact me. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. 

Well, it appears that the thing de jour is to rant about something current. Bonus points seem to be awarded if it pertains to things feminine. Well, I've never been one to turn down the opportunity to rant so, here's something that's been eating at me for a while.

Motherhood is hard. This really is unnecessary to say. Heck, it's the reason why this blog exists. So yes, we do seem to understand that motherhood is hard. 

And nowhere is this better understood than in online groups of women, well mothers anyway. There's plenty of commiseration, venting and reassurance seeki


ng. Post after post begins "tell me if I'm a bad mom if I......" which of course, being a civilized (mostly) society, results in the mother be reassured that no she's not a bad mom if she feeds her kids cereal for dinner three times in one week. 

I admit I've been comforted by knowing that mothers I respect have hit up the drive thru on the way home. That they've allowed their kids to wear shoes with no socks occasionally. I'm reassured knowing that all moms struggle. Because, I hope, it means I'm not doing to so very badly.

But there's a danger in wanting to constantly be reassured that we're not "bad moms." Maybe, sometimes, out consciences are pricking us for all the right reasons. If we have to seek out comfort, repeatedly, to be reassured that we are indeed doing it right.....maybe we aren't.

I don't know what it is that makes a good mom. Because I know so many of them. And they are all so different. But there are similarities that unite them all. Giving. Extreme giving. Not slash your wrists and bleed all over the floor or the cross or whatever, but genuine giving spurred on by love. Giving your all. And that looks different family to family. But it's there, always. Parents, not just mom but dad too, giving it all to their family. And not even realizing it.

When we love, when we invest fully, we don't realize how much we've given. We just give. So the night of cereal dinners in front of the tv doesn't matter. If that's all we have to give. We give it and we keep on. But if we can give more, we ought to. Because we've brought these little people into our lives. They didn't ask for our drama and our insecurities. They ask for unconditional, constant love. They ask that we love them with our love languages, which is why our families look different.

I know that I am not a "good mom" because I have my son enrolled in speech therapy. I know I'm not a "good mom" because I drive my kids to sports practices. I know I'm not a good mom because I've read my son's IEP. I know I'm not a good mom because I read to my kids.

I'm just a mom.

There are responsibilities we take on when we embrace motherhood. There are obligations we assume. That we raise our children in a balanced, secure and consistent environment.

So sometimes that means we wear yoga pants all week and our kids are three weeks behind in their haircuts. It means that I don't keep up the blog that I loved doing. Because I've given everything I could to my little army of crazy people who are destroying my home as I type.

It's not about what we do, it's about the love with which we do it.