update: i'm still a judgy B

I was late to pick up the kids yesterday. This hasn't happened in almost a year but it still makes me feel like nearly 5 years of motherhood is reduced to the 7 minutes late that I am. The kids seemed mostly unfazed though. I said, "I'm SO SORRY guys." And Colby replied, "Sowwy for what, Mama?" So it's not like they were locking this terrible memory away to be shared with therapists twenty years down the road. Or at least, Colby wasn't.

Jack: Mommy, I wish you and daddy didn't have to work on the other side of da fweeway. Den you wouldn't get stuck in twaffic jams. Wouldn't dat be so nice for you?

Me: Yes buddy. That would be amazing. Daddy and I would like nothing more than to live and work right here so we didn't have to get stuck in traffic jams. 

J: It would also be gweat if you guys could just have work but no meetings. Den you could finish your work faster and den me and Cowby could be da fuhst ones to get picked up instead of being da last ones all da time. :(((

And just to seal those gems into my Mother of the Year crown:

Text to DM: 6:07. It's gonna cost us some scarred psyches and $30 bucks. And now I am going to buy them In-N-Out and send them to bed bathed in french fry grease.
DM: Sounds like what I would do.
Me: Well, parental continuity is very important for children.

Anyway, this post is not really about that. It's about how I think I'm a nice person and a reformed judger but I'm not, I'll always be "in recovery."

So, as I pulled up to the school at 6:07pm, another car screeched into the spot next to me. She started running to the door but I was closer so I got there first. As I repeatedly tried to open the door with my fob, she angrily complained, "Oh my GOD, c'mon!" I told her she was welcome to try her hand at it, so she shoved herself in front of me and started jabbing her keys at the fob-reader thing, unsuccessfully. Apparently, it doesn't work after 6pm. One of the preschool teachers walks over and lets us in and this woman just brushes past everyone and grabs her daughter, saying (to whom?) "I have two other kids to pick up! We have to go!"

Apparently this was her first rodeo because she didn't realize that if you arrive even one second after 5:59:59, you start paying by the minute, and you have to sign the "consent to charge me for sucking at motherhood" form, in triplicate, before they will let you leave. (But, you get to keep the yellow copy to put in your Shitty Mom scrapbook!) This lady was huffing and puffing and getting seven sorts of pissy and I was having extremely unsympathetic thoughts toward her during this interlude. She was wearing riding pants and boots that had obviously just been used for their intended purpose, and I thought to myself, "Woman, you need to chill. Why are your jodhpurs in a bunch, anyway?! Because your riding lesson on your faithful steed at your fancy stable in Del Mar ran long? Puh-lease."

Then, this woman's face crumbled...  it just folded into itself, on no volition of its owner. And she began to cry. She scribbled her name on the charge slip, choked out "I just hate this!" and ran out the wrong door, dragging her daughter behind her, setting off the fire alarm in the process.

And I felt like a giant dick.

Why is my lateness any more righteous than hers? Who cares if she was getting a luxurious spa treatment and I was stuck in rush hour traffic after working all day? The truth of the matter is, I chose to be late. Or at least, I allowed that to be a possibility. Don't get me wrong, sometimes shit happens that is beyond our control and we're late and that sucks. But usually it's because we know good and damn well we're probably not going to make it in time, and we decide that whatever we're doing right now is worth the risk of tardiness. Yesterday, I looked at Google Maps. I saw that traffic was atrocious (because of the goddamn horses at Del Mar, incidentally). But two of my bosses came in to talk to me at 4:51 and 4:59, respectively, and I made the conscientious decision that the chance of disappointing my kids by being a few minutes late was a lesser evil than disappointing two senior partners in one fell swoop. Because I feel like as soon as I open my mouth to explain, 'Yes, I have been staying later but today I can't because my husband had a hearing in LA and my kids have to be picked up by 6 and traffic sucks balls because of the races and this CRAZY ASS weather and by the way WHY are So-Cal people fundamentally incapable of driving in the rain?! Even like, mist totally fucks them up..." I'm dead in the water. Just stamp "MOM" across my forehead, stuff some sticky used tissues and Hot Wheels in my purse and call it a day. And ultimately, it doesn't matter who/what/when/where/why. I let my kids down. So did she. We both lose.

But, the good news is, they'll probably survive. And, again, life is life and we have to make tough decisions and do our best to navigate these shark infested waters...

Wait. Dude. Sharks. Holy fuck.



Also this:

Sharkaphobia solution for our upcoming vacation to the Outer Banks.

Okay. Sorry. Got sidetracked for a minute there.

ANYWAY. My point is, I am a recovering a$$hole. And you and me and she and we are not so very different from one another. Do you ever blow it, as a parent, partner, employee, whatever? And you just feel so ridiculous and ashamed, and then that makes you feel defensive and angry, and all of these feelings are just fighting in your face and then it implodes and these dumb embarrassing tears and weird choking seal sounds come out of your head and everything is terrible? Ten times more so because everyone is LOOKING AT YOU like, "Uhhh, is everything alright?" And/or, "Do you need immediate medical attention?" Well, I at least know one other person with whom I share this unfortunate tendency. And I can tell you from experience she is judging herself harshly enough, she does not need that shit from me or anyone else.

Practice makes perfect :)

Most Positive Person

Sometimes I think my kids are assholes.

E.g., Glow-Stick-Gate 2014.

Or that time when the boy melted onto the airport food court floor because he wanted a hamburger but then he got a hamburger and the hamburger wasn't frozen yogurt.

Or every time she screams at me because I can't read her mind (which is usually the opposite of what her mouth is saying).

Or the fact that I have a mini panic attack every night when I'm pouring their milk because I feel like I'm on some terrible game show where choosing the wrong color cup causes you to be electrocuted.

Or when Jack lost his ever lovin mind because he didn't get a present on Colby's birthday (this was the fourth celebration of her birthday, and this was the first time Jack hadn't gotten a courtesy present). He also cried his face off because we said he could only have one candle in his cupcake when Colby got three. You know, because it was her third birthday.

Times like these, I'm convinced I'm DOING IT WRONG.

The other day I was texting with my two BFFs. My friend Claire (3 kids) and I were, well, whining to our friend B (no kids as of yet; penchant for moving to war-torn, poverty-stricken, disease-ravaged countries to make them better places) about how WHINY our kids are. All. The. Damn. Time. We came to the consensus that we should send them to Auntie B's Boot Camp in rural Haiti. That'll wipe the whine clean out of 'em, I bet. Kinda like how my dad kept a framed photo above the stove of two starving homeless kids sharing a cold can of beans during the Depression. (Granted, we were d*cks. I still feel terrible about this one time my dad came to pick me up at the babysitter and I said, "I don't want to go home. He's just going to make us eat frank-n-beans again." I only now appreciate the pleasure he would have taken at throttling my neck right then.)

Aaaanyway. In spite of allllll this. Grading on a curve - a curve that does not include Haiti or Afghanistan or Syria or Sierra Leone - I've got some darn good kids.

When we were home recently, my father in law said to me "You're too hard on them. They're just kids." And he's right. I do ride them hard. I feel like a broken record. I say the following phrases literally 100 times a day: "Yes please? No thank you? Chew with your mouth closed, please. Don't talk with your mouth full, please. Cover your mouth when you cough/sneeze/power-wash a five-foot radius with snot, please. Say excuse me when you _____. Do you need a tissue? (Code for: Get your goddamn finger out of your nose.)" It gets old. And I often wonder if a single word I say permeates that hermetically sealed membrane of their hard little bobble heads.

I may be a "mean mom," but it's important to me not to raise jerks. Granted, they'll inevitably turn out to be somewhat entitled dicks, an unfortunate by-product of growing up in a "yurfy" (you like that? i just made it up: yuppy + surfy) so-cal town with two lawyer parents. But I care about instilling some basic sense of how to be a pleasant co-habitant of this fast-shrinking planet we call home. And whatever we're doing, it seems to be working. Sort of. Sometimes. For example -

My kids are consistently good travelers. (The week after we travel, however? All bets are off. Holy hell.)

They are, apparently, a pleasure to have in the classroom. (Reminds me of the time when my third grade teacher called my mom and told her she should come to the end of the year awards ceremony because I was receiving "The Most Positive Person" award. My mom replied, "You must have the wrong kid." :))

My mother in law almost died when she saw Jack (attempting) to clean up (3%) of the pee off the toilet seat at her house.

They seem to actually enjoy their little chores, like feeding the dog (leaving a little Hansel and Gretel trail so she kind find her way to dinner), setting the table, putting their dirty dishes in the sink and "folding" the laundry, a.k.a. rolling it into a ball.

They regularly say things like "Fank you for dis dewicious meal," "You look beautiful today," "May pwease I be excused?" and "You're a gweat awtist!" They usually say "Excuse me" after emitting a stench of one sort or another, that is, after cackling maniacally about it.

Jack is thoughtful to a fault (which I think is probably more personality than parenting but whatever, I'm taking credit anyway since I made him). For example, if he gets a little trinket but there isn't one for his sister, or if someone has to drive or stay home by themselves, it literally brings him to tears, he's so concerned about their feelings.

Colby could snuggle the bad mood out of a hangry hibernating bear.

Last night we were reading this book called "Peace Through Our Eyes," with drawings and sayings from local elementary school kids. (A gift from Auntie Claire, actually ;)) Jack says, "To me, peace is being helpful. Peace is being respectful and responsible. Peace is... like when there are only two pieces of pizza left and you want both, but your sister wants one too, so you share with her." Then, a minute later, "Then, you use your words and your manners and you ask in your nicest big boy voice for your parents to buy another pizza." This kid cracks my shit up.

What I'm trying to say is, while it's easy to get down on yourself for the daily dinner drama or another Target meltdown or the nonstop sibling strife, it's worth reminding ourselves that we're not doing half bad, and the kids are alright.

(Full disclosure: After the kids basically rocked vacation, I was feeling SUPER proud of them, which spawned the idea for this post, and DM and I even talked about it on our school-board-meeting-turned-happy-hour date the day after we got back, brainstorming all the things we love about our kids. Then, life laughed in my face, as she is wont to do, and for the past week, the children, whether from jet lag or sickness or exhaustion or grandparent hangover or party overload or all of the above, have been intently trying to ruin my life. I'm gonna cut 'em a break though because I don't feel like I've really recovered either. But geez louise. Oh, and that reminds me. Jack: "Which is the one we're not supposed to say? 'Geez Louise' or 'Oh Jesus?'" Dear lord.)

The moral of the story is, I'm not perfect. Neither are my kids. Far from it. But I must be doing something right (some of the time ;)). I bet you are, too.

See? Happy little beach babies. Just remember to bring enough snacks to feed a small army (in sand- and waterproof receptacles), fourteen towels, seven DRY, pristine changes of clothes, and devise a method by which you can successfully remove every last grain of sand from every inch and orifice of their body upon departure from the beach
(baby powder, shop-vac). Follow these simple steps and you'll be good to go! ;) 

** If you liked this post, you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone, Available Now! **

Click HERE to buy!