PS. Henry, don't say asshole.

13.1.17 Ali Moore 2 Comments

Happy Friday! Let's have a #truthtalk.

I'm feeling brave because I survived the grocery store on the day before an ice storm, at lunch time, with ALL THREE OF MY OFFSPRING, and I think the only casualty was losing the soup recipe I took along to make sure I didn't forget any ingredients for it
...and maybe a little bit of dignity.

JK.  That goes out the window the second one becomes a mother!!

JK again.
It actually wasn't a terrible errand.  

The three minute ride, on the other hand, was.  

And so is most of our time in the car these days because Ham uses everyone being strapped in moving down the road together in a box as a chance to verbally terrorize Nelle until she's yelling at the top of her lungs, STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT, and June has a front row seat to it all often times trying to repeat everything the big kids are, and I'm trying to drive, diffuse the situation, and not lose my shizzzz again. 
And again and again and again.

This week wasn't my best. 

There were so many times by 3pm (or 8am, but who's keeping track) I was totally D-O-N-E, most of which I'm attributing to the fact that June doesn't nap anymore in the mornings and Henry doesn't nap anymore at all so there is never a time where I can be alone and be QUIET.  The constant barrage of requests, and crying, and chatter and noise is deafening at times and wearing on me.

I feel like I totally let Henry down when we got caught in the weather change on Wednesday and instead of parading through the neighborhood with stroller, dog, bike and scooter in the 60 degree weather we enjoyed at the zoo earlier that day, we were in temps with wind that felt closer to 25.  Without gloves, hats, and winter coats.  His shoe lace came untied, when we were about 2 blocks away from our house, and instead of stopping to tie it as he was in tears from the cold, I just told him to pedal home faster because the faster he rode, the faster we could get home and get warm.  So he tried, and his shoelace wrapped around the pedal, and he fell, and I wasn't a safe, warm place for him I wish I would have been.  Instead, I just pulled his foot out of the trapped shoe and told him to run home with the girls in the stroller and I, and I went back for the bike and the shoe (and Nelle's scooter than had fallen off of the stroller because girlfriend was tired about two blocks into our walk) after everyone was home and under some blankets.  I had the worst guilt about it that night and even the next day, feeling like I totally let him down, wishing I could have a do-over for that moment.  

Which is kind of how I feel a lot of times because it seems like no matter what we try, something isn't clicking, and we're not doing this parenting thing right, and we're constantly disciplining for things that we talk through and try to teach from over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.


There's a piece from the forward by Joan Blades in the book Momma Love that my parents got for me for Christmas this year (woohoo!  I'd asked Andrew for it for three years in a row for Mother's Day so I gave up asking him and went elsewhere, ha. He will defend himself as he did get me other things those three years, I'm just pointing out the facts. I digress.) that I've been keeping close to my heart these past couple of weeks.  

She's sharing how mothers, after opening up in candid interviews and photographs, that aim to paint a realistic portrait of motherhood, purposefully not only illustrating the motherhood-is-ALWAYS-bliss mentality, would approach and express guilt, "concerned that in the process of revealing her ambivalence, struggles or conflicts regarding motherhood she hadn't made it clear how much she adored her children. All I could tell her was what I believe, in no uncertain terms: that admitting to the complexity of the situation doesn't negate the love.  On the contrary, if you're committed to someone in spite of the inherent difficulties,  
it might just be evidence of a more powerful kind of love."
That's so true. I love him so much it hurts, and Dad, you're right...I can't give up.

So Henry, if you're bored one day when you're older and allowed to browse the Internet alone and are so desperate for entertainment (because parental controls FTW), and stumble upon your mom's blog (lame), then hear this (in my best Diane Keaton from the dinner table scene in The Family Stone)...

I love you. 
And you are far more normal than any other asshole at this table.

- Meaning - 
God doesn't make mistakes. You are exactly who you are supposed to be.
And He thought I should and could be your mother.

It's definitely a powerful kind of love.

 PS. Henry, don't say asshole.


  1. OMG, this is SO real. I remember from long, long, ago how incredible it was all the stuff that could 'go wrong' with children before 8 a.m. Thank God, I'm retired and over it! My kiddos turned out great, and yours will too! All we can do is our best-trust me, it will be worth it!