Sharing is…caring?

I stopped in the living room and tilted my head.

I could hear the sound of TV and laughing coming from the boys’ room.  Now was my chance.

Creeping to the kitchen, I stayed as silent as humanly possible, and -even more silently- I cracked open the fridge and freezer.  With the stealth like agility of a ninja cat, I grabbed a soda, the ice cream, and the chocolate syrup.

I listened again.  No change.

I dished up a bowl of Rocky Road and cracked open the soda.  Victory was almost…

“Whatcha doin’ mom?”

“Can we have some?”

…mine.  Dang.

It never fails.  If I had an M’n’M for every time my attempts to selfishly scarf down my junk food were thwarted by the Natural Disasters,…

Well, I’d still be lacking in the M’n’M department because they’d want THOSE, too.

What IS it about kids that they are oblivious to the sound of their own name -or you staring them directly in the eyes and speaking DIRECTLY to them- but they suddenly acquire bat sonar the second a pop tab opens?  Day in, day out, the words “What’d you say?” and “I didn’t hear you” fill my home, but the moment I’m about to test the theory that Snickers really satisfies, my sons have the heightened sense of a pack of blood thirsty wolves on the trail of a wounded mountain goat.

I know that sharing is caring, but there’s also something just as equally important to be said about the word “mine”.

As moms, we give of our time, our hearts, our sanity, our patience, our focus- our EVERYTHING.  Is it so much to ask that this fun size pack of Skittles stay mine and only mine?

I get it.  From the dawn of time, God gave us these little creatures to love, care for and to feed, lest they waste away into nothingness.  But really?  My cheesecake?

So, being the responsible, loving mom I am, I’ll generously give of my last few french fries if God thinks it will help stave off malnutrition.

But, tonight, my dreams are MINE, and I will dream of that one far off GLORIOUS day when I won’t have to divvy up my stash.

Check the box “Agree to Terms”

I’m pretty sure someone tampered with my paperwork at the hospital.

Now, given, I’m not normally one to read over EVERY SINGLE WORD on a contract…

I know, I’m irresponsible.  That’s probably how I got into this whole mess in the first place.  I should have read the fine print.

But, really now- who reads EVERY word?  You skim the highlights, looking for blaring red warning lights, and then scribble your signature.  Its the way its been done for thousands of years.

Those hospital folk- they knew what they were doing.  They’re crafty.  After 100 hours of labor, no drugs, a failed epidural, and 2 nights of dealing with a newborn who had already decided that sleeping with mom was decisively better than sleeping in a bassinet, they handed me my discharge papers:

Them: “And here’s your info on how NOT to kill your infant, who to call when you’ve reached that point, signs to look for, blah, blah, blah- sign here to show you’ve received these and had it explained to you.

Okie doke.

Them: “Here’s info on breastfeeding because you’re less of a woman if you can’t properly breastfeed your baby for the full first year.  Sign here showing you received these.”

(me scribbling)

Them: “The lactation nurse will be in before you leave to fondle you roughly and warn you of the mental retardation that can occur if your baby isn’t able to feed properly.  Husband, you might want to be nearby to hold your wife after she’s been violated.  Did you sign?”

(Nodding my head)

Them: “The lactation nurse should have more papers for you regarding proper nutrition, but here’s a pamphlet on all the foods you SHOULD eat to help you produce milk and keep up your strength, but they’re really just for looks because you won’t be able to take a bite of food or sleep for about the first 3-9 months.  Sign here, please.”

(uh huh)

Them: “Ok, good.  And the rest of these are just…*mumble, mumble, mumble*…  Sign right there, and check the box ‘agree to terms’…”

I check box.

Them: “Good.  I’ll just tuck these away in your bag before you see what you’ve signed on for.  Good luck- I mean, congratulations!”

I didn’t realize that -not only had I re-upped for 18 years of service- but I had also unwittingly initialed boxes and signed my signature agreeing to the following:

Hospital Discharge

__I understand that my life, loves, wants, needs, desires, and basic necessities now mean nothing.

__I understand that sleep is no longer an option.  Ever.

__I understand that even with only 1 hour of good sleep the night before, I must attend to all my normal activities.

__I understand that the “one hour of good sleep” is relative and will probably still include a sleeping infant in my arms, sometimes while sitting up straight in a chair.

__I understand that “me” time is now “we” time and anything I actually try to do for me can only occur during naptimes… if there are any.

__I understand that when I complain about lack of “me” time to grand-motherly types, I will be hit with comments of “Enjoy it while it lasts”, regardless of whether or not they see the frantic, wild look in my eyes.

__I understand I’m supposed to think the things my baby does that annoy me to no end, are cute.

__I understand that I’m supposed to stare at my napping baby with awe and wonder at the life my spouse and I created… instead of clicking my heels together in joy of not having to hold him.

__I understand I will have to hold my baby non-stop, thereby perfecting everything one handed.

__I understand that the words “baby proof” are dependent upon the baby itself.

__I understand that after I bring home my little darling, I will encounter more people than ever that had “perfect” babies- ones that slept through the night, never cried, etc.__I understand that these individuals are still suffering from “mom-nesia”, and have possibly blocked out all the bad.__I understand that the best course of action is to just nod my head.

__I understand that -under no circumstance- am I allowed to return the baby.

I, ____________, do hereby declare that I am now a mom, with all the non-rights and responsibilities that title holds.  By initialing and signing my name, I agree that I will do my best to be Mary-Freaking-Poppins/Donna Reed/ June Cleaver, always calm and collect, even in the face of crying jags, temper tantrums, diaper explosions, teething, etc.

To be anything less than perfect will be cause for me to stand before the Mommy Council and I might have to give back my pearls, but never my children.

[  ] I agree to terms.


I will remember you…

How am I going to be remembered? What will I be leaving behind? What would people post about me on Facebook if I was no longer here?

More often than not, we work hard in this world for things that won’t last. We chase things that don’t matter; get mad over things that we shouldn’t; spend our money and our time on things that we’ll forget about a week, a month or a year from now. I’m not about to step up on a soapbox because I’m guilty of it, too. I spent a while the other day playing a game on Facebook, trying to win a particular item- time I’ll never get back for an item I’ll never actually hold in my hands. I’m not saying playing games is bad, but what amount and time and effort do we REALLY put into the things that REALLY matter? Our family? Our Friends? Our faith?

My husband’s grandpa passed away a couple of nights ago. I’ve been holding it together pretty nicely, but to be honest, I’m hurting a lot. I never looked at him as “my grandpa in law” or even “my husband’s grandpa”. It was almost like -from the moment we met- his grandparents became mine. They’ve always just been grampa and gramma. Now, as of a couple of nights ago, I no longer have a living grampa. Its hard.

I feel blessed to have had the chance to get to know him. He was a great man. He gave great hugs, knew how to laugh, and he LOVED his family. You could tell. It didn’t matter if you were born into it, friended into it, married into it- you were family, and he made it clear that he loved you.

I enjoyed hanging out with him. Lots of people know that I cook, but grampa and gramma- they knew I LOVE it. Grampa and I would talk about food and cookbooks, my boys, the family- he never feigned an interest. He was always RIGHT THERE when you were talking to him. He made you feel special.

Going on Facebook now- its almost lie a virtual memorial for him. All my husband’s family members have been posting pictures, going over memories- its not bad, though. It just left me thinking.

THIS is what I want. I want to make an impact on those that surround me. I want to live a life that -when I’m gone- although there will be a void (or so I hope), those that I loved will be able to fill it with memories and rememberances of their time spent with me. I want to make a differences. I don’t just want to be a place holder; I want to be someone who was special enough to have had a place saved for them.

Like Grampa.