WONDEROAK

I’m too damn busy.

I’m too busy making mistakes and praying my kids turn out alright anyway.

I’m too busy looking at my musty smelling laundry pile and wondering if I should fold it or light it all on fire.

I’m too busy teaching my kids good work ethics which means saying “stop playing and keep cleaning” over and over until everyone is crying.

I’m too busy yelling that everyone needs to STOP YELLING and then wondering if I will ever be able to stop yelling. It’s not really looking good for any of us.

I’m too busy letting my three-year-old use a pacifier and my six-year-old wear Cinderella underwear as a bathing suit.

I’m too busy trying not to fight with my husband in front of the kids even though sometimes we make each other crazy (ESPECIALLY IN THE CAR). I say trying, because last week my three-year-old asked me why daddy and I sometimes argue like little kids.

I’m too busy wondering if that wet spot is from water, juice, or urine.

I’m too busy trying to assess if that Pterodactyl scream was a “we’re having fun” scream or a “blood has been shed” scream.

I’m too busy making risky calls like should I let my son wear that shirt with spaghetti sauce on it to church and do I tell my girls that it’s actually a “vagina” not a “bagina” even though bagina is way more awesome?

I’m too damn busy apologizing to my kids. I’m apologizing for misunderstanding them, for getting grumpy, for bumping their head on a doorway, for not believing them that their tummy hurt until they projectile vomited and for throwing away that ginormous popsicle stick art project they brought home from school.

I’m too busy apologizing FOR my kids, like, “sorry they ate all your snacks and asked you if there’s a baby in your belly”.

I’m too busy being overwhelmed by the fact that it’s already dinner time AGAIN and the food is still at the grocery store.

I’m too busy because this parenting gig is flying by at lightning speed and I’m hanging on for dear life hoping that when it’s over they will look back and say we were loved.

I’m not going to judge your parenting because IT’S HARD and YOU are the qualified one.

I’m not qualified because I don’t worry about your kids like you do. I don’t lie awake at night wrestling with decisions about schools, and friends, and behaviors, and obstacles in their precious lives. I don’t love them, ache for them, feed them, or say sorry to them like you do. I don’t know them. I don’t know their dreams or what makes them tick.

I’m eleven years in and I am now more certain than ever that there isn’t “one way” to do this well. I’m just trying to figure out how to parent my own kids and how many margaritas I can have without getting a hangover. Life is complicated.

If we can’t be real and share the struggle, then it just doesn’t work for me.

I’m a fan of all MOMS.

I’m too damn busy for anything else.

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