Yoga Mom: Fact or Fiction

I worry a lot about what other people think. Most people tell me I shouldn't do this....but I do. And I realize it is because I make assumptions about others, often crediting them with things they didn't do or making them out to be people they are not. It is like being judgemental but not in the typical negative way.

For instance, one of my dark secrets is that I drop The Cowboy off for pre-school in less than appropriate attire...mine, not his. Oh sure, I look normal as I jump out, hand The Cowboy off to his teacher and hustle back behind the wheel. But under that parka is the rest of the story. From toe up: shoes, no socks, yesterday's jeans, my pj shirt, no bra. I brush my teeth but only because they cannot be hidden under a stocking cap. My giant bug-eye sunglasses hide that I have not put my face on. I am a royal mess at best.

I worry each day that something will happen and I will need to go inside the school. How long could I sit in the director's office with my winter coat and stocking cap on before I pass out from overheating? Would I look like I was nursing a hangover or hiding a black eye if I wore my shades inside? What would people think?

Not that I really find my dropping off outfit really that bad, certainly there are a few other moms in similar get-ups, but I judge myself against a handful of moms who I think must be featured in some I Heart Momming Magazine. They drive the squeaky clean SUVs; I drive one too but it's hard to tell it's an SUV under all of that dirt. They have happy laughing kids; I have those too except mine are mad and crying. They have awesome trendy clothes; I do too if it were still 1996. So you can see why it's so easy for them to judge me.

Yesterday my system of measuring up and crediting others was rocked to the core. The leader of the Wanna-Be Moms (named not because they're faking being moms but because I wanna-be as cool as them) hopped out of her 2017 Suburban for pick-up. It was 11:20 in the morning and she had on her yoga gear. Certainly she had just finished a private session with a ridiculously attractive yoga guy.

As the teacher handed Yoga Mom her son she said, "Oh, how was yoga?"

Yoga Mom turned beat red and laughed, "I know it's almost lunch but I'm still in my pajamas. It's been one of those days." She buckled her son and practically peeled out as she left the school. I had witnessed her embarrassment. The curtain had been pulled back from the mystical Wizard of Oz.

So Yoga Mom is really Pajama Mom. And since each day at pick-up I've noted her yoga attire, that means this is not "one of those days" but really it's her everyday. Hmmmm. Perhaps this means Yoga Mom has watched me in the mornings at drop-off and felt envious of the fact I was already dressed for the day. Except I wasn't. I too was Pajama Mom.

Now it seems I have to be a little easier on myself. If I want to weigh myself against the other moms (and really, I shouldn't) I need to cut myself some slack. They are hacking through their days the same as the rest of us. We can all find things about ourselves to get hung up on, and finding another mom who is succeeding in that area somehow makes us feel right. See....see, I knew I was screwing up....look at that mom, she's so__________. But maybe instead of making fake success stories for other moms we should create our own. Or at least accept that what we're doing and how we are surviving is okay. We're all in the same boat, even if we're not all Pajama Mom.

The Game of the Name

I think there is a lot behind a name. It is not really that I pay attention to the meaning of a name, but rather that a name takes someone from being just another unknown to being a very specific person. That is precisely why I named each of my kiddos before they were born. I felt more bonded to them than if I had spent nine months talking about "The Baby" or "It". But of course there were some hiccups.

First, we did not find out the gender with our first born. Therefore, we needed a gender-neutral name. When I was little, my dad lovingly referred to me as Munchkin Breath. And much like the quandary of The Purple People Eater (did IT eat only purple people, or was IT purple and ate all different kinds of people?) my dad's nickname left me to wonder if my breath smelled of Munchkins because I was one and this would be expected, or was I some kind of Munchkin Eater who dreamed of dining in Oz. I never did figure it out. But to this day I smile when in my head I can hear my dad's voice calling, "Hey, Munchkin Breath". So I wanted my first born to share in that delight and from the start she has been The Munchkin.

Motivation for the Month of the Closets

We've past the halfway point of the month. How can that be? Days drag on and on but weeks fly by and months are barely noticeable. So is life, I guess.

With just two weeks left in the Month of the Closets (http://thewingmom.blogspot.com/p/january-skeletons-out-of-closets.html) I thought I would share how my closet clean-out is going. There has literally been blood, sweat and tears. And you should know that I am one of those people who do not misuse the term literally. These things really happened: I bled, I sweat and I admit, I cried a little. The tears though were of course spurred by finding nostalgic items in my children's closets.

Kids live in your house??

One of the greatest bits of mommy advice I have ever received came from my dear friend Daisy (www.oncetwicethreetimesamommy.blogspot.com).

We had gotten our families together despite the two state gap. This was pre-Ladybug but it still meant the kids outnumbered the grown-ups, five to four. It was a great visit; I love being in Daisy's home. We had plans for a family they knew from college to bring their kids and come join the craziness for dinner that night. Just one little hiccup, one of Daisy's kiddos got sick.

While Daisy hauled her little Peach into the urgent care, I set to entertaining the remaining four kids and the dads, well, they worked together at watching the smoker make our dinner. Boys will be boys.

Making the Most of the Meal

I love food. Let me start over. I love real food. The food that is rich, decadent, tantalizing and all of the words the foodie mags use. All of the other stuff that people eat, and kids seem to love, is just okay. And since I share my meals with children I am stuck most of the time eating the just okay stuff but it doesn't mean I don't try and get more out of our time at the table.

Good nutrition, good manners and a good time can all be had at the same table.

I've shared the shift changes of our breakfast table and the madness of our lunches. But what about our dinners? The time when The Munchkin and my husband, The Farmer, leave their out-in-the-real-world-lives and return to our house.

Enough is Enough, Sometimes It's Too Much

How much is enough? That's a tough question and it really depends on what you are talking about. Gorgonzola cheese? Never enough. Worn-out holed-up socks? Even one is too much.

So let's think about some of the less obvious ones. Sippy cups and bottles. Whoa. This is gonna get deep fast!

When my youngest was still of the cooing, bottle age I had a lot of bottles. And I mean a lot. Being as thrifty (okay, cheap) as I am, I hit every garage sale in our 'hood the summer before she arrived. And at each one I bought bottles; but really for pennies on the dollar who could pass them up?! I boiled them several times and bought all new nipples. By the time fall rolled around I had a brand-new baby and seriously 40+ bottles. I thought I was set.

Lunch-styles of the Wrecked and Famished

Maybe lunch goes differently at your house, and for your sanity I truly hope it does. Lunch time at our house is chaos at best. To fully understand this we have to back all the way up to breakfast.

My oldest daughter, The Munchkin (more on this nickname later), eats breakfast at 7:10. This is the precise moment during her getting ready routine that she is hungry and has not yet brushed her teeth. I prefer to eat with clean chompers, she doesn't like the minty taste to interfere with her food. To each their own.

Next to the table is the middle child, the only boy in the family, The Cowboy (again, nickname history coming soon). Being a toddler he "has" to help make his breakfast. This really means he wants to push a chair over to the counter and watch you make his food. It's not worth splitting hairs. But by the time we have worked together and his oatmeal is ready it is nearing 7:20.