Wipe Out

The other day, I was in Target (shocker!) and I overheard a mom talking to her youngster in the cart just a few feet behind me: "Uh oh, are your hands sticky?" the little girl was starting to throw a fit, smacking her fruit-snacked-hands together in dismay..."I'm sorry, honey," the mom anxiously continued, "mommy doesn't have any wipies, you will just have to wait. I'm sorry, I don't have any wipes!"

No more did the sentence leave her lips when I stopped in my tracks, jammed my only free hand into my purse, and whipped out a single wet wipe as I spun around in her direction: "I have a wipe!" (I'll admit I kind of felt like some sort of superhero coming to the rescue - albeit a single moist towelette being my secret weapon leaves much to be desired among powers...still...)

The woman paused for a second, glanced at my child-be-cumbered cart and smiled in relief. "Thanks!" she said as we exchanged short introductions followed by friendly "I've totally been there" anecdotes and typical mom "yay for Target" farewell quips. A single wipie saves the day again.

These wet wipes, I tell ya, they have got us moms hooked for life. They are the single deadliest weapon in a mother's baby bag arsenal. They have gotten me out of so many jams, I'm pretty much planning on keeping them in my purse from now on, long after my kids' behinds might need them. I don't know about you, but for me (in a pinch) baby wipes have been stain lifters, furniture polishers, underarm savers, booger pickers, feet cleansers, wall scrubbers, toddler bathers, cart disinfecters, ear swabbers, lense swipers, table dusters, paci sterilizers, and of course...bottom wipers. To name a few. (You can't tell me you've never given your kid a "hobo bath" to stretch their bath time onnnne more night???)

But, until that day in Target, I never thought a lone little wipe could be a conversation starter. Okay, it wasn't that big of a deal, really.

But, you know that moment when you are in a store and your kid hasn't napped yet, and all it takes is one tiny thing to set off the emotional bomb that your child is containing, but for some reason you still think "this will be a short trip, I only have to get such-n-such and we're outta here, surely we will make it before the bomb goes off" and you nearly would - you truly almost do - except that the dollar aisle caught your eye and you just had to stop and see if those $1 kitty halloween socks come in her size...and turns out those kitty halloween socks were the one tiny thing to trigger the end-all-be-all tantrum bomb of all time and...boom!

Toddler emotional explosion. Total wipe out.

Yes, well, I have been there. (See picture [please don't think less of me for snapping a photo of my crying child mid-tantrum...it was the exact moment her father texted to see how our day was going - and that was my text-photo reply, no caption, enough said.]) And, that day in Target I could tell that not having that single wipie to rescue her daughter's sticky hands was her child's "tiny little trigger"...and, well, I'm glad to say the bomb was diffused quickly and safely that day and no Target customers were harmed in the explosion of that toddler's tantrum that day.

So, stash your arsenal, mommies.

Wipes, dipes, and a good helping of encouragement

(emphasis on courage).

Maybe your kids won't need them on that outing, but you never know who will. Next time you see a mom in need, or a kid on the verge of total breakdown, resist the urge to think she doesn't have it all together (who does?) and offer her a smile (or a wipe if need be!) and pass on a little reminder that sweet moments are just around the corner. Sometimes it just takes a while (a deep breath, a good nap, and a hearty diet coke) to get there. (See picture). Ahhhh.

Friday Night Lights

This last weekend we went to Crean Lutheran High School's Homecoming football game. My husband works there as the Director of Admissions and Marketing, and so it was awesome to bring the girls and rep the Pardy fam (nice to meet you, Mrs. Pardy...very weird stuff this being-all-grown-up business). It was also awesome to once again be at a high school football game - something I haven't experienced in (ahem) years.

I grew up on a farm in the middle of Kansas, as most of you know. And when I say "small town football" I don't think a lot of you quite understand what I mean. Not really, anyway. Let's just say that when I was taking my husband home for my 10 year high school reunion I had him watch the entire first three seasons of Friday Night Lights to get amply prepared. And then I told him "scale down the school and exaggerate the pride..." believe it or not, that is how it really was. (Did I mention my graduating class was 16 students?)

To make matters worse/better, I was a cheerleader. True story. And I'm not gonna lie - I totally loved it, and was pretty darn good at it (hey, I conquered the toe-touch back then, so that has to count for something). We had a little squad of 6 super-perky girls, ready to sis-boom-bah you into a win every Friday night. I was the tiny freshman "flyer" they would prop up in the air, pom-pons a fluttering, and cheering the audience into a Thunderbird spirit frenzy! After all, we were the T-Birds (the mighty, mighty T-Birds).

I remember loving pep rallies - getting the school all fired up for the big game, a nice chill in the air (they actually have seasons in Kansas) and helping paint posters that our boys would soon destroy as they ran onto the field. I totally remember feeling important - feeling noticed - and the drama of high school would fade into the background for those four quarters that our columbia blue and white padded soldiers took battle on the fifty yard line...or was that the twenty yard line?...or...was that the first down?...it didn't matter. My hair was cute, my skirt was ironed, my shoes were shiny...I was a cheerleader.

Watching the high schoolers on Friday night brought it all back for me - all those memories of school spirit and go-big-blue pride. The CLHS cheerleaders were far better than I ever was - it almost made me nervous for them thinking how much more pressure there must be these days to be a cheerleader in high schools today. But, well, they seemed thrilled to be out there, so hey, I'll smile and clap and accept the fact that when you look at me, miss cheerleader, you don't see a girl who is sorta dying to jump out there and try to do a "herkie"....you see a mom. You see me, with my baby bjorn on, rocking my Saints sweatshirt, holding a half-eaten hot dog. That's right. And you bet I will clap with you and for you and help you cheer on those Saints! And you're welcome.

Yup. I'm old. And I can no longer do those high kicks or jumps, and frankly, no one wants to see me in that short of a skirt, thank you very much. But kid, I got something that makes me more cheerful than any bubble-letter-poster ever could: perspective.

On our way home from the game, Josh and I were sort of high from all the school spirit, reminiscing about our own high school days. I said, "wouldn't it have been great to just go back for a day, but with this brain - this amount of wisdom and perspective that we've gained so far?"

Sort of the quintessential "what would you tell your high school self" kinda question. Man, to relive that time (which honestly, I wouldn't ever want to do - my glory days of popularity were extremely short lived) knowing how little it all mattered. No worries about who is dating who (Is she wearing his letterman jacket?) or having a cow over the tiniest things (I can not believe my mom didn't wash my Jordache jeans, she doesn't understand anything obviously) or caring so so so so so incredibly much about ourselves constantly (think how many times you must have used the phrase "Oh, I know" when you were a teenager...and how you really, actually, truly did not, in fact, know). Well, it might be fun to go back for a day with that perspective and appreciation (totally having a Zac-Efron-in-Seventeen-Again moment here) and just have fun.

Until time travel is a viable option, however, we'll just have to be grateful to be all grown up, having this Friday-night-lightbulb-moment for the time being. It's nice to be here - with my baby bjorn, my comfortable sneakers and sense of security...thankful for the high school memories I have, good and bad, and mostly glad that I don't have to go through it ever again.

Now, hold my hot dog for me so I can go grab my toddler before she runs onto the field and gets tackled...

Weighty

If I was a celebrity, the news of the week would be that I finally hit my pre-pregnancy weight this week, two and a half months after Daphne's birth. But, since I'm not a celebrity (whew!) I can shout from the rooftops that it is a freaking miracle for me to already say I hit that beautiful number on the scale so soon. Honestly, it took me by surprise, and I can only credit my giant daughter who breastfeeds non-stop for the accomplishment. And don't think I don't thank the Lord for Spanx every day also. (I'm not even joking).

But, don't hate me so fast. And stop rolling your eyes.

The truth of the matter is that I gained some weight RIGHT before getting pregnant - so it is a bit easier for me to exclaim this truth sooner (sneaky, I know!) So, I'm not at my "goal" weight - just my pre-pregnancy weight. And let's face it - usually we all have a "goal" weight that is somewhere between unrealistic and a hot fudge brownie...and that brownie almost always wins (darnit).

I know what you're thinking..."Emily, who cares?" I get it. If you are female, if you have kids or not, chances are good that you are either trying to maintain your weight or trying to lose weight, or at the very least praying that the pumpkin spice latte you had this morning won't stick to your thighs the way it stuck to your blouse when you spilled it on your way into work this morning. Am I at least a little bit right? We all think about our weight. And it totally sucks.

Let me see if I can peg you down even further. (We are in this together now, so hang on.)

Weight is a very personal and touchy subject. (duh) It has most likely fluctuated over the years for most of you, and we all commiserate in the fact that it will continue to ebb and flow as we get older. (Sigh).

We all have a couple friends in our lives who absolutely can eat anything they want (is she scarfing down another bag of Cheetos? and is that regular Coke?) and never gain an ounce, and we pride ourselves in the fact that we don't claw their eyes out every time we see them cause we are just so gosh darn jealous of their stupid metabolism.

We cringe at the sight of those ridiculous skinny jeans - the ones that are obviously meant for toddlers and not grown women - and wonder what the statute of limitations is on that belly band still at the top of our underwear drawer just in case we're having a "bloatish" day.

We are almost always in the mood to shop for shoes or jewelry, because, frankly, they won't make us want to strangle the retail associate in the store after we try them on.

And, we love to watch makeover shows because we never ever look nearly as bad as the "before" and we truly believe somewhere deep inside that we could absolutely pull off the "after" if someone would just watch my kid for a good three hours so I could dig out that curling iron from underneath the bathroom sink somewhere among the 8 bottles of firming lotion that promised me a new rear end (and lied).

So yeah - it gets touchy when some chick who just reached her pre-pregnancy weight has the gall to blog about it and open up a cavern of insecurity among those who may or may not be turning her picture into a dartboard right now. (What is she trying to say? Get to the freaking point, blog girl.)

Ah yes, my point. This could be a post all about how kindness comes in all sizes and so do we - so let's all get along and if you can't say anything nice...then shop online, I guess. But, it's not. Honestly. Because like it or not, in reality, we aren't at all concerned about whether so-n-so fits into her jeans from high school or not. We couldn't care less what who's-her-face ate for lunch. And we don't have the time to listen to what's-her-butt go on and on about how she is giving up sugar for the zillionth time. We are all far to concerned about our own selves! It's nice to get compliments from others, sure, but it's worth so much more to actually believe them...and (dare I say it?) compliment ourselves.

Pat yourself on the back. Go ahead. (Really, no one's looking, do it.) You are average - and awesome. Tada! But, don't take my word for it, take your own. Chances are, you are smaller than some people you know, and larger than others. Some people consider you skinny, others might think that skirt you're wearing is doing you no favors (heyyyy! sorry.) And truth be told, almost no one who looks at you can tell the difference between your "good looking" days and your "shlumpy" days...but you. See - nice and average! Hooray!

I may be delightfully surprised to have reached this pre-pregnancy weight before I thought I would - who knows, maybe I kept low expectations so I could celebrate more easily. (I'll be writing more in the future about body image and how our views shift through pregnancy and childbirth, by the way.) And as much as I strive to stay realistic, balanced, and happy - I'm not immune to the lies that if I don't look a certain way I won't be "good enough". So - I have to vaccinate myself against those lies. Counteract them with truth, relating to others, and simply believe that my worth is not found in an unattainable stack of size 6 jeans at the GAP.

We got flu shots this weekend. (Warning: obvious analogy ahead.) And just like I don't want to get the flu, so I get the vaccine - I don't want to slip into the all-consuming thought process of watching numbers on a scale go up and down and up and up and down (and so on) each week, quietly judging myself between meals and outfits. UGH. What a waste of mental energy. That is so "1997" for me - and I'm in my thirties now (thank you very much) and I'm just not into the whole self-loathing bit anymore. But you can't just take a shot of truth and suddenly feel great about yourself all the time. Maybe not. I'll admit it is a life-long process for myself and for most of us gals out there.

So, in the meantime - of us all learning how to love ourselves and our imperfect bodies - let's take the time to believe one compliment someone tells us this week. C'mon - someone is going to compliment you on something this week. Believe them. And here's one for starters...my, you read that blog so well and didn't throw one thing at the screen when she talked about her weight - good for you! :)

Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?

Rx: Parenthood

Well, I'm just getting over a brutal cold. I've successfully made it through the "throat-on-fire" stage, coasted past the "did-I-just-sneeze-out-my-brain?" phase, and am nearing final departure of the "just-stop-coughing-just-make-yourself-stop-coughing-enough-already" grand finale. Aren't colds just the loveliest? Ahem.

I hate being sick. I mean, it is silly to even mention because frankly, I don't know anyone who enjoys being sick...but, seriously, isn't it just the worst?

Actually, I do sort of remember liking sick days. Remember when you would wake up a bit feverish and your mom would come in your room to check in on why you haven't come down for breakfast only to find you still in your pajamas...and you were cringing and rejoicing on the inside all at the same time because you knew no matter how awful you felt that it still meant you could skip school so you didn't have to endure Mrs. Alber's PE class of "Sweatin it to the Oldies with Richard Simmons" for the fourth time that week???? (C'mon, don't you remember that? No? Just me? Hmm. Okay then.)

But, you know the feeling. Sometimes there are things worse than being sick. Sometimes we'll take a raw sore throat over that book report we've been dreading, or that big meeting at work, or that lunch date with what's-her-face who only calls you when she needs a favor... And when I was growing up, sick days were a respite from the daily chores of life - of homework - of school time drama. Days when I could just curl up on my couch, kleenex in hand, and watch 4 hours of Anne of Green Gables followed by a long nap and a cup of tea. Ah, those were the days.

And those days are long, long over.

This time last week I was just thanking God that I only had a cold! That I could drink coffee with my sudafed (which I'm still not sure is the best thing, but it didn't kill me, so it can't be that bad, right?) and still care for my kids under the haze of congestion weighing on my head.

Now, instead of resting, drinking fluids, and blowing my nose - I'm constantly sanitizing everything I touch, nursing my daughter between vitamin C boosting juice breaks, and am suddenly fine with Matilda climbing up that chair if it means she is quiet for one minute longer...what...wait a minute...maybe you should get down from there. I'm losing focus again.

Did I mention my 2 month old still wakes up a good three or four times a night? Whew.

There are no decongestants strong enough to un-congest the chaos of your life while you are sick.

All of this, to me, falls in that category of life that is: the things they don't tell you to expect when you are going to have kids, and even if they did tell you, you can't really imagine it until you are there. Bottomline: it is a challenge to be a parent when you are sick.

And yet, you just keep going. Sick or not. That is one of the many things about motherhood that astounds me the most. There are mothers everywhere - we all know mothers, or ARE mothers - and these women, whether they look like they have it all together or not - are still functioning. Daily. They are keeping young persons alive, living and breathing, and consistently losing sleep, time, sanity, even hair over doing so...some of them are even working, volunteering, not to mention keeping up with dishes, laundry, cooking and other mundane necessities...and they just keep going. Mothers are like some powerful machine/zombie combo that just won't stop. Oh yeah - and I'm one of them?!? That hasn't quite hit me yet.

Women - how are we doing this on, like, three hours of sleep? How?

The only theory that makes sense is that these little beings we care for - these children - must have some kind of healing, restorative power in them that somehow rejuvenates our constant desire to maintain and care for them. (After all, they are lucky they are cute, right? Maybe their secret is in their smiles.)

As much as I love sleep (and boy, do I) my need for it is instantly diminished in the tiniest of yelps from my sweet baby. As much as I love to eat (and boy, do I) my hunger pangs dissipate the moment my child cries out. And as much as I love myself (you fill in the blank) I'm transformed into an uncharacteristically selfless creature who will fight tigers with my bare hands any time my babies are in need.

Roar.

Maybe motherhood is the best medicine after all. Now, go take two children and call me in the morning. Wait...that didn't come out right.