23 Reasons My Kids Are My Best Friends

Not too long ago, I read an article by a woman explaining why her child isn’t her best friend. While I agree with a lot of the points she made, I was a little taken aback by one particular line:

“See, when I hear mom friends of mine refer to their infants, toddlers or even teens as their best friend, I can’t help but feel sorry for them.”

I have twin boys, and I’ve referred to them as my “best friends” plenty of times.

And I don’t feel like that makes me pitiful.

Don’t get me wrong, I have adult friends, too. In fact, I’ve also referred to my mom as my best friend. She is. So is my husband. And so is one of the women I ran cross-country with in college.

But so are my kids.

Maybe that makes me a Best Friend Whore. Or a Polybestfriendist. Or some other whacked-out term that I’m sure a few of the people reading this article will coin and crucify me with.

But guess what? I don’t care. I believe that you can have more than one best friend as well as different types of best friends. My kids happen to be a couple of mine. Here are 23 reasons why:

1. They never judge me. When they see me shamelessly spraying aerosol whipped cream into my mouth, or eating cream cheese spread with a spoon, their only criticism is that I didn’t offer them any first.

2. They know exactly how to make me laugh. Sometimes it’s a goofy face. Other times it’s a joke that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. And sometimes it’s just the sound of their laughter.

3. We tell each other everything. Me: “Mama is feeling really overwhelmed right now.” Toddler: “I made stinkies.”

4. They help me pick out my clothes. Every time I look down at my feet and see one green sock and one blue one, I think of their enthusiastic faces as they pulled them from my sock drawer. And I smile.

5. They know how to make me feel better. Just the other day I was having some body image issues and was crying while talking to my husband about it. Out of nowhere, my son ran up to me, said, “Mama sad,” and wrapped his little arms my neck. And not in the typical toddler-chokehold way.

6. We w(h)ine together. Toddler: (tugging on my pants) “I’m thiiiirrrrsty.” Me: (uncorking wine bottle) “Me too, honey. Meeeeeee too.”

7. We talk about boys (often while w(h)ining together.) Mickey Mouse, Elmo, Jake, Boots, Daniel Tiger. We’ve analyzed the best and worst qualities of them all.

Toddler: “Dora’s monkey has red shoes. I want red shoes. I want redddddddd!” Me: (popping open a bottle of red) “Me too, honey. Meeeee too.”

8. We can go hours without talking and the silence is never awkward. It’s called nap time. And it is glorious.

9. They think it’s funny when I fart.

10. We often match without planning it. Sweats, t-shirt, and no bra FTW!

11. We binge watch Netflix together. Confession: I kind of like watching Sofia the First. (It’s on Netflix now!) The theme song is catchy and it gives me the warm fuzzies when I see how she’s always got everyone’s backs in the castle. Plus, I find Cedric’s cynicism totally entertaining. Oh, and that high-and-mighty Amber bitch? Hilarious. Seriously, it’s like an allegory for the various parents you might encounter at the playground. If you haven’t streamed it yet, you should.

12. We’ve seen each other naked. I’m kind of responsible for bath time and diaper changes so…yeah. And it’s not uncommon for me to be startled mid-shampoo by an inquisitive little toddler peeking around the shower curtain.

13. And we are honest about what we see. Me: “Oh, bubba, looks like you’ve got a little rash on your booty.” Toddler: “Mama no wee-wee.”

14. Actually, they are honest about pretty much everything. Toddler 1: “Mama’s face…ewwww.” Toddler 2: “Hair! Lot of hair on Mama’s legs!”

15. They’re always there for me. Like…ALWAYS.

16. We dance like Meredith and Cristina in Grey’s Anatomy. And we are each other’s “person.”

17. They keep my secrets. They can’t even pronounce the words “passive aggressive,” so there’s no way they’re going to tell Mrs. ***** that’s what I called her the next time we run into her.

18. I have more selfies of them on my phone than of anyone else.

19. They do my hair for me. Peanut butter and jelly beat even the strongest mousse on a salon shelf. And who needs to pay for a professional haircut when your kid will just yank it out for you?

20. We have inside jokes. For example: “We’re going to sit quietly and look at books now so Mama can get some writing done.” HAHAHAHAHAHA.

21. They make me feel beautiful. Because whenever I look at their vibrant faces and marvel at the incredible things they can do with those amazing, miniature bodies of theirs, I remember that it was my body that made them.

22. They motivate me to be the best version of myself. Because I know that’s what they deserve.

23. I would do anything for them. If you’re reading this, and you’re a parent, I don’t think any further explanation is necessary.

 © 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Sammiches & Pysch Meds

That A Hand So Small Can Hold So Much

Sometimes, my sweet boy, that little hand of yours holds me captive.

A hand so small, with fingers the size of caterpillars and knuckles no bigger than Japanese beetles. (You’re on a bug kick at the moment.) Each finger is tipped with a perfectly-crafted whorl, a physical rendering of your propensity for constant motion.

The skin of your palm is still soft and unweathered, though there is a seemingly permanent layer of dirt beneath your fingernails—a touch of imperfection that accentuates the perfectness of your tiny toddler hand.

A hand so small, and yet it does so much.

It presses dandelions into my palm—staining it yellow, like your fingertips—connecting us with the bright mark of your unadulterated kindness. I smile, happy that you’re still too young to recognize the weeds in this world. You see beauty in everything.

It clutches a popsicle stick on a hot summer day, then tugs at my shorts as you ask for more, leaving its print behind in a shade of purple that my Tide pen is no match for. I look up to see that same purple smeared across your face like war paint, and my irritation melts as quickly as the frozen treat in your hand. You make it so hard to stay angry.

It points to the word “red” when we read Pete the Cat, and gestures excitedly as you tell me that Pete’s red shoes are your favorite, because they look like the ones Daddy wears when he works out. I kiss the top of your head, touched by the love and admiration you have for the man I married. You (and I) have excellent taste.

It digs in the dirt and plucks roly polies out of the grass, pinching them between inquisitive fingers. I cringe when you offer them to me, but can’t help laughing as you flick them across the ground like teeny marbles. You are such a boy. (But Mama's not, so we’ve really got to get over this bug phase.)

It grasps metal Hot Wheels cars, running them up and down the length of my body as though I’m a living racetrack. I laugh as you call out “speed bump” when you reach my nose (until the tiny tire gets caught in my nose ring). You are so creative.

It meticulously picks all the marshmallows out of your Lucky Charms, separating them by color before popping them into your mouth. You offer me one, and I smile when I see the shape in your hand: You are sharing your heart with me.

It reaches for my phone whenever I pull it out in front of you, not because you want to play with it, but because you want to toss it aside. (You hate it when Mama texts.) I allow you to do so, and instead of reading the letters LOL on a screen, I laugh with you as we read your favorite story. You remind me what's most important.

It points to your boo-boo after you take a tumble at the playground, indicating the spot I need to “kiss all better.” I touch my lips to your scraped knee, then watch you jump up and resume playing as though nothing happened. You still believe Mama can fix anything.

It holds your favorite blanket close to you, wrinkling the soft fabric in the tight grip of your minuscule fingers. (I bought you that blanket before I even met you.) I smile, and the skin around my eyes creases, mirroring the folds in your blanket. I cherish those lines: They are love wrinkles.

It helps your brother pick up toys at the end of the day, then gives me a high-five when I tell you how proud you make me. I revel in the slight sting as your itty bitty palm slaps mine. You still think high-fiving Mama is cool.

It wipes at the tears that run down your face when someone hurts you, and closes around my fingers when I, too, try to brush away your pain. At other times, when you see me hurt, you return the favor. Your compassion brings even more tears to my eyes.

It slides into mine when we go for walks around the neighborhood, your grip slipping ever so slightly when we both start to sweat in the sticky summer heat. I pause to dry my hand on my shorts, and you immediately reach for my other one. You’re not ready to let go. I'm okay with that.

This hand so small: It explores and discovers, it expresses and creates, it comforts and shares.

A hand so small—a hand that grew inside me, in that sacred space where you and I first shared the gift of life. A hand that, now fully formed, continues to share that gift with me every day.

A hand that is a literal extension of the perfect person my body created, and a figurative extension of myself.

Sometimes, I marvel at the irony of its smallness, wondering how a hand so small can hold so much.

Because when I see the beautiful things it does, I still feel it there—inside me—holding on to my heart.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Mamalode

The Difference Between a ‘Sheltered’ Life and a ‘Simple’ One

It’s a running joke among my husband’s coworkers that we are a “modern Amish family.” The nickname has less to do with how we dress (I could not rock a bonnet; also, I’m not aware of any Amish who wear Star Wars T-shirts), and more to do with the fact that they mistake our simple life for a “sheltered” one.

I don’t consider my family sheltered. We own a vehicle (two, in fact), use cell phones (smart ones, even) and rely heavily on electricity (coffee maker = Mom’s lifeline). Heck, we even use that Interweb nonsense to keep in touch with friends and family via The Facebook. We are not socially reclusive, nor do we keep our kids on constant lockdown in order to protect them from the big, scary world beyond our humble home.

However, some of our choices—like staying home to watch movies on the weekends, or considering a trip to the playground a social outing—tend to be viewed as hermit-like in today’s go-go-go society.

We rarely go out to eat. We don’t travel much. We don’t have cable or Wi-Fi in our home. And the latest technological gizmos? Forget it. Our largest single annual expense is our cumulative grocery bill, because food is—you know—a basic necessity. We live simply—frugally, you might even say—not because we have to, but because we choose to.

I don’t believe that kids need to be exposed to a million different things, or own all the trendiest gadgets, in order to get the most out of life. Nor do I think that I’m an irresponsible parent for making our home their primary source of recreation and entertainment.

In my experience, when you’re constantly busy, you don’t have time to slow down and reflect on what you’re doing. You don’t have time to take the experiences you do have and weave them into memories that will last a lifetime.

The phrase “Less is more” is a cliché for a reason.

When I think back to my own childhood, I remember simple moments. I don’t remember the details of our annual Cedar Point trips or the expensive toys I got for Christmas, but I do remember digging for worms with the neighbors. I remember sitting on my mom’s lap as she read me Little Golden Books.

Like diamonds forged from coal, my most treasured memories are born of the seemingly ordinary and mundane, but they sparkle, and their clarity and value are undeniable.

Those are the kinds of memories I want for my own children.

Memories like these:

–Sneaking fruit snacks from the pantry when Mom isn’t looking and sharing them with siblings in an elaborate fort constructed out of blankets.

–Throwing a bunch of stuffed animals on a bed and pretending it’s a pirate ship. “Walking the plank” to land in a sea of pillows, while Captain Hook prods you with the clothes hanger he has shoved up his shirt sleeve.

–Brewing “witch potions” in the backyard: using a stick to stir water, mud, leaves and bugs in a plastic bucket while muttering random incantations—then seeing the look on Mom’s face when she’s asked to taste it.

–Using broken tree branches to draw creepy-looking characters in the gravel driveway.

Me and My Little Bro, circa 1999

–Staging picnics in the backyard, telling creepy stories over a campfire, and waging hedge-apple wars with the neighbors (then showing off the bruises like they’re battle scars).

–Putting on fashion shows while wearing Mom’s old bridesmaid dresses, and strutting down the hallway like it’s a runway.

–Playing marathon games of Monopoly with siblings on a snow day, then sipping hot chocolate topped with rainbow-colored marshmallows.

–Lying on the concrete while a friend traces the shape of your body with sidewalk chalk, and laughing hysterically when Dad sneaks around the corner of the house to spray you with the hose.

–Licking cake batter off beaters and begging for just one more bite of raw cookie dough.

–Setting up a sprinkler in front of the swing set on a hot summer day, or splashing each other in a cheap plastic pool in the backyard.

The Minions, circa 2015

–Turning the basement into a movie theater and personalizing brown paper “popcorn bags” with stickers and sharpies (and taking advantage of Mom’s free refill policy).

–Staging wrestling and boxing matches—Dad’s old socks serving as makeshift boxing gloves—and selling family members construction-paper tickets to the show.

–Picking out stacks of books to read on a rainy day, or going outside barefoot and dancing in the puddles.

–Catching fireflies in old iced tea jars and smiling when they light up inside the glass—then shrieking hysterically the moment one lands in someone’s hair.

–Taking long bike rides in the sunshine, and reveling in the reward of a well-earned slushy at the local ice cream shop afterward.

–Helping Papa plant his garden, even if it’s just an excuse to play in the dirt (because what kid doesn’t love playing in the dirt?).

The Minions and Papa, circa 2015

I don’t want my kids’ childhood memories to be a blur of fancy hotel stays, nice restaurants, itinerary-driven vacations or expensive birthday gifts. I want them to remember what it was like to really be a kid—to be able to find the uncommon in the common, the extraordinary in the ordinary, and the beauty in simplicity.

Because once you become an adult, life becomes unavoidably—irreversibly—complicated.

In my eyes, I’m not sheltering my children from the real world with the lifestyle we’ve chosen.

I am showing them all it has to offer.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on The Mid at Scary Mommy

I Smile at My C-Section Scar

It spans across my lower belly: a thin line of translucent white, fringed with red, curving slightly upward on either end. It stretches and contracts with the gentle rise and fall of my breathing, widening like a smile.

And I can’t help smiling back.

Because when I look at this scar, I don’t see a flaw.

I see perfection. I see a portal to another world: a place filled with love, life, security—a nourishing utopia, where you formed your perfect little nose, your perfect little cheeks, the perfect little wrinkle between your eyebrows, all ten perfect little fingers, and all ten perfect little toes.

I don’t see deformity.

I see beauty. I see a tattoo that extends all the way to my heart and connects it to yours. I see your soul, your vibrancy, your life—carved into me.

I don’t see the mark of someone who had it “easy,” someone who “didn’t really give birth.” I don’t see inferiority.

I see a literal birthmark. I see the spot where they slit me open while I cried and prayed, hoping that I would hold your tiny living body in my arms when it was over, yearning to feel the warm touch of your skin against mine and the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat against my chest, sensations that I’d grown to know so well internally. I see the mark of quintessential motherhood.

I don’t see weakness.

I see strength. I see the jagged edge of love and fear, protruding from my skin like braille. It says life. It says perseverance. It says you and me—we’ll be together at the end of all this—whatever it takes.

I don’t see failure.

I see triumph. I see a battle scar, marking the ground where we fought—together—when you decided to come 10 weeks early. I see will and determination. I see victory.

I don’t see the cold cut of surgery.

I see the tender swell of life. I see a landmark, a historic site where you breathed your first breath, cried your first cry, opened your eyes to the outside world for the first time. I see the precise latitudinal line of where you went from simply living to being alive. I am forever marked by your coordinates.

I don’t see regret, or the disappointment of having a nontraditional birth. I don’t feel disconnect.

I see a property line, extending to my heart, where you first staked a claim, and where you continue to rule today. I feel the memory of the gentle tug as they lifted you from my body—your grasp on my heart never wavering— and the familiar pull on my heartstrings whenever I picture your fragile, red little body rising to meet me. I remember the warmth of your cheek against my lips, and I feel the unique, undeniable magnetism of a mother’s love. I feel connection.

I don’t see detachment.

I see intimacy. I see a doorway, housing the first chapter of your life, locking in the memory of every kick, every hiccup, every flutter of your tiny, miraculous heart. I see devotion. I see it etched in my skin like a signature on a contract, a promise of love and responsibility. A promise of motherhood.

So I will not be ashamed. I will not be made to feel inadequate. I will not feel insecure or embarrassed.

I will not drape a towel or wrap over my bikini line at the beach. I will not turn away from the mirror when I step out of the shower. I will not cover the mended flesh that brought so much beauty into this world.

I will not mask my pride.

I will not be told that I “had it easy,” or that I “didn’t do any of the work.”

I will not feel weak. I will not feel like less of a woman. I will not feel like less of a mother.

I will not allow the loose, slightly puckered skin surrounding this scar to make me feel ugly. Because it is beautiful, and I am beautiful, and you are beautiful.

I will not feel marred, or “butchered,” or broken.

Because I am whole, and it is this scar that has made me so. It is a poignant paradox, a line marking the spot where I was both ripped apart and put back together; and when I look at it, I will remember the day when you were both taken from and given to me.

And I will be grateful.

Because this scar made me a mom.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Mamalode

The Pain of Motherhood

Sometimes when I’m with you, little one—watching you, holding you, loving you—it hurts.

Sometimes it hurts to have this abundance of love—this all-consuming, overpowering, intoxicating and soul-crushing love—and not have a space large enough to keep it. It’s infinite. I feel it when you whisper “I love you, too, Mama” after I tuck you in at night and when you wrap your skinny arms around me. I feel it tingling in the tips of my fingers when they trace the soft line of your jaw, your head resting on my lap as you drift peacefully off to sleep.

And that time you pressed your little lips tenderly to my forehead? I think my heart almost erupted inside my chest.

Sometimes it hurts when I lift your little body up in my arms and realize that I won’t always be able to—that you won’t always want me to. It’s a pain of balance and a pain of paradox: The lightness of you in my arms is counteracted by the heaviness in my heart. You’re getting so big, so fast. And though I love seeing the little boy you’re becoming, I also miss the little baby you once were.

I miss your smallness.

Sometimes it hurts as I witness you break out of your tentative toddler shell. You explore your surroundings with a burning curiosity that fills me with both pride and a little heartache. The more of the world you discover, the less of your world I become. And while I am proud of your burgeoning independence—of your determination to play an active role in your own life—it pains me just a little to know you won’t always need me by your side to guide you through it.

There is a comfort in being needed.

Sometimes it hurts when I can’t find the words. I can feel them there, inside me, desperately trying to form, but there’s no language both strong and delicate enough to capture the essence of you. So sometimes all I can do is stare in silence, marveling at your tiny personhood, trying to memorize every piece of you, every movement, every intricacy:

Those tiny feet that carry you across the playground. Those miniscule fingers that artfully craft Lego trains and dig itty bitty tunnels in the dirt. Those bright, animated eyes that peep at me through the hole in your bagel at breakfast. That delicate little brow that furrows when you sit on the couch and flip through your favorite book. That nearly-imperceptible chip in your front tooth from the time you fell at the playground, a tiny flaw that somehow only adds to your perfection.

 Sometimes, I watch you, and it hits me: All those things—those things that make you YOU—are a part of me. You are a part of me. You—and all of your startling perfection—were born of me.

I live in your heart, and you in mine. Your soul was nourished by my own, and I will always carry a piece of it with me.

You have changed me in the most profound, complete, and beautiful of ways. You have altered my body, my mind, my heart, my soul.

And sometimes, little one, it hurts to love you so.

But it’s a beautiful kind of pain, and I wouldn't trade it for all the comforts and security in the world.

Why Dressing My Toddlers to Play in the Snow Sucks Major (Snow)Balls

Mother Nature must be menopausing this year. I mean, Holy Hot Flash, Batman. Talk about mood swings. First, she lulls me into a false sense of security by keeping the temps high and the grass green well into December. Then, around mid-January, just when I find myself hoping that—perhaps this year—I would be able to avoid the exhausting, yet requisite, process of putting snow gear on my toddlers, she pulls this shit: 

You can bet your bundled ass that the first thing my kids asked to do when they woke up to a world covered in nuisance white was go play in it. If there’s snow on the ground, the soundtrack of my life is reminiscent of the one from Disney’s Frozen, i.e., my kids incessantly belt out, “Do you wanna build a snowman?” until I can’t take it anymore and agree to accompany them outside, so we can all freeze our asses off make memories together.

Kids love snow. It’s a fact of nature. (See what I did there?) When I was a kid, my siblings and I jumped at the opportunity to have snowball fights, go sledding, build snowmen, impale each other with icicles, and use our prepubescent bodies to make awkwardly-shaped snow angels.

The thing is, my kids are toddlers right now. And getting toddlers dressed to play in the snow is about as fun as getting hit in the head with a Hot Wheels car—which is usually what ends up happening if I don’t succumb to their demands to play outside, where they’re actually able to burn off some of their endless toddler energy.

Here’s why getting my kids dressed to play in the snow sucks:

All the things.

Snow-play requires more layering than Kim Kardashian’s wedding cake. I have a hard enough time finding my kids’ socks (the ones I put on their feet, like, five minutes ago). Locating all the random pieces of their snow attire requires me to search multiple closets, dresser drawers, the van, the diaper bag, the spaces between the couch cushions, and (occasionally) the toilet bowl. It basically turns my afternoon into a live-action version of an I Spy book.

Can you spy all the things required for you and your toddlers to go outside? Spot the following items, before your kids lose their shit because they just HAVE to build a snowman NOW: snow pants, winter coats, thermal socks, boots, waterproof mittens, hats, scarves, and LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE. (Okay, who am I kidding? Like the coffee isn't always accessible.)

Toddlers have jellyfish limbs.

I can barely get my squirmy-ass kids in the tub, which measures approximately 1.5 toddler x .75 toddler. So trying to shove their writhing bodies into 50 relatively-fitted layers of clothing isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Or, in this case, a walk in the unappealing arctic tundra that our backyard has transformed into overnight.

Oh, and the thumbs of those waterproof mittens? Eff that. My kids don’t need thumbs. Penguins don’t have thumbs, and they do just fine in the cold. Besides, they don’t need the dexterity. We all know that I’ll be the one risking frostbite out there, forced to remove my own mittens in order to properly handcraft “our” snowman, while the kids flop around nearby, barking orders at me like caffeinated seals.

“Bigger! Bigger!” (Any bigger, and I won’t be able to lift its head onto its body.)

“It want some hot cocoa!” (Not a good idea, guys.)

“Why her butt look so funny?” (YOU BOYS BETTER BE TALKING ABOUT THE SNOWMAN!)

Come on, you think my toddlers built this bitch?

Murphy’s Law of toddler shit habits, as it relates to winter clothing.

This basically states that as soon as I finally have all that shit (see “all the things”) on my kids, they either (1) will tell me they have to shit (hopefully in less abrasive language), or (2) will shit. On the spot. Under the 50 layers of snow gear I just wrangled them into.

Either scenario requires immediate removal of said shit (literal and figurative) because I’ll either (1) have to change their diapers, or (2) strip them down layer by layer and plop them on the toilet, where they’ll proceed to waste even more of my time by belting out “Do you wanna build a snowman?” and taking an HOUR to actually shit.

#itsscience

It’s also #bullshit.

And then we’re right back to shoving jellyfish limbs back into all 50 layers of clothing.

By the time I’ve finally managed to get my toddlers snow-ready, we’re usually all so worn-out that we barely make it 30 minutes outside before needing to come back in for snacks and a nap.

Then I have to remove and put away all their snow gear, and by the time that’s done, they’ve usually crapped themselves again.

*Sigh*

Someone needs to tell Mother Nature to get her shit together, before this mama loses hers.*

*Note: When I started this piece, my husband was home from work due to snowy/icy conditions. And now—less than a week later, as I hover over the "publish" button—temps are creeping toward 40. Our yard is mostly mud, and the boys are mourning the death of their beloved snowman.

But I won't be fooled again, and I'm keeping all the snow gear within reach for that cold bitch's inevitable next mood swing.

Things I’ve Heard on Kids Shows That I Just Can’t Even

1. “Elmo has mail! Elmo loves his blankie! Elmo this! Elmo that!” (Virtually every “Elmo’s World” segment on Sesame Street)

Elmo is all about freaking Elmo. I suppose it’s not all that surprising that he thinks he’s the center of the universe, considering he has a whole damn world named after him. To be fair, he is gracious enough to occasionally permit others a little screen time, namely a goldfish named Dorothy and a pedophiliacally* mustached man named Mr. Noodle. Note that neither of these characters has the ability to speak.

I just don’t want my sons growing up to be narcissistic pricks because some furry red talking carpet with a nitrous oxide addiction made it look cool on TV.

*How ‘bout that for a “word of the day,” Sesame Street?

2. “We found ten gold doubloons! Let’s grab ‘em and GO!” (Jake and the Neverland Pirates)

Okay, WTF is a gold doubloon, and why are we finding them everywhere, every ten seconds? Hey, Disney Jr., let’s teach kids that if they find someone else’s money lying around, the honorable thing to do is snatch it up and run off.

3. “WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! More Mee-Mee! More Mee-Mee!”

Right, so that’s not technically the TV. It’s the sound my kids make when I refuse to let them watch Mater’s Tall Tales for the eleventy billionth time. But it still annoys the crap out of me.

Redneck tow trucks are my reason for living!
Why are you trying to kill me?

4. The theme song from Little Einsteins.

I sing this in the shower so frequently that I often find myself wishing I’d brought a hairdryer with me. That opening violin staccato is so damn catchy, it’s dangerous: I have, on occasion, used my razor as a makeshift bow and my overgrown leg hair as strings, pretending to be an orchestral prodigy (in a rocket ship, of course). The scars on my knees are testimony to a few times that I've really gotten into it.

5. “Hot Dog!” (Mickey Mouse Clubhouse)

Mostly because I hate hot dogs. And I’m still suffering PTHDD symptoms as a result of the summer that my best friend and I relied on microwaved hot dogs for every meal because they were cheap, and we were too lazy to make anything else.

6. “Let it go.” (Frozen)

Trust me, I wish I could. But that ice bitch has practically freeze-rayed the lyrics of that song directly into the crevices of my brain. Hopefully they’ll disappear when the mental reiteration of Idina Menzel’s belting leads to my inevitable meltdown.

7. “Swiper, no swiping.” (Dora the Explorer)

Look, if you don’t want him swiping shit, stop calling him Swiper. What the bloody hell do you expect? It’s confusing. As the great T-Swift once said, “Players gonna play. Haters gonna hate. Swipers gonna swipe.” What? She never said that last bit? Oh, probs because that animated fox is so stressed out from the nomenclatural niche he’s been shoved into that he acted out by swiping the lyrics right out of her mouth.

And while we’re on the topic of Dora the Explorer:

8. Dora’s creepy blank stare and slow blink.

Holy mierda, Dora. Stop trying to incinerate my soul with your eerie death glare.

9. Any cartoon that asks my kid a question. (Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Dora the Explorer, Go Diego Go; I could go on longer than the brain-cell-killing, all-day reruns of any of the aforementioned shows)

Look, I get the whole push for intellectual interaction, but I've never heard my kids respond to questions posed by an animated mutant mouse. I’m not sure I want them getting in the habit of talking to over-sized rodents that don’t really exist. Plus, it confuses them. Mickey’s always asking them questions, and they don’t respond because they know (thank God) that he’s not real. But then when Grandma and Grandpa ask them how they’re doing on Skype, my kids just stare at them blankly, expecting them to break into the Hot Dog dance (OH GOD, refer back to #5).

10. “Little Engines can do big things, especially when they have nice blue paint like me!” (Thomas and The Magic Railroad)

Holy Viagra ad, Batman. I don’t care who funds PBS. I’m not ready to have that talk with my kids just yet, and I don’t need them developing “engine envy” at age two. So stop it with the not-so-subtle sexual subliminal messaging and advertising agenda.

*

Clearly, I just need to get my kids hooked on The Vampire Diaries. That would solve all our problems.

How to Make Toast for Toddlers (In 14 “Easy” Steps)

Anyone who’s attempted to properly toast bread for someone under the age of three will tell you it can be tricky. If you don’t get it exactly right, the ravenous tot in front of you will have a meltdown faster than that pat of butter you incorrectly spread on his breakfast. (You know, the one that elicited a temper tantrum because it wasn't swiped over the toast in a meticulously executed counterclockwise motion?)

Here are some tips for first-timers, or infinity²-timers, just hoping to finally throw down a toddler-approved breakfast:

1. Select the proper bread. It should be of a soft wheat variety, but it can’t have any seeds or visible “dirt” (grains) on it. Also, make sure it is closer to the burnt-sienna end of the brown spectrum than it is to sepia. Kids are all about colors. Plus, if the bread is too dark, they will assume that it’s burnt when it comes out of the toaster: And then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Don’t even think about touching that butt piece. You thought about it, didn't you? Great, now look what you—(thought interrupted by wailing toddler and shrieks of “Yuck-bread! Yuck-bread!”)

And now we must go on hunger strike until
we get M&Ms as compensation for the trauma
we just endured.
[via Giphy]

2. Carefully place bread in the toaster and position the toasting nob. Make sure you don’t accidentally “squish” the bread as you’re positioning it. Squished bread will lead to tears; you might as well squish their tiny toddler hearts while you’re at it. Turn the nob so that the little arrow is pointing precisely ¾ of the way between “light” and “dark.” Or between “1” and “5.” Or whatever the hell scale of toastiness your appliance utilizes. Just point it somewhere in a direction between here (↗) and here (↘).

3. Go change a poopy diaper. Because surely one of them has shit his pants by now. After all, it’s been, like, three and a half minutes since you changed their diapers.

4. Once toast has “popped,” remove it carefully. Again, NO SQUISHING. If it’s been a really rough morning, use a metal fork. Make sure the toaster is still plugged in.

5. Remove crusts. It should go without saying that crusts are unacceptable. 

OMG CRUST! I HAZ CRUST! I CAN FEELZ THE CRUST!
[via Giphy]

You’ll need to use a knife, preferably a sharp one. Butter knives tend to leave little ridges on the toast, and you can’t have irregular edges tainting their breakfast plates. Do not attempt to merely rip off the crusts with your hands. This will detract from the toast’s symmetry. Symmetry is vital. Without symmetry, their toddler world goes to shit. Feet will be kicked. Fists will be pounded. Ear drums will be brutally assaulted.

Whatever you do, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT eat the crust off the toast. Even if your kids aren't in the room, THEY WILL KNOW. And the second they find out that you ate it, they’ll decide that toast crust is their “Fay-rit Food” and proceed to throw a massive fit.

6. Go change a poopy diaper. If you’re feeling particularly irritated, don’t wash your hands before resuming toast preparation.

7. Determine the least despised toast spread for your tot. Here’s where things get a little tricky. In my experience, there are two camps of toddlers: (1) The Plain Janes, and (2) The Helly Jellies.

The Plain Janes have a particular affinity for things that taste like cardboard. PUT NOTHING ON THEIR TOAST. Don’t even breathe on it. In fact, if these steps fail you, and you are a parent to a Plain Jane, you could probably get by with just providing an old Cheerios box to gnaw on.

The Helly Jellies tend to be of the artistic variety, and enjoy any colorful, sticky substance that they can smear on the walls, a sibling, or your pants. I generally get the best response from my own Helly Jelly if I opt for honey, grape jelly, or peanut butter. BUT OH GOD DON’T USE CRUNCHY PEANUT BUTTER.

OMG, it has da crunchies in it! I must now
have an irrational freak out!
[via Giphy]

If your kid wants vegemite or seeded strawberry jam, then you have a true toddler anomaly on your hands, and I can be of no further help to you.

8. Cut toast into approximately 45,390,285 identical pieces. For suitable cutting tool options, see #5, above. If you accidentally cut it into 45,390,286 pieces, toss it and start back at step #1.

9. Place toast on shatterproof toddler plate. Make sure you use the green one. No, the blue one. No, the one with cars on it. Actually, put it in a bowl. But not the red bowl. The orange bowl. Is there such thing as a sparkle bowl? Use the sparkle bowl. You don’t have a sparkle bowl? GO GET A SPARKLE BOWL.

10. Go change a poopy diaper. And then ask the universe how so much shit can fit inside such a small person. Seriously. It’s like your kid is a clown car for the Poop Parade.

11. Let down the baby gate. And discover what Mufasa felt like when he met his demise at the feet of that wildebeest stampede. A fair (as if any of this is fair) warning: You’ll likely suffer PTSD symptoms every time you watch The Lion King from here on out.

12. Watch your child scrupulously inspect your masterpiece before finally taking a bite. Remember to breathe while all of this (including—fingers crossed—the toast) is going down.

13. . . .

14. Pick toast up off the floor and give your kid a damn Oreo. And then go change a poopy diaper.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Speaking of poopy diapers, if you've not yet checked out my shitty guest post over at BLUNTmoms, please do so! 

CIO: Cuddle It Out

My youngest is going through a phase (or so I hope) that involves quite a bit of crying and screaming at bedtime. Despite my best efforts to determine the source of his present distress, I've yet to figure out exactly why Going to Bed has suddenly turned our house into a real-life version of Hogsmeade's Shrieking Shack. He hasn't quite reached the age at which he can fully articulate his feelings (one of the greatest parental frustrations of raising a toddler), and I’m not sure if he’s scared, or just craving attention, or nervous about something. (His latest origins of psychological malaise include loose threads, the recent discovery of veins in his wrist, and the visual and mental awareness of lines on his palm; he’s actually been walking around with his sleeve pulled over his hand so as not to see these. It’s endearing, but makes for a lot of post-meal laundry. I have a feeling that if he actually left his palm exposed long enough to have some quack read those lines, she’d see a teenage glovephile.)

"Grim" must be an acronym for "Gloves Required Immediately, Mama."
[via Giphy]

This has been going on for roughly a week now, and there was one night in particular a few days ago when I could just feel my patience running thinner than Dobby’s hair:

Gosh, this post is gonna sound like gibberish
to anyone that’s not a fellow Potterhead.
[via Giphy]

.

Anyway, back to the Muggle topic at (fear-mongeringly creased) hand. Here’s the thing: I am not a fan of “cry it out.” It’s just not for me. I’m sure there are people out there who think that makes me “weak” or something. I’m not dissing parents who employ that method, nor am I attempting to spark some sort of debate about it. I’m well aware that there are probably certain situations that necessitate some unwiped tears. I was blessed not to have colicky babies, so I can’t speak from the perspective of someone who does. However, I do feel I should at least explain the rationale behind my personal philosophy.

This is how I look at it: I don’t like going to bed worried, anxious, or afraid. It doesn’t matter if the issue causing me personal anguish seems silly or inconsequential to other people. If it’s keeping me up at night, then it’s a big freaking deal, even if I’m crying over a load of unwashed laundry or cupcake-eater’s-remorse. I don’t like lying in bed with a layer of unease between myself and my comforter (too bad it's not nomenclaturally relevant to one's emotional well-being), or falling asleep upset. I doubt anyone does. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the platitude "Don’t go to bed angry" dished out as "sound advice" for married couples (speaking of "sound" advice: I could really use some regarding my kids...you know...to stop the screaming). Why should it be any different for our children? It shouldn't matter what a child’s source of fear or apprehension is; the thing that matters is that it’s causing him obvious emotional distress. I don’t enjoy crying myself to sleep, and I don’t think my kids should have to endure something like that simply because it would make my life a little easier.

But, yes, I’m human, and sometimes it’s hard to "walk the walk," especially when I’m so tired that the best I can even hope to do is "shuffle the walk"—in my worn down house slippers. So when my typically-happy-toddler once again started wailing at the moment of contact with his bed that particularly exhausting evening, my immediate reaction was annoyance. I had a headache, I’d gotten about five hours of sleep the previous night, and both my boys were suffering from a bad case of cabin fever. (Texas had endured a rare ice storm, which put a temporary hold on our nearly daily playground visits. It seriously looked as though Elsa had…umm…"let it go"—as in, a euphemism for s**t her brains out—everywhere.)

No, Elsa! Hold it in! Hold it in! Quick, someone get the Imodium!
[via Giphy]

So I left the room, shutting the door behind me, and resolved myself to just "giving him five minutes" so I could sit down and watch American Idol (a slightly embarrassing guilty pleasure). I lasted about two, but when his little wails started to drown out the particularly shrieky Idol contestant on the TV, I couldn't—in good conscience—allow them to continue. So I turned off the boob tube, returned to his room, swept his trembling, delicate body up into my arms—making sure to grab "Zih" (his beloved blankie) as well— and made my way over to the glider.

The hallowed "Zih" of which I speak. Basically a third arm. Luckily it has no palm lines, but it does sport the occasional loose thread in need of yanking. 

Once I had him in my arms—his tiny heart beating rapidly into my own, my lips softly brushing his freshly buzzed scalp—all of my irritation melted away. His response to my touch was immediate, and as soon as we sat down in the glider, he curled his lanky little body into mine, rested his head against my chest, and started drifting off to sleep. In the quiet of his slumber, I started to reminisce about my pregnancy. I recalled occasionally getting frustrated when he and his brother were particularly rambunctious fetuses (Who'da thunk, right? I mean, they're so low-key now), and I’d get a kick in the ribs or punch in the bladder as I was trying to sleep. Of course, once the boys were born, I found myself missing the unique sensation of them moving inside of me, of breathing the same breath, pumping the same blood, sharing life itself. Sitting in that chair with this tiny human being—this living fragment of myself—our breaths and heartbeats falling back in sync, I realized that these are moments to treasure, not dread.

Because there will come a day when he won’t permit me moments like this.

A day when being cradled in my arms can’t make all his problems go away.

A day when I’ll no longer know the gentle pressure of his tiny, familiar fingers pressed into my back.

A day when his fingers aren't so tiny.

Or familiar.

A day when his perfectly shaved little head no longer fits in the crook between my cheek and shoulder.

A day when we can’t both fit comfortably in a rocking chair.

A day when his limbs are too long for me to fold up like a secret love letter, enveloped in my arms.

There will come a day when I’m not the girl he wants to cuddle with.

A day when he goes to bed upset—over a bully at school, or a girl problem, or (gasp!) the discovery of more bodily creases—and he’ll push me away when I try to comfort him.

A day when I have to traverse miles, not a hallway, to get to him.

A day when I’m the one up at night, plagued with worry, because he’s not around.

A day when he may be the one wiping away my tears.

*************************************************************************************************************

So for now, I will gladly sacrifice my evening TV time to rock my child to sleep.

There are things in life you can’t DVR. 

All images, excepting the two of my kid, courtesy of giphy.com (Lord help him if you can't tell the difference).

You Are Not a Bad Mom

Some of you may have read my post a few weeks ago entitled “One of Those Days,” in which I described a day of noteworthy rowdiness at Wassel Bros. & Co. Headquarters. Well, when you’re trying your best to raise a pair of exceptionally active toddlers, sometimes every day can seem like “one of those days.” Really, we could just nix the demonstrative pronoun all together. Every day presents unique challenges, but I think the most difficult ones to get through are the ones that make you question your competency as a mother. And today was definitely one of those—er, well, let’s just say it was particularly tough.

Trying my best not to sound so cheesy I belong in this place, I can genuinely say that I love spending time with my boys. They are sweet (when they want to be), entertaining, hysterical, and nuttier than a squirrel’s bowel movement. Most of the time we spend together stems not from some sense of motherly obligation, but rather a sincere desire to simply hang out with a couple of groovy little dudes. I cherish the opportunity to witness (and sometimes take part in) all of their crazy antics. Do note that I said most of the time. I’m human. And I've always considered myself a bit of a loner/introvert type. Thus, every now and then, I need some alone time to decompress a bit, away from the fraternal madness.

Such was the case today. I was at the computer, editing some photos, while the boys kept each other busy (read: terrorized one another) in their toy room. I typically keep the door open and place a baby gate in the doorway so I can periodically glance in their general direction to make sure no one’s at risk of decapitation via toy pizza cutter, or of becoming a total blockhead (like, literally, getting repeatedly pelted in the skull with wooden blocks). They were getting along exceptionally splendidly this morning, and I had the luxury of enjoying my personal time in a few rare moments of peace and quiet.

In retrospect, that should have tipped me off. My boys are not quiet. Unless they’re asleep. Even then, they've been known to pound the wall with their diminutive—yet, surprisingly strong—little feet during the night, making our house sound like some sleazy, hourly-rate motel. The only other scenarios I can recall that have involved their voluntary silence is when they’ve been up to something.

Bingo.

When I realized how abnormally quiet it had been for the past few minutes, I whipped my head around to the toy room doorway. Sure enough, the gate had been knocked down as definitively as the Berlin Wall, and the boys were nowhere to be seen.

Just to be clear, those are not my kids. They wouldn't have the 

attention span to make a music video.

[youtube.com]

After checking their room (to which they often flee, entertaining themselves with the recently-discovered “on/off” capability of their sound machine—a phenomenon which, judging by their hysterical laughter, is The Most Hilarious Thing in The World), I made my way toward the master bedroom and heard the telltale sound of Stuff Being Strewn Everywhere. Sure enough, they were in the bathroom, taking turns hiding in the cupboard beneath the sink, building towers with toilet paper rolls, and perplexedly studying my feminine hygiene products, probably wondering why Mama’s “diapers” are so much thinner than theirs—and lamenting the absence of Sesame Street characters on them.

Although I certainly wasn't looking forward to reconfiguring our bathroom cabinets and drawers, I had to laugh. I mean, Trystan had also found some of my sweat bands and had miraculously managed to pull them over his abnormally large head, leaving them draped around his neck, creating the illusion that he was wearing some sort of technicolor turtleneck. So I got out my camera, snapped a few photos, corralled them back in the toy room, and got to work cleaning everything up.

That’s when I found a small travel-size bottle of Advil—lid popped off—and a single orange pill nearby on the floor. There have been few moments in my life when I've been so gripped by fear that my limbs literally will not allow me to move. However, when I saw that little bottle, I felt like the air around me had undergone some sort of warped, sticky condensation process. It was like trying to move in a giant bottle of rubber cement. When I finally snapped out of it, I ran back to the boys and asked if they’d eaten anything out of the bottle. When they just stared at me, I asked—a bit more frantically—if they’d eaten any “candy” in the bathroom. This, of course, only led to them demanding candy. Even though I thought it unlikely that they’d ingested anything (they were acting normally—for them—and I couldn't imagine them willingly “eating” something as bitter as Advil) I called my husband, who told me to call 911, and within ten minutes there was an ambulance parked in front of the house and paramedics asking my boys to say “Aaaahhhhhhh” while shining flashlights in their mouths (which they also tried to eat, not exactly mollifying my fear that they’d put something they shouldn't have in their mouths). All the while, I was trying to just keep it together, as my insides felt like they were wrapping themselves around my heart, crushing it with a lethal concoction of fear and guilt.

The paramedics agreed with me that the boys hadn't appeared to have swallowed any of the medicine, but said that they would be more than happy to take them to the hospital to get checked out. By that time, my husband had gotten home, and we opted to drive them to the ER ourselves. I won’t drone on about how long we had to wait in the waiting room (aptly named, unlike the ironic term patient), how much they squirmed and protested while getting their vitals checked, or how rowdy they were by the end of the visit. To make a long story short (a technique I wish we could have applied to our visit), the boys were their typical mischievous selves the entire time—playing leapfrog on the waiting room chairs and foraging through drawers of medical equipment), everything checked out fine, and we were home with ample time for them to destroy the kitchen while I picked up approximately 10,000 bobby pins off the bathroom floor.

Our time in the ER was an emotional whirlwind for me. Although I was beyond relieved that the boys were okay, I was also—understandably—ashamed, angry, and guilt-ridden about what happened (or could have happened) under my watch. Perhaps it would be more felicitous to say under the lack of my watch. I am their mom. I am their protector. Someone who is supposed to keep them safe. I felt as though I’d let them down, and the well-intentioned “It could have been a lot worse” remarks from the hospital workers were a far cry from consolation. I knew that things could have been worse, and that’s exactly why I was so distraught. My boys are my world, and I’d nearly allowed our orbital path to be severed by a moment of neglect. As if the thought of losing them wasn't painful enough to fathom, I was also dealing with the harrowing certainty that it would have been my fault.

While we were waiting to be discharged, I had called my mom in tears, explaining the situation and telling her how irresponsible I’d been. She cut off my rambling and said firmly, “Samantha. You are not a bad mom.” My mom—who I have always looked up to as the quintessential mother, who I aspire to be like—then proceeded to tell me multiple stories of her own “scares” when we were growing up, including multiple broken bones I’d had in my childhood. Her words meant more to me than I can linguistically express, and that’s saying something. I have a propensity for verbosity, in case you haven’t noticed by now.

I’m a mom. It is—now—how I primarily define myself. But I’m also human, and like any human being in any line of work, I make mistakes. Doctors misdiagnose. Writers make typos. Basketball players miss free throws. Lawyers stutter in court. Baby gate manufacturers don’t account for double-teaming toddlers in their designs. Luke Skywalker got his hand cut off. We all make mistakes. That doesn’t make us “bad” at what we do; it makes us human beings. I think the majority of moms have moments when they feel like “bad moms,” even though they know in their hearts that they would do anything, give anything, be anything, for their children. God didn't make us perfect, and He allows us to make mistakes so that we can grow from them. I think, deep down, I know this—that all moms know this—but it still helps to hear it from someone else every now and then.

So to any of the moms out there reading this: You are a damn good mom.

I am a damn good mom. With two incredibly strong, determined toddlers. And a crappy baby gate.