Irish Daisy

I used to love three-day weekends until kids. Blissful days partying with friends, extra nights to hang out without having to get up early, the short work week that follows – three-day weekends were all around great with no downside at all. Now…I still love three-day weekends, but with a toddler in the house I really, really hate the Tuesday morning that follows – one where our entire toddler schedule of predictable events breaks down and her little world is crushed by variation (cue ominous music and weeping). Yesterday morning it resulted in wailing, hiding in my robe (while I was wearing it), three outfit changes, two sock changes, more wailing, grumpy cat impressions, refusals to let go of my leg, my arm, my hand…it was a trial for all of us. And we had to grit our teeth and stay really calm and patient lest we incite the Honey Badger into all-out rebellion – which they’re prone to anyway. Grumpy Badger Ah, Tuesday morning after a three-day weekend, there’s no day like it...

I’m eating a stale granola bar. Not because I want to but because someone opened it, ate a single bite and left it sitting open in the fridge for a week. It’s pretty apparent at this point that no one else is going to eat it. I can’t just throw it out, it’s perfectly good food – or so my mom always told me. And though my mom always told me that as she forced me to eat icky things, I don't have the energy to hunt down the offender and force them to consume this stale granola bar for their snack. So, I’m eating it and it’s kind of chewy instead of crunchy, and weirdly sweeter than they taste when they’re fresh, and I’m not really enjoying my snack, but someone’s got to eat it. I don’t know why, but today this stale granola bar I’m eating sums up the reality of being mom.

Not just any broken shoe - my favorite brown heels. I've had them for five years and I love them. They are unique and I've never seen another pair I like half as much. And so it began...the broken strap on my favorite pair of shoes was the irritating harbinger of one-of-those days. I was yelling at Athena, always a slow mover in the morning, to get up and get dressed, and at the other two to move it, get downstairs and eat breakfast. I plopped down to throw on my shoes and the damn strap is broken. I gave myself 30 seconds to feel bad about the sad demise of my favorite shoes, then tossed them next to the trash can and ran for the closet to get a different pair. But the other pair of shoes didn't work with the shirt I was wearing, so I had to find a new top too. Few extra minutes, no big deal, right? This was just the beginning, just the first tiny bump in a row of irritating stumbles that made me want to raise a white flag before noon even arrived, and surrender to the...

More than any other endeavor in life, parenting makes me feel incompetent. At work, there are new tasks to figure out, challenges to overcome, and changes to absorb, but once the rough patch is passed, or the process adapted, or the task learned, I've got it down. Learning a new skill: research, watch a YouTube video maybe, practice a little, and voila. Gardening: do x, y and z the roses bloom. Cleaning, organizing, budgeting or just about any other thing I’ve tackled over the years – after the learning curve, we’re good. Sure, there’s always room for continual growth and refinement (why, yes, people have accused me of being a perfectionist, why do you ask?), but those are extra icing on the cake. Kids on the other hand…the very second I start to feel like I’ve got it down - maybe even feel a tiny bit of smug satisfaction that I’ve mastered some small part of being a good mom - life and my kids step up to smack me down and remind me I have no idea what I’m doing.  A moment...