Threenager Life

From the time Clark was born, fellow parents have warned me about raising teenagers. And to be perfectly frank, I remember being one and it must have been pretty terrible for my saint of a mother. I was the worst. Entitled, disrespectful, and generally obnoxious. And those were on the good days!

Of all the ages I have been warned about parenting, teenagers are always at the top of the list. Followed closely by Terrible Twos, which we sailed right through. Three, on the other hand, has been a ride that I was not prepared for!

I have always sort of hated the term 'threenager' (nor do I love aforementioned 'Terrible Twos'), as kids are not terrible or any other derogatory connotation. They are just small people with big emotions that they are learning to control and understand. I was never a fan of such generalizations...until I had a 3 year old. 

As we get ready to close out Clark's year of being 3 in a few short weeks, I cannot think of a better word to describe that 3 foot, 36 pound bundle of pure will and personality than 'threenager'. The similarities are striking:

Recently, Clark was moved from a crib to a toddler bed and all the freedom that comes with that transition, namely the ability to get out of bed 137 times per hour to pee. I try to be a pick-your-battles parent, so I grant amnesty most nights for the first several ventures out of bed. One night in particular came along recently where I called up from the bottom of the stairs that his field trips had come to an end and he needed to get into bed. Subtlety not being his strength, my usually sweet, kind, obedient child screamed at the top of his lungs and slammed his door with all of his strength. My first door slam! 

I grew up in a household where if you slammed your door shut, it immediately came off the hinges and you had no door left to slam. As I marched up the stairs to make it clear that this was his first and ONLY door slam, the mom lightbulb came on. We have older style door handles that his chubby little baby hands can't quite grip correctly when tightly shut. So after a stern chat about privileges and the loss of them, Clark spent a night with his door shut after only 112 trips to pee beforehand. The horror! But also, go me for thinking on my feet!

Also new and teenager-y is the chance I take daily of embarrassing him by merely existing. We were late for dinner and he was stuck at work with me finishing a month end 911 and he was hangry. He asked to go see some of his favorite coworkers of mine before we left, and I tempted fate and said 'yes, but it needs to be quickly'. After giving his usual hugs and answering a few questions, my coworker and I got a little sidetracked in a conversation, and aside from holding his hand so he didn't dart out in front of a moving vehicle (I'm an excellent parent!), I basically forgot that I had promised a hungry kid brevity in my conversation. 

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my hand and as I looked down at him to listen to him, my soul was burnt into by the raging fires of Satan coming from his eyes. Nose crinkled angrily and teeth gritted, he whisper-screamed "Mom! We are NOT doing this! We have to go!" Eyes still actively rolled to the back of his head, we walked to the car in silence; save for a few very annoyed deep breaths from the 3 year old. 

And just this week, we sat Clark down to tell him that Mommy is going to stop going to work every day at the end of the month and he and I are going to stay together! Sidenote: this has been a goal of Ryan's and mine since I went back to work when he was 10 days old. I've endured years of nasty comments about him probably thinking I'm daycare and daycare is his 'real' mom, I've been told how others could never choose work 'over' him, and also, I really freaking miss him. For four years, I have been blessed with a job that I love, with coworkers that I truly enjoy 96% of the time, that has allowed me to help provide for our family and offer Clark the chance to learn and grow with other children. The same job and boss bent over backwards for me 18 months ago when I said I needed to cut my hours and spend every Monday with my child. Without hesitation, I was told to do what's best for my family. (No boss is perfect, but I will never forget that gesture. BP - you are one of the good ones. You will always be the one who supported me every time and in every way I needed, and you are one of the hardest people to leave. Loyalty goes both ways in a job, and you made sure that your staff knew that you had our backs. Two people who feel as deeply as we do aren't always a good combo in a work atmosphere, and we have had our share of sparks over the years, but I always knew we were still on the same team, even when not each other's biggest fan that particular day. Your leadership and friendship made this the hardest professional decision I have ever made.)

As much as this has been our goal, I still sat in my General Manager's office and bawled while tendering my resignation. A lot of people say their coworkers are like a family, but I find it hard to believe that many could feel more like one than my work family. I enjoy going to work most days, and getting to see the people I work alongside, knowing about their lives and their successes and being there to pick one another up when a tragedy is faced. 

And if I'm being blunt, I'm pretty good at what I do. I'm not 100% sure I'll be a good stay at home mom, but I have known for a while that I needed to try or that I would regret losing out on this time. I left my 10 day old to return to that job - if that doesn't say something about my sense of being part of the team, loyalty, and love of that company, I'm not sure what does. Still, that GM who so graciously listened to me cry over leaving, told me, without hesitation, 'do what's best for your family'. Knowing that me leaving means headache for him, he still supported my choice. Those are good people and I am really going to miss them.

Back to Clark, after arriving at this decision through months (and arguably, years) of pros and cons with Ryan, we finally agreed this week that this would be our next chapter. As my sadness waned and my excitement at getting to see my kid more bubbled over, we told Clark about our schedule that will begin at the turn of the new year. With anticipation, we gave him the information and waited for his glee. 

I'm still waiting for the glee. His first response was "No fair! I don't want to quit daycare!" We carefully explained to him how we will get to see each other and go places and make new friends. I, again, waited to see joy spread across his face. Instead, I saw the wheels turning as a smirk opened across his face and he asked "Mommy, can you go to work and I stay with Daddy every day??"

So, if you're thinking I'm questioning my decision, it's clearly going great. Exactly the reaction I hoped for while wallowing about sacrificing a job that I love that pays actual money. I'd totally rather not get paid and have my boss completely pissed that I'm around all the time. Can't wait to see what he thinks of me when he's an actual teenager. #Winning. #BringOnFournado

*Late edit: I see that I made the grave oversight of no photos. Enjoy these 'teenager-like' snaps from the past few months and tell me which you think I'm most in store for in 9 short years.

From Rags To Dollar Menu Riches

For as long as I can remember, I have always been pretty lucky. From drawing a family member’s winning raffle ticket when I wasn’t much bigger than Clark all the way up to winning things like free concert tickets. I have been to countless concerts where I have left with a pick the artist played with – once, I got one while sitting in the 10^th row. Landed right at my feet. Typically, I have to forfeit said pick to a whiny older sister who tells me that she “had a moment” with the artist who actually meant to give the pick to her (you know who you are!), but nonetheless, they were actually given to me.

When I lived in larger cities like Phoenix and Las Vegas, I had a way of winning more concert tickets than I ever actually purchased. Whether I had to be caller 10, caller 30, or answer a trivia question, my phone got through the crowded lines on a regular basis, without ever needing to redial. A quick mental count reminded me of 11 different concerts I have seen on a radio station’s dime, plus several experiences won through random luck or writing contests, and countless goodie bags. Granted, I always have the radio on, so the law of averages suggests that I would have several marks in the win column, but I think it happens even more than that. I’m just plain lucky.

So it was no surprise to me today when I got into the car for work and turned my radio on that I heard a trivia question that I knew the answer to – it happened to be about Vince Gill, who I just adore and  happen to have tickets to see in a couple weeks when he is in town. I grabbed my phone, dialed, instantly heard it ring and had my call quickly answered. I gave the correct answer and immediately started answering all sorts of questions about myself that I will need to answer correctly when I arrive at the station to pick up my prize. The prize that I didn’t hear advertised, because all I had time to do was hear the question and call. I incorrectly assumed that it could be closer tickets to the upcoming concert, since Vince was the answer and he will be here soon. After thinking about what else it could be, while still answering a million questions, it occurred to me that our county fair is this week and it was probably tickets to that. Finally, the thought crossed my mind that this station periodically gives out money in increments of $1,000! I could most definitely find something to use that on!

All the suspense FINALLY culminated, and I was ready to hear my grand prize. Well, I thought I was ready to hear it. I was imagining things like “you have won backstage passes and front row seats to see Vince Gill!” or “We have a $1,000 check we are writing to your name as we speak!” Instead of hearing something along those lines that would cause me to scream right into the phone, I heard “……gift card”. Not wanting to be ungrateful, I was still excited to hear where I would be spending my newfound inheritance, thinking maybe I could have a clothing shopping spree, or a couple of really fancy dinners. I told them I was having trouble hearing and asked them to repeat my prize. This time, all I heard was “Wendy’s”. Quickly using my college educated brain to piece those words together and try to think of what fancy store I knew named “Wendy’s”, I could see it flashing in front of me: Wendy’s. Gift Card. Wendy’s. IT’S A WENDY’S GIFT CARD. I flashed back into the conversation just in time to hear “Baconfest is currently going on at your neighborhood Wendy’s”, which means absolutely nothing to a vegetarian like myself.

I went from winning coveted, front row concert tickets, backstage passes, a shopping spree, and a thousand dollars to winning a fast food gift card in an instant. If you need me, I’ll be crying into a frosty.

Won't You Be Our Neighbor?

No, we aren't moving again (thankfully). And to the best of our knowledge, nobody on our street is selling their home. But the next time we do move, there will be some pre-interviews to find out what we're dealing with before taking the plunge.

Ryan and I have moved 4 times in the nearly 8 years that we have been together, and it wasn’t until recently at lunch with friends that we realized just how bad our luck with neighbors has been. As we were reminiscing, the stories really started piling up. Join me on a walk down the strange avenues we have lived on:

The Stalker

When we moved into the first home we purchased, a man was standing in our driveway when the moving truck pulled in, waiting to introduce himself. How long he had been there or how he knew what day we would be arriving is, to this day, a mystery. After exchanging pleasantries, our new neighbor handed us a SEVEN page poem he had written about a Bible story, along with a letter detailing how he enjoys reading these poems to small children he meets while running errands. As if that isn’t creepy enough, there at the top of the first page was our engagement photo and our names. OUR ENGAGEMENT PHOTO! That you can’t find on Google….trust me, I have looked.

The Swingers

At that same home, the couple across the street owned a snow blower, and a couple times each winter, would snow blow our double sidewalk and dig our fire hydrant out. As a thank you, I always prepared some kind of homemade goodie and we would walk across the street to deliver them. Like in a movie, after we knocked on the door, we could hear several locks being undone on the other side of the door, before the husband opened it just enough to stick his head out the door, grab the treats, close the door, and lock all 7 locks. I would see the same couple pretty often at our neighborhood nail salon, always with another couple, always sitting in pedicure chairs in every other person fashion, always holding hands and putting on a PDA show with the other couple.

The Witch

Most neighborhoods have one of these, and ours was a real doozy. Our backyard was in a valley, and this neighbor was up on top of a small hill. She would constantly point her gutter drain hose directly INTO our backyard, so it would routinely flood. We thought maybe we could have a civil conversation with her about it and see if she would kindly put it on her own property. Which would have been a great plan if she would have EVER spoken to us, but even when we said hello, she would look right through us and refuse to speak, but she did make sure to flip us off every time she drove by.

The Dog Owner

Before we lived in a house with a fence, we had to take Mia outside on a leash to do her business. One afternoon, Ryan was outside with her when a small dog wandered directly into our yard and walked right up to them. Ryan told Mia to sit and to be a good neighbor. The two dogs sat down, facing one another, and things seemed to be going well until the small dog (it’s ALWAYS the small dog, isn’t it?) reached a paw right up and booped Mia’s nose. Now, I wasn’t there, but Ryan assures me that in a split second, Mia took one paw and had the small dog pinned to the ground, letting it know that it couldn’t come into our yard, start a fight, and be welcomed. Ryan handled it quickly and told Mia they were going inside until the rude four legged neighbor left. Approximately three minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Ryan opened it to find SOMEONE WE WENT TO CHURCH WITH, asking if we had seen his small dog that got loose. Oh, the one that assaulted our dog and that our dog could have torn to pieces in five seconds had Ryan not been there? Nope, haven’t seen her.

The (Alleged) Drug Dealer

Our next neighbor was one for the books. Picture a half-naked (always), nice, but way too loud character who stood outside and argued with his wife who was inside. Now imagine that for 10 hours a day, every day, a slew of shady looking cars pulled into the middle of the street, left the car running, and had one person jump out, run inside the house, emerge three minutes later, and speed off shortly before the next arrived. I always said I don’t believe they were smart enough to cook meth, so I’m pretty sure it was only a misdemeanor. Really, the nicest guy though. He always invited Ryan to go fishing, and offered up his wife as a babysitter for us. It was of course a hard pass from us, but he really did try to be our friend. And after a quick tally, we both voted him in as our favorite, which should really tell you something about our luck.

The Driveway Patrol

For a very brief period of time, the street we lived on was having work done and we could not use it. Clark was very small and I had just gotten out of the hospital after an episode of a racing heart and fainting. Our only options were to either park 3 blocks away, or to use our backyard. We decided to use the backyard since it would only be a day or two. Up until that point, our neighbors were very friendly and we would always speak to one another. In order to access our backyard, we had to put two car tires on the corner of the very end of said neighbor’s driveway. Thinking it wouldn’t be an issue, we drove two tires on the last square of driveway that touched the street. We were very wrong. The next day, we awoke to find a lengthy note on our windshield about respect and our lack of it. We half considered leaving him a note about walking through our yard to place the note on our car, but chose to be the bigger people and never speak to them again, and then move.

The Hot Mess

The first time I met our current neighbors, they were plastered and snuck up behind me while I was getting Clark out of the carseat, and drunkenly asked me if he was just getting home from daycare…at 8pm. The second time I saw them, the boyfriend was being taken out of the house in cuffs. The third time, she was being taken out of the house on a stretcher. The fourth time, I saw her half-dressed at midnight with a firetruck outside. And the fifth time, she arrived on our front porch needing to use a phone. I gave her mine, she struggled to dial, and then looked at me and said “I forgot my mom is dead. I can’t call her.”

Kids Say the Darndest Things

People say that you will always get an honest answer out of a kid. There's some serious truth to that - kids don't understand social norms and what might be hurtful, misconstrued, or inappropriate. They just say whatever comes to those growing brains of theirs. And while it is sometimes embarrassing for their parents, it is a quality that I deeply envy, and I think it's often beautiful.

These tiny humans understand things like love, forgiveness, and truth that we adults seem to learn to filter over the years. In between the funny, inappropriate, and sometimes mortifying moments, Clark (and others his age) speak such profound wisdom that it stops me in my tracks. 

I am the kind of parent who believes in never burdening little people with the problems of big people, but I am also a truthful parent who wants my child(ren) --- NOT an announcement --- to know that whenever they have a question, that mom is going to tell them the truth. It's a big part of the reason people treat us like criminals because we don't do Santa or the Easter Bunny. I don't want to ever blatantly lie to him.

First, the funny -

My child is completely literal. Being that he is my only child, I don't know if it's just him, or if every child is this cut and dry, but it CRACKS me up. Below are just a couple of recent conversations that highlight this -

1.) The Ins and Outs of Milk

C: Momma, if you mind, can I have a glass of milk?
H: Sure!
C: Fank you.
H: You're welcome. Do you know where we get milk from?
C: *looks at me like I am a moron*
C: Yeah...from the old ladies at the grocery store.

--- True, that is where we get OUR milk. ---

2.) Snake Hunting

*We were watching a show and a family found a live snake in a box in their home.*

H: Clark, what would you do if we had a real, live snake in our house?
C: *shrugs* I don't know...catch it and make it dead.

--- Good point, kid. ---

Next, the inappropriate - 

1.) The Penis Rules 

C: Boys has penis.
H: You are right.
C: I show you my penis?
H: No, that is private.
C: Ohhh. Okay. I just touch my penis?
H: No, not unless you really have to, and if you do, go to the bathroom. Otherwise, leave it alone.
C: *blank stare*
C: *In the middle of the living room, opens his shorts*
H: CLARK! What are you doing?!
C: I'm just looking at it! I CAN look at it, can't I??
H: *Facepalm*

--- It's ALWAYS about a penis with a boy, isn't it? ---

2.) The Old Man at the Swimming Pool

*Ryan and I took Clark swimming, and we had to wait a few minutes in a long line.*

C: *Swinging his arms*
H: Please be careful, you almost hit the people in front of us.
C: Sorry, mom. It was a ass-ident.
H: It's okay, but I don't want you hitting the guy in front of us.
C: BECAUSE HE IS AN OLD MAN?!
H: No, it's just not nice. And don't scream.
C: BUT HE IS AN OLD MAN! (He was like 40, tops)
H: *Frantically trying to change the subject*
H: What do you want to do in the pool?
C: *Pointing*
C: Is dat OLD MAN going to da pool, too?
H: *trying to become invisible while pondering moving 3 states away*

Now, the wise -

It should be no secret to anyone who knows me at all that I am an ally and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and inclusion. And it is probably also no secret that I am angry, hurt, and disappointed in the United Methodist Church's decisions at the most recent annual conference to continue being a culture of exclusion. It further complicates things that my husband is employed by the United Methodist Church, and he is also very good at that employment and loves being there.

One of the million reasons why I love that man is that he never tries to tell me what to believe, or how to process my emotions. I told him that I couldn't, in good conscience, attend our church for a few weeks or more. I needed time to step away and sift through my broken heart before I could decide my next move. He supported me through that and gave me the space and the time that I needed to heed some great advice that highlighted the fact that nothing changes by abandoning it.

So one Sunday morning about a month after the vote, I told myself and my Lord that I was going to get up, get dressed, and be a part of the change I want to see in the world. Which meant attending the church that I love and continuing to campaign and fight for what I believe Jesus would do.

It was an unusually quiet ride to church, as I was still sorting through everything and pretty nervous to be in attendance after such a long absence. Kids are so dang smart and perceptive. From the backseat, a little voice piped up and this was our conversation -

C: Momma, are you okay?
H: Yes, honey, I am. I'm just sad.
C: Why?
H: Because some people not really at our church, but connected to our church did some things that really hurt my feelings.
C:
C:
C:
C: (in the toughest voice I have heard from him to date) Who did it, Momma?!
--- I think he was ready to defend my honor ---
H: Some people that you don't know.
C: What did dey do?
H: Well, they are being kind of mean to families who have two Daddies or two Mommies (the best way I could explain it to his understanding). You know, like your friend at daycare who has two Daddies?
C: Ohhh, yeah! Dat SO cool!
C: Why are dey being mean?
H: Well, these people don't want families with two Daddies or two Mommies to be able to be a pastor, or to marry each other. And I am sad because I think we should love everyone.
C: I wish I had two Daddies. My Daddy is such a good Daddy, Momma! I wish I had two of my Daddy!

Now, I understand that he is 3 and that he by no means understands the full spectrum of LGBTQ+ issues, nor do I completely understand where his beliefs will lead him, but I DO know that I explained it to him the absolute best way that I could, and that he responded with nothing but love. He was reminded of a family structure that looks different than his family, and he thought it was cool and wished he had two Ryans in his life. Again, that shows that his understanding of the situation has some growing to do, but it also shows that his first instinct is to lead with love. Kids understand that on a deeper level than we give them credit for.

I'm proud of my boy and the way that his brain works. And I am proud that I am raising such a compassionate kid, even if he is a blossoming smartass who calls people old and pays WAY too much attention to his penis.

The Seven Year Itch

Seven years. That's how long I've lived in Iowa. Seven winters under my belt with only 1 killed deer/car on my record. A few fishtail drives, but nothing even this Vegas girl couldn't correct. I've shoveled lots of snow. I've learned to balance (sort of) on slippery sidewalks.  But today, I met my match.

After my sweet husband shoveled 13 inches of "heart attack snow" in several 90 minute shifts to dig our cars out, he told me to be sure to take the short side of our alley out this morning.

Sidebar: Clark received a Paw Patrol shovel from Aunt Tammy & Uncle Bob for his birthday last year. He has been talking for 11 months about getting to shovel snow with it. So while Daddy huffed and puffed and braved the elements, I inched our door open and let Clark "shovel" the deck from our warm kitchen. Ryan came in after(what we thought was) his final hour of shoveling, drenched in sweat and several layers of clothing, catching his breath, and very kindly made a HUGE deal about thanking Clark for shoveling the deck for him. Without missing a beat, our 2 year old patted his Dad's shoulder as he walked away, and nonchalantly said "Oh, you welcome, Daddy!'

I was up extra early thanks to insomnia, so I bit the bullet, got ready, and headed out to my car. That's where things got dicey.

I very carefully reversed straight behind me in order to  avoid the snow bank. Reverse is not my strong gear, so I was very pleased with myself as I switched into drive and turned the wheel. Screeeeeeeeeech. Bumpbumpbump. Ice. And not just a patch - an entire alley COVERED in several inches of very thick, very frozen ice. While my winter driving experience is limited, I have had success reversing when I can't get traction in drive. I'm smart. I can do this. Back to reverse, back to a few feet of motion, bumpbumpbump. Now, instead of 2 wheels stuck on ice, I have managed to get all 4 wheels onto frozen solid water. At least I'm pretty.

By my third attempt, I realized I needed to call in the big guns. Lucky for me, the big guns had been watching from the door and was already headed my way in snow gear, armed with a bright yellow plastic shovel. While he may have been cursing me under his breath, he was very sweetly telling me I could stop apologizing three times per breath. Realizing much faster than I did (he is definitely the brains of this operation) that I was stuck on ice, not snow, he tossed the plastic shovel aside and started pushing the car and my heavy butt while I gunned the gas on the back swing and tried not to run him over on the down slide.

After several attempts, ice breaking, changing drivers, and a lot of screeching and burning tires, my knight in snow gear drove off onto a real road with me slowly skidding down the rest of the alley behind him. Shaken, I made it to my now toasty warm car, buckled up, and slowly drove off. That's the exact moment that I remembered my lunch was at home. Determined to not go back, I resolved to order extra at my daily Starbucks stop to get me through the day. Main roads seemed fine, but my nerves proved to be shot when I saw traces of frozen precipitation on the road to that beautiful double tailed mermaid. Turns out I love my life just a little bit more than my coffee.

Finally completing my 10 minute commute to work an hour after it began, I pulled into my parking spot and breathed a sigh of relief that I was in 1 piece. That audible noise was immediately accompanied by the loud growl of my empty stomach.

Deciding to quench my hunger with a cold Diet Dew, I took a crisp dollar bill out of my drawer and headed to our machine at work. Like always, it took my dollar, had me make my selection, sent the arm up to my requested number, and then I helplessly watched the machine stop in front of my deeply desired caffeine before flashing "sold out" across the tiny screen and returning my dollar in quarters. Two of which, the machine promptly ate while I was loading them to try a different number.

Fighting back tears for the third time today, I took a deep breath and retrieved the not-so-secret keys from their designated spot, opened the giant machine, took my pop, and closed and locked the machine. Still holding the 4 quarters like the frazzled, on-the-verge-of-crying thief that I am. Nope. Not today, Satan. 4 quarters and a post-it note explaining the issue to the designated staff member in charge of these things, caffeine in hand,  I was ready to turn my day around.

Another loud hunger rumble. Hmmm, Diet Mountain Dew isn't that filling when it's the only thing you give your body 4 hours after waking up. Just then, an angel in disguise appeared with a very large piece of succulent, moist, golden, delicious cake. I devoured it faster than a feral momma cat who hadn't seen food in a week, much to the wide eyed horror of the sweet friend who shared. As I was taking my first breath since inhaling the yumminess, I asked "what was that divine syrup you used??" Her horror quickly turned to amusement as she said "Rum. It's a rum cake. I forgot you don't drink - I should have given you half of a piece."

Soooooo, there I was, drunk* at work. Not sure if that was an upgrade or downgrade to my day, but I seemed to care a lot less about living in this God forsaken skating rink after that. Either way, I can attest to 2 things: 1. That darn cake was AMAZING and I would have eaten it all had I not been afraid to call Ryan to tell him I was fired for being drunk at work... at 10am on a Tuesday...after he labored for an hour to get me there on time, and 2. that the 7 year itch IS a thing. At least when it comes to real winter. Anyone know of lucrative jobs on the beach? For Ryan, that is. I'll be home making my new favorite cake.

*I'm like 97% sure I wasn't drunk, but that might be the Rum talking.

Dadgic

In my 30 some years of life, I have been blessed with some amazing fathers. Chief among them are my own father, who I have the immense pleasure of still having to this day. His booming laughter and orneriness really know no bounds. I have the added blessing of having a wonderful bonus dad who I earned when I married his son. His kindness and sweet heart are two of my favorite things in this world. And then there’s the guy who I get the privilege of watching as a father every day; my husband.

I know everyone always says this, especially around Father’s Day, but my husband really is the best dad. I knew a long time ago that he would be a great dad; it’s part of the reason I wanted to marry him. Some things in life you just know, and this was one of those things. 

Even though he didn’t have a ton of experience with kids, Ryan jumped right in and filled his role as Clark’s father so seamlessly. He is loving, patient, fun, silly, calm, funny, and warm. He never shies away from Dad duties. He doesn’t babysit or watch our child; he parents him. Pretty darn well, I might add. While I know that is the baseline from where dads are typically measured, I think it’s a sad but true reflection of how little society expects from fathers.

There has not been a single day in Clark’s 29+ months on this earth where I have had to ask Ryan for help. I know a lot of moms who aren’t so lucky, and I believe that he deserves to be celebrated. From the fact that he has never once complained about missing work to care for our boy, to the joy and squeals that he elicits from our son every day for just walking through the doorway, to what I call dadgic (the magical ability that fathers have to speak the same command a child’s mother has said no less than 18 times, and said child immediately and without question obeys request).

Ryan is the dad who throws Clark up in the air so high it makes my heart sink to my knees, and leaves our toddler breathless from laughter. But he’s also the dad who rocks a scared little boy back to sleep after a bad dream at a ridiculous hour on a work night. And he’s also the dad who makes an unruly toddler serve his time in the corner and apologize to his momma for yelling at her. 

He has instilled a love of music, adventure, guitars, Jesus, humor, and Cardinals baseball in our boy. Ryan has loved Clark since the day he found out he was going to be a father, and has never faltered in his quest for Clark to know how loved he is. There's nothing more a mother could wish for in a father for her children.

Is there anything in the world sexier than a good dad? Maybe a good dad with a killer beard and backwards baseball cap, but that’s a different kind of post ;). Happy Father’s Day to you, my love. Thank you for picking me to raise a family with, and thank you for that sweet little boy who is lucky to call you Daddy. We love you so much!

Pin THIS, Pinterest

I am not a Pinterest mom. I do not understand Pinterest, or how to pin anything, or how to find things I’ve pinned, or how to make my creations look like what Pinterest made look so dang easy. So imagine my delight when 36 hours before the party, I received a text from daycare informing me of the upcoming Valentine’s Day party that included the phrase ‘Bring a dish to pass, and be creative with the theme of Valentine’s Day in mind. We want it to be special.’ Well you know what I want? To buy a tray of cookies and go on with my life. And I also want about a week and a half notice to get that half-hearted gesture off my back.

Genetically speaking, I should be good at this. I mean, my mother is basically the inspiration behind Pinterest. Or at least she should have been. Turkeys made out of suckers, cookies that look like stained glass windows, candy that looks exactly like bacon and eggs…the list goes on. She always cheerfully got me an apron and a chair and let me ‘help’, even if my assistance was more of a hindrance. I try my best to channel her patience in the kitchen…like not dying on the inside when my kid puts dog food in a pan and says ‘I make hot dog!’ while I try to cook one mediocre meal. In his defense, it might taste better than an actual hot dog.

Where I don’t excel is in actually making the ideas come to life. I will spend hours scouring Google for ‘EASY holiday themed treats’, find the easiest and cheapest looking one, head to the store (with a toddler in tow; which should be its own medal eligible event), come home exhausted after a day of work at my fulltime job and spend 45 minutes debating what would be easier: make the stupid treats, or get in the car, drive until we run out of gas, change our names, and start a new life. Daycare gets paid on Mondays, so they won’t be looking for Sarah in Omaha and her creative Valentine’s Day inspired dish to share. 

Aside from the dish, why do I have to sit with a 2 year old for 83 pain staking minutes while he scribbles across 11 store bought Valentine cards with puns about being sweet? He’s just going to give them to 11 more tiny people who also can’t read.

Look, I appreciate that daycare wants to have traditions and parties and make cute little crafts. I love it. It is part of the reason why we chose the daycare that we did – because we knew that our kid’s day would be enriched by these things. The problem I have is WHY I have to participate. I pay them to create this environment. If I wanted to join in, I would apply to work there. 

And here’s my other issue…the perfect little daycare family with the perfect treats that the perfect mom spent 11 hours and $492 creating. They’re 2. They eat rocks. Nobody is impressed with your 12 perfectly pink tiramisus in the shape of the freaking Mona Lisa served on a bejeweled heart platter that you made yourself. Our daycare has just such a perfectly perfect mom, who has no shortage of comments about the rest of us. And so help me Cupid, if she makes one remark about the red pancakes and light syrup (I’m sure her hand pressed sunflower oil that she picked the ingredients for from her perfect white picket fenced yard is a real hit with the toddlers) we bring, I will be on the front page of the paper being arrested outside of daycare for shoving pink tiramisu up her perfect butt.

This is why I hate the holidays. As if I don’t have enough going on in my life, now I have to MAKE crap?! Is there some sort of business that I can pay to make the thing I saw on Pinterest, they’ll deliver it to daycare, and then I can take the credit? Because I would pay good money and compromise my morals for that kind of service.