I guess I picked clothes

The old adage to “pick your battles” in parenthood is one I do my best to follow. I mean, there are times it simply isn’t worth it to go toe-to-toe with a preschooler who thinks ketchup is a suitable dipping sauce for items on a fruit platter.
Gross, but not life threatening, so I let it go.

For the most part I think clothing selection falls into this category. I mean, is it my first choice that my 4-year-old needs to dress monochromatically each day, matching his exterior wardrobe to his underwear in order to feel like a Ninja Turtle, Spiderman or Superman on the outside and the inside? No. But I can deal. So why is this latest clothing crisis with my 19-month-old daughter causing me so much stress? Why does her insistence on staying in her pajamas regardless of what I have planned for the day have me in such inner turmoil?

Seriously. I’m asking. I want to know.

It’s not just that she wants to live her days in pajamas; it’s the fact that every time I try to remove them I know I’m facing at least 15 minutes of screaming, wailing, feet kicking and general tantrum throwing. Even if I do manage to hold her down and stuff her squirming (and remarkably strong) legs into regular pants, the moment we're done she pulls them off, runs back to her room, retrieves her pajamas and attempts to put them on. This usually ends with her putting two legs in one pant leg hole. Humorous, if I wasn't already so rattled by it all. 

It’s odd because she seems too young to have such opinions. I’m all for offering her the option of “blue pants vs. red pants” and other tips I know to be helpful during the toddler years. However, it seems to me that her physical skill level is beyond her verbal ability to express her needs. I mean, she can’t tell me what she finds so abhorrent about clothing that, to my untrained senses looks and feels a lot like the pajamas she’s so fond of, but she is quite capable exhibiting her frustration in other ways. 

Seriously. I’m sweating at the end of it. You’d think it would be me wishing I could remove my clothes, not her.

As a mother of three, I know this is a phase. Rationally and logically I understand that this will not last forever. I know I will not have to listen to her screaming while she dresses herself in something other than pajama pants in order to go to her first job interview. But in the short term, every encounter feels like running an emotional and physical gauntlet.

Fed up, I recently told my husband he simply had to be the one to dress her. He’s usually at work when this task takes place, but he’s heard the horror stories. Bravely, he agreed. He’s such a white knight that way.

But as I listened from the other room, waiting for the inevitable crying and chaos to ensue, I heard nothing but calm parent-baby chit-chat and soon he emerged with our happy daughter, fully clothed. I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I understand what he did differently than me.

This same happy scenario unfolded each day for about a week and I still don't know what he's doing any differently than I, but I do know one thing: this task is now permanently on his to do list. 

Mostly Motherhood is a blog talking about all things related to family life and then some. Share on social media and send your comments and personal stories here or in the comments section below.

So that's why it's called a circle

The other day I was in the grocery store, poring over the selection of canned fruits wondering which is better — no sugar added, 100 percent juice, or light syrup? Agh. Decisions! — when a noise from behind me made me turn my head. I saw a young mother pushing one of those shopping carts with a car on the front. A preschool-aged child was in the car and a baby strapped in a car seat was inside the cart. I gave the woman what I hope was a supportive smile as I thought how fortunate it was that I had managed to escape to the store this time unfettered by my children.

No sooner had this little exchange taken place than I turned to look to the other end of the aisle and there was an elderly gentleman walking toward me, pushing a woman who I presumed to be his equally elderly wife, in a wheelchair.

For a moment all deliberations of canned fruit left my brain as I thought about the fact that I was literally standing in between two distinct life stages, each with remarkable similarities, indisputable challenges, and moments of sweetness sprinkled in.

            I have much more experience as the young mom with the kids grabbing items off the grocery store shelves than I do pushing an elderly spouse in a wheelchair, but one day… you never know.

During the past year, I have watched my own mother who is now caring for my grandmother and I am amazed by some of the similarities I see.

My grandmother is losing her memory and lives in an assisted living center. I always thought those kinds of facilities meant the staff would be doing most of the assisting, but it’s overwhelming how involved my mother seems to be. Sure, the staff takes care of cooking and cleaning for my grandma, and they provide activities and respond to medical emergencies, but my mother’s help is required on a daily basis to calm her mother’s nerves, to answer questions about where she is and how she came to be there, to sort through clothes and determine what no longer fits, and to regularly tuck her into bed. I’m not suggesting it should be otherwise. This is her mother, the woman who cared for her all her life. It just sounds remarkably similar to my days in the trenches as a mother of young children.

No wonder they call it the circle of life.

The only difference is my children, their intellect and their abilities are moving forward and my grandma is not.

In talking to a variety of people who have had the opportunity to care for their aging parents, I’ve heard phrases that speak of the beauty and peace that comes from repaying one’s parents for the selfless service they once offered to their child. I’ve also heard references to this being one of the most difficult stages of life — way more challenging than the teen years. I believe both sentiments, and I imagine there are a wealth of emotions ranging somewhere in between.

A little bit like how I feel about my little ones.

Given the joy I feel as I teach my children new things and watch them moving forward toward bright, fulfilling futures, I must admit, I am grateful to be in the stage of life that I am. Still, I admire all those offering care on the other end of life, and am fully aware it’s a stage that will one day greet each of us.

        Mostly Motherhood is a blog talking about all things related to family life and then some. Share on social media and send your comments and personal stories here or in the comments section below.

Happiness in two words or less

A few months ago, I found myself going through a bit of a personal and motherhood crisis. The symptoms may sound familiar to some of you. Less patience. Zero energy. Negative self-perception and an overall feeling of “ugh” as I started each day. As I analyzed the situation I could think of countless things that would likely help to get me out of this rut. Eating better, exercising more, regular date nights with my hubby, a weekend getaway, a cleaner home and more structure in our daytime routine, just to name a few. But somehow listing those things only sent me down a path of mentally berating myself, which is a recipe for disaster and, at the very least, leaves me feeling even more overwhelmed.

But today I write to you bolstered by a feeling of empowerment after having discovered the secret of happiness.

That’s right, the secret of happiness. And, you’re in luck, because I’m willing to share.

It can all be summed up in two words: Up early.

Well, I should say, up earlier.

The idea was sparked after reading an article about a man who decided to try a 21-day challenge to get up at 4:30 a.m. each day in order to increase his productivity.

Rest assured, I am not saying such an early start time is necessary.

The author admitted in the article that he knows he is in a unique situation because he is single, has no children and works from home so his schedule and decisions are entirely his own.

(Can any of you remember such a time? My memory of it is faint and getting fainter.)  

His frank description of his experience — and the experiences of others I know who have tried similar things — got me thinking. Why was I groaning every morning when my children popped their adorable heads into my room? Why was making breakfast such an exercise in patience? Why couldn’t I get my act together and start exercising more regularly? Why did I feel like I needed — nay, deserved — a nap every day? Why was I annoyed when I couldn’t align my children’s schedules to meet this particular need?

After much contemplation, the answer became clear, albeit counterintuitive. I was trying to sleep too long.

Oh sure, it didn’t feel long, because my children’s wake time is 7 a.m., give or take. The secret, however, is to be up earlier. What is earlier? That is likely to differ from person to person, but ultimately it means earlier than the children. Earlier than my husband. Early enough that I would have a few moments of me time to think, shower, read, study, exercise, clean, or whatever else I choose to do.

What’s that you say? You’re exhausted? Not sleeping enough as it is? Interrupted night after night by some kid-related crisis or another?

Yep. Me too.

The real secret, however, is this plan doesn’t start when you hear the alarm go off in the morning. It starts the night before. You see part of my problem was I was trying to add several hours of so-called productivity to the end of my day when I was already exhausted.

All day I’d think, “Oh, I will organize those toys after the kids are in bed” or “the laundry can be folded tonight when things are calm” and “I can finish that work project tonight.” But after running the gauntlet of dinner/bath/bed, followed by the endless tucking and re-tucking of our 3-year-old who has a list of bedtime excuses as long as my arm, I was spent. So instead of basking in the quiet nighttime hours and tackling my extra projects, I’d settle into my favorite chair and get sucked into a mini Netflix marathon.

The second part — really the first part — of the up earlier mentality is to get up off the couch earlier and into bed earlier the night before.

Thanks to my self-imposed 10 p.m. bedtime, I have traded some of my least productive hours at night, for some of the most enjoyable morning ones.

I exercise, shower without an audience, listen to inspirational talks, read, study, clean, whatever I want — all in the serenity of a silent house.

What is even more remarkable is how much happier I am to greet our children. Breakfast still comes with challenges depending on how happy the children choose to be on a given morning, but I am much more equipped to respond with patience and love because I am more well rested, and I’ve already had a little time for myself.

Oh, and I have done my absolute best to ban the snooze bar from my life.

So far, so good. I am happier. Remarkably, I have more energy. My patience and creativity are increasing and overall, I’d say this could be the beginning of a beautifully satisfying life change.

The key is to keep it up.

Lisa Larson is a freelance writer and mother of three. Reach out to her on Twitter @LisaGLarson or at www.facebook.com/larsonlisa

Quick side note: I only recently implemented this and my youngest child is 1. I would not consider it during the early months with a new baby and am certainly not suggesting moms of newborns should be getting up any more than they already are. But once your children are sleeping through the night, give it a go. 

All it took was a tent

I never knew it could be that simple; that the upper echelons of motherly sainthood could be achieved by incorporating two simple words into my weekend. But there it was.

Backyard tent.

I guess I should have known, after all, it’s been a topic of discussion for months.

After enjoying herself to epic proportions at our church group’s annual daddy-daughter campout for the past few years, my 7-year-old daughter began planting seeds for another version of this familial bonding experience: The mommy-daughter camp. With a frequency that left no question about her passion for the topic, she regularly asked when we might follow the lead of the fathers and daughters in the neighborhood, arm our selves with tents, sleeping bags and snacks and slip into slumber beneath the stars.

It sounded fun in theory, but there was always something holding me back. First my baby was too young to leave and then it was too hot to camp. I didn’t like the idea of heading off into the wilderness as the lone adult, so for a while the excuse was simply not having a place to make camp. Then it came to me. Why not just keep things close to home. In the backyard.

The date was set and instantly my daughter’s elation knew no bounds. Her happiness fortified me through a few days of single-parenthood while my husband traveled out of town for business. Then, upon his return, the date was set.

I have to admit, even if you’re not the camping kind of person, this really is a relatively simple gig. And the payback comes in spades.

After assuring my 3 ½-year-old son that he and daddy would have their own fantastic night, Lydia and I set out for some pre-camping shopping, followed by pizza dinner and then a quick stop to grab some s’more supplies.

By the time we reached home, there was already a fire built in the backyard fire pit, thanks to a fabulous father-in-law who wanted to help his granddaughter achieve her perfect night.

I can’t count how many times during our marshmallow roast, our rounds of Uno and Go Fish and the sweet moments before she fell asleep that she uttered phrases like “I love you mommy!” and “This is the best night ever.”
Why on earth had I put this off so long?

After listening to her breathe for a while and reveling in the fact that, for reasons unknown to me I was lucky enough to be chosen as her mother, I also fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of crickets playing their song.

Somewhere around 3 a.m. I realized my inflated mattress had gone completely flat, so the rest of the night was spent somewhat fitfully on my part. Lydia, however, was the picture of serenity.

Any discomfort I experienced thanks to the cold, hard ground vanished from my mind when she awoke and the first words out of her mouth were: “This was fun.”

You know what? It really was.

We are definitely doing it again. Maybe next time I won’t wait so long. 

Mostly Motherhood is a blog related to all things family and beyond. Check back weekly for more.