Floundering Flutist

*Warning you are about to read the ramblings of mom on the brink of losing it. Thank you 5th grade band.


FLUTE. Oh flute. Little flute you have caused so much stress in my life. A1 decided before school started she was going to be in the band.  She was going to play the flute. She was going to be awesome. School started. She missed school. She missed a flute lesson. She missed another day of school. She missed another flute lesson. She is behind the other kids in her group. She is finding flute is hard. She refuses to practice. She isn't a natural flute player. She has to work. She doesn't like to work. She wants to quit. She isn't going to quit, I won't let her. I am the worst mom in the world. I am horrible. I am ruining her life. I am the cause of her needing to drop out of school. I am ruining my life. I am ruining peace. I am ruining relaxation. 

Normally my motto is "If it causes stress and it isn't necessary, get rid of it." Is the flute causing stress in my life? YES!!! Is it necessary? NO!!! I am I getting rid of it? NO... wait, what? I have to stick to my guns on this one. A1 has never had a challenge. She is capable of doing anything she has ever tired. This is the first thing she has EVER had to work at and she isn't coping very well. (I am not either.) Tonight we had tears, temper tantrums, and screaming. I forced her to practice tonight. I worked with her. I stuck with it. She stuck with it. She practiced for 30 minutes tonight (that includes all the self imposed interruptions).

My skills are basic at best, but that is what she needs right now so we are good, except I am not the most patient person when it comes to her tween-itude. Eye rolls are my rage button. Huffy puffy breathing is my combat trigger. Stompy feet are my quarrel switch.

Tonight was a rough night. The flute is a major problem in my life. A1 is not giving up on the flute. I am not giving up on A1. She will learn from this. I will learn from this. She has to stick with this until the end of the school year. The school year is almost over, right?

In the event that I don't survive the year with the flute, please promise me no one will play the flute at my funeral! Actually, please everyone do! I hope they pass out flutes and make everyone play Hot Cross Buns over and over and over again. I know I will be laughing. 

P.S. I am very impressed at my ability to play Hot Cross Buns even if no one else at my house was impressed at all!  

Ramblings are over.

Super-mom Is Not a Super Mom

I love this picture.

I love this picture so much.

I didn't remember this night until I saw the picture. We were all playing in our rooms while my mom was busy doing something, probably cleaning up a mess we made. Chris and I were supposed to be watching Caley, but you know what happens when you ask a 4 year old and a 7 year old to watch the baby...

Markers, markers happen, that is what happens.  I also believe Caley left graffiti on the underside of the bunk bed, but we aren't talking about that. I am pretty sure my mom was mad, I would have been. BUT I don't remember that part.

I love this picture, because even if my mom was mad (and she should have been) and her lips probably disappeared, as we came to notice they always did when she was mad, I don't remember her being mad. That means there is a good chance that when they are older the A Team won't remember all the times I have been mad at them . I can stop beating myself up over all the less than patient moments in my life, they won't remember, probably.

I love this picture because it shows normal kids who have a normal mom. I have always thought of my mom as super-mom. The mom who always had her stuff together. Always had her ducks in a row. And always had her floors mopped and laundry washed AND put away. Let's be honest, she always DID have her floors mopped, laundry washed, laundry put away, windows washed, counters cleared, floors vacuumed and basically all the other things my house is lucky to have done once week, EVERY. Single. Day. This picture shows that while my mom is a super mom she wasn't super mom, the fictitious mom character we all strive to be. The one we search Pinterest to find. The one who forgets to put herself as a priority. The one we can never be, because no one is super mom. It just isn't possible. Not even for my mom.

I love this picture because it allows me to be less hard on myself when I don't get everything right all the time. It quiets that voice in my head that says "Your mom wouldn't have done that. You aren't as good as your mom." The voice that doesn't let me fail and forgive myself.

I love this picture because it shows that my girls are normal. They won't grow up to be criminals who graffiti all over town, probably. They will grow up to be successful adults, probably, like the kids in that picture mostly did.

I love this picture because it tells be I don't have to be super-mom to be a super mom.

I love this picture because it reminds me to laugh when the girls pull crazy stunts. Laugh and take a picture. Someday they will want to look back at the time A1 decided to write about her love of Jesus on the wall,

or the time A2 decided to practice writing her numbers on the couch,

or the time A3 decided to put on makeup

and laugh as much as I do every time I think back to the days they each pulled these stunts and many others. 

PS- Mom, thanks for being a great example for me to follow. I want to be a super mom like you. (I just plan on using less bleach.)

Communication Fail

I assume when I talk to the girls about something repeatedly and they answer all the questions with the correct answers, they understand what I am talking about. BUT we all know what happens when we assume.

A2 came home from school one day during the first week mad at me. I had apparently ruined her life once again. It took her a couple of hours and bedtime for her to finally open up about me most recent offence.

"Thanks a lot mom. You didn't teach me my address. My teacher asked me my address and I didn't know it. I was the only one in my class who didn't know and now she thinks I am stupid." A2 spewed at me.

I was confused. She knows her address. She has known it since she went to kindergarten. I didn't want her getting on that big bus without being able to tell someone where she lives, just in case.  I looked into her eyes and said, "Honey, you know your address." She shook her head and gave me a sassy duck/pout face. She wasn't buying it. I had to prove it to her.

"What is your street name?" I asked.

Without hesitation she said, "C___________ Lane."

What is your house number?" I asked.

Again she didn't hesitate, "####"

"See I told you, you knew your address." I was throwing a victory party in my head.

"What!?! That is my address? Why didn't you tell me THAT was my address?" Her anger increased, especially as I started to laugh at her.

Party in my head. Over. All these years she knew the information, but she didn't know what the information was. I would ask her to tell me where she lived or what our street name was or what our house number was. I am not confident I ever asked her to tell me her address. We had a major error in communication. I assumed she knew her address was where she lived. I was wrong. Communication fail.

A2, making me a better communicator since 2009.

I am fine

"How are you today?" asked an unassuming Walmart cashier.

You, sir, have no idea what a loaded question that really is.

I stare at him for an uncomfortable, awkward amount of time. How I am is swirling in my head. "I am tired. So tired. A strange tired that hurts my entire body. I can't decide if it starts in my head or if it starts in my toes. Either way the tired it is everywhere. I can't escape the tired. Even after eight hours of sleep the tired is there, weighing me down. My muscles scream. My joints ache. My legs are heavy blocks I drag with me everywhere. I am winded. I am out of breath. Climbing the stairs at home is my own personal Everest. My stomach hurts now. It didn't start hurting until I stopped drinking soda and starting taking my meds. That isn't fair. Eating hurts. Not eating hurts. My head hurts. Most days it is a dull pain that I can ignore. Some days it is blinding. Today it is in between dull and blinding. And also I have a popcorn kernel stuck in my throat, but that has nothing to do with anything else."

Instead I respond, "I am fine." in a generic socially accepted way. "How are you?" I ask. Hesitantly he responds "I am great." Deep down, I think there is more, but I go on.

After rethinking my generic answer, I realize it really isn't all that generic. I know I am fine. I will get better. Hopefully sooner rather than later. I am actually pretty lucky. I have doctors working to fix me, medicine that will make be better. I have friends and family standing by to support me. Friends who give up their Friday nights to sit with me, chatting the night away (at least until 8:00) wrapped up in blankets on the couch, because that is all I have energy for by the end of the week. Friends who surprise me with dinner and treats just because they know that is what I need. Friends who show up to do the dishes and offer to wash the laundry. (Yes, she really does exist.)

I am fine. I got a nap. I got an infusion. I will get another nap while I wait for the headache.

I am fine. How are you?