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A Bad Day

Keeping a good attitude is like keeping a healthy body: it takes knowledge, discipline, nourishment, and work. That isn’t easy, especially when life throws you a bird.

Today was a bad day. Small people fought. A Pull-up, loaded with a night’s absorbings, was thrown at a mouthy sibling and met its mark.  Screaming ensued. Healthful breakfast, made with the children’s immediate and future well being in mind, was refused. On the way to school, the healthful breakfast that was consumed reappeared as vomit all over child and car interior. After arriving home and cleaning child and car, I sat down with a cup of coffee and, at the edge of my vision, saw some kind of critter beeline across the open carpet under my feet. I am still unsure as to its classification- diminutive disease spreading rodent that, while pervasive and cute in children’s books, is utterly abhorrent in my house, or giant stripy house centipede that, while physically harmless, gives me the freaking willies. (I think and hope it was the shiver inducing insect and not the actually dangerous mouse.)

Channeling my inner grumpy old man today

Channeling my inner grumpy old man today

The morning was bad, but not bad enough to be responsible for marring the entire day. The vomit and critters are blessedly rare, but the rest of it is in the range of normal. I spend every day in the company of young children, in a work environment that would have people in paid employment touching up resumes. My youthful co- workers constantly interrupt me, fail to complete routine tasks, and one of them daily exclaims, “I poooped!” I have low expectations and a high tolerance for chaos.

What made it bad was I. After the rough start, I was unable to shake off melancholy and general cheerlessness for the remainder. I wasted the day on a funk.

I owe it to myself and to God to live life purposefully and with goodness in mind. That means making daily choices toward those goals because today is all the life I have to live. It is hard to be positive, kind, purposeful, gracious, and generous when I feel like a poo. Hell, sometimes it’s hard to be polite. But I should try.

Indulging a bad mood does not improve it. It does make me unpleasant company for everyone unfortunate to cross my path.  People have to manage their own difficulties and don’t need me adding my own to their load. That isn’t to say that we shouldn’t ask for help or bury our pain. But it does mean that we should take care of how much we inflict our moods on our fellows, especially when they are brought on by benign things like vomit.

Today, I failed at conquering it, but I did avoid passing it along to my family. I don’t always succeed, (Hot Swede will call that an understatement.) but I try and try again. I know things will look better tomorrow, assuming one or two of the following occurs: I get some sleep, eat healthfully, the sun shines, no one hurls, or the snow miraculously melts and the crocus emerge. (I won’t hold my breath for that last one.)

Some day. some day.

Some day. some day.

To the Letter

An appreciation of the ancient pairing of pen and paper.
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I have carefully saved every single letter I’ve received since I was a child, and a rough draft for every letter I sent out before I was too busy to write rough drafts (about age 23.) The oldest are yellowing in an old square cookie tin in my childhood room. I’m sure my mother would love me to finally empty out that closet. The more recent are in a file cabinet, each in its envelope.  I burned and discarded my adolescent journals. (They practically burned themselves, so full of sap and crackling teenage angst.) But I will not willfully part with the letters. They are the souvenirs of affections and friendships, and the memories of the very best times. No one takes the time to write a trivial letter. They are all precious.

Poetry and power lie in the very physicality of letters, in holding the words of another. Letters reflect the time and place of the writing- postcards, stationary unique to locale, the age and type of paper. They bear witness to the state of the writer at the moment of composition- the way he shaped his letters, the speed and neatness of the writing, the strength of the pen strokes. They can carry the scent of a place and the markings of their place of origin.  They may be read over and over again without the aide of an electric screen. They can be kept in a pocket. They can be treasured.

Reading a letter in someone’s handwriting is like hearing her voice. I know the handwriting of my family members and letter writing friends by sight.  For the recipient, there is meaning in holding this thing that was created in the hands of a friend, lover, family member, honored or even unknown person. I love letters- short ones, long ones, ones with doodles, tear stains, or chocolate smudges.

(Not Hot Swede)

Hot Swede and I spent the summer before we were married apart. I was at the Chautauqua Institution for most of the summer. He was at home in Minnesota and on tour as a member of a nascent chamber music ensemble.  I received a letter from him every day but Sunday, when the mail was not delivered. Every day. They are written on proper stationary, with interesting stamps, in as neat a penmanship as his left-hand and our right-handed language allows. I treasure each one. Combined with all the letters I sent in reply, they make a stack just under a foot tall.

Nothing did more to convince me that this was a man worth combing my hair for than receiving and reading all those letters. Each one was a gift. Hot Swede had never written letters before but did so because he knew how much I value them. They are love letters, descriptions of the day, musings on music and friends, questions begging reply. I soaked them all up. (Since saying the old “I do” 13 years ago, he’s written me one letter…and it was an apology. Ha!)

A handwritten letter is always a gift- completely unique and created with only one reader in mind. The sender takes the time to craft a personal message and present it in a way that reflects not only her thoughts, but the very movement of her hand and the tactile imprint of her surroundings. A letter is a record of a moment of her thinking of someone else.

Of course, these memories can be recorded digitally. Social media makes it easier than ever to stay in touch. We share messages, photos, jokes, and have destructive ideological typing matches that only result in raised cortisol levels and people behaving like the very worst kind of pedants. We Skype family around the globe for less than the cost of a .44¢ stamp. People are doing plenty of writing. My 2nd grader has a blog. (We started ours at the same time, how cute.) Facebook et al are powerful tools- facile, ubiquitous, and cheap. I like Facebook. I’ve rekindled valuable relationships that enrich my inner life and significantly allay the loneliness of being a stay at home parent of young children. It is useful and I enjoy it.

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Twsbi 540, medium nib. It even makes writing checks less painful.

None of it replaces ink and paper for its ability to carry deep significance and leave its mark on the soul. Who doesn’t enjoy getting a real letter? I love writing them too- choosing my ink, pen and stationary, feeling the scratch of my nib on paper, enjoying the pleasing sight of a sheet filled with the lines and curls of the Latin alphabet in cursive. Each time I write a letter, thank you note, or sympathy card, I say, in the very action of taking the time to connect in this ancient way, “I value you. This is important. I mean what I say.”

I am resolved to write more letters. I am resolved to write to remaining influential pedagogues and family and thank them for their lessons. I am resolved to keep my promise of writing letters to my children each year.  I want my words and gratitude to be present in their lives, even when I cannot, and not as a memory, but actually there, in hand, in view.

Need more inspiration to write a letter? Check out the amazing collections of letters over at Letters of Note. (Yes, I know it’s run by a company who trades in online correspondence. The irony is not lost on me. Check it out anyway. You will be rewarded.)

The Red Scab of Courage

Bandages to keep your well-learned lessons from getting on the carpet.

Bandages to keep your well-learned lessons from getting on the carpet.

 

I saw it coming: the crack in the sidewalk, the running pre-schooler pitched forward, her feet moving quickly to stay under her big ol’ head. She looked backward at me with a smile, hit the raised bit of sidewalk and toppled forward, meeting the concrete with a full body smack- hot tears, bloodied legs, stinging palms.

I knew it was coming. It was knowledge I gained long ago, a lesson reinforced multiple times when my eyes were closer to the Earth. I fell the same way she had. I fell playing basketball (and by playing, I mean dribbling the ball off my foot and chasing it down.) I skinned my elbows in centimeters and my knees in square inches. I fell off monkey bars, off walls, off of my own feet. An a-hole first grader, swinging on the swings, kicked me in the face when I strayed too close during the first week of kindergarten. (I don’t remember your pretty name, a-hole, but I remember your pigtailed sour face when you yelled at me to watch where I was going and called me stupid as I held my bleeding nose.) I got hurt like any active kid. Each scab was a lesson, a refining of my physical skill and of my knowledge of self and place.

Getting hurt is a critical part of growing up. It reveals our limitations. I cannot hang from a bar by my toes; lesson learned! It teaches us to consider consequences, and makes us better informed risk takers.

As modern, 1st world, parents of privilege (I consider college educated people with incomes and maybe even a co-parent privileged,) we often feel like it’s our job to protect our kids from hurts. Children should listen to us when we tell them not to climb too high, not to run, not to play chicken on their bikes. They should learn from our scars to avoid collecting their own. It’s too bad this doesn’t work. Experiential discovery is the quickest and clearest way to learn. Our ever-watchful eyes and persistent badgering only result in less fun for kids and more frustration for “attentive” parents.

So I let them fall and bump and crash as much as I can bear it. Sometimes, I warn them of an impending consequence of physics. Other times, I pretend not to see and bite my tongue. And sometimes (read: often,) I truly am not paying attention when they biff it. They should wear their scabs as badges of honor, like a Tim Burton inspired slightly twisted Girl Scout. And when they leave bits of epidermis on the sidewalk, I try not to over react. I don’t run to them unless I am genuinely scared that we are on our way to the ER. No panic enters my voice. I say, “Wow, that’s a good one.” And we put a bandage on it. Yes, sometimes I even put bandages on skin that is unbroken. (I am not completely heartless.)

With each of my toddlers, I remember kissing their beautiful smooth knees in April and thinking with gratitude and a smile, “This summer will be the end of these pristine little knees.”  Let the learning begin!

Going Paleo

3428573788_4f85b63636A friend of mine is thinking about trying the paleo diet and asked my thoughts on it. I thought I’d just post it here, so I don’t have to re-write this the next time someone asks me. I am, unequivocally, not an expert on anything. This is just my experience with this way of feeding.

Hot Swede and I did a Whole30 before Thanksgiving. Whole30 is a “jump in the deep end” of paleo- no dairy, no legumes, no sugars (honey, agave, excessive fruit sugars included,) no alcohol. It is intense, if you are starting from a SAD (standard American diet,) but it is the best way to see if paleo is worth the sacrifices. I recommend checking out the Whole30 community and joining if you are new to paleo. They offer a lot of support. We didn’t join, but I’d read the entire program and had already been eating low grain and generally low carb for a couple years.

When I was being really strict with it, I felt much much better. My energy was even throughout the day. I was less stressed out; I got upset with the kids less and better kept my cool when the stuff hit the fan. My loathsome baby belly hung out much less and I managed to drop 4 lbs of (probably water) weight. That is huge for me as my body is bound and determined to never drop below 135. Hot Swede also felt better and dropped quite a bit of weight, but he missed his booze and Doritos greatly.

Some things to consider:

Withdrawl:

4-5 days into Whole30, Hot Swede developed a horrible headache, a foggy mind, and was irritable for about 3 days. Absolutely no fun at all. This is very normal. It’s a shock to the system to remove all the easy carbs and sugar. He got over it and had no other ill effects.

Cooking:

If you don’t cook much, get ready. Go get an apron and a good knife, because you are going to do A LOT of cooking.  I have Melissa Joulwan’s cookbook, Well Fed and recommend it for anyone new to paleo. It is a no nonsense, let’s make this as easy as possible, kind of guide to paleo cooking. She has lots of ideas for getting unfussy, easily assembled paleo meals into your mouth. ($10 on Kindle.) Her mayonnaise alone is worth the price of admission and makes going cavewoman so much easier (because we all know that Neolithic people loved mayo on their mammoth.)

Bills, bills, bills:

You are going to eat a lot of meat and a lot of veg. If you’ve been filling up with cheap stuff like pasta, bread, rice, your grocery bill is going up. As is prudent, get grass-fed and pastured animals, if not those- get organic, if not those- buy lean cuts and drain away the fat. Here in Minnesota, Target carries Thousand Hills grass-fed beef products. Check out co-ops nearby for other tasty local animals. Costco has organic, but not pastured, ground beef and chickens at a nice price point. Costco is also brilliant for almond butter, olive and coconut oil. Amazon is where I’m getting unsweetened coconut shreds, since my local grocery stopped carrying it.

Keep in mind, as you gape at the price of meat, that your liquor bills are now $0 and your eating-out budget, I’m afraid, is near the same. Speaking of…

Eating Out and the Social Pariah:

Eating out paleo is hard. The prohibition on most common vegetable oils rules out the majority of salad dressings. The avoidance of gluten nixes any thickened sauce. Abstinance from sugar and cheese rules out pretty much everything else. If you are eating out with friends, check out the menu ahead of time and have a plan, and eat a hardboiled egg beforehand, so you are not tempted by the bread basket.

I HATE picky eaters. And eating paleo makes you a picky eater. I will confess that when in social situations, I eat whatever is served. The last thing I want is for my totally elective eating preferences to become the subject of conversation or an excuse for avoiding the hosts’ cheese plate (Besides, there’s feta on it.) However, when I partake of a decent helping of wheat based items and vegetable oils, I pay for it the next day. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Paleo snacking before a gathering is a good strategy to avoid going too far into the birthday cake.

I rarely even want to go out to eat at a restaurant anymore. It simply isn’t worth the expense and trouble that I will cause the waiter.

Give it a Go:

I love eating paleo. I feel amazing when I’m eating this way, but it can take a few weeks to notice positive changes in your body and mind. But what do you really have to lose? Bread (but you get coconut,) peanut butter (this is hard, but you can keep bacon, BACON!) eating out (but that’s expensive anyway.) And you can keep your coffee, enjoy occasional dark chocolate and maybe even a drink or two. Maybe.

I’d love to know your experiences.

Happy V.D.!


1572164872_90f389e715_z           I dislike Valentine’s Day. I won’t say “hate” because my mom taught me that “hate” is a very strong word reserved for murderous dictators and steamed zucchini. It is a common rant during the first half of February. Considering the numbers of bitter people who complain about the day, I am a little flummoxed as to why it continues to be such a commercial success. I’m going to blame idealistic young women and the men who want to get them in bed.

I like love as much as anybody. I like romance. I like adoration. I like Hot Swede smiling in the candlelight. I like chocolate (dark, at least 70% cacao.) I am not jaded when it comes to love. But since my youth, I’ve found V.D. tiresome. (The double entendre tickles my personal fancy. Indulge me in the spirit of the holiday.)

For one thing, there is all the expectation, the joy killing expectation. A big part of romance is spontaneity.  Doing something lovely for someone because you are motivated by your affection for them, not because it is Feb. 14 and, well, if you don’t come up with something wonderful, she will be disappointed and sulky and your life will be unpleasant for awhile. That isn’t romance. That is a pain avoidance mechanism.

Then there are the traditional gifts. For women, collections of cheap chocolate in expensive boxes are de rigueur. What is the point of giving a woman who is barely hanging on to her 6-week old weight loss resolutions a pound of chocolates? It is not nice. The worst part about the actual confections are the mystery fillings. The cheaper the chocolate, the more mysterious the filling, oozy viscous creams are common, and while the white is suggestive, the pink is off putting. Is that penicillin? My other favorite filling is toothpaste. Delish.

The worst possible V.D. gift is the teddy bear. This one makes me cringe. As far back as middle school, I remember girls getting teddy bears from boys and thinking, “If a boy ever gives me a teddy bear for Valentine’s Day, it’s going to be hard to act pleased with it.” Lucky for me, I never had to face that scenario. (Not bitter, I promise.) A couple things are wrong with a teddy bear, but the first one is that it is a gift for A CHILD, and a young one at that. Grown women with jobs and children, advanced degrees and mortgages, women who have yearly visits to the gynecologist and wax their own moustaches, these are not women with any use for a teddy bear.

The other problem is what you do with it on Feb 15.  You can’t chuck it out or give it to the puppy because it was given in the name of love. So what, it sits on a bookshelf next to Brothers Karamazov? You can’t put it in the glass cabinet, next to your collection of hand-turned bowls. It will most likely just sit on your dresser and gather dust.

For men, (hmm, what do men get.) If they’ve manage to successfully run the obstacle course for a successful V.D., they likely get something non-commercial (I hope) and right in line with what they like.  If they picked the wrong restaurant, or didn’t remember that their partner hates red roses, good luck guys. Maybe there’s something good on Hulu.

So what are reasonable adults to do on Feb. 14? If you have éros, well, enjoy that without the burden of Valentine’s drama. If you have agápe or philia, plan a date for some time in the next couple weeks. Have a nice dinner; write a letter, give a hug. Celebrate with trappings that honor the loves in your life, not the seasonal section at Target. Me, I like a bar of dark chocolate, peach colored roses, and nothing is as sexy as a scoured kitchen sink.

Preemptive Nostalgia

Oh look, there ARE fingerprints to wash off. Oh, good.

Oh look, there are still fingerprints. Good.

We are having work done in our house. My husband, the Hot Swede, is a very handy man who also happens to be a big idea guy. Thus, we are living through a year-long, epic, complete kitchen remodel and rebuild of the back third of our house. (Yes, I welcome your prayers and sympathies.) Really, I should have blogged about it from the beginning. It’s been quite an adventure.

He has done all the work himself, but the one job he always planned to hire out was taping (This is how seams and screws in new drywall get covered up and smoothed out.) With the exception of pouring concrete, there is no home improvement/construction task that he dislikes more. It is a job that takes finesse, expertise, and lots of practice. It is a job for a professional. An amateur can do it. He will spend three times the time and as much in materials and the result will not be as clean, but he can do it. It is one of those things, like moon landings and opera singing, that is best left to the pros.

As with all remodeling projects, ours has a tendency to leak into other parts of the house. We were going to have just the new drywall taped, but then we looked at the crumbly and cracking plaster ceilings on the rest of the main floor, and the holes handy Hot Swede cut to run new electrical. We thought, “What the heck, let’s get all this dusty, disruptive mess done at once.”

In preparation, we moved all the furniture off the main floor (with the exception of the piano and big ‘ol dining table.) The walls are bare, the rug rolled up. I even picked up all the kids’ stray socks. I thought it would feel great, getting everything out and uncluttered. But it made me sad. It made both of us sad. It felt like we were moving out and leaving.

When did this old building, this monster of responsibility, upkeep, and debt, become our home? When did it become a part of me?

When Hot Swede and I scraped, patched and painted it, we claimed it. When we removed horrible wallpaper and scarlet carpet, when we sanded and refinished kitchen cabinets, we claimed it. We filled it with the smells of our meals, laundry soap, shampoo, and one ill-chosen night of indoor hot-oil fondue that made the entire house smell like McDonalds for a month.

I brought each of my children home to this house. They grow, learn, and feel safe here. We have been healthy here. Whenever they leave, they have always come back to these walls.

We grow food in the yard and chase squirrels away from the peaches with Nerf guns. Every year, we watch the peonies come up, the buds swell and then watch as a spring rainstorm beats the glorious new blossoms to the ground. Every. year. We visit with neighbors in the front, and it is not uncommon for my neighbor to hand my kids ice cream treats across the fence.

Nearly daily, I complain and am stressed by the clutter, dirt, and general material chaos in this house. There are always piles of paper to sort, fingerprints to wash off, sprinklings of sand, food and glitter to be swept off the floor, and only once- watermelon to wash off the wall.

IMG_4171And yet, as I sit on the radiator, looking at the empty rooms, I am wistful for the mess of my life and the clutter of the people with whom I’m spending it.
Some day, when we are done with them and have moved on, these 100 year-old rooms will be emptied for keeps, for someone else to make their life within, or to be torn down and replaced. The woman who owned the house before us moved in as a newlywed and made her life here for 65 years. Her children still drive by and look at the house with eyes for their past.

In this moment, feeling its transience, knowing its temporal nature, I am immensely grateful for my time within these walls. Tomorrow, I will rail against the dust, curse the bills, and shake a fist at the piles of laundry (which, I’m afraid, are eternal,) but in this empty space, I see my incalculable blessings. The past was good. Today was good. And I am lucky.

Table Manners

My kids are 8,6, and 4 years old. It is an even year. They are bright, distinct, and varied in talents, often kind and sometimes not. I get compliments on what good kids they are at church, in Target, and at school. That’s great, really, really great, but these kind strangers have never sat at dinner with my three diminutive savages.

Look at the Dowager Countess' face. She must be seated across from my children.

Look at the Dowager Countess’ face. She must be seated across from my children.

            I don’t know how any other family operates at table, (please, leave a comment so I can either be jealous or feel solidarity in this struggle,) but the following phrases pass my lips multiple times per week/meal.

Did you wash my hands? With soap? Go wash them.

We haven’t prayed yet; please stop eating.

 Put some clothes on. You can’t come to dinner without pants. (Really, I say this at least twice a week.)

 Don’t drive with your dinner plate.

*Notice, we haven’t started eating yet. When I serve the food, things get ugly.

Use your fork. Use a knife (and all it’s variations.)

Fingers are for noses; spoons are for soup.

Sit down…in your chair.

Don’t lick your plate (or fingers, or the outside of your glass.)

Elbows off the table

Smacking. (This one is so frequent, it is shortened to one word and now has a sign- a “close your mouth” snapping shut of the hand.)

Don’t talk with your mouth full.

Napkin! (Usually when saucy hands are being wiped on a pink shirt.)

Ask for something to be passed; don’t reach.

Don’t interrupt.

Why? It’s just my family here. There is no one to impress. Why put everyone through this? It’s so much work, all this nagging. Does it really matter?

YES, of course it matters! And it’s not because it shows good breeding, or anything so lofty. It’s because other diners have to eat with them. I have to eat with them every day. It’s about making these children acceptable dinner companions and not onerous appetite suppressants. Maybe, at some glorious point in the future, they will even be enjoyable to eat with. This, indeed, is the essence of all good manners- making ourselves pleasant to be around.

So, I correct and remind them all the way through dinner, (God help me,) from the moment they sit, until they are excused. If I did not, dinner would look like primate feeding time at the zoo, and I do them no favors by letting them keep their course ways. Still, I wonder when I will be able to serve a meal without a big steaming dish of nag.

Work Pants Over Smarty Pants

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Don’t tell my daughter she’s smart. I’d rather you didn’t say anything at all. Please. Smart is like pretty; it is a fortunate trait and a potential tool, but the only thing that matters is what the owner does with it, and in the case of young children, they have done precious little.

When you praise Q, the eldest of our three, for being smart, you enforce an expectation that things should be easy for her and you give her praise for something for which she is not responsible. She didn’t go out and make that brain, she is only lucky that it grew between her ears.

So, Q is smart. Her mind is programmed to accept, organize, and synthesize information. She is lucky that the way she learns is exactly the way traditional schools teach. She’s starting life with a good head and she knows it. Despite the current effort in education to avoid loaded words like “advanced, accelerated, low, remedial,” etc., kids know where they sit on the academic spectrum, and so does she. School work is not hard for her, not really. Sometimes she needs something explained, or gets a math problem wrong, but most of her errors are due to carelessness and one explanation is all it usually takes.

Am I bragging? Hell no. I didn’t build that brain either. I’d love to take credit for it, but the only thing I did toward her agile mind is stay off booze and blow when it was forming. (High five for me!) I’m trying to set up the dilemma I see for this child and us, her parents.

My concern for her is that she learn to work hard, and to see hard work as part of life, a GOOD part. People grow wiser, stronger, and more mature by struggling, sweating, working around obstacles they can’t change, trying over and over, plugging away at a mountain of a task. That is how we achieve, how we conquer challenges, master ourselves, and earn our self-esteem (and there is no other way to get it but to earn it. Everything else is pap.)

Why don’t I just give her harder books? Pester her teacher until she throws an algebra book at the child? Enroll her in “enrichment” classes outside of school? Because she is already good at this kind of work. The goal is not to finish the academic standards first. The goal is to learn to work, learn to listen, learn to strive, to learn that being good at one thing does not make you good at all things. Grit is what I want for her, grit and perseverance, and a little humility to keep it all in line. We require her to do her best work at school and we search for things that will challenge her in new ways, coax her to think differently and maybe even struggle a little.

It is one reason why we make her study piano. (Aren’t we awful, terrible, monster parents?) It doesn’t matter how bright or talented you are, learning a musical instrument is a tremendous physical and mental challenge, and we want her challenged. I sought out the toughest teacher I could find- a Chinese woman in her 60s with nearly ridiculous standards for hand position, correct phrasing, and musical literacy. Q rails against it every day. I often think of tiger mother, Amy Chua, when we practice together. It is hard. It takes a lot of repetition and a fully engaged mind. It requires attention to detail. It is not easy. It is just what she needs.

I don’t know if it will work. I don’t know that it’s a real problem for her. Just please, don’t praise her for something over which she has no control. Note the effort, the quality of the work, the time spent. And if it isn’t that great, don’t say it is.

Moustache Day

mustache_tiff_by_incrediblealyssa-d3wkdtlMy husband calls in the late morning, “So, did you send the kids to school with moustaches?” Crap. Instantly, I feel like a failure. I had forgotten Moustache Day at school- this just-for-fun theme day that has never happened before but had to be scheduled the day before Christmas break, when there is nothing else going on. I was ashamed of, disappointed in, and disgusted with myself. The working parent remembered Moustache Day, but I didn’t. Isn’t this kind of minutia exactly why we decided I should stay at home? So that there was someone who’s JOB it was to answer all their questions, taxi them around, soothe fevers, keep us stocked with toilet paper, and draw facial hair on the second grader on December 20th? Arghhh!

I don’t think most mothers realize how fragile their mother egos are. (I didn’t include fathers because, in my experience, dads don’t carry around the same kind of guilt that mothers pack in with extra diapers and a clean set of drawers.) It seems that self-doubt and self-flagellation come with the territory. We all look at that parent who does that one thing better than we do, and instead of congratulating her on teaching her children complete sign language, in Portuguese, or instead of simply coveting her energy/patience/clean shirt, we do to ourselves what we would never do to our own kids. We look at ourselves and say, “Why can’t I be more like her? I must be [insert favorite pejorative descriptor: lazy, disorganized, not that smart, impatient, selfish, etc.]”

Well, I’m all of those things, and most days, I accept it. I also don’t have the mind of Carl Sagan or the bone structure of Gisele Bündchen, and that’s okay. Most days, I live comfortably with most of my shortcomings. My family is getting what they need from me. I’m doing okay. And then it happens- the little wisp of a breeze that topples the tissue house that ego built- Moustache Day.

I hung up the phone. The dust settled, and the wise part of my soul (she is very small) spoke up in her tired voice, “Get a grip. You got your kids to school on time, fed, with all their snow gear. They practiced their piano and got homework done. They went to bed at a decent hour. They are fine. You are fine. You covered the big stuff. Luckily, most kids forgive their parents’ mistakes, even the big ones. Lay off yourself and go make us some coffee.” And with that, my wispy mother ego was righted and there it will stand… until I forget snack day.