lastmandystanding

Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Blogger. Aspiring writer. Smartass. But you'll probably still want to be my friend.

Archive for the category “My Life as a Mom”

Parenting Fail Video

Last Mandy has dipped her toe into the video world. 

It came rather out of nowhere. I Snapchat regularly back and forth with my sister, and we’ve had some real gems between us that we have saved for future viewings. The thought occurred to me one night to make a video using various Snapchat filters for different characters, depicting actual events I have experienced. 

Tonight’s video is a completely accurate re-telling of something that happened a couple years ago with my girls. If you’re a parent, you’ve been there. You’ve had that moment when you witness your child doing something so over-the-top ridiculous, you think “Where did I mess up? What did I do to cause this? Whose kids are these?” etc. 

This is one of those moments for me. Link to YouTube. Enjoy. 

https://youtu.be/qa84ELe1udg 

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My last birthday in my 30’s

Well, this is it. My 39th birthday. My journey to 40 begins. 

Do you ever stop and look at your life, or look at yourself in the mirror and think to yourself: “this is SO not where/who I thought I’d be when I was this age.”? 

Me, too. 

I also remember thinking people who were this age were SO. Super. Old. I mean…ancient. But the older I get, the younger people older than me seem. Read it again. You’ll get it. 

Hanging around my teenage daughter and her friends, I swear I’m the cool mom. I actually GET what they’re saying. I get the stupid crap boys do. They haven’t changed. Mean girls are still mean girls — only meaner with more ways to be mean. I remember this age, this time in life, like it was yesterday. Because it WAS yesterday, right?? No. No, it wasn’t. It was 25 years ago. That’s when I was where my oldest daughter is now. How can I feel so young, yet so damn old? 

But let’s get honest for a moment. The truth is, I’m not at all who or where I want to be. And I have no one to blame but myself. I control me. Period. Of course, there have been things that have happened that I never could’ve foreseen – not in a million years. Maybe calling attention to their existence is a cop-out on my part. But the reality is, if I’m not happy with me and certain things in my life, I have only myself to blame. 

[What did she say?!] Yep. Accountability. 

I wake up and give my “ok” every day. My “all I got to give.” Not my best. I know that. And more importantly, I know why. I know what things weigh so heavily on my heart, soul, body, mind, spirit, that make me feel this way. And I have cowered to these reasons for far too long. 

Is this going to sound cliché? Yes. It is. But my last year in my 30’s is going to be one hell of a year for me. A year of transformation. A year of letting go. A year of speaking up, speaking out. A year of forgiveness. A year of enlightenment. A year of awakening. I will slowly start to recognize that woman staring back at me in the mirror. And I will love her. 

Yes. I will love her. 

#FortyByForty  

   

Tales of insom-nom-nom-nia

I saw a funny thing about this insom-nom-nom-nia phenomenon today (when you just eat whenever you can’t sleep), and forwarded it to my sister for a good laugh. In texting back and forth with her, I had apparently never told her this story. And judging by her “Lmfaoooooo…X 2” reply, I thought others might get a kick out of it, too.

About 6 years ago, my now ex-husband and I had just separated, sold our house, and were in the midst of divorce proceedings. I had moved into an apartment, and sleep was not on the agenda. Not at all. I’ve always been a horrible sleeper, but with everything going on, it was getting ridiculous and i could barely function. That, and I was too busy smelling the ganja that came wafting down from the upstairs apartment and wishing I could be that young, stupid & carefree.

Anyway… my doctor put me on Ambien to help me sleep. I never took it when my girls were with me because I was afraid I wouldn’t wake if they needed me, because I mean this.shit.worked.

Stress usually gives me a very unsettled stomach and nothing — I mean NOTHING sounds good to eat. You may recall the “Peanuts & Coke” story with my mom. If you’re not familiar, it’s worth a read. I figured I could at least drop a few pounds since the rest of my life was going down the crapper. My very own silver lining.

So imagine my disgust when I actually GAINED a couple pounds. I couldn’t figure it out. I hardly ate, fidgeted like crazy, was sleeping well at least a few nights a week. I thought for sure I would’ve lost a pound or two.

I started finding orange residue in my bed — on my pillowcase, down in the sheets, etc. I never eat in bed and usually don’t let my kids do it, either, but I figured they must’ve gotten in there with food at some point.

When I started finding the kitchen cabinets open in the morning, food on the counter, crumbs everywhere, I thought I was losing it. I know I didn’t eat that crap and I couldn’t blame it on the kids, because #1. They couldn’t reach the stuff, and #2. They weren’t with me when it would happen. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, but I’m not ashamed to tell you that I seriously thought the potheads from upstairs were sneaking into my apartment and eating my shit while I slept because they ran out of food because they smoked too much pot and had insane munchies and didn’t buy food because all they bought was POT!!! Yes, I know that was a huge run-on sentence, and a bit on the paranoid side, but it could happen. It was a house turned into a duplex. And I may or may not have pushed a big table in front of the door where they could’ve gained access and used the back door from that point on.

It wasn’t until one morning when I woke up with the orange residue everywhere again — my fingers, my hair, my face — everywhere. Coupled with the realization that I had a mouthful of shit (not literally shit, just shit, as in, why am I waking up with food in my mouth?!?), all the cheesey pieces of the puzzle started coming together. And there was no denying the bag of Cheetos in my hands. But seriously, wtf? What was even happening? I had NO recollection of eating any of this, of getting out of bed, walking to my kitchen cabinets, retreating back to my bed, ready to apparently make love to the Cheetos. (Was it good for YOU, Chester? Because all I got was a big ass and orange stains everywhere.)

I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor a few days later and he informed me that yes — sleep WALKING, sleep DRIVING and sleep EATING were indeed possible, albeit rare side effects of Ambien. If it’s rare and unusual, I’m your girl. Uhh…yeah. Thanks, but no thanks there, doc. I’ll take insomnia for 200, Alex. I’ve got enough problems without adding “I consume my weight in Cheetos while I sleep.”

Needless to say, I stopped taking Ambien. They should change their slogan to “Ambien – you won’t give a shit about sleep anymore, because you’ll have bigger problems, fatty.”

This concludes today’s episode of “Tales of insom-nom-nom-nia.” Thank you and goodnight.

An open letter to all moms

“The two most important days of your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out WHY” – Mark Twain

I first became a mommy a little over twelve years ago. I had “a touch” (<–said with sarcasm) of the baby blues after she was born, and I would just cry at the very sight of my baby girl – of course, I cried when the wind shifted directions, too (post partum nonsense). But mostly, I cried because she was just so amazingly perfect and beautiful, and for the first time in my life, I realized WHY I WAS BORN. This tiny, beautiful, perfect little girl was my purpose. I was born to be HER mother.

Because of life-long female medical problems, I wondered if I would ever be a mother. I had one miscarriage before my first daughter was born, and another miscarriage between my first and second daughter. To say I had rough pregnancies would be an understatement. My second little miracle came three years after my first. She came blazing into my world two months ahead of schedule and spent the first month of her life in the hospital. As I spent every single day, all day, at her side, I kind of had an inner dialogue with myself that perhaps pregnancy is not for me. Motherhood, yes. Pregnancy, not so much. It hated my guts. But I have always been, and always will be, eternally grateful for the two amazing little girls that take up space in my heart and in my arms.

As wonderful and rewarding as it is, this being a mom thing is NOT for wussies. It is not for the faint of heart. It is not for the weak in spirit. It is not for the selfish. It is not for the weak-stomached. It is not for the weak-minded. It is not something to be taken lightly. It is wearing your heart on the outside of your body, and praying that you just don't screw up. It is being the only one in the house who can clean up puke without puking herself. It is being pooped on, peed on, puked on. It is picking baby boogers out of their nose with your long pinky nail because it's the only thing small enough to get it – screw that booger-sucker thing. It is sneaking into a sleeping baby's room like you're 16 and it's past curfew. It's the legitimate desire to throat-punch anyone who disturbs your sleeping baby. It is the sharp-tongued pre-teen whose words can cut like a knife. It is the same pre-teen who comes crying to you and needs to be hugged because they got in a fight with their best friend. It is going without things for yourself so you can provide things for your kids – and being ok with that. It is rarely getting to eat a warm meal at the same time as everyone else. It is sometimes rarely eating a meal while actually being seated. It is sometimes being the bad guy, the mean parent, the "heavy" to your kids because that is what's best for them. It is pride-swallowing. It is humbling. It is relishing every opportunity to escape for 30 uninterrupted minutes to read a book, take a shower, talk on the phone, hear yourself think. It is giving up your boobs to a baby who wants to be constantly attached to them and when THEY aren't on them, a breast pump is – making you feel less like the sex kitten you used to be, and more like a momma cat nursing her kitten. It is giving up your right to sleep in your own bed with your husband alone. It is being questioned and judged by other parents. Sometimes it means giving up or doing without. It means trying to explain the unexplainable to the little faces looking to you for answers you simply don't have. It means standing in the middle of the store, literally rendered speechless, watching your 9 and 12 year olds act like they've never been in public or have any concept of manners, and only being able to muster up the words very slowly "Have..you…lost…your…minds?". It is leaving your child at their very first apartment and feeling pride and sadness all at once. Sometimes, it is realizing that your child has special needs – different from other children. It is realizing a hundred times exactly what your mother meant when she warned you of certain things 25 years ago. It is beating yourself up for forgetting an important school function. It is being so overwhelmed with love that you feel your heart just might burst. It is realizing that you should've told your mom more often how much you appreciate everything she did for you. Sometimes, it is realizing that there are no more chances to say or do the things you should've. It is realizing that if you have a 9-year-old, they are half-way to being "grown". It is realizing how precious time is. It is realizing that someone always has it worse. It is feeling pain for a friend who has to bear the unthinkable and bury a child. It is feeling hurt (and in a way guilty) for a friend who cannot conceive a child of her own. It is feeling invisible sometimes – like you're just the man behind the scenes who make everything happen but no one really pays attention to. It is constantly questioning the choices you make as a parent. It is facing criticism as a single parent. It is being a model for your showing your son or daughter how to pick the right partner for them — and teaching them to be the right partner for someone else. It is having your children be the first thing you think of when you wake up, and the last thing you think of before you fall asleep. It is realizing that you aren't perfect – and that's ok. You aren't the perfect parent, but you are the best one for your kids — however they became yours — because that is YOUR purpose. No one else can do what YOU can do for them. No one else can take YOUR place.

I will lay my head down tonight, once again grateful for my two little blessings, and grateful for my mom and ALL the wonderful women in my life who have made me who I am today.

No…this being a mother thing is NOT for wussies. I am woman. I AM A MOTHER. Hear me roar.

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