Love Hate Relationships

We all have them.  Mainly with people...and exercise.  But mine is with cleaning.  It's something I do everyday.  Everyday.  If I don't, there will be horrible repercussions.  An insanely messy house with children who are half naked because I'm not doing laundry because I'm sick of doing laundry, a husband who is eating out of the pan because the dishes aren't clean because I didn't feel like doing them -- because I always wash the dishes.  See what I mean?  It's not worth the "break".  Dishes don't care if you're tired and laundry gets ranky stanky if you don't take care of it!
   These photos are from this morning.  This is what my house looks like on a normal day.  Cy's room is a mess with pockets of clean...like this shelf.  I love how neatly the books set.

 And this coloring book basket.  So tidy.

 The front room is pretty clean.  Most of the time.  There are days when Cylas converts it to a full on fort.  And I let him until my nerves can't handle it any longer.

And my kitchen *sigh*  it's always a work in progress.  There is something to be cooked or cleaned in there, always...

But, admittedly, there are days when I'm cleaning that I feel happy.  Odd?  Yes, but having a clean home is something I'm proud to say I have.  My children enjoy it too and are starting to create clean habits of their own.  Roma MUST have a "wyy" (a napkin) during dinner, Cylas doesn't like it if his room is messy for too long he starts rearranging and putting his toys away.  Recently, I've started him with folding his own clothing and putting them away.  It helps me out a lot.  Roma...well, she isn't quite two, but soon she'll have her own mini chores, right now it's just keeping track of her binky...she's amazingly good at that.  She loves her "fuh".  *for all my Russian readers it's short for соска*

So, I love my house when it's clean.  I hate that fact it doesn't stay that way.  But I love how I feel at a job well done, in the same breath I hate the constant cycle. 

But what is better than a clean house with a happy husband, children, healthy dinner and hot tea with sugar cookies on the side?  

Nothing I tell ya'... 

Best Friends

My best friends.  I think I will describe them to you before I do the "reveal".  They sound much more interesting this way.

One of my best friends is no taller than my waist.   The other has a collection of dead insects.
One of my best friends poops, like, three times a day.  The other makes forts for bad guys and super heroes.
One of my best friends doesn't speak.  The other insists on wearing Iron Man underwear.
One of my best friends gives kisses at random intervals.  The other has imaginary friends like "Hoo" and "Goo-ah".

  Today I was out with my best friends at Subway, our fav place to chill and have a healthy "on-the-go" lunch, when I was approached by one of the employees.  She complimented me on my children and told me I was "such a good mother".  Didn't quite know what to say.  Sometimes I'm a little speechless when people offer such opinions of me.  They don't know me.  But, they do see my children and how they react and interact to and with me, so maybe that's how they form their idea of who I am and what kind of mother I am to my children.  

Either way, I just smiled and nodded.  But then I stopped smiling as she told me about her own daughter who refused to raised the child she brought into this world.  How her daughter was raped at fourteen and now, she, Grandma, is raising her almost twelve year old granddaughter "M".  She lamented at her daughter's lack of desire to be a mother as she proudly showed me her keychain with a school picture of "M".  Emotional sandwich today at Subway, that's for sure.  

It just brought me back down to earth.  Plucked me right out of my BFF cloud and slapped me in the face.  Not everyone has the same "mother" story.   Everyone is different.  Not everyone wants to be a mom, not everyone chooses to be a mom, some people have bodies that won't LET them be a mom...and yet, here I am, sitting in Subway, getting sticky kisses and soft whispers, Sunchips on my shoulders, chocolate milk spilled on my side of the table.  And I'm ok with it.  I love it.  Not only that, but my children are my best friends!  They whisper sweet secrets and touch my face tenderly with grubby fingers.  They want to snuggle in bed with me.  They look for me when I'm out of sight.   They seek my approval.

I am so blessed.  I chose to be a mom.  I chose to set myself aside for the next 18 + years and pour all of what I am into these two, small, innocent beings.  My best friends, at that.  

Cylas.

Romalise. 

The two best friends a mom could ever have.

My Definition

 

Me Defined.   

I don't play.  There are too many ways to live your "own life" nowadays.  People justify their indiscretions by using the age old excuse, "well, if s/he hadn't done this...I wouldn't have done...blah, blah."  Please.  Now, the tone of this post is going to sound a little harsh and I don't pull out this side of me very often but, I feel the need to share.

When I first became a mom four years ago (four!??), I was completely out of my element.  I was so lost it was laughable.  I knew the basic duties of being a mother.  Feed, change diaper, change clothing, bathe...but after that...what was I supposed to do?  Well, I started figuring it out really quickly when little tantrums started popping up.  I needed to train my child.  And once my child was trained, I could add to my child's life additional skills, people, social, and ethics.  But my child needed a firm foundation from which to build off of.  

Oh.  So THAT'S what else I needed to be doing other than the basic "let's-keep-this-child-from-starving" mothering.  Hmm, more than meets the eye. 

But.  and this is going to be a big one.  How does one put into their child what they, as individuals, are lacking? Before I give the impression that I was a hedonistic, barbaric neanderthal, I wasn't.  But, I was a little rough around the edges.

Let's jump ahead to the present.  Now, I have worked on myself for the past few years to make sure I'm the best example my son and daughter could have to pattern themselves after.  I can't wait for the day my babies whisper in my ear, "Mommy, I wanna be just like you."  

So, they define me.  If you want to know who I am.  Look at my children.  I am putting all of me into them.  Not only me, but my husband too.  They are me and I am them.  I don't have time to make excuses for my short-comings there isn't enough time in the day.  I need to FIX those parts of me because my children are counting on me.  I would rather err on the side of caution than to risk it all because of semantics.  So, call me what you may, prudish, close-minded, rude, judgemental but you aren't in my house.  My children are my responsibility and, ultimately,  I have to answer for the way I raised them. 

God.  Help me.  Amen.

Compare and Contrast

   Why is it that I, as a mother, feel the need to compare myself to other mothers?  It's getting annoying.  I catch myself comparing how my fellow moms work with their children at home doing things like:  ABC's, 123's, writing, crafts.  Good lord.  I do minimal amounts of these types of activities with my children.  Yes.  I'm horrible like that.  I don't sit down with my kid every. single. day and go over these important skill builders.  I wish I was more disciplined.

No.  Instead.  My kid plays outside almost all day long with his buddy.  They build sand castles, they ride bikes, the play cops and robbers, build forts with my couch and ALL the spare blankets and pretend to play chess.  And then, there are the days where I sit down and we sing the ABC's, we count, we name the shapes and colors we draw and we practice counting and saying our ABC's in Russian.  It's just not every day.  I show him how to run my computer.  I send him out to collect the eggs and feed the chickens our fruit scraps.  And when Papa comes home out come the Play-dough, the model ships to construct, the kites to fly, the paper pirate hats made from newspaper and all the crafty activities.

As of late, Cylas has expressed intense interest in helping me cook.  So, we mix the flour, sugar, and eggs to make pancakes, we pour the batter together to form the little rounds.  Or, he'll pour the pre-measured seasonings into what ever dish I'm making.  We'll discuss and smell all of the ingredients going into the night's dinner.  That's what I do.  I'm not a super mom, I'm not a homeschooling mom.  I'm just a mom.  

My house gets messy.  Cluttery.  Annoying.  My kids scream, fight and cry.  My little boy wets the bed every now and then, my laundry over flows, my little girl takes baths in the toilet.  But I still have all my hair, my children are loved unconditionally and our home is a haven.  A safe one, at that.  I spend my days training my children, showing them how to love and be loved, teaching them the importance of communicating, how to be respectful...

Wow.  From my vantage point, it looks like I'm raising well-rounded, responsible citizens.  ok, ok, I'll quit comparing myself.  I'm not a bad mom...I'm raising my children differently.

Mommy Time/ Me time

Where do I start?  Because, honestly, those are foreign phrases in my book.  Well, ok, truth be told, they are not so much foreign as they are a rarity.  And, as I said in my last post, every situation is different.  At this point in my life, my children are still young and not in school.  Therefore, I am with them 24/7.  Seriously.  I go through guilty spells where I am thoroughly convinced that taking out time for myself is unacceptable.  I have two VERY distinct sides:  My mommy side loves being with my babies and couldn't imagine a day without them and my "oh-to-be-young-again" side pops its carefree, wild curled head up and wishes loudly that it could just, "TAKE A BREAK!!".  But I can't.  I tried it once.  

I mean, like a REAL break not just getting together with a girlfriend after NINE PM to take an hour to myself.  I went away with a friend for a weekend.  Just me.  Her.  And the lights of NYC.  Talk about the memory of a life time and yet I couldn't enjoy myself completely.  Uhg.  SO annooyinnngg.  Let's be honest, who sits through almost the whole show of Phantom Of The Opera, on Broadway no less(!), thinking about their children and wondering if they're fed, bathed and scrape free??  Me.  That's who.  Pa.thetic.  

I'm a hopeless romantic mom-antic.  There are times when I invent my own mom time and it is usually in the car.  For some reason, whenever I'm in the car with my kids I start to zone and think about ...whatever... I don't even know.  All I know is that my brain sort of takes its own course and I follow along mindlessly.  But, this also happens to be the time when Cylas is most chatty.  CHATT.Y!!  He will yammer non-stop for the duration of our drive and I'm batty by the end although I took a mental leave of absence.  I still responded faintly to his garbled conversation.  See.  I'm totally backward.  DON'T ignore your children, Misha!!  Bleh.  But I'm holding out a hope that once my babies are in school I will welcome the sweet hours of silence I have to myself and it won't be so hard to go off for the weekend and leave them with the grandparents.  *breath in, breath out*  Wow, I can't imagine myself at that point.  Leaving my children to survive without me.  Without me.  Maybe I'm putting the worth of my value too high.  Maybe not.  Maybe being a mom IS what it's all about. (with a few breaks in between!)

Ohk, I know this photo has absolutely nothing to do with my post BUT itwaspotentiallyacutepicandDruineditandheshouldbeembarassed.

Love you, hunny.

Stay at Home Mom = Lazy

Yes, I was called lazy because I am a stay at home mom.  No words.  Absolutely no words for such an ignorant comment....well, at the time I was speechless.  But now, I would like to dedicate this whole post to those who are under the unfortunate misconception that just because a mom is at home she is lazy. 

First of all, every mother’s situation is different from the size of their house, to why they are at home (by choice or request), to the size of their brood, to the ages in their brood and even down to the neighborhood (or lack thereof in my case) they live in, either the city/country. 

Cleaning is never ending because we live in farm country and the dirt is everywhere, which means it gets super dusty super fast, and I’m constantly interrupted by fights, boo-boos, doorbells, phone calls, crabby baby let-me-hang-off-your-leg, potty training accidents (including poop).  It’s not easy to clean the house.  Some rooms suffer a bit.  Namely, mama and papa’s room.  It gets a little dusty.  Bed is made, but everything else is left alone until I have the time to deep clean.  Contrary to the growing popular opinion that cleaning just “takes a second”, my level of cleaning takes me quite some time.  Our bathrooms, and proudly so, are urine stink-free.  ( I have an insane paranoia of pee-pee smell in the bathroom)  My sinks are scrubbed regularly, and the floors are constantly vacuumed.  Now, I have wood floors so they also need to be mopped regularly.  Uhm.  That part isn’t done so regularly.  I do spot clean if there is a tragic mess..mostly potty or milk.  But it usually takes me about a week until I next mop.  Now we have rules in the house that there is no eating anywhere else but the kitchen and only tippy cups allowed if you're thirsty and want to walk around, so this helps with the damage control and my sanity.  Two birds with one stone.  Two very FINICKY birds at that.

 My job description includes cleaning a three bedroom, tri-level home with three bathrooms.  Some moms only have one story homes.  Every situation is different!  My four year old is very, very imaginative and can create messes out of thin air.  We went to a restaurant the other evening and we left with a TAKEOUT BOX full of clam shells.  The next morning they were spread neatly over the kitchen counter.  They are his friends and far be it from me to be inhospitable and demand they seek sanctuary somewhere other than my kitchen counter!!  And Roma, I still have to strip her down when she eats.  So, put two and two together and that means her highchair is a noodly, cheesy, cracker crumbly mess.  Mess.  Clean.  Mess. Clean.  Story of my life.  It's a fact!
I get myself dressed.  I get them dressed.  I brush their teeth.  I brush my teeth.  I bathe them.  I shower.  I feed them, I hug them, I play with them.  I change diapers.

In the end, it’s what you do with your time.  I have maybe an hour to myself in a day’s time.  It shouldn’t be a contest to see who has more work to do but it’s about what you do with what you have.

... Even if it means taking a break and being silly with your resident mess makers.  Enjoy it because they can only be this age once.  And how will they remember their mommy?  A crabby woman who constantly cleaned, or a creative mommy who didn't mind making messes with them every once in a while.

Falling in love all over again...

No, not with my husband because that's just something I do every day.  I'm talking about books. 

I need to re-learn how to appreciate books.  My love for them hasn’t died but the amount of time I have for them has.  The last time I completed a book cover to tail...please.  There is no live memory for that.

As it stands, I’m listening to books on tape, a cheap stand in for the real thing, as I do dishes, fold laundry and clean bathrooms.  There has to be some way for me to get in a good read.  Well, this is what I tell myself every time I go to the library and find three or four good books I want to dig into.  The fourteen day check out limit passes.  I renew.  The fourteen day check out limit passes -- again.  I renew.  This goes on for about a month...and a half, and then I just give up.  It almost feels like I’ve buried an old friend every time I return those books unread.  Sad parting -- but necessary, because fines don’t care who you are or how attached you are to Bernard Cornwell or David Baldacci. 
If only there was a library fairy, I’d make a wish that each week I could effectively speed read through all the latest new releases from my favorite authors.  The library and I.  We  have a thang goin’ on.  And it takes me as I am.  Late fees and all.  It also loves my children and husband, too.  It tends to swallow us all up every time we come, two hours passes so easily, and we enjoy every submerged moment.  Sitting on the floor reading books to my babies, joining other moms and babies during story time, doing crafts, playing computer games, building with the jumbo legos.  Nothing like it. 

But I’m still waiting for the day when it’s just me. my book. two hours of silence. and a comfortable chair.  BLiss.