Three Years

Our girls are 20 days shy of being exactly three years apart.

In March 2012, this is my baby. Stinkus, just a few months shy of her third birthday.

In March 2009, this was my "baby." Sassy, just a few months shy of her third birthday. (Can you tell they're sisters?)

And in March 2009, this was my soon-to-be baby. Just a few months shy of her BIRTH day. :)

It's crazy to me that when Sassy was Stinkus's age, she was getting ready to be a big sister. My little Stinkus still seems too young to have a baby on the way (She's NOT expecting to be a big sister, in case you're wondering!!!) Maybe it's because she's STILL in diapers (BIG SIGH), or because I want to keep her "little," or because she's just different from her big sister, but I just can't help but see her as my baby. And maybe I always will. On the way to school today, Sassy was reading a book to Stinkus: I'm A Big Sister. The book ends with: "And I'm special in another way because now I'm a big sister," and Sassy turned to Stinkus and said, "And I'm still your big sister!" A little voice answered back, "But I still wittle, Sassy!" Yes, you are, honey. Feel free to stay that way a wittle wonger. Because in another three years, you'll be the one finishing up kindergarten. Can we PLEASE be out of diapers by then?

Miss Popularity

I wasn't popular in high school.  I was the scrawny, smart "goody-goody" girl.  I remember going for my driver's license at age 16 and telling the woman at the DMV my weight.  103.  I was mortified when my license came out of the machine reading 130.  Ironically, almost twenty years later, 130 is still wrong--but this time it's too LOW. . . haha!  I finally grew in college--filling out AND gaining several inches.  I remember running into an old prom date and his first words:  "Whoa.  You grew boobs."  Thanks, buddy.   Lucky for me, I was in a class of great kids so we were all "unpopular" together.  Boob-challenged band brainiacs.  :)  And note to hubby:  when your high school has 120 kids and 100 are in the band, band IS cool!

I feel like I'm getting better with age.  I grew boobs. . . then had two children and lost them somewhere. . .  teeth are straighter, hair. . .   let's be honest:  anything is better than the feathered mullet I rocked way back in the day. . . and clothes from the early 90s are GONE.  Eighteen years after graduation, I'm FINALLY the most popular girl around.  With my two year old.

That child.  I told R the other day that our children might be bi-polar.  I can't figure them out.  Spunky, spirited Stinkus is the biggest Mama's girl.  She will get up at bedtime (which could totally be a stall tactic that I'm falling for) to cuddle with me and I get the heart-wrenching plea:  "I just want yooooooouuuuu, Maaaaaamaaaaaa. . . ."  Drop-off at daycare is getting better, but heaven forbid, I take off and leave her with Daddy and Sassy for a night.  For being as independent and hard-headed as she is, that girl needs her mommy.  And most of the time, I'll admit--it's pretty awesome.  But there are other times when I've had enough.  Like last week when she wouldn't let me put her down so I could cook dinner and unload the dishwasher.  Or when she won't let Daddy brush her teeth like he's been doing every night for years because he's not Mama.  And Mama HAS to do everything.        

I have to remind myself that this is the same baby who couldn't fall asleep those first few weeks at home without laying next to me on the couch.  And as exhausted and frustrated as I was, it was pretty sweet to doze off and find that she had curled up toward me--her little heart against mine, peaceful and asleep--at last.  

And once again, I have to remind myself that these days are numbered.  Someday she'll come home from school and make a beeline for her bedroom and slam the door because of something that happened that day.  And she'll think that there's no way her mom would understand.  She WON'T want me.  She won't want to hear my advice:  that high school (thank goodness) doesn't last forever, boobs are totally overrated until you can use them to feed your babies for the first year of their lives, and nothing beats being the most popular girl. . . in the eyes of your two year old.                  

Nice Mom

The other night, during a particularly extra-crabby "Crabby Mommy evening," I was rinsing Sassy's hair in the tub when she pulled out the dreaded:  "Someday when I'M a mom, I'M gonna be NICE to MY kids."  Ouch.  It hurt for a moment but I was seriously so crabby that it hardly phased me.  All I could get out was a rather tired, "Oh yeah?"  And then I thought--Man, am I so horrible that even my five year old is planning how to be different?  My thoughts were short-lived though because she then rattled off her plan for Perfect Mommyhood:  "Yeah! I'm gonna let them eat whatever they want for dinner, and they can watch whatever they want on TV and not brush their teeth, and never do Five Minute Clean-Up."  Whew.  So in a five year old's mind, THAT'S what it means to be "nice."  I have to remind myself that she won't see everything we do for them until they're long gone--parenthood isn't a job where you're held in high esteem or appreciated.  Yet.  And honestly, it would be easier to be the "nice" mom who lets them eat cheese quesadillas every night or watch Spongebob.  But I have to remember that I'm not here to win a popularity contest.  Sometimes it IS hard to be the mean mommy.  Especially when Grandmas and aunties are SO fun.  (A special shout out to our kids' wonderful extended families.  We're SO blessed!)  But I'm not here to be fun 24/7.  I'm here to raise two little people and teach them about this thing called life.

A co-worker declared me his hero the other day for doing this parent thing.  I laughed.  A lot.  I'm hardly a hero and I'm not doing anything that other parents don't do.  But it got me thinking.  It's been said a million times:  kids don't come with instruction manuals.  I'm not sure how we've known what to do.  You just do it.  And I know I've made lots of mistakes along the way.  But I look at my girls and I think: we've done a lot of things right too.  At the end of the day, they will eat what we made for dinner (or wait until breakfast), turn the TV off when I say "Enough," brush their teeth, and clean up their rooms--for at least five minutes.  And if that makes me "Mean Mom," I'll wear the title with pride.