Mommy, Are You Nice?

There seems to be a new(er) movement among mommy bloggers to embrace flaws--to make light of the days when you've locked yourself in the bathroom more than once just to escape little voices and sticky fingers. We joke about how our cars resemble a crime scene with all of the spilled red Koolaid. We fist bump other moms at parties when they admit to noticing their children's allergies require Benadryl more often than not after three sleepless nights preceding. I don't disagree with this strategy for dealing with mommyhood. It's tough job and one for which my qualifications are still questionable.

I do my fair share of lightening the mood when those little mommy moments hit, and I have a lot of them. I feed my kids Lunchables. Heck, today, I sent Gigi with goldfish crackers, Gogurt, and a white flour tortilla so that just once I would get her daily report back saying that she ate "well" instead of that she ate "a little." We haven't seen RJ's real sneakers in a week; he has been wearing water shoes to school with basketball socks.

I'm not perfect. Tee-hee.

Anyone who has raised, taught, or waited in a grocery store line behind a strong-willed child can appreciate this:

The screams. The shouts. The slapping and the biting. To say she is strong willed is to say Mount Everest is a big hill. 

I could call her a little diva and try to cultivate the Attitude. But, I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, and 15 minutes of Nellie Olsen will convince any mother to at least try to discipline away an attitude like this one. 

At least 10 times a day, I tell Gigi, "Be nice." I tell her, "Pretty is as pretty does, Nellie Olsen." I put her in timeout. I take away toys. 

Nothing helps. She is two years old, and her feelings have outgrown her tiny little frame. Unfortunately, she has a mother whose frame hasn't caught up to her own feelings. By 5 o'clock every evening, tensions are running high. Gigi is hungry, tired, and darn it, she wants to change into her lounge wear--which to a mother should be pajamas, but to a little girl, should resemble Cinderella's ball gown, spaghetti sauce be damned. We argue. We both throw fits. It's ugly, and I don't much feel like fist-bumping another mom when I talk about it. 

Most nights, I re-commit, "I will not yell at RJ and Gigi. I will be nicer and kinder. I will be the type of person I want them to be." Then, a new day has passed, and the children's hour is upon us again. 

Tonight, we went to the pool, and as is par for our course, Gigi pooped. I'll spare details, but she kinda made it, and she kinda didn't. It wasn't a big deal, but as she balanced her tiny bottom on the big potty, she looked at me and asked, "Mommy, are you nice?" 

"Are you nice?" 

My two-year old daughter asked me this to calibrate the discussion that she thought we were about to have. The worst part? I wasn't nice tonight. I was nice about the pooping incident--it really was no big deal. But then she launched into a toddler rage about something I can't even remember. And I snapped. I shouted. I carried on. I lectured. And all the while, my sweet-tempered little man listened intently, because he's too little to understand that a toddler could make Billy Graham a smidge crazy. 

I apologized to Gigi. I apologized to RJ. I want them to know that fits aren't okay, and that if you pitch one, you should apologize. Apologies are remedial, not proactive. I want to be a proactively nicer mom--one who can raise a Nellie Olsen, who in the end, turned out to be a lovely young woman. I'm not willing to embrace this little mommyhood mistake. It's not cute, and it's not something that I'll look back on with fond memories. 

Gigi is a spitfire. A hellcat. She's also my little Nellie Olsen with curls in her hair and ruffles on her bloomers and her socks: 

And so tonight, I'll re-commit, "I will be nice." "I will not shout." "I will be a kind person just as I want my children to be." Tomorrow, when Gigi asks, "Mommy, are you nice?" I will once again pause, and answer just as I did today, "I hope so." 

Our Life Aquatic

We live a life aquatic in the summer. Every day is a pool day, and if the pool is closed, there's a sprinkler running in the backyard. This summer is no exception. We spend a lot of time swimming, me more so than anyone else. About a week ago,  I left the dank indoor pool where we have swim lessons and noticed the sky. Later that night, I tried to describe it to my husband: "I don't know," I told him. "It's like the sky was bluer and bigger than I remember from summers past. I could breathe easier somehow."

It didn't really hit me until later that night. The sky wasn't bluer. It wasn't bigger. The air hadn't suddenly grown lighter. The change was simple and yet unbelievably complex: I'm happy. Really happy. Happy to the core. Every morning is a beautiful morning, and everything's going my way.

It took me a while to dig out. I needed a little help from my friends and from this guy:

He's a heck of a dad (and pretty cute too). 

You want to know what kind of father and husband this dude is? 

He's the kind of guy who spent his Father's Day morning feeding two kids so that his wife could continue in her life aquatic: 

Today, I splashed and dashed. It wasn't a long swim, but it was in open water (scary and kinda gross). It definitely wasn't a long run, but believe me, it felt that way. The first thing I saw when I surfaced? A bed-headed six-year old and a chubby-thighed toddler cheering me on from her daddy's arms on Father's Day. He wasn't home in bed. I wasn't home cooking eggs and bacon. 

Happy. Grateful. (Particularly grateful for the chocolate ice cream he just brought me as I write.).

Today was a good day. 

So was yesterday: 

We picked blackberries!

So very many blackberries. And we made jam and cobbler!

We garage sale-d and hit the biggest treasure trove of super soakers ever found. His life aquatic just got a lot more exciting. 

The sky is bluer. The air is lighter. Happy. Her smile says it. My heart feels it.