Saturday, February 27, 2010

...and I just lost my train of thought.

I usually have a pretty good memory for birthdays and other schedules. And I still do. But since having kids...things have changed. Now there's a new problem on the block. For example, the problem is not in forgetting that Christmas is on December 25th, the problem is in remembering that it's the 25th in the first place.

Which brings me to today...

Picture this: I go to the gym, start signing my kids in and ask the date.
"Is it the 26th?" I ask hopefully. (Because if it is, it's my mom's birthday.)

"No, it's the 27th."

"Oh crap. Yesterday was my mom's birthday."

Most times I know the day of the week, and I have Sam's school to thank for me knowing even that much. Before being a mother of a school-aged child, weeks would go by without me knowing the date. Days would go by without having to step into the great outdoors. With our advent into the public school system, my motherhood oblivion has gone from completely unaware to knowing it's at least Wednesday, or "red day" at school, or even that it's pizza day for school lunch. I'm making progress.

Motherhood makes you empathetic in so many ways. One of those ways: potty training. It's an experience so horrible, that it should only be considered the second initiation into the not-so-secret club called, "Parenthood." (The first being the first 6 weeks after having the child.) One of those ways is insight and understanding of why in the world your mom called you your sister's name all.the.time, or just simplified things and called you to dinner as a unit: "The Girls." Now it makes perfect sense why someone who stays home all day would need to lie down and read a book by the time you got home from school. Aaaaaah, yes. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. Too much sense. I wish it didn't make as much sense as it does.

So, sorry, Mom. Sorry for forgetting yesterday was the 26th. I'm doing the best I can. And I did get you a little something, but I'll just have to bring it to you when I see you next week!

Here's to moms who are doing the best they can with what brain cells survived after each pregnancy, and heaven help the kids that can't understand the toll of it all, and never will...

...until they have kids of their own.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Laughter Saves Lives

I've decided that being a mom is hilarious. It is. It has to be. If it wasn't, I'd be dead by now. I think my kids are funny: they say funny things and do funny things. But then there's that "other category." You know what I'm talking about. The category where your kids do such things that make you want to cry, run away, rip your hair out, punch a hole in the wall, crawl back into bed, or just plain throw them out the window.

After the first few horrifying experiences (especially the ones that happen in public) I think I've just learned to laugh at them all. Because they are funny, in a tragic sort of way. And when you have three kids in three years, they happen so often, you just gotta roll with it. (Or perhaps, maybe, it's because I'm such a broken woman that I don't care anymore. But that can't be it, can it?)

Behold, some Fisher tragedies:

And then there are those things that are just straight-up funny.