14 days.

This came in the mail last Thursday:

A friendly little reminder that the only thing traveling faster than light is time.

Four years. Zap, bam, boom. Gone. My baby's heading off to kindergarten next year. As a working mom, I wonder how I will feel on his first day of school. Will it be any harder than handing him over to a stranger for 10 hours a day at four months old? Peeling him off my legs every morning for two months straight after a childcare transition? Listening to him scream my name as I walked down the hallway and back out to my car for a quick cry before heading off to work?

Last night as I snuggled with him before bed, Calvin asked if he had to go to school again today. I said yes, and he said "I don't want to go to school tomorrow! Can't we just stay home for 14 days?"

That kindergarten letter hit me hard. But it was nothing compared to the wave of grief I felt hearing him ask "can't we just stay home for 14 days?" Because, no. We can't. We can't stay home for 14 days this month or next month or any month in the near future. We can't stay home for 14 days while you're small and needn't be anywhere but home, and I'm not sure we'll be able to stay home 14 days when you're big and off for summer vacation and all your friends are home, either. Your mom works, so…no. We can't stay home. And it breaks my heart, because I know how much of your childhood I'm missing. How much we're asking of you to spend 10 hours a day somewhere other than your home with people other than your family. How unfair it is for you to have a school schedule before you've even reached school age. I know you don't want to go to school tomorrow, buddy. I wish you didn't have to.

I didn't say that. I hugged him tight and told him I understood, that I don't like Mondays either, and that I wished we could spend 14 days at home together because that would be so much fun. I sang to him, prayed with him, kissed him goodnight. And then I went downstairs and watched last week's Grey's Anatomy. The main storyline? How much it sucks to be a working mom.

Does it ever.

I know I'm a good mom. My kids are loved and treasured and safe and happy and we make the most of the time we have together. I work because my family needs me to and because I (mostly) like to, and I try not to feel guilty about that.

But sometimes? Sometimes it just sucks.

Secret shame.

Being a working mom is really hard.

And so is being a stay at home mom. Don't think this is going to be one of those pointless posts where someone tries to make the case for one over the other. I've read my share of those and I seriously can't believe people keep trying to win that argument. Ain't gonna happen, folks. We're all moms and we're all working our tails off. Let. It. Go.

While I fully admit there are big perks to having a full-time job outside the home — uninterrupted computer time, daily interaction with other adults, extra income, and eight hours of freedom from the hands of another human being — there are a few things about my schedule that make life challenging. The most important one, of course, is missing out on time with my son. That's heartbreaking, and I totally get why people say they stay home because their kids are only little for so long. I do feel sadness and guilt over missing out on large chunks of my son's childhood. But this is what works for our family, and it is what it is.

The second is lack of time. I don't have enough time to do anything. And I mean ANYTHING. I follow the same exact schedule Monday through Friday:

6:30am: Drag myself out of bed.
6:30am to 8am: Get ready. Drop Calvin off. Drive to work.
8am to 5pm: Work. Eat. Work some more.
5pm to 6pm: Leave work, pick Calvin up from school, get home.
6pm to 7pm: Figure out dinner, play with Calvin, eat dinner.
7pm to 8pm: Bath, books, put Calvin to bed.
8pm to 10pm: Clean kitchen, do laundry, collapse on couch.
10pm: Drag myself into bed.

Rinse and repeat. Except for Tuesdays, when my in-laws come over to give me a break at night.

I literally have two hours (three if you count my lunch break, which is typically utilized for errand running) a day to get things done. Unfortunately, by that point in the day my son is in bed, my husband is probably at work, and I'm exhausted. Truly, there aren't enough hours in the day to tackle my "should dos" or even my "need to dos" after checking off the "must dos" — which are currently limited to working and tending to the basic needs of my family. And on the weekends my priority is spending time with Calvin and Nate, not mopping my floors and going to the post office.

I think the thing that appeals most to me about staying home — besides the obvious benefit of caring for your children — is the flexibility. The ability to run errands. Make a decent dinner. Throw in a load of laundry. Pick up the house. Use nap time to accomplish something. Of course I realize being home is equally (if not more) exhausting, that you can't spend all your time cleaning and running errands when you're home with your kids, and that doing those things with kids in tow is no easy task (plus cleaning with kids is pretty much pointless because it will just be messy again two minutes later), but having the option to do those things during the day would be nice. I can't do any of that from work, and yet it still needs to get done at some point.

Basically, I'm romanticizing life at home and using work as a big, fat excuse for my lack of productivity. And now you'll see why.

The Abby who started this blog back in 2008 had a house that looked like this:



And the Abby you know today has a house that looks like this:


You know that whole "clean kitchen" line on my little schedule? Yeah. That's on a good night. So is the laundry. More often than not, I put Calvin to bed, take a shower (because it gives me five extra minutes of sleep in the morning), put my pjs on, and sink into the couch. I might shove everything in the sink or load the dishwasher, but I rarely have the energy to clean the entire kitchen. And right now I wait until I'm almost out of clean underwear to do laundry.

Oh, and my bathroom? Yeah, don't even ask. I used to be completely militant about cleaning it from top to bottom before anyone came over, lest there be a stray piece of hair on the floor or vanity. Now my in-laws come over weekly and kneel on the floor to give my son a bath and I don't even remember to put a hand towel up before they arrive...much less vacuum or mop the floor. Full disclosure: Half the time Nate and I dry our hands on the shower curtain.

Three years ago I never would have admitted these shortcomings to a soul, much less the entire blogosphere. I worked really hard to maintain the illusion that housekeeping comes naturally to me. It doesn't. Obviously. I am a slob of the highest order. Yet for the longest time I knocked myself out trying to keep my house clean, because I thought an orderly house equaled a happy home.

You know what? It doesn't.

I discovered this important truth once I accepted the fact that I no longer have the time, energy, or desire to maintain my previous housekeeping standards. While my home may be a complete disaster 90% of the time, it's happier than it's ever been. And so am I.

Though I'm not sure happiness is a good enough excuse for failing to hang up a hand towel. I'll try to squeeze that in somewhere.

Resolutions.

I never make resolutions at the new year. I see no point in doing so — no one keeps them, myself included. We make all these lofty and demanding goals for ourselves at the beginning of the year, start out with every intention of achieving them, and then the collective momentum inevitably dies around January 15. By the end of the year we're all five pounds heavier, disgusted with ourselves for failing, and once again claiming "the diet begins January 1!"

So stupid.

I'm not big on the resolutions, but I'll admit there's something inspiring about a new year. January brings us a fresh start, a clean slate, an opportunity for reinvention. This appeals greatly to my inner perfectionist, which is probably why every year around this time I get the itch to reorganize my house, buy an entirely new wardrobe, and start using a planner. I want order and peace in my house, my closet, my life. I want to live in Pottery Barn, or at the very least a Real Simple magazine spread. I want a white couch and sparkling floors and big bowls of fresh lemons on my kitchen counter.

I want order and peace and perfection, but what I have is...chaos. Messiness. Lack of control. Snot on almost every item of clothing I own.

I have a kid, a dog, a husband, and a full-time job. Order and peace are not on the menu these days. Dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, fingerprints on every possible surface, a never ending pile of laundry, stacks of bills to be paid...this is what I have to work with right now. And by "right now" I mean "for the next 18 years, at least."

Reconciling my wants and my haves is not easy. I tend to set ridiculous expectations of myself — to be the perfect wife, mother, friend, employee, housekeeper, hostess — and I fail. Over and over again. And of course I do, because you can't have sparkling floors and a white couch when you have a family. You can't work full-time and make a gourmet meal from scratch every night. You can't carve out significant time for your friends when you barely have time to see your husband and child.

I don't need more failure in my life, which is why I typically avoid making resolutions. But what's the difference between making big unattainable goals at the beginning of the year and failing and setting small unattainable goals for yourself every single day and failing?

Yeah, not much. And that's how I arrived at this very important (and yes, quite obvious) conclusion:

Perfection does not exist.

I say that for my benefit, not yours. Although maybe you need to hear it, too?

PERFECTION DOES NOT EXIST.

This is my new mantra. This is my New Year's resolution. To let go of perfect. To stop expecting so much of myself. To just be. To enjoy my family. To embrace the chaos. To stop apologizing for the dust bunnies on my kitchen floor. To not feel bad if dinner consists of hot dogs and frozen green beans again. To laugh. To wear unflattering old sweatpants to the store on Saturdays. To say no when I can't — or don't want to — do something. To accept that romance at this stage of life might just be frozen pizza in front of the tv with the man I love. To do what's best for my family, even if others disagree. To let guests help with the dishes. To leave work at work. To bake a lot, and eat it. To drink a little too much wine once in a while. To let go of the guilt. To smile at the fingerprints coating my walls. To have joy. To praise God in the good and bad, knowing there's a reason for the madness. To let tomorrow worry about itself.

I'm not perfect, and I never will be. But I am perfectly loved by the one who created me. By a husband who adores me, just as I am. By a little boy who thinks I hung the moon. By friends who couldn't care less about dust bunnies. By a family who has always stood by me.

This year, I resolve to be happy. With who I am, where I am, and what I have. Because that's what I think New Year's resolutions — or any resolutions, for that matter — should be about: finding ways to be the happiest, most perfectly YOU version of yourself. There is room for self-improvement, sure, but there is also room for self-acceptance.

And the you-est version of me really likes to eat, so rest assured, there will be no resolving to diet anytime soon. But maybe a little exercise to balance things out a bit...

Indecision.

I'm the kind of person who, when asked by a friend where to have lunch, says, "I don't know, what sounds good to you?"

I'm also an opinionated person, and in the right situation I have no problem letting everyone know exactly what I think. But most of the time I'm happy to defer to someone else's judgment, to sweep my feelings under the rug, to just go with the flow. I don't like to decide. I don't like to inconvenience anyone. I don't like confrontation. I don't like to cause a scene or make a call that might not sit well with others.

It's stupid, really. Why can't I just say "Let's go to Panera!"

I hate that I'm so averse to making decisions, especially about insignificant things like where to go for lunch. Because when it comes time to make a big decision, I am nearly paralyzed by fear and doubt. Most likely because I'm out of practice.

As a parent, there are millions of decisions to be made. I knew that going in, but I thought parental decision-making would be fairly straightforward. I'm the parent, I choose what's best for my child. End of story. No outside opinions needed, no one to offend.

I never once considered that I may not know what's best for my child.

Last week Nate and I made a fairly big decision — we decided to move Calvin to a new daycare. It's a long story, but it all comes down to scheduling. Our current provider is wonderful, but she has requested a lot of paid time off as part of our contract, and her hours have become a challenge for us to accommodate with our work schedules.

So, we decided it was time to move on. After touring and interviewing a few places, we found what we think is going to be a really great new place for Calvin: a small Christian daycare center that only closes on major holidays and is open normal business hours. We loved it. Yesterday I went and picked up all the paperwork — Calvin is registered and set to begin mid-September.

Almost immediately I began second-guessing our decision.

Calvin loves his current daycare. He loves his provider and the other kids (and so do we). She has been so good to him, and for him. I'm sure he thinks of her as another mother — he's been with her all day, five days a week, since he was four months old. He is excited to arrive each morning, and often hesitant to leave. And within the last few weeks he's made some major strides behaviorally (thank you, Lord). He is happy and thriving there.

But I'm going to take all of that away from him because it's no longer convenient for me.

I feel incredibly selfish. And really sad. When we initially made the decision to find a new daycare it was all very logical — our current situation wasn't working for us, so we needed to find a new one. But now I just feel sick about it. I feel like I'm choosing to put my needs above those of my child. Which is crazy and untrue. I mean, I can't even put my needs above those of a friend when it comes to deciding on a lunch spot! This decision is not being made lightly; of course I want what's best for my son. But last night the guilt started creeping in, and I just kept wondering whether we could make our current situation work, for Calvin's sake.

Yes, we could. We could stay there and Nate and I could keep scrambling to find backup care every time there's an unexpected closing or a last-minute vacation. We could stay there and I could continue to feel like a crappy employee doing a half-hearted job because I'm always calling off or leaving early to cover daycare. We could stay there and spend all of our vacation time covering our provider's — leaving no time for our family to take a vacation of our own.

We could stay there, but it would require weekly, even daily, sacrifice on our parts. Am I willing to do that for my child? Yes, absolutely. Is staying there the best decision for my family? No, I don't think it is.

Nate made a good point last night — that I'm assuming this change will be detrimental to Calvin. That we'll be trading a good experience for him for good schedule for us. Which, from the looks of it, isn't really the case. I think he's going to love it there, once he gets through the transitional period. So, in all likelihood, we'll be trading a good experience for him and an inconvenient schedule for us for a good experience for him and a good schedule for us. A win-win. So why all the worry and second-guessing?

Just me, I guess. This is not my strong suit as a parent. Reading, playing, comforting, disciplining — yes. Making potentially life-altering decisions for my child — not so much.

I know this is just one of many decisions I'll have to make on behalf of my children, and a fairly easy one at that.

Heaven help me when a big one comes along.

Mission: Accomplished.

Some moms — good moms, you might say — have professional photos of their children taken every few months during their first year.

I am not one of those moms.

Until yesterday, we had not a single professional photo of Calvin. I'm pretty sure my mom would consider that child abuse, as she never failed to miss a photographic milestone with the three of us. I wish I was that organized, but I'm more of a "fly by the seat of my pants" parent. I did, however, manage to get the three of us over to Minnehaha Park one morning in June (a very, very muddy morning in June), where we charged our lovely and very talented photographer with an impossible task — capturing sweet, memorable moments with The Crankiest Kid on Earth.

I feel like that's how these things always go — you put all this effort into scheduling a time, choosing an outfit, and waiting for nice weather only to end up with mud up to your eyeballs and a screaming child who refuses to smile. We'd actually planned to do the photos a week earlier, but had to cancel due to rain. Thankfully, since two days earlier Calvin wiped out on the pavement at daycare and had a massive scrape covering most of his forehead.

It's always something, I guess. Even for the most organized moms. I distinctly remember dropping a can of soup on Jill's finger before we had pictures taken as kids...and my mom has the photo to prove it. Baby Jill, looking all sweet and pretty in her little dress, sporting a big, ugly gash on her hand.

Eh, what are you going to do? Kids will be kids. That's why they invented Photoshop.

Despite the mud and crankiness, Jami somehow managed to capture some sweet smiles and a few of our favorite Calvin faces. She's good (and a mom, so very, very patient).

Plight.

I never wanted to be a stay at home mom.

Just to be clear — this isn't going to be one of those "motherhood has changed me forever and suddenly I can't imagine doing anything more fulfilling than staying home with my child" posts, because that's not how I feel. Of course there are many times I would love to stay home to play with and snuggle Calvin all day long (totally unrealistic, he's not a snuggler). But there are also days when motherhood makes me want to run screaming from my house and straight across town into the peace and quiet of my office. Which is neither peaceful nor quiet, but sometimes the insanity of work is preferable to the insanity of parenting a 14 month old. At least my coworkers don't throw food (Tantrums, yes. Food, no.).

Besides, I like working. I need to work, for reasons both financial and personal. I need to see adults I'm not related to every day. I need to have a reason to get dressed in something other than sweats every morning. I need to challenge myself, think critically, and accomplish something on a daily basis that's not related to our home or family. Working allows me to do all of that, plus pay our bills.

But lately I just can't shake the feeling that this is all wrong.

The other night Nate and I went out for a quick dinner together. I was quiet and spacey, so he asked what I was thinking about. My response? "I hate my job." Which isn't even true. Sure, it can be quite frustrating, but all in all I have a pretty sweet gig — great hours, decent pay, good friends, the ability to wear jeans. There are plenty of perks to make up for the less than stellar parts of my job. So, no. That wasn't it. I don't hate my job.

What I hate is that me working means giving someone who is not me the responsibility of parenting my son.

As my Facebook friends know all too well, and as you may have noticed from recent posts, we are having some challenges with Calvin. I'll put it bluntly: My kid is the biter. He's also the screamer, but that seems to have improved a bit in recent weeks, and is less worrisome overall since screaming does not cause physical harm to other children. But for the past few weeks there's been a note on his sheet nearly every day: "Calvin bit two kids today" or "Calvin bit another child today — this time he broke the skin."

I can't even describe to you the feeling I get in my stomach when I read that. It makes me feel physically ill. And has brought me to tears more than once.

I am now going to go all defensive mommy on you and insist you understand that my child is not badly behaved. Or mean spirited. Or living in a home without rules, boundaries, and discipline. He is loving and sweet and wonderful. He is also one, teething, and testing every boundary we set.

It's normal behavior. I know that. My daycare provider knows that. I'm sure the other parents know it, although it has come to my attention recently that they are beginning to take issue with the daily reports saying their child has been bitten by another. I can't blame them, I would be wondering what the heck is going on and why the biter's parents aren't doing something to address their little piranha's behavior.

I wish I knew how to address it. I'm embarrassed, frustrated, and at a loss for answers.

We're working with our daycare provider to find a solution — your input and ideas are welcome, by the way — but, overall, I feel very helpless. Other than one incident at his birthday party, Calvin hasn't bitten anyone in front of us. And there's not much I can do to curb behavior I'm not witnessing.

Which I HATE. I hate that I'm not the one working with him to find other ways of expressing his frustration. I hate that I'm not there to teach him to be gentle with his friends, as I taught him to be with our dog. I hate that all day long someone else is reinforcing his good behaviors and addressing his bad ones.

I hate that such important tasks — tasks that will help shape and mold his character — fall to someone we pay to care for him 45 hours a week. The bulk of his awake time.

I trust our daycare provider. But I'm his mother. I should be the one teaching him right from wrong. I should be there to tell him not to bite, to be gentle, to be kind to his friends. I should be there to hug him after he looks at me with shocked, sad eyes for being scolded. I should be there to apologize to the children he bites, and their parents. I should be there to comfort, to redirect, to teach.

I should be there.

Instead I'm here. At work. Doing something I have to do, for now, but also that I want to do. All while someone else tries to keep my child from sinking his teeth into another.

I never wanted to be a stay at home mom. But I'm beginning to understand the appeal.

F.

F is for family reunion, which we planned to attend this weekend. A day up north on the lake with Nate's extended family, who we rarely get to see.

F is for four hours, the length of drive we had ahead of us Saturday morning. Which is why we planned to leave as close to 7am as possible.

F is for frustration, which is what I felt when Nate called me on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog boarding place does not open at 7am, but 9am — putting us two hours behind schedule.

F is for the many four letter words I could have uttered (but didn't) when we discovered, an hour later, that our car had been broken into overnight, our window shattered, and our GPS stolen.

F is the letter grade I give myself for assuming I knew what time the boarding place opened, and for leaving the GPS on the dashboard when I should have put it away (since when am I new to city living??).

F is for FAIL, which is what Progressive gets for saying they'd have someone call us to set up our repair by end of day Monday. For a claim filed early on Saturday. Gee, thanks.

F is for fixed, which is what our window is after a very nice man from Safelite came to replace it on Saturday afternoon. Don't worry, Progressive. We took care of it. Still anxiously awaiting your call, however!

F is for fun, which we still managed to have this weekend despite a busted window, a missed trip, severe weather, and a child who refused to sleep for about four hours in the middle of the night last night.

F is for my very fabulous husband, who makes life's adventures bearable...and even a little funny.

Something tells me Nate did not find the shattered window as photo-worthy as I did.


Say what? What do you mean we're not going??


Man, I was really looking forward to that long car ride. Guess I'll just simulate as best I can from inside the house.


Luckily, we still had access to our Civic. Our very roomy two-door Civic. The perfect choice for an active family!


It was no day at the lake, but we still manged to get in a $12, 45 minute trip to the pool before Calvin had a total meltdown and the storms rolled in.





Mom, do you realize you're only wearing spf 30? Have you already forgotten about Mexico?


Enjoying a post-nap snack from his favorite perch.


Calvin was not the only one delighted by the prospect of bedtime Saturday night. He went to bed at 7:20. We went to bed at 7:20:05.


Sunday we went on a picnic, which Calvin found a little strange. He looked at me like "Where is my high chair? Where is that bib you always force me to wear?" He didn't let a little confusion deter him from eating his weight in food, however.




And then we forced him to ride the wheel of terror.


The only way to unwind after a wild ride like that? Footed pjs and crocs.


An ice cold beer from the cooler (all packed up for our non-trip... please note, we do not condone alcohol consumption by one year olds).


And one last swim.

Cute-ish.

Calvin has been doing so many not cute things lately (throwing tantrums, refusing to sleep, tossing food, generally making me crazy) that I am going to try and focus on the very cute things he's started doing. Maybe by the time I finish writing this post he'll seem cute-ish instead of like a holy terror and I'll feel calmer and little better about my parenting skills (or lack thereof).

The wheels are starting to turn in this kid's head. I just love watching him, because he's really taking things in and beginning to figure them out. For example:

While my parents were here, we saw him pick up a sock, sit down, and try to put it on his foot. Unfortunately, his foot was already in a shoe. So he stuck the sock beneath the tongue of the shoe, because he knew the sock went under the shoe.

I have a drawer in the kitchen dedicated to Cal's stuff, and he likes to pull everything out of there (and sometimes even puts everything back before moving on to the next thing...where does he get these neat freak tendencies?). The other day he pulled out a sippy cup and a lid, and walked around the house for about 20 minutes trying to put the lid on the cup. He finally screwed the top on — with no help from me, I was just watching him in wonder — and then threw it back to take a swig.

This morning, I found him walking around with a headband on his head. No idea how he figured that one out, I've only worn it a handful of times. But it was properly placed behind his ears and everything.

He's started using a fork and spoon to eat. And taking bites vs. shoving the entire thing down his throat. Though he still prefers that method of eating occasionally, and I can't really blame him for that. Sometimes food is really good and you can't help but want it to just be in your mouth already.

He very clearly says "up," "puppy," "baby," and "Ma!" (for Mattie). In fact, he was in bed with us yesterday morning, and he started saying "Ma!" and patting the bed like we do when we try to get her to come up on the bed with us. Neither of us had done it, though, so we were surprised to see him remember that we'd done that in the past and begin to mimic our behavior.

Okay, I feel a little better. I'm obviously raising a total genius, however poorly.

And now, a few random pictures to go with my random post.

Sweet headband, kid.


















Headed for the rug, very good. Please make sure to use the dog hair attachment. (Seriously, what's with all the cleaning?)


















"I like to eat chicken and watch the World Cup with my Dad." Narration courtesy of Nate.


















Hummus, I got the hummus. And also the Ritz.

Mother of the year.

Huh.
Guess I should have put gloves on my kid this morning.

Put it on my tab.

One of my favorite lines from the movie Dan in Real Life is when Steve Carrell gets pulled over for the second time by the same police officer, who warns him that "this is gonna cost you." Dan's response? A smile and a mumbled "just put it on my tab."

Soon thereafter, he loses his license.

I empathize with poor Dan, except my tab is an ever-growing heap of mommy guilt. I realized pretty quickly after having Calvin that guilt comes with the territory. I don't think there's a mother alive who doesn't feel guilty about something or another related to her kids. For example:

When Calvin was about two days old, I sat in his room, exhausted and sobbing, wondering why I'd thought having a baby was a good idea. And then I cried more, because that's a terrible thing to think about your sweet, innocent child.

I'd like to start a tab, please.

When Nate first went back to work and I was home alone with Calvin for hours on end, I would stare at him and think: what am I supposed to DO with you? I don't know how to play with a three-week-old baby. So, I put him in his bouncy seat, sat on the floor next to him, and checked Facebook.

Yep, go ahead and add that, too.

When I left Calvin to play on a blanket in the living room for a minute, then came back in to find he'd rolled over and was watching Law & Order: SVU, I about died. Not only was he watching TV, he was watching a show about sex crimes.

Mmmhmm. Tab.

When I let him fuss in his crib one morning so I could sleep a few minutes longer, then went into his room to find him laying in a puddle of pee, I wondered if there had ever been a more neglectful mother.

Pile it on, baby.

And when I dreaded having to drop him off at daycare because I had to go back to work, only to find a few days later that I kind of liked being back at work...

Tab, tab, tabby tab.

Now my milk supply has diminished. Even though I'm pumping two to three times a day at work, I'm not making enough for him to eat while I'm there. So this past weekend I had to buy my first can of formula.

Sigh. One more, please.

I really hope they don't revoke my parenting license.