I can feel that day looming on the horizon. Every day, it seems to inch closer and closer, and there is not a thing I can do about it. The other night, I was laying in bed doing my nails. The light was off, but I had the bedside lamp on, which is typically more than enough light. My husband and I began debating something that required me to read the back of the nail polish bottle. It was that moment I realized I had the eyes of someone who is middle aged. I blinked a few times, squinted a little, I even moved the bottle closer to my face. It was all in vain. I couldn't read the damn white print. I was convinced the issue was the bottle until I turned on the light and the words magically appeared on the bottle. Every day, I get one day closer to being thirty seven years old. It is happening and I can't change it. 

 
 
     Many nights,  I wake up to reach for my husband in the middle of the night, and instead there is only his pillow beside me. For many women, they would love the break from the snoring or the enjoyment of having the entire bed to themselves. Instead, I dread when my best friend is gone for work. It is like a piece of me is missing. I want to curl up in a ball and just wait for him to get back home to complete me again. Instead, I have to keep going because I have three little people who count on me to make breakfast or to play board games. I knew exactly what I was getting into years ago when we met. At the time it didn't seem like it was a big deal, I figured it was a small price to pay for such an amazing guy. Then, reality hits. 

 
 
     When my husband married me, it was not because I am sexy. I am not the girl you find browsing makeup articles on how to get more seductive eyes, or how to make him want you in under five minutes. Instead, I am more than likely playing with my kids or reading about how to get a screaming toddler into bed in less than six hours. I don't have the time to fix my hair or do my makeup. When I am getting ready to start the day, the kids are typically fighting about who is better at catching popcorn in their mouth, so I don't get a ton of "me" time. My "look" is the mommy look, same as millions of other beautiful women. Clothed in whatever we happen to grab from the closet that morning, still half asleep, hair pulled back so the baby can't eat it, jacket covered in yesterday's lunch, and bags under our eyes because the kiddo woke up and had a nightmare last night. Still, I managed to snag a pretty amazing guy. Day after day, he tolerates me wearing yoga pants and his tee shirts, even when we go out to dinner. Occasionally, when we have some extra time, I might get to brush my hair before throwing it into a messy bun. Most days, I might be able to manage a shower. That is my mommy victory for the day. Not trying to look like a magazine cover, but just getting clean. Still, at the end of the day, I know my husband adores me and thinks I am the sexiest woman on the face of the earth. I never doubt it, even on the worst days. I like to be appreciated for my mind, my skills as a mom, my abilities as a wife, and everything else I bring to the table. Yet, I know there is something lacking when it comes to how he sees me. He doesn't know me as that super beautiful woman that I always wanted to be. I just don't have the time or patience to find that person in me. 

 
 
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     After three children, volumes of parenting books, and two mother in laws I could probably write my own book on raising children. Instead, I can make it pretty simple. Laugh. 
     In our tiny, crazy family of five, things are not always ideal. The kids bicker and fight. There are days the hubby and I barely talk even though we both work at home. We have bills and payments just like every other middle American family. There are days that it is actually really, really hard to keep it together. Even on those days, we laugh. 


 
 
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     I remember when I was young, standing in front of my mom’s vanity. I would hold up her jewelry to my neck and ears. When she allowed, I would put on a bit of blush or lipstick. I was in awe of my mother, she was beautiful. My mother worked all of the time, but she still took care of my brothers and me. In total, there were four of us. I was the only girl and the oldest. My mom made everything look so effortless. From making us a hot breakfast each day to always looking beautiful for my dad. I wanted to be my mom. 


 
 
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     Each day I am so thankful that my children and husband have incredibly low standards. I really believe this is the only reason I am still around. I truly think that the reason my kids insist I am the best mom in this world is because they have nothing to really compare it to. If they ever watched The Brady Bunch, I would be screwed.
     I see these other moms, with their homemade, pre-digested toddler snacks and biodegradable yoga pants. I feel like a failure. My kids drop an Oreo on the floor, I brush it off and hand it back to them so I don't have to listen to the whining because it is the last one. Why is it so easy for other parents? Why can they do it all and I am barely holding it together? 


 

My Confession

10/14/2014

 
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     I can't be the only one. I know I can't. Most moms have to feel the same way I do. Holy shit, can't I just get two minutes for myself. 
     Why is it so hard to find any time at all where little voices aren't yelling "mommy" or the husband isn't asking where something is. In truth, I believe I deal with it pretty well. I take it all in stride, and go with it...most of the time. But then, there are those moments. The ones where I am making the mental list of everything that I still  have left to do that day, dinner is burning, someone is tattling on another, and the husband feels the need to have some in depth discussion about something right at that very moment. I feel like my brain is going to bleed and all I want is quiet.  


 
 
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     The first time I saw her I fell in love all over again. I knew the feeling because of oldest child, and I didn't think my heart could possibly hold anymore love. It could, and it did. When I met her she was absolutely beautiful and she still is. 
     Middle child is the exact opposite of me. I am a tomboy and she is the epitome of a girly girl. She loves nail polish and makeup. Her favorite color is pink and she adores anything with glitter. I like understated beauty and glitter makes me itch. Raising middle child is a challenge. 


 
 
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      Each time we go to grocery store, middle child stares at the covers of the tabloids that are in the check out line. It is my fault also, I get distracted with putting the groceries up on the belt, so I don't stop her. But, she is just fascinated with the covers and what stars are getting fat or who has cellulite or who is the skinniest currently. These magazines sit at a nine year old's level and shout out, "This is what you need to be in order to be perfect." 


 
 
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     I'm obviously no longer a child and haven't been one for some time. I have three children of my own, yet for some reason it takes one phone conversation with my dad to feel like a ten year old again. I hang up and I want to jump up and down and throw a complete hissy fit like a toddler. At what point does this stop? When do your parents quit having this hold on you?