Confessions of a Wounded Mom

When I could have used encouragement, I received criticism.

When I could have used prayer, I received judgment.

When I could have used understanding, I received accusations.

Late this afternoon, my daughter Rachel came to me asking if we could 'go somewhere.' She was a little tired of being cooped up at home. I had a couple things I have been wanting to find, so we headed to the store.

I had Noah with me as well, and in recent weeks he has developed a dislike for shopping carts. He's two, after all, and would rather wander aimlessly discovering all the treasures on store shelves than to be strapped into a cart. I have found that letting him sit in the bigger part of the cart versus the traditional seating spot has helped.

Except for today.

We didn't get very far into the store and he was screaming to get out of the cart. I calmly, yet sternly, looked him in the eye and told him he needed to stop screaming. He stopped briefly, then resumed his wailing. I was going to round the corner, accept this toddler tantrum as defeat and head out of the store to go home.

But that's when I heard it.

The voice of an older woman on the other side of the aisle spouting, "Some people shouldn't be parents."

I was startled. I was dumbfounded. And I was hurt.

I approached her and said, "Excuse me, did you have something you wanted to say to me?"

The woman, obviously shocked by the confrontation, attempted to walk away while telling me I should take my child home for a nap. As I began to respond to her judgmental statement, she continued to reprimand me as she rushed off, blurting something about raising four children herself and the voice of criticism drifted through the stale retail air.

Normally, I would probably just let those statements roll off my back and tell myself the woman has no basis for her accusations.

But instead, I buckled my kids in the van and sobbed all the way home.

Because frankly, this week has been a tough one to be a parent.

To sit in a surgeon's office and plan a surgery for your two-year-old that will follow with a biopsy is no picnic.

To have your son's kindergarten teacher approach you about behavior issues for the third time in two weeks is not a walk in the park.

To comfort a daughter who is heartbroken to be left off the 'guest list' of a classmate's birthday party is humbling.

So to be honest, yeah, there were times this week I didn't know if I should be a parent. Sometimes it's just plain hard. And you wonder if you're doing things right. You second-guess yourself constantly. You debate whether you can even handle it.

And the one thing you hope beyond hope is that you're not screwing it all up.

So when someone comes along and implies that you are, it is almost too much to take.

So please. Think twice before passing judgment on a mother having a 'moment' with her kids. You don't know what her week was like. You just can't know what she's been facing. Instead of a roll of your eyes, why not give her a word of encouragement.

Perhaps what's even more sad about the entire encounter is that the woman was at the store with what appeared to be her own grown daughter. Someone who may already, or someday, be a mother.

It's very likely she'll have a child throw a tantrum in public sometime, too. Will she remember the words she heard her own mother say to a complete stranger?

Maybe it won't matter. Maybe it won't come to mind at all.

But what if it does?

That woman's words ring in my head and I feel hurt. But her words may scream failure to her own child one day.

So I prayed for her. It's what I do for my children. Perhaps today God needed me to pray for someone else's too.

I'm No Cinderella

Good judgment flew out the window this week. I decided to shop for jeans.

A friend of mine recently strutted by me in a super cute pair of jeans so I had to find out where she got them. She proceeded to excitedly tell me all about her amazing shopping excursion at a local store where she was treated like a queen by the sales clerk and jeans were hand-picked off the racks just for her...and poof! The perfect pair of jeans found a new home.

Intrigued by her find, I decided to check it out myself.

Let's just say, if my friend was Cinderella, I apparently was one of the evil stepsisters. Because just as there was no chance that little shoe was fitting their feet, I would not get those jeans beyond my knees.

The mystery to me is that the jeans can be the size of all my other pants, and yet you'd think I was trying to slip into a pair 3 sizes too small.

The other great mystery? After peeling the denim off my calves and holding them up to inspect the size, immediate depression kicks in. Seriously? My thigh is BIGGER than that?!?!

Someone. Please. Tell me! Why are jeans so deceptive? How can something that looks large enough to wrap around a circus elephant not get over my hips?

Now I'm not going to attempt to say that I'm the thinnest person in the world. Believe me - I steered clear of the rack of 'skinny jeans.' I'm not that foolish! I can honestly say there is no part of my body I would deem "skinny" except maybe my toes. They are freakishly skinny, actually.

So I don't expect to slide into a size 1 and trot out of the store giddy about my purchase - that would only happen if I had spent the past two years eating a strict diet of celery and water.

And since I certainly have not limited my diet in such a way, I am forced to pour through the racks of jeans of a significantly larger digit. And yet when I step into the dressing room and realize even those will not accommodate my newly discovered bulges, I panic. How huge have I become?? When did this happen??

So I hang the jeans back on their plastic hangers and reach for the pants I wore into the store. Pants of the same size I was just attempting to fit into, mind you. Huh?! How is this possible?

I am disgusted with myself, vowing never to eat again.

As I turn away from the horrifying mirror and exit the dressing room, I'm aghast at the sight in front of me.

It's a woman. Putting a pair of jeans on the counter as she pulls out her credit card.

She found a pair that fit.

So I do what every woman does. I compare myself to her. I pretend to continue scanning the racks when I'm really scanning her thighs.

How come she found a pair that fit? She isn't skinny! She's pretty average, actually. She has curves, too!

It's taking every ounce of strength within me to hold myself back from charging the counter in order to grab those jeans and check the label for a size.

And then reality strikes me - I may very well be living in a land of Cinderellas. Maybe jeans fit every other woman but me!

So I accept defeat and walk out of the store.

Next time I'll just go to Target and see what Polly Pocket might have in the way of jeans. I guess my freakishly skinny toes are the only body part jeans-worthy.

What It's Like to Be Purple For A Day

"Wonder if they'll find a way to blow it this time."

That's the remark I heard this afternoon shared by one guy to another as they discussed the upcoming Vikings game in the grocery line.

I guess that pessimism isn't completely unwarranted. The Vikings have caused blood pressures throughout the midwest to soar and fall on numerous occasions...only to be heartbroken by the final score.

I have to admit, it's tough not to catch that Vikings fever when you live around here.

I honestly think some of the fans really do bleed purple. And it's fun to watch my hometown's hero Jim Kleinsasser smackin' a guy or two around. Plus my heartstrings get tugged a bit as I read pre-game Facebook posts by Kleinsasser's Mom - that woman must have nerves of steel by now.

But still. She IS a mother. Her nails must be chewed to the nub.

I really shouldn't do this to myself, but I plop down on the sofa and start watching the game -- secretly (after all, my devoted Raiders fan husband is never sad to see the Vikings lose) hoping those Vikings are headed to Miami.

Please, someone grab the blood pressure cuff.

Why am I letting this get the best of me??

Everything seems okay at first. The touchdowns are bouncing back and forth. But hey, it's okay. There's a lot of game left.

Until suddenly someone from Land O' Lakes decided it would be good advertising if each player in the Vikings offense held a stick of butter. Well, I'm assuming that's what happened. How else can you explain all those fumbles?

Ugh. Painful to watch.

But the blood pressure soars again as they seem to sneak in some good plays...giving more hope that maybe, just maybe, the Super Bowl is in reach.

Then heartbreak.

Purple Pride just got punched in the gut.

I feel for the fans. (Hey, I cheer for the Raiders. We haven't seen anything remotely resembling a winning team in years. I know heartbreak in the NFL.)

But I feel bad for the players. Maybe not so much about the loss itself. But about the really pathetic interviews they must endure after the game.

"Tell us how you're feeling? Disappointed, I'm sure." (Uh, dude, you just answered your own question. No surprise, then, when all you get for an answer is, "Yeah.")

Or my personal favorite - the lady who interviewed Adrian Peterson outside the locker room. I think she may have been trying to score a date.

"You look really sad. Are you going to be okay?" she asks in a blubbery tone. For a second there, I thought she might give him a hug. The whole thing made me uncomfortable. Just let the guy go shower up and go home.

To some peace and quiet.

Good grief, that Superdome noise must have gotten so annoying. It was starting to irritate me and we don't even have that great of audio on our TV! I bet when those players finally got to a quiet corner they just breathed a sigh of relief.

Of course, they'll be thinking of all the "should have's" for the next six months. Or nursing aches and pains. Favre is gonna have some serious arthritis one day.

I say make the NFL like MLB. Let's play best of seven.

Yeah, I know. The old man would be playing game three from a wheelchair.

Thing is, he'd still be playing. The guy is a marvel.

Well, grocery-patron-man, I guess they did "blow it." But as deep as the pain is for Vikings fans, the pride is just as deep. Because you know by next Fall the fans will be geared up for another season of heart palpitations.

And as Favre responded in his post-game interview regarding sticking it out for another year, "I really enjoy the guys," he said. "I just wonder if I can hold up, especially after a day like today. Physically and emotionally, that was pretty draining.

It was pretty draining on all of us, Favre. Even for this Vikings-fan-for-a-day.

One thing you WON'T find me a fan of on Facebook.

I'm a fan of many things.

Chocolate, for instance.

Romantic comedies.

Naps.

And even American Idol.

But one thing I am NOT a fan of is...the common cold.

I'm pretty sure when Adam and Eve took that first bite of forbidden fruit, a cold virus immediately set in. After all, it was the first moment they realized they were naked.

They probably caught a chill.

Next thing you know they're hacking and sneezing.

And now the rest of mankind is cursed with the torture of the common cold.

Lucky us.

It's misery at its finest, because it isn't like the common cold really justifies a day or two confined to bed.

Nope. People expect you to continue in your normal routine. (Just don't shake their hand or cough in their direction.)

You are still expected to go to work, drive the kids to school, finish the laundry and cook three meals a day.

All the while feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

Because let's face it, a cold is a pain in the...head, ears, throat, chest, nose, eyes, well... Everything.

It starts with that tingly feeling in your sinuses. You know the one...when you think maybe if you wash down a bottle of vitamin C tablets with a gallon of orange juice your body will fight back with such vigor that the pesky virus will be gone within the hour.

Hardly.

My experience is that any attempts to naturally medicate only backfire. By the next morning, my head feels six times its normal size, my mouth hangs open so I can breathe, and I never walk away from a box of tissues.

Which brings me to another thought...tissues. Who invented those? Some incredibly wealthy guy named Mr. Kleenix who laughs with joy as he counts his money when winter's cold and flu season rolls around, that's who!

But I digress. Back to this nasty cold. I really hate that it is common. Basically that means you're going to get it and you're going to get it often.

And when the best thing to do to bring it to an end is extra rest, that's exactly when you will be too congested to catch any shut-eye, so you'll be awake for four hours straight in the middle of the night, only to finally nod off...17 minutes before your alarm goes off.

So you'll get up and go to work, take the kids to school, finish the laundry and make three meals that day.

Now repeat this cycle several more times.

Four Kleenix boxes and an empty Tylenol bottle later, you start feeling a bit better.

So you're ready to crawl into bed for a decent night of sleep.

And then...

Just as you are seconds from drifting off into dreamland, you hear, "Mommy? I don't feel good. My throat hurts."

Pass the OJ. It's gonna be a loooong winter.

Can I make you a mixed tape?

As my 7-year-old perused my tattered childhood scrapbooks she said, "Mommy, why did your mom just paste stuff in here instead of making it pretty like you do?" I explained to her that back when I was a kid they didn't create scrapbooks like they do now with scrapbook papers, stickers and protective covers.

Then I made the fatal mistake of saying, "Kind of like how they didn't have computers back then, either."

Her eyes widened and she gasped, "No computer!? How did anyone write to each other?"

After recovering from my own surprise and a good chuckle, I replied, "With pen, paper and the postal service!"

Her jaw dropped and I rendered her speechless.

We've probably all been forwarded the email about what kids graduating this year will not remember because it happened "before their time."

Like being in a classroom without computers.

Or remembering when Jimmy Carter was president. (Or Reagan, for that matter!)

How about playing an 8-track...or even knowing what it is.

That there used to be a country called the Soviet Union - and it was a superpower.

Watching The Challenger explode on television.

You get the idea.

I read that email once or twice and admit to thinking, "Are you kidding me? Wow, I guess that was a long time ago."

But when it comes from the mouth of your own child. Whoa. Whole different deal.

I suddenly recall the stories my parents used to tell me of getting to school on horse-drawn cart, hauling water, and not having a TV. Soooo archaeic, I thought at the time.

And now that's me. My own flesh and blood is aghast that there once was a day before computers.

I'm not even going to bring up the subject of rotary phones...

Small Town Livin'

There's something to be said about small town livin'.

In North Dakota, if you live in a rural area (and there's a lot of those), anything bigger than 3000 people is considered "the big city." So I guess I'm a "big city girl." And I'm discovering the convenience of Walmart and Starbucks doesn't hold a candle to the perks of a small town.

Allow me to explain.

This week, my family made the 2-hour trek to the small town I grew up in, to bombard my parents' home and celebrate the holidays with 25 additional family members. (Yes, it was tight - but we manage!)

And I learned some things about small town livin'.

1) In contrast to my own doctor stories (see prior blog post), small town residents get the kind of access and respect from their doctors that I only dream about. My sister informed me that she actually can just call the doctor for a presciption without having to go through the exam first! Imagine!!!

If you live in the "big city" and that doesn't enthrall you, keep reading. Your jaw will drop soon.

2) Go ahead and throw away your receipt. As I was helping my Mom with meal prep, we discovered one of the ingredients she purchased was the wrong one, so we sent my Dad to the store to do an exchange. As she stuffed the item into a bag, I asked, "Do you have the receipt?" She looked at me a little funny, then replied, "No! You don't need a receipt. They'll take it back. They know it's theirs."

Now true, most places will take items without a receipt in the "big city" as well, but not without the eye roll and a sigh from the cashier. And if it isn't an exchange, you can forget about a refund. You'll just get store credit.

But that's nothin'.

As a North Dakotan who has lived through my share of winters, I can appreciate a helping hand after a snowfall.

So here is the third and final perk for living in a small town that was brought to light:

3) My brother just returned from a Christmas visit to his in-laws in Kansas, so he wasn't home during the huge snowstorm that hit the area last week. I asked him if he liked the welcome-home gift of large snowdrifts in his driveway.

But do you know what he said?!

He said there weren't any.

Because the "merk" as he's called, (short for mercantile guy, apparently), goes around town and clears everyone's driveway.

WHAT?!?!

I know. That was my response as well.

The mercantile guy knows if people can't get their cars out, they aren't coming to shop at his store, so he has an understandable vested interest in your snowpile.

Maybe some of the retailers around here could learn a thing or two from the merk. Personally, I'd be first in line to shop somewhere if the store owner was cleaning the 4-foot drifts from my driveway.

This "big city girl" isn't quite ready to give up my Y membership or the McDonald's drive-thru option, but I might start checking for doctors in Menoken and asking the clerk behind the customer service desk at Walmart if she'd like to offer me snowblowing services instead of store credit.

I'm just sayin'.

"I'm sorry, you must have my child confused with someone else."

"What's going on here, Mom?" my 7-year-old daughter asks in a commanding voice.

Frankly, I'm intrigued that's she noticing a change so quickly.

You see, earlier this week I started reading a book entitled, How to Have a New Kid by Friday.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and don't really want new ones (well, if the new ones came with owners manuals and big bars of chocolate, maybe...) but I admit I've had my moments when I was ready to pack 'em up and ship 'em off to anyone who would take them.

Simply put: I can't handle the attitude.

When they're little, it's the tantrums and the whining. When they start school they get tired, cranky and apparently lose the ability to communicate like a human being. When they're elementary age, they begin to believe they know everything. At every stage, however, they think they are the BOSS.

Of course they're nearly angelic for anyone else in authority. School teachers report a well-behaved student working hard to meet or exceed expectations. Sunday School teachers rave about how well they get along. Mothers from birthday parties comment about their good manners.

Huh?!? Where's that kid?

I get the one who forgets how to use a fork at virtually every meal, and can't seem to eat over their plate even if it were 3 feet in diameter.

I get the one whose photo is next to "sibling rivalry" in the dictionary, finding just the right action to completely set off World War III on a daily (or hourly) basis.

I get the one who refuses to take responsibility for their actions, and works hard to meet or exceed the pathetic excuse from 2 hours ago of why it "truly wasn't their fault."

So yes. When I saw the title of the book, I was more than just a bit curious.

And guess what? The book makes a lot of sense, and I understand why it can work.

So I begin implementing "the plan" the author proposes. And I have to admit, it is kind of refreshing.

Instead of a morning of exasperation and fits, there are boundaries.

Instead of time-outs and idle threats, there are loving responses.

Instead of a day filled with fights and screaming, well, there's still fights and screaming...but I'm handling it differently than I ever have. And it seems to be working.

We had a very tough day, but toward the end I think perhaps we achieved something...a desire to make tomorrow a better day. Genuinely better.

I'm not expecting my children to morphe into little cherubs with these parenting techniques, but I'd like to think we're on the road to recovery...recovery from a world where I felt so out of control that I had given up hope that parenting could be any different.

Because when my daughter asked that question, I felt like I was doing something right. And that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

And maybe...just maybe...

I'll recognize that kid their teachers rave about...by Friday.