“Mama, I don’t like that mean boice.” My little three and a half-year old told me this numerous times today. I didn’t like his whining voice either. Yes, I told him this. No, it didn’t help. He dramatically threw himself on the floor when he couldn’t do some absurd thing and got reprimanded. To be honest, I just don’t like my mean voice either. It arrives when the whining, arguing and my boys not getting along with each other has reached maximum levels. It has a stern and serious, frustrated and defeated tone to it. I’m pretty sure it’s accompanied by a mean, ugly, scowling face too, though I have not ever looked in the mirror while using this mean voice. I should probably check it out. Some days can just be rough, long and relentless. Extremely long shifts with a lot of demands. For one person. Sometimes you don’t get too many pats on the back or “I love you’s.” Some days, it feels like you, the biggest, most responsible and intelligent person, takes vicious commands from tiny irrational dictators.

I imagine if I were in a communal living situation, with other mothers, that one of them would see me, hear that mean voice and intervene. Maybe offer to watch my kids while I walked to the watering hole or all the way to a mountain. I would get a quick break and return a little less defeated. My mother friends would have fed my kids a snack, recognizing that their blood sugar was low. They would probably have made me a snack too. And those awesome mama friends would give me a hug and say, “You know you are a good mama, mean boice and all.” And I would laugh. Then, my boys would come running up to me and jump on me. They would know, by my laugh, that my happy self had returned.

The thing is I realized something pretty quickly, like moments, after meeting my kids face to face. They are the only ones that possess these keys to unlock places in my heart that I never knew existed. Both the beautiful places and the really ugly, dark places. They hold amazing powers in their scrawny little skinned-up kneed bodies. And they don’t really know it. A lot of times they don’t have a clue what they are doing. They are just trying to figure out this complicated life. And they desperately need my help. Both when I am willing and able to give generously to them, and when I feel utterly exhausted. And that’s why I always feel like such a jerk on the nights when the day sucked. Or when I sucked as a mom. They are just trying to figure out how, when and where to use this massive set of keys. All the while with tiny hands and inadequate fine motor skills.

I am ever grateful for my children’s willingness to forgive me. Love me. Be patient with me. My littlest boy crawled up into my lap tonight and said, “I wike watching the Woyals with you, Mom.” Translated as “I like watching the Royals with you, Mom.” As he sat with me, I apologized to him for using “my mean boice” today. Of course, he instantly forgave me. Because that’s what these sweet little creatures know how to do best. Forgive. Thank goodness that tomorrow is a new day. Even though tonight ended in a most meaningful way for me. And the Royals won too.

I am 35 years old, “advanced maternal age,” as a younger friend pointed out, accidentally, this weekend. I was a late spring, end of summer kind- of-flowering girl, yet somehow I appear to be prematurely embarking on a mid-life crisis. Nice. In one day, I have had all of these genius ideas. (Insert sarcasm.)Please. I know they sound crazy, but I still want to do all of them. At the same exact time. My husband kindly said, “You wanna go dancing? We can go dancing.” Then he suggested I should just pick a few. Ummm. No. There are definite signs that my brain is working overtime or potentially malfunctioning? I have determined that I may be in the warm-up laps and pre-stretching phase of:

A) Having a mid-life crisis

B) I have had too little of sleep and too much caffeine today

C) A combination of the two

It’s so hard to differentiate between the two. Having experienced one, but not the other. I had hopes of living past the not-so-ripe age of 70, but it’s really not looking that great. If, in fact, you multiply your mid-life crisis age by two. And boom, there you have it. Simple math. That’s your age at death. Perhaps I will just be warming up and stretching for a while. Exciting. Oh man. I think you will soon agree. Obviously, in staying true to my extroverted self, the natural yet, not that smart of thing to do, is throw some of the pseudo-crises out there for others to read about. I have kept a few  ideas to myself, for privacy reasons, I’ll have you know, before you get all “too much information” on me. But you are reading my blog, right?

Come on. Get that leg pat drumroll going.

You may be going through a mid-life crisis (or have had too much caffeine) if….

1. You want to sell your house and move to another country and live in an orphanage. Or work at the fistula hospital. Or work somewhere will you may not make any money at all.
2. You want to go back to school for something, but you just aren’t sure exactly what you should go back to study. Hmmmm. So many choices. What do you want to be if you ever grow up? So, you apply for your Masters of Arts in Counseling. Makes sense. Help others navigate their lives.
3. You also want to quit your job and go back to working at a coffee shop as a barista. Great tips, free coffee, lots of people to meet, talk to and remember their “regular.” That makes a person feel loved, important, and like they should leave you a big tip. Your brain can remember a grande non-fat, extra foamy latte, right?
4. You want to buy a food truck, and start a business selling some pretty stellar tacos for a pretty unbelievable price.
5. You want to get another dog, a big one, never a little one again. You realize that you have a small cat-like dog that wears a diaper and you also have promised your children hamsters, in a weakened desperate state. If and only if they can be more responsible. So, it’s looking like the hamsters may be waiting a while at Petland. Whew! Works out well. I didn’t want to have to get passports for them. Seems a little much. Hamsters in the overhead compartment of a plane, headed to an orphanage in a foreign country? Not. Happening.
6. You want to wear stilettos and go dancing in Phoenix, Arizona or maybe somewhere closer, but just not Power and Light. You’ve already planned on bringing flip-flops in your gigantic purse, for that moment, about an hour after you have worn the stilettos, when you can no longer walk. Or dance. All you can talk about is how much your feet hurt. What a drag. Slide on those Reefs, girl. And get your mid-life crisis self back on the dance floor!
7. You want to hop on a tour bus with your husband’s old band and home school your kids in that bus. Surely there is wi-fi on a tour bus?
8. You want to put a ridiculous bumper sticker on your van…or on your food truck or on your tour bus
9. You’re thinking about what would make a good family tattoo
10. You want to have another child. Perhaps conceived on a tour bus. Then you can name him something really clever. Of course, he will be a boy.
11. You want to foster and/or adopt several children. Hope the tour bus passes the home study. I may need to call on a social working friend.
12. You want to go on a road trip to see old college friends. Which could really work out wonderfully. With the whole tour bus plan
13. You want to sell most of your stuff. And your kids’ stuff. And your husband’s stuff, just not the guitars.
14. You want to take a one-way trip to Hawaii. And just not tell your sister that lives there that you could only half-way afford one-way tickets. Will someone adopt our dog? The one that wears diapers, and needs $1200 in dental work? He is soooooo sweet. And will someone water our plants, especially our lime tree? Cinco de Mayo is coming up, and two limes are getting pumped.

Lastly, you want to drink a few beers while watching the Royals, sifting through ALL of these brilliant ideas, in hopes of discovering the ones that float to the top. You know the most important, foamy ones. If none of them float, you can always think of some more, right? Yep. But, please tell me a few of these ideas are amazingly doable and not just the by-product of scattered “advanced maternal age” brain thinking. I mean, it’s not like I want to buy a hot new red sports car or anything. That would just be absurd. And so impractical.

You didn’t have to call out my name or even whisper it. Back then. And you knew it. I knew you were there. You had power over me. I felt you hiding. Waiting opportunistically. Then, you kidnapped me. You made me afraid. You made me not trust. I felt trapped. I looked over my shoulder. You made me think others wouldn’t like me, if they really knew me. All of me. You made me feel embarrassed, insecure. You put me on a tight leash. Pulling me this way and that way. I begged to go over there. And over there too. You stopped me. Just short of relationships. The honest, real and genuine kind. You lead me right up next to them, right under my nose, but you made me feel like they were not for me. Only for others. Not someone “like me.” I can’t have it. “Get back. Come here.” You dictated my thoughts. Yank. Tug. My head jerked back and fell down, and begrudgingly I followed your lead. Into the darkness.

Shame. Shame. That’s your name. You spearhead every pity party. The ones that nobody ever gets the invitation for. Or maybe everybody was just too busy. They already had plans, remember? They lied. Nobody chooses to go to a pity party. Ever. They suck the life right out of folks. You are there hosting, always hoping for a better turn-out. You’re accompanied by your best friends: guilt, pain, and anger. You’re at the door waiting anxiously  to pull somebody, anybody in.

Shame. Shame. I know your name. I know that horrible, awful, drowning feeling you perpetuate. All too well. I know that you don’t nurture, you don’t feed. You entice. You entrap. You starve others. You slowly kill. You attempt to conquer. You fill others with untruths. Over and over again.

I have gotten to know you, Shame. Too well. Because of an ugly disease. That I didn’t choose. Starting in the hospital, of all places. You lurk in waiting areas hoping to sneak back into rooms. Nurses, care assistants, and doctors have made me feel your presence. On their faces, in their tone of voice. In the midst of excruciating physical pain, you’re always there lurking at the door. By my bed. In the bathroom. Then, I get discharged. You follow me home in my recovering fragile body. Scared to venture out, I feel your tight collar around my neck. I could write a book on the things people have said that keep you, Shame, holding tight onto my leash. My life. Or the things that have happened, emotionally-scarring things. Resulting in more embarrassment, your favorite ally.

I will never forger the time that two male police officers came barging into the women’s bathroom, at a bar, at my sister’s bachelorette party. I was laying on my sister’s lap, on the floor of the handicapped bathroom stall. Feeling just that. I wasn’t high. I wasn’t drunk. I was having problems with my body, my guts, this disease. But I was rudely escorted out of the bar. While my brave sister-warriors fought for my rights, as a human being. As a woman. In a bathroom. I could hardly walk, speak or breathe through the crying. I don’t know how I made it to my van to drive myself home. I felt overwhelming amounts of shame as I drove, sobbing.  I barely let my husband hold me that night. Did I even deserve to be loved? You made me feel that. Shame. All consuming Shame.

Shame made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. Shame made me feel like I ruin special occasions. Shame made me feel like I should be able to control a disease that has no conscious and acts accordingly. Shame was wrong. As it always is. I didn’t recognize it back then. Years ago. But I’ve changed.

Shame. Shame. I know your name, but you will no longer speak mine. I broke your leash, when you were out looking for your next victim. I grew stronger and smarter as you left me outside. In the cold. You will never have power over me again. My weaknesses have become my strengths. Now, I know where you live. I am not afraid of you anymore. I will tell everyone about you so they will know that you are weak. A coward. You tear others down to strengthen your straw empire. You have no strength of your own. I will fight to make sure nobody else will be stuck outside your back door. Tied up. Made to feel something that they are not. I will not let others hurt, hide or live in your lies. You mask the beautiful. Corrupt the weak. You live in the shadows and you hide from the light. I will expose you. Shame. Shame. You will never call out my name. Again.

Some nights when my boys are all snuggled in their beds, or mine, I kind of miss them, a lot. They’ve been sleeping for a few hours, so I’ve simmered down. The morning seems like a long ways away. The house is too quiet. I don’t miss them quite enough to do something crazy, like wake them up. At midnight. However, confessional time. I used to do this awful trick that I now realize was good intentioned-ish, but wrong. So wrong. I used to get bored babysitting when the kids went to sleep. Often, I would go in to “repeatedly check on” sleeping or napping kids, running into things on purpose, trying to wake them up. I mean, was it so awful that I possessed a strong desire to put in the hard work, earn my money? Actually babysit some kids. I’m not going to lie, it was always awkward trying to get comfortable on someone else’s couch, creep in their cubbard for snacks and figure out how to work their TV. Reading a book was too quiet of an activity. I didn’t want to hear all the weird sounds of somebody else’s house or cozy up to that psycho cat. I know. I know. Not all cats are sneaky and creepy. Wink. Wink.

So, tonight I pretended I owned a Margarita Restaurant. I was thirsty. And bored. And not tired yet. My restaurant specialized in “dirty” margaritas. It’s the best margarita you’ll ever have. I’m not humble. It is the absolute best. We can or actually just I can, until I hire some help, make strawberry, mango or plain lime. The secret ingredient, which may gross some out, is throwing a little olive juice in there(that is why I would never tell my imaginary customers). That’s right. On the rocks or frozen. Deliciouso. We will even bust out the home grown limes, if you’re a favorite patron. Those limes mean business. Chocolate wafer cookies or leftover homemade pretzels can be added to your margarita order. In a perfect world, I would wear whatever comfy clothes I wanted and invite all my friends to come over, while the kids were sleeping. My friends and their friends would be able to keep the fun at a reasonable noise level, as to not wake up the party poopers, those sweet sleeping children. Maybe the payment for your awesome margarita would just be helping fold clothes. Nothing creepy like underwear. But not the towels, those are too easy and my favorite for that reason.

On a nice night, you could enjoy your margarita on the deck. I probably need to add some lights out there, maybe a bug repelling candle. I should have some chips and salsa on hand too. I don’t want to be known for anything except the wicked awesome margaritas though. I will only use real fruit, you know, to make them healthier. They can be virgin too if you’re queary of Kirkland tequila or don’t drink alcohol. If my imaginary margarita restaurant is a success, which of course it will be because it’s all in my hyped-up imagination, then I may consider opening up a taco joint too. My husband makes the most phenomenal smoked carnitas and pineapple salsa. It would be safe to say that had I known about his smoking pork skills, I would have married him just for that. Those of you who have tried it know that it will turn a vegan into a pig-raising fool. Since he recently half-admitted to marrying me for my mad spelling skills, we’re even. True love is hard to find. Speaking of true love, I think my single friends could find this too at my margarita restaurant. If they wanted to, no pressure. I secretly want to be a matchmaker too. This imaginary margarita restaurant will be amazing. I do hope you’ll come sometime.

I don’t really like doing puzzles. That’s a nice way to say, “I hate doing puzzles.” Especially the 3000 piece doozies of say, a lush forest. Just a lot of trees, maybe with dew on their leaves. Oh, and the sun shining through the branches. Oooooh la la. No. I would rather just go walk outside and look at a whole forest, instead of forcing together all these minuscule green and brown look-alike cardboard pieces of trees. And more trees. The hot air balloon puzzles are pretty spectacular, I know, they have differing bright colors. I just say no to those guys too.

I used to nearly go crazy trying to put all of my kids’ puzzles together at the end of the day. You know, to get organized. So, they could dump them all out first thing in the morning. I know it is good exercise for kids’ brains to build, do puzzles, smart thinking stuff. They just take me a looooong time to complete. If I ever do complete them. I have found that drinking beer or wine actually does not help my brain kick into “puzzle mode.” Come to think of it, I may be missing whatever part of the brain it is that specializes in completing puzzles. It may be the same part that helps you play a guitar. Maybe it’s in there, just really weak. It’s going to stay atrophied, virtually non-existent.  I’m not about to go strengthening it, if that entails doing a bazillion puzzle push-ups. No, thanks. If you locked me in a room and told me that my life depended on me completing a 500 piece puzzle, I may just start eating the puzzle pieces to choke myself. Put myself out of my own misery. Or something. Because I’m going to fail. And I would rather choke than get uber frustrated in my final moments trying to jab and bend pieces to fit into a space that wasn’t intended for them. I also know how to use the chair to perform the Heimlich if I changed my mind. Choking on puzzle pieces sounds pretty awful. I guess I’ve always been good at exaggerating.

Despite my disdain for puzzles, they make great analogies for life. I often feel like a human puzzle piece. You might know the one I’m talking about. That one that looks like it could fit into the corner over there or into the middle of that weird lizard puzzle. Or look, it’s going to kind of work in the puzzle of the world too. I’m not sure if everyone feels this way. Like you have all these different groups of people who you’re trying to fit into. All of the time. Your family, old friends, work friends, mom friends, neighbor friends, your husband’s friends, new friends, church friends, even Facebook friends. Groups. Groups. And more groups. I guess it’s a good problem to have. Maybe. But it’s a hell of a lot of puzzles to be fitting into. Sometimes, I forget which puzzle I am even in. I look around. Ack. All of the pieces look the same. How I am supposed to act, what is my role in this puzzle. Oh, don’t be so honest in this puzzle or so loud. Or inappropriate. Just simmer down. Be a tree. Okay. Wait. I would rather go find another puzzle. To try to fit into. Where I can be jagged, that weird heart shape, whatever. I just don’t want to cram myself in and be uncomfortable if I don’t have to.

I think as I get older, I feel less and less pressure to jab and bend and not fit into certain puzzles. I am a thrift store puzzle of sorts. Maybe you live with yourself long enough to realize that it’s not worth the struggle. I sadly meet young kids, ten to twelve-year olds, all of the time, that tell me they have no friends at school. One even asked me this weekend, “will you be my best friend?” It’s rather heartbreaking. Every Time. Of course I will be your best friend for the next two hours or so. How sad that a spunky little twelve-year-old has to ask a newly met 35-year-old to be her best friend. In the hospital. A lot of times, I want to pep-talk these sweet souls about how kids and grown-ups alike can be flat-out insecure. And take it out on you. Or just be cruel, mean and unfair. Bitter and unhappy. For no damn reason at all. Or maybe for a lot of reasons, that have nothing to do with you. Hang in there. People may or may not get better, but you will grow stronger in who you are. Put on your headphones and turn your music up. Loud. They may not like you, but seriously, why would you want a person that acts that way and treats people that way to like you?

Case and point. A coworker saw me after I helped with a procedure and said in a snarky, condescending tone, “are you just the happy train?” Wow. How to reply to that one. Yep. I have a Bachelors in being the happy train. If you only knew about the next room I was going into. There were so many responses, yet so little time. Not that the doctor cared how or what my response would be. So, “Yep, I am the happy train and I will gladly give you a free ride tonight. Seems like you could use one.” Unfortunately, I had to roll my “happy train” into that awful next room. And no, I’m not always a happy train. But, at work, I will do just about anything to help kids feel a little better, a little happier, a little more loved on. A little less like a puzzle that’s missing so many pieces.

I am that broken lamp. Like so many that we have in our house. They tried to light up rooms, poor lamps, but then they all took a beating. From a dodge ball that missed it’s target or a little boy’s sword. Or a dynamic wrestling trio. I try to be a light, be an encourager, exhale hope, but many times I can’t get past my own brokenness to recognize the true light that surrounds me. The natural lights. The sun, moon and stars. The overhead lights. My family. The strobe lights. These crazy little boys running in and out of every room all the time. The bedside lamp. The reliable night lights. All of the people that bring varying degrees of light into my world. I could relax in the corner, without even a lampshade on and just not work. And I do just that from time to time.

I should be on my knees everyday asking for God to help get me through, get past myself, so that I can see the beauty in others. Today I prayed that God would help me to accept others in the way that I hope others will accept me. I prayed that my faults be dimmed by the brightness of those around me. I want so badly to recognize, truly see the strong and weak working together to create the utterly beautiful. Yesterday I learned that Francis of Assisi wore patches on the outside of his habit so that people would be reminded of his imperfections on the inside. What a beautiful and visible reminder that we all have patches on both the outside and inside of our bodies. We are not perfect. And yet, we are not supposed to be. Despite the perfectness that our society promotes, it’s not the point of life. To be the most perfect looking. It’s okay to have freckles, I hope. An overbite. Got that too. Big feet. Big nose. Small boobs. The list goes on and these are just some of what society would deem physical flaws. Things I should get fixed.

The things that I need to seek the most help and attention for cannot be fixed by creams, personal trainers, plastic surgeons or orthodontists. They lie deep within. They are an ongoing project. I need to request a daily appointment with a God who can and will hopefully work on my heart. My lamp will get knocked over time and time again. I’m quite sure of it. I am hopeful that God will continue to constantly use the people around me to pick me up. Maybe even grab my lampshade. Plug me in again. Figure out what’s wrong with me. Be careful, you may get shocked. Thanks for helping me. All of you. All of the time. You may think you’re merely picking up a lamp off of the ground, but you are doing something much greater. You are noticing. I can work a lot better if I’m up off of the ground. I appreciate you. And I thank God for all of you.

It’s so much easier to have a conversation with someone who nods and agrees with you. Blood pressure stays low. Voices remain at a pleasing tone and decibel. Hearts don’t have to pound so rapidly. Emotions generally don’t get hyped up. Panties don’t get all in a wad. Not a lot changes at the end of the pleasant and agreeable conversation. I am proud and I am right, and so are you. High five.

Occasionally, I have a conversation with someone that resembles two stubborn bulls ramming horns, repeatedly. It’s hard to move past the encounter. Without feeling a little sore. During the conversation, I start out calm, maybe sitting. Then, I can feel my heart racing, my voice rising and shaking, my brain firing, but usually missing it’s target. I can get all kinds of emotional. Standing up now. Level headed? Not so much. I would have been cut from the debate team, if I tried out. I get over-heated. My ego picks up a sword and just starts swinging away. Wrecklessly. Maybe it would help if I grabbed a shield. Why are you having such a strong and oppositional opinion? Can’t you just see things the way that I do? Ahhhh! You are so frustrating. I’m trying to say what I’m trying to say, but it’s not working on you. Stop interrupting. Answer the question. Are you even hearing the words that are coming out of my mouth?

Fight or flight time. And I’m sticking around. I think that I’m tugging at your heart strings, but you’re stuck. Not budging. That’s it. You must not have a heart. Or maybe you don’t have enough experiences or know enough people to disprove your theory or beliefs. Well, I do. Because I am so proud. And I am so right. The air is so refreshing up here. On my high horse. Do you want a ride? I can’t even listen to you, much less hear what you’re saying. I’m trying to think about the next thing I will say. This conversation appears to be going nowhere at a pretty rapid rate. Giddy up! Or that could just be my blood pressure. And the poor bystanders. They’re affected, intervening, refereeing, even pseudo-threatening for us to stop. Maybe those were real threats. We have been given a three minute warning to cease the conversation, errr, debate. That’s not nearly enough. This is deep stuff. We’ve barely scratched the surface.

Time’s up. I love you, my not-so-little, strong-willed brother. We look a lot like each other, we even act a lot like each other, but still, we are very different. I couldn’t talk with many others the way that I can talk with you. You fire me up and you motivate me. I appreciate you. Silence is not always golden. Difficult conversations can be really good for the soul, if you are willing to have them. The thing is, you’re safe. I know you love me. And respect me. And I feel the same for you. Even if we disagree. But, you do know that you are wrong. There. I got the last words in. Hug it out.

You have flipped a switch. Maybe more than one. I am revved up and ready to learn more, read more. Understand more. Feel more. You’ve opened up my eyes, my heart and mind to your thoughts and your beliefs. That’s huge. So thanks. I still think you are awesome, even if we bang heads occasionally. I agree to disagree. Until next time.

If you don’t share yourself, your thoughts, your personality, who you are or who you are trying to be, what you believe in and why, you may not have to risk the critics. The doubters. The questioners. The try and make-you-change-your-minders. No one will have the chance to judge you, disagree with you, and maybe, will have no valid reason not to like you. Although, they still might not like you.

On the contrary, when you decide to be who you are, believe what you believe, shamelessly, authentically sharing what makes you the way you are, you are going to have people that may criticize you, disagree with you and even dislike you. And judge you. And perhaps resent you. And hurt you. Maybe make fun of you. Be concerned for you. Talk about you. And not in the good way.

I believe that when you genuinely and confidently share yourself with others, that you will, more importantly, risk the greater good. You may have people that agree with you, or understand you, or relate to you. Or see things from your view. Learn from you. Sympathize with you. Or grow with you. Or find motivation in you. Or find a friend in you. Or who you may help, often without even knowing it. And then, who, in turn, may help you.

It’s a happier place. If you can push aside the disbelievers, the insecure and the criticizers and just focus on the growers, the lovers and the builder-uppers. The encouragers. The relaters. The best kind of people are the hot-air balloon people. They get you off the ground, take you higher up, where the view is awesome. And the cynics or sand bags practically become non-existent, when you’re up there looking down.

How relieving for me to know that I’m “not the only one who….”

*loves to laugh and cry too
*needs help sometimes
*is imperfect and has insecurities
•can’t watch the movie “Frozen” anymore..let.it.go.
•has a goofy, quirky side and a warped sense of humor
•lets their children climb up the slides(NO! Yes.)
•gets upset, frustrated and can be short-fused and impatient, but LOVES her children more than anything
•has a disease that can be frustrating and hidden and also helpful
*gets deeply saddened and hurt sometimes by things of this world
•etc.etc. etc.

I think there are very few times that someone wants the title of “the only one who..” I think we are drawn towards one another. To feel the happy, sad, frustrating, life-altering together. To relate to one another. And most importantly, to love one another.

There is a specific time, most days, that I’m running low. Warning. Red gas light on kind-of-low. I have deemed it “lost my patience o’clock.” It’s before dinner usually. I have said “just stop touching each other” or “no more wrestling”, or “no more punching, somebody’s gonna get hurt” one too many times. We have gone to the park, played in the driveway, run, run, run. At least in my mind. Nope, my body feels it too. Who gave my kids espresso shots when I wasn’t looking?  In the ongoing daily battle of “children vs. mother energy depletion,” they are winning. Big time. They have lapped me. I’m losing hope. I need a tag team, someone with a new attitude, some confidence, a fresh face to slip between the ropes and hop into this ring. A fancy outfit might help too. None of my tired old tricks are working. They know they’ve got me in a vulnerable position. The count has started vibrating my face. 1…2…3…Now is the time to ask away and all of your wishes will be granted. Oh, you found a “fun dip,” and you want to eat it right now? Seems reasonable. It will surely not ruin your appetite for the delicious dinner we will be having. Eventually.

Today I made the mistake of going to the grocery store at “Lost My Patience O’Clock.” Worst idea ever. If you ever see me there, just go to the check-out lane farthest away from me. Let’s face it, even the most kind-hearted, non-judgmental person is going to judgey-judge the happenings in and around my grocery cart. One time I saw a social worker from the hospital I work at and I freaked, immediately replaying the grocery store shenanigans up to the point of seeing her. Scared for what she may have witnessed. Mesh shorts and cowboy boot outfits. Dirty faces. Stressed out mom. Occasionally, I look around and notice a person looking at us, the flaming hot mess. Probably thinking “that poor woman.” Some are bold and brave and make the remark, “you have ALL boys?” Deep breath in. And out. And again. “Yep. All boys. Last time I checked.” And Pringles and a bunch of other straight-up crap in that cart too. No nutritional value. We came for milk and we are leaving with empty calories. What I want to say is: “I’ve got to hurry home. Get cleaned up. My husband will be there soon. We have got to try. And try. And try again for “that girl.” Good thing these boys have some healthy snacks now. Then, I get to the car to find that I forgot the milk. THE MILK!

The problem is that I can’t send them to bed without dinner and energy left in their crazy, adrenaline-pumped little bodies. I’m a competitive person. One of my main goals every day is to figure out the best way to convert and deplete their infinite energy supply. Swimming. Climbing. Dodge ball. Don’t get me wrong, they get their fair share of iPad and TV show watching. However, I’ve learned that these “calm” activities result in a crazy breeding ground for energy. It builds. And grows. Multiplies. Builds an army with the motto, “Beat Mom!” That’s it. Everybody outside. Get on your bikes. Or something. Let’s hit the street. My mom used to make us run five laps around the house. Sometimes 10. I’m pretty sure it was at “lost my patience o’clock.” It usually helped change my attitude as a kid. Or maybe it just made me think, “mom means business.” After this run around the house to clear my head, I’m going to do something nice. Help her out. Maybe I can set the table for her. Or maybe I will act less crazy. Hide my energy, or suppress it. Shhhh. Be very quiet. “Mom might be going crazy.”

The first step is admitting I have a problem, right? My name is Amelia and my kids won today. I lost my patience. I lost my mind. I think I transferred all of my energy to them. I’ve got to get it back somehow before they wake up in the morning. There is always hope in tomorrow. Especially when today is almost over. And lost my patience o’clock has come and gone.