Perfect parenting propaganda.  Fighting those myths of the Uber-Mom is the whole backbone of this company, these women and their stories. And I’m one of them, right? I’m strong and independent and forgiving of my “failings” as a mom, simply because I accept that there no such thing as “perfect” when your day starts at sunrise (or earlier), you haven’t slept, there’s no milk and someone’s already in time-out before the clock strikes 7 A.M.

We all have bad days, moments of incoherency that, while in the heat of it seemed potentially rational, after the fact feel so bad.  SO BAD.  These are the points where I get stuck and have a really hard time pulling myself out of the Perfect Mommy tar  pit. 

I am not evolved and zen. Self-confidence? Not always so much at the top of my skill set. As much as I hate to give in to it, the “should’s” of the Better Mommy just hover so closely around me sometimes that I can’t breathe or see my way through.

Yesterday, after spending hours, literally HOURS, out of my day running Silvia back and forth to the bathroom in the endlessly entertaining game of “I say pee and Mommy jumps!”, I just cracked. Standing in the kitchen trying to make a snack for everyone, I completely ignored Silvia when she came crying up, 1 minute after having jumped off the seat, screaming, “poopypoopyPOOPY!”.  I didn’t even look at her, instead turning my focus to ravaging the graham crackers with a vicious spread of peanut butter.

And then she started crying and I, finally, gave her a moment of my attention. She had pooped on the floor. She was devastated. And I had ignored her when she asked me for help.

I should have listened.  I should have swallowed my own frustration and helped her through this phase of learning and control. I shouldn’t have allowed a situation where she will now associate negative emotions with using the bathroom.

Should. Because somewhere someone said something about it. Someone wrote a book or did an interview or delivered a scathing look upon a stranger at the mall that clearly outlines how NOT to act as a parent in this specific situation or one very much like it.

It goes the other way, too, of course. I shouldn’t get so upset, these things happen, she’s not scarred for life. I should remember my commitment to fighting all the trappings of Perfect Parenting and just allow myself to be the best mom I can in a real world with real people and real tempers and limits.

It’s just so frustrating and heart-breaking to live up to any of these standards, either the ultimately down-to-earth mom or the ultimately patient, selfless and letter-perfect mom. I’m not either.

Finding that middle ground wears me out, almost as much as trying not to cry from anger AND guilt while I scrubbed the floor, my child and my own hands to clean up the mess she (and I) had made. I want to let it go and chalk all these little moments up to the reality of family life.  I survived it as a child, generations have survived it before me and generations will after me. Life is messy and there is no plan, no matter how hard you work to follow one.

I should learn to step back and take an objective view.  I shouldn’t be so insecure.

I’m sure there’s a well-researched book somewhere that says exactly that.

Looking around yesterday at my house, I felt… motivated.  Excited even.  We’re back! I’m here! There’s so much to do! Let’s get this family back into our lives again! Yay, laundry! (ok, maybe not “yay” exactly, but not a whole general sigh of despair at the tipped over pile).

Vacations are nice, wonderful even.  The freedom from routine, the lack of responsibility– all these things simmer in a yummy mix of warm fuzzies.  But there is also, amidst all this fun, a slow build up of inconveniences. Sleeping in hotels is great, but the kids don’t settle down as easily and, after awhile, the restless nights add up to grumpy fits during the day.  Eating out all the time is a treat, but by the end of the week, let’s face it, everyone’s tummies are not in the best shape (internally or in terms of squishiness). Truth be told, one of the best things about coming home was the proximity and comfort of our very own bathrooms. I’m pretty sure no one sets out to take a tour of every public restroom in the Midwest, but we did it nonetheless.  Ah, the joys of constipated toddlers with regressed potty training.  Let me count the ways… there is not enough hand sanitizer in the world to wash away my woes.

When we walked in the door, my head filled with all the things I needed to do, all the things that I had set aside and now COULD do. I unpacked all the dirty, wrinkled clothes for the wash and got dressed in something fresh and new-feeling. Turning to the kitchen, I started a tally of grocery items before I could even reach for pen and paper.  The sigh I breathed when the girls ran up to rediscover their very own playroom was epic. For 10 days we were in the utmost of close proximity, which was fun while it lasted.  But being able to let them just LEAVE THE ROOM for extended periods of time was bliss.

The excitement of returning to the comfort of my life and routines is still in the air (though my fervor for laundry is dissipating rapidly). The best part, though? After a week and a half of being together without actually having any time to enjoy each other’s company, my husband and I looked at each other in the vacuum of noise as our children left the room and, with the fervor of survivors, embraced each other and said, “Hi.”

Well, the time has come.  As of dawn tomorrow, the first official Schwartz Family Roadtrip will commence. To say I’m nervous doesn’t really cover it.  I’m tense.  My mind is racing– do I have everything? Where are the crayons? Did I pack the toothbrushes? Should I bring a book for myself or is that overly optimistic? Are there safety locks on the front passenger door in case a tantrum from the back causes me to try and throw myself out of the car?

It’s not the drive that worries me, truly.  I kind of like roadtrips, from an adult non-driver perspective.  But the girls… or more specifically The Girl, she worries me. When Silvia was a baby, up until she was nearly one, any rides in the car would encite her to complete and total hysterics.  I remember one time where I drove from the grocery store to my house, maybe a five minute drive.  For once, she actually FELL ASLEEP in the car and I was nearly in tears from shock and gratitude.  (Ok, by “nearly” I mean “bawling fit to beat the band”).

Of course, she’s not a baby anymore and usually does well for long drives– up to a point. Anything longer than 5 hours round trip still seems to leave her VERY VERY UNHAPPY.  We came back from a day trip up to Fort Collins last month and about an hour out from home, she just lost it.  Totally inconsolable.  I felt so bad for her, of course.  But, oh my God, I wanted her to shut up, please stop, baby girl, please hush, it’s okay, YOU MUST STOP NOW.

Anyway, I am justifiably nervous, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.  We’ve talked up the trip all week, explained that it’s going to be a looooong time in the car, hinted at the treat of the portable DVD player, tempted them with shiny new crayons and pristine coloring books. I have a large stash of lollipops ready and waiting. Other than that, all I can do is hope and pray that it all lives up to the potential for fun and adventure. 

Oh, and bring earplugs.

Ok, so potty training (again).  Going well, more dry days by far than accidents, but…

The four hundred and ninety seven and a half trips to the bathroom each day are driving me crazy.  CRAZY.  Poops are the worst, because she’s still a little unsure so she has to give that sucker a try about FORTY-FIVE times before we have any success.Still, her ability to dole out her pee in one and two drop allotments over the course of the day is truly awe-inspiring. I get maybe 4 real bathroom breaks a day.  The rest is just for kicks.

Our main level bathroom is actually a half-bath, just a powder room, really.  Squeezing in there with a wiggly toddler on the left and pedestal sink on the right and a nosy 4-year-old poking in at the door is a little bit past cozy– it’s more along the lines of completely claustrophobic to the point of needing Valium. 

FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY SEVEN AND A HALF TIMES A DAY.

As proud as I am of her… is it wrong that by 2 P.M. I’m starting to refuse her liquids?  “No, honey, don’t you want some Cheerios instead? Hmm? How about a cereal bar? Crackers? Anything of a deliciously absorbent quality?”.

Of course, this backfires as well, in the form of, well, less backfire, if you know what I mean.  Then she gets all grumpy and traumatized when that Moment approaches, as well.  Please tell me I am not the only one purposely dehydrating her child (only a little!! Just in the afternoons!! For self preservation!!).

God, I’m so ungrateful.  A 2-year-old in panties and now all I want her to do is get out of the bathroom.

I’ll go ahead and apologize right here for, once again, waxing unpoetic about potty-training. It’s where I’m at and that is that. (See? Unpoetic.)

Silvia is doing great, really. I can’t complain about her progress, or to be more accurate, I shouldn’t complain. On the whole she’s doing terrifically. At home, she’s pretty much got the whole idea down. While we’re out she does a fairly good impression of bladder control. At school, she’s at least overcome her fears of the miniature toilet in her classroom. At other people’s houses… well.  No one’s perfect and let’s be honest, who isn’t a little shy in someone else’s bathroom?

The prospect of a diaper-free existence looms in my future. I can see it, glowing, taunting me with its nearness. I’ll be able to take that wretched diaper pail out of her room and with it, hopefully, that lingering eau de poop. (I have this fantasy of Kurt and I going all Office Space on it.) And what about those huge cardboard boxes the diapers come it? Whatever will we use to hold our recycling when I don’t have to buy those jumbo packs anymore?

Then, there’s my purse. Oh, my purse. Someday, soon-so-soon, I’ll be able to fit something exciting there, in the space where the diapers and huge wipes pack used to live. Something grown-up. Like, maybe, A PAPERBACK BOOK. Ooooohhhh, I’m getting chills.  

There will come a day when I will not have to jump up at the call of, “MAMA! COME WIPE ME!” or “I made poops, mama, change meeeeee!”. I can FEEL it. Just the idea of having those moments out of my day returned to me is intoxicating.

We’re not there yet.  Silvia is still feeling her way around the whole idea and exhibiting definite areas of comfort and vexation. But it’s close, it’s coming…

And, in the not so very far future, there is an ENTIRE AISLE at the grocery store that I will be able to skip completely. 

Hallelujah.