...When You're Still an Amateur

A few months ago, Nick off-handedly mentioned that the rule of thumb in any given profession is that it takes about five years to be considered an "expert."  First thought: Great, so I quit teaching right as I hit my "expert" status.  Second thought: Shoot, no wonder I suck at this mom thing!  And then the guilt: I'm making way too many mistakes on three kids before this five-year benchmark.  Finally, the self-deceit: Since it's not the number of kids that matter, but rather the number of years, at least I have a good excuse for all my shortcomings.  Until now (as in this very-typing-moment), I never even applied this to the realm of marriage.  I'll brush that one off for five more months...

Hanging with Tot, 1.19.15

So, in light of my amateur status, here is a brief summary of all the things I don't know:

I don't know how to keep three kids alive, cook three meals, and clean the house in any given day.  However, I seem to manage the first; TV helps with the second; and, only company and big holidays account for the latter.



This chubbers is already 8 months old!

I literally don't know what's wrong with me.  After a half dozen MRI's, a spinal tap, endless lab work, and a handful of neurological exams, apparently neither do the doctors.  Three different neurologists to be precise, all with different or no diagnoses, yet complete with Prozac for PPD.

I have no idea how to stop watching ER.  Yes, the ER that aired decades ago, which I am viewing now for the first time.  How did I miss this Noah Wyle heart-throb when I was in junior high?!  We're in season five out of fifteen, and I'm so addicted I feel depressed if a day goes by without squeezing in an episode.

Apparently, I don't know the names of my own children.  When I call out, "Kids, it's time for lunch!" They reply, "We're not kids!  We're Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!"  Or, "Miriam, come get dressed."  The retort, "I'm not Miriam!  I'm Izzy."  Then this happened when I dropped the kids off at MOPS daycare today:
Childcare worker: Hi, what's your name?
Noah: Blue Crayon.  (Yes, because they personify objects, too).
Me: Noah, you need to tell her your real name.
Noah: Hmph.  Fine.  Tree Fu Tom.  (Don't know who that is?  I dare you to check it out on Netflix).

I certainly don't know how to draw.  The kids are constantly breaking down in tears because my mermaid looks like a pirate sword and my pirate sword looks like a tree branch.  They're quick to remind me, "Tot's better than you.  You need to learn.  Maybe he can teach you."

Guess who drew this baby?  Miri did!

 Lastly, I don't know how to serve milk at the perfect temperature.  It's either too hot, too cold, or "just" warm.  When did my kids morph into Goldilocks?  Probably since I turned into grumpy Papa Bear...

It's easy to see all the "wrong" in a day.  Sometimes, it seems to stare you down in the mirror.  Recently, I had one moment in which all the wrong just dissipated.  Just for a moment.

We were leaving a playdate at DB's house, and I was coercing Miriam in every way possible to get into the car.  She insisted on hiding behind the bushes.  Noah began wailing, "My sister!  I lost my sister!  Where is my sister?"  Finally, Miriam ran over to the minivan.  In my frustration, I was shocked when I heard myself say, "Oh, Miriam.  I love you!"

"I know, Mama."  She bounced into the car, cowgirl boots and all.

So somehow, between all the seat-belt buckling and nail clipping, amidst the clutter of not-knowing, I got the Message across.




Christmas Eve 2015, with the kids who know I love them.