serenity now. and later, too please.

I was starting to feel like the only time I was blogging was to complain about some crazy day-in-the-life horseshit. In fact, every time I sat down in front of my computer over the last few weeks, I come up with stuff even my dog wouldn't crap on my carpet. It seems that getting the hang of motherhood 2.0 with JG quite often away on business is no good for my creative side. Don't get me wrong, the chaos is still....chaotic. Little brown dog still "escapes" on long neighborhood adventures. I still step on Old Dog's shit on the back porch when I've chosen to step out sans flip-flop for a morning breath of fresh and quiet air. Ladybug had lice for the third time during Kindergarten and JG has been back and forth from the northeast territories for work pretty much every week since the end of February excluding a week's spring vacation. As for Sam...well he is noisier, faster, and let's say curiouser than ever. I see toilet lid locks and a helmet in the near future. (Toilet locks for Mr. Pee Fingers and a helmet for me.)
So, you see, stuff is the same. It just doesn't seem as punch-in-the-gut shocking to me anymore. Could it be that in relation to who I was when this whole two kids debacle began... I am more capable of handling the stress and the spontaneous stuff that ten or so months ago seemed to fly directly and mercilessly at my face?
Have I found a balance in parenthood and Stephaniehood through meditation or a miracle drug called Prozac?
No. I haven't the time to grow a set of balls big enough to ask my doctor (whose name escapes me...or maybe I never really knew it) for drugs to help me. I think I may envy those moms who grip the collars of their physicians and demand HELP because they love themselves and their kids enough to ask. As for me, I have simply let go of my inner control-freak. It was easier than I thought, apparently, because I just now noticed it's happened.
Where I used to change Sam's clothes when any bit of yogurt or blueberry juice touched a sleeve, collar, or crotch of his shorts, I now just say eff it and carry on with the grocery shopping or bus-stop stopping with no regard as to what the other moms think. He is bare-foot and blueberry faced on most outings and I don't even put down a changing pad or blanket under him on the diaper changing station at Target every time. *Gasp. I don't have a floppy seat or highchair cover to hide the swine flu virus or whatever microscopic life-ending bacteria are lying in wait on shopping cart handles or the wooden highchairs at Panera Bread. I dropped the kids at school and got coffee without a diaper in my purse or a package of baby wipes. Nobody stopped and stared at his crusty collar or told me to put socks on his feet. No. And you know why? I'll give you a hint. It's not because people have suddenly learned to mind their own business or stick their great-granny's advice where the sun don't shine. It's not because I wear a t-shirt that says, "go ahead...make my day" (although a shirt like that wouldn't collect dust on a hanger if I possessed it).
It's because he's smiling. His gums are toothless, his cheeks are pink hills of pudge and his eyes sparkle. He points or waves at every stranger who walks by and commands attention simply by being so contagiously happy that not a person we encounter can resist his charms.
And what's more... (what does that even mean? it just came out.) And what's more.... I'm a happier person because I don't care that we may need a diaper we don't have. Or because it looks like snot, but it's yogurt. And I certainly don't care about the off chance that maybe someone is judging me as a mother based on five seconds it took to pass by with their shopping cart/coffee cup/ whatever.
I'm a different person because there is a piece of toast getting remarkably hard next to the sink sort-of filled with dishes and the bed isn't made for the third day in a row while I am currently in an adirondack chair in my weed-ridden back yard. Because we took a mile and a half walk before nap time and let the clothes in the drier get wrinklier. It has taken me exactly long enough to write this post for both dog tethers to get wrapped hopelessly around my ankles and the chair and each other. And at least one of my flip-flops has poop on it. My days are filled with unexpected hurdles and semi-planned structure. And it's finally okay with me. Better than okay. It's fantastic.
This is what life is about. I just figured it out.