Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 14 - For Whom the Belly Tolls #itsarevolutionbitches

Like all mothers, I dreamed of being brave, selfless, loving, and hot. Yes, you heard me. Hot. What?! I'm just being honest. Of course, hot wasn't the first thing on my list, but it was definitely on the short list.

Pinterest was super helpful for me in the beginning with its suggestions of cute outfits, life hacks, and exercise ideas, but unfortunately, Pinterest won't actually deliver any of these things to my life or closet. It'll recommend some interesting workouts or belly busting moves but won't actually do the working out for me so... damn it.

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 13 - Like Mother Like Daughter #itsarevolutionbitches

Sitting at a coffee shop in Metuchen tapping away another post for another blog, I 'm distracted when two little girls sit beside me at the window seat counter.

The younger one is playing with her spoon and the older one says, "Please don't make a mess of that. You did that once before and remember what happened?" The younger one stops and carefully begins sorting through the card catalogue in her brain for that memory. The older one chimes in again, "I remember that. Mom remembers that. Daddy remembers that." The younger one squirms around before finally speaking, "I don't remember that. "

I don't know whether or not I believe her but I think Good. Play on.

The older sister couldn't have been more than 6-years-old but she sounded like a worn-up, played out record. She wasn't mean about what she said to her younger sister, she was just talking - like kids do - in a way that sounded rehearsed. And then I thought that was probably her mom. That was probably something she heard her mother or father say.

Poof! A magical pit appeared in my belly, a pit that asked this question: What are my kids picking up?

What is it about kids that shine a mirror up to your face in a gremlin-in-the-light kind of way. Ahh, not the truth, put it away. Many times I see my kid do something that I know I do and think Awww... how cute. She's trying to be like mommy and then there are other times that, let's just say, if I'm honest, make me afraid that my daughter is going to be exactly like me. Am I the only person that feels this way sometimes?

Since kids are new, little human sponges on the planet and know nothing besides what we teach them then what they are learning is how to be like us. They are soaking us up which means they aren't only soaking up my perfect but also my imperfect. 

My mind starts its mental flip through my brain's card catalogue. Mmm.. have they heard me say that? or Ha! That's funny - she did that just like me or Crap! I hope they don't say that. Most of what I say is fine... right? (Is that a question or a statement?)

There are plenty things that my daughter says that are just like me... and they're aaaa-dor-able.

Lately, when I put her to bed at night she nudges my chin up with her pointer finger and says, "Escuchame - listen to me" and then whispers in her best sage voice a bit of advice that sometimes makes absolutely no sense. Sometimes after putting on her (my) makeup she grabs her (my) purse telling me that she's going to work and then snatches the car keys and walks out waving. Like I said... aaaa-dor-able.

But, see, here's the thing, and it might make you mad to hear it but I really think it is essential to good parenting: I can't just take credit for the good stuff my kids learn. Well, I can but then I'd be an irresponsible parent. I can't believe that everything good about my kids is because of me but all of their faults, well, that was learned elsewhere obviously. Where else would they have learned it if not me? Caillou, maybe? That's too easy of an out.

I've referred to kids as "drunk people between the hours of midnight and 3am" - fun at first and then crazy, rambling fools that are sometimes violent or pass out. I've read other bloggers refer to kids as "little jerks" or "tiny a-holes" and I can't say that I disagree: drunk, jerky, tiny assholes. But wait for it - is this a reflection of us? Before you lynch me for calling you a drunk, jerky, tiny asshole, let me add that that was more of a rhetorical question. My point was, how much of what they do that is annoying to us is shit that we, ourselves, do; a reflection of what we do and say and act?

Our son who might be the only 16-month old with a black belt in Diaper-Changing Karate kicks his hammer leg down landing some devastating blows. When Husband has finally had it, he pins son's legs down and says, "Stop it." He says it in a calm, serious tone but obviously he is annoyed - who wouldn't be after a hammer leg to the gut? The other day after moving our son away from the garbage cabinet he was so mad that he walked back over and yelled at the cabinet, "Stop it." Husband and knew where that came from. Then there's my daughter. She loves her little brother so much but at times, when she gets angry, she yells at him and tells him to "be quiet." I could pretend she just came up with that or own that in my desperation for quiet sometimes I've yelled at them to "be quiet."

They get what we give. If we are picky eaters, they will be too. If we are closed-off or unaffectionate, why would they be anything different? If we don't face our problems, how will they learn to? If they see us place blame for our own lives on everyone else they will never learn to hold themselves accountable either. When we act petty, they act petty. Sponges, remember? You can't wipe up vinegar and expect to wring out honey.

There's no secret where my daughter gets her sass and I don't think it is a bad thing because sass isn't the problem it is how to use it that could be. I can't expect to give her a knife and hope she'll know how to use it; I've got to show her. Even William Wallace had to learn to use his sword, right? So if sass is my sword, I'm not only responsible for who gets hold of it but I'm also responsible for teaching them how to use it appropriately, lest I want a bloody mess on my hands.

Listen, your kids are going to learn a lot of good from you - more good than bad. Yes my daughter yells at the brother to be quiet but she also holds his cheeks and gives him a firing squad of little, quick kisses and defends him when someone else has taken a toy from him or is sitting in "his chair." She has amazing manners and is funny - really funny -and I'd like to think she learned that from me too. We all make mistakes in our frustrations as a parent. It would be easier if kids understood the world and didn't need any guidance, then, we could all go on being the people we are and never have to face that there might be things about us that need some tweaking.

Lately, I've been trying to face those tweaks. In some cases that means holding my tongue; other times it means being honest instead of holding my tongue and being mad at the wrong people later. It can be hard but put the mirror up and face yourself and maybe the truth won't be as hard to face as you think. You are the hardest, most important person to face but taking a close look can change everything.

What Tweaks would you make?

Photo Credits:
Like Father Like Son - TMAB2003

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 12 - A Micro Moment of Normal #itsarevolutionbitches

When I first started this series, I set out to show a more imperfect me, one that hardly shows up in the virtual world. I mean, be real, how many of us take bad photos and say That's my new profile pic! I tried to explain how our Facebook virtual lives often create a representative for our true selves. Those representatives then choose our best picture as our Facebook profile pic which becomes the face that our Facebook friends know. Our status becomes the life story we are telling to our Facebook world and the pictures we post are the proof that that Facebook life exists.

I don't want to come across as being a Facebook hater, in fact, I do really like Facebook. And I should clear up it isn't just Facebook that creates these representatives, it's all social media, Facebook is just the Queen Bee whose hive I'm poking at at the moment.

When I set out on this journey, it was because I saw things that social media does to our society that I didn't like it. Then today, I came across this, the exact idea I was trying to convey when I began down my Road to an Imperfect Life... or so I thought.

(Watch. And then we'll discuss)



I watched this video and thought sarcastically, "Jeez... anyone can make their life awesome."
And then I changed the tone and the emphasized word and said optimistically, "Jeez... anyone can make their life awesome."

On Facebook, to make your life sound awesome all you need is a few changes in word choice and punctuation. Type. Proofread. Edit. Revise. Insert sarcasm. Rethink word choice. Reread. Hmm. does that sound good? Ok, I'm gonna click post. Post. Oops, wait. Spelled that word wrong. It should be their not they're. Edit Post. Fix. Re-post. Done. Bingo. Awesome. I'm awesome.

And while you can construct the perfect update, it takes more than key jabbing to construct an awesome life that transcends virtual reality.

See there's another side that I overlooked when I set out on this road. While words and punctuation and filtered pictures help make your Lifestory seem awesome, those are not the things that actually make it awesome. It isn't so much what you do as it is how you look at what you do.

If we look at our everyday moments and find them to be in major need of a filter than what we get are dull images. So this week, instead of showing you my imperfections, I want to show you my normal, a small moment in my day where nothing exceptionally out of the norm happens. A micro-moment that maybe wouldn't otherwise make it t o our Facebook pages because they're not glamorous enough or fancy enough or bad ass enough (or so we think). And what a mistake that is; thinking that these little scenes aren't "enough" when, in fact, it is the small scenes that create the whole act that when linked together tell the whole story. They become the glue that holds it all together and we all know that without glue, there can't possibly be the sparkle of glitter. It is the glue that remains, the glue that binds and those are the moments that will remain when my Facebook account is virtual ash.

If we choose to see awe in all of the small moments, the big moments have no choice but to be the sum of that awe. (awesome, get it?)

Enjoy my 30 normal seconds today. 30 seconds of balls, laughter, water, and possibly poop on my daughter's foot.

Picture Credits:
Captain Jack Sparrow - Sandra Scherer (adapted by DTWB)

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 11 - Because Yesterday I Was a Shit Parent and I Need to Own That

The truth is I don't want to own it because it would be easier for my soul if I could just sweep it under the rug or put a spin on it and make it not about me but rather about "extenuating circumstances." That isn't right. It would be easier for my ego if I didn't have to own it - if I could blame the heat or not feeling well or being overwhelmed with end of the year-edness. But it wouldn't be the truth to blame those things so this time I won't sweep it under the rug and instead face one of my fatal flaws: impatience.

I know what you might be saying. You are the mother of two toddlers. Patience is hard to come by. I agree. I would say the same thing to another mother. Forgive yourself. Be kind to yourself. You're doing the best you can. But I'm not talking to another mother. I'm talking to myself. And we all know we can't ease up on ourselves the way we can on others, especially because we know ourselves too well. I know the real deal about me and I know that though I want an out, I shouldn't give myself one for yesterday because, the truth is, sometimes I'm just an impatient bitch.

I've had a major head-cold-sinus-throat-thingy this whole week. I've gone to bed earlier this week than probably any other this year. By Tuesday, I had already wished the week away especially since at the end of the year, there are so many events and commitments floating around on our calendar that I almost can't wait to fly home to NJ just so that I'll have a little less to do. Don't get me wrong - they are all fun, fun, fun events but there are soooo many. Even party people get tired of parties sometimes.

We had one of these fun, little gatherings on Tuesday evening that was supposed to be an "adults ONLY evening" for Husband and I but when we got home and saw our nanny on the couch miserable with a migraine our plans changed. We took the kiddos with us to the party. This is not the first time we've taken them to a bar because we live in a country that allows you to take your kids everywhere you go without so much as a stank eye,  but this was probably the first place in my three years here that I didn't enjoy taking them. It wasn't the restaurant's fault by any means, it just isn't the kind of place set up for sprightly, screaming toddlers. Let's just say it was as good a time as it could have been with Hoodlum and Hellion running around waiters with full drinks on full drink trays.

The next morning, I peeled myself out of bed, straightened my busted ass hair, got dressed, and put my make up on and then got the phone call from our nanny that she wouldn't be making it in. Already behind (well, my version of behind which is really not at all behind) on my writing, I had received great news this past weekend about another writing opportunity to be a contributor to a fabulously funny blog called Women Who Live on Rocks which to me meant I had more writing to get to and less time to get to it with our nanny out.

Husband Fantastic offered up his assistance by taking a half sick day. I would stay with the kids in the morning, he would relieve me in the afternoon. All I had to do was get through the morning. A mother should be able to do that, right? Get through a morning?

Maybe it was because it was the first morning that I was home again in the morning since May had started so they seemed to be bouncing off the walls like the Disney Gummi Bears on Gummi Beary Juice but I don't want to slink off on this one and "blame" their toddler craziness because let's be real - toddlers are nuts - midget, crazy, nutty asses. Toddlers don't veer too far from that. They don't change but you know what does... my mood.

OK, so no slinking. I was probably the one in the bad mood and had zero patience for anything. When my in-the-process-of-toilet-training toddler daughter, who I had asked 62½ times if she had to go pee-pee, and who had answered NO then went pee-pee... on our carpet I wished that I had been patient enough to pause and ask myself how she felt about that. How she felt about having to come to me and say, "Mami, mojada (wet)." But I didn't. I snarled. "You have to tell Mami when you have to go pee-pee!" Right, because that awesome, nurturing mother reaction is going to make her want to come to me next time. Good job, mom.

And I wish I could say that I learned that lesson then and there but I didn't. Because later, when I asked her 56¾ times if she had to go pee-pee and again she said NO until she went pee-pee again, again I snarled. And this time she said, "Sorry, Mami." as if that poor little angel owed me, the devil, an apology. At that moment I wanted to punch myself in the mouth and kick myself in the gut. So I did the only thing I could should have done. I said, "No, Rafa. Mami's sorry. You are learning to do pee-pee and Mami needs to learn to chill out. What does that carpet or that dress matter anyway? You matter." And because she is gracious and awesome and patient - and also because she has a very small toddler window of attention - she forgot about it.

But that doesn't release me from my guilt. Nor should it. What it should do though is make it something I have to learn from which is why I need to share it here. So I can't hide or pretend it didn't happen. So I can own my moments of being a sh*t parent because there are times when we are all sh*t parents (right?), less than the great parents we could be, less than the great parents we always hoped we would be.

Yesterday, I was a sh*t parent. Today... I'm still working on today.


Picture Credits:
Bitchy Mom - WikiThreads
Kid at Bar - Mo Riza
Gummy Bears - Hans (pixabay)

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 10 - When the Line is Drawn Over a Mother Effing Lollipop #itsarevolutionbitches

What is the right response when your 2-year-old starts violently crying and screaming and writhing in anger... in public? When her mouth is open so wide you could see her little punching bag throat thingy?

When she loses her sh^t while you are out to dinner - albeit a casual dinner- with a big group of friends?

What is the right response when the anger convulsion is over a fucking lollipop?

There isn't much that could take out this daughter of mine. She's the kind of happy that is so certain it doesn't need to be shown through smiles and giggles all of the time. She's independent and super resilient. Sometimes I tell her she's un torro, a bull - strong and fierce. But put a lollipop in the ring with this bull?

...like Superman to Kryptonite.

The public scene of murderous rage the night before last could have been solved easily. Give the kid a lollipop. I'm not a parent who thinks lollipops are the spawn of the sugar devil. She's had lollipops before. It's not like she is deprived of lollipop luxuries but lollipops are just that - a child luxury - not a toddler right. The line had been drawn. The lollipop aggression would not stand.

As a teacher, I would watch other teachers read their classroom "expectations" with strict disciplined voices the first day of school only to have them wash their hands of those rules by day 12. "The kids don't follow the rules," they'd complain but I'd silently know that some teachers also never followed through. Kids are going to push the boundaries and they're going to wait for you to either draw the line in the sand or move the line back. Most of the teachers I knew then, always moved the line back.

Ricardo, one of my first-year students taught me one of the greatest lessons I'll ever learn as a teacher. I asked him to tuck in his shirt and properly wear his uniform since those were the school rules. He responded, "Why? In a few weeks you'll forget about it like all the other teachers do." Major aha moment! I realized this little f^cker would wait me out, wear me down until I was too tired to fight that fight any longer and gave in. He was trying to give me a Shoots and Ladders shortcut to the inevitable end. Poor Ricardo had no idea that what he actually gave me was resolve, the strength to stick to my standard no matter how exhausting the struggle. No shoot for me thankyouverymuch. I'll take the ladders. Builds character and ass muscles.

When I became a parent I set out to live the same principle. Don't just say yes (or no) because it's easier; push through the struggle to pass on to your kids what is important to you. But when I have a migraine and I use the iPad as the in-house, free babysitter, I know I am not pushing through the struggle, I am submitting to it. Most times I hold the line, but sometimes I don't. 

At dinner last night, I didn't want her to cry and scream and make a scene - both for her sake and mine - and I also selfishly wanted to stay out with our friends and enjoy a little more of our evening. That damn lollipop would fix all of that but it meant I'd be moving my line in the sand back and I wasn't moving that line back... not for an orange, sugary, balloon-shaped lollipop.

Right? 

It turns out that I don't have the answer to what the right response is, I just have the response right for me... in that moment. Sometimes I hold the line and sometimes the line will be moved - reviewed, molded, changed. Like the great Kenny Rogers once said, "You've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em." My line position on another night might have been different but the night before last, with the mother effing balloon lollipop, I wasn't willing to fold.

So we went home. 

Which lines are you willing to hold and which are you willing to fold?

Photo Credits:

Rules - Erin Nekervis

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 9 - That Week When Tons of Things Were Imperfect and I Survived Anyway #itsarevolutionbitches

The last few weeks have been fuller than a glass of wine on a Friday night and definitely not as relaxing. With the end of the year wrapping up I decided to proctor 15 AP exams, write for two blogs, plan and throw two huge parties: a Lip Sync Battle Party (hi Jimmy Fallon!) and the End of the Year party which includes the mothership of homemade videos that includes 9 different sections and a "film crew" (it runs about an hour long). Basically, I saw a big pile of crap and thought I'm going to step in this. I'm going to knowingly accept all of these responsibilities and jump on in to this high pile of stink crap mess. I do this to myself sometimes. Most women do, right? Bite off more than we could chew?

But this week that pile seemed to have swallowed me. Normally organized, my days and plans usually run pretty smoothly but this week imperfection stole my brain and used it for a science fair project. 

On Tuesday I was so busy I left my house at 7:00 am and didn't return until 2:00... a.m. I didn't see my kiddos at all that day. Insert sad face and turn up the volume on mommy guilt.

That same day I left the gate opener key for Husband who had the stroller and both children since I was attending a Mother's Day function. My intentions were good. I was being helpful so that he didn't have to fumble around with keys and kids and pushable objects. The clicker is easier, I thought. And it would have been had I not taken the house keys. He got into the gate just fine but I had locked him and both kids out of our home. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

My son is one of those kids that sticks his whole hand in his mouth. So far down, in fact, that occasionally he makes himself throw up. Last night, he was covered in chunky mango vomit. Perfect.

I started washing my hair last night and couldn't understand why there were no suds. Turns out I was washing my hair... with face wash.

A huge moth flew around on our porch fluttering as loud as a large bird on meth, landing on our awning, its great big eyes staring at me all threatening like. I ran into my hallway squealing like a chicken shit before telling Husband that I was going to stay in my room until the monster was gone. It was gigantic, yo. (I should note that my Monster moth was bigger than the one in the picture and that that is not - nor ever will - be my hand.)

Husband dropped a 10 peso coin last night and it began to roll towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving in my direction and thought it was an animal (aka insect) so I jumped in the scared surprised way that makes other people laugh but gives you a mini heart attack.

In the three years that I've been blogging I've tried not to compare myself with other bloggers - specifically in the numbers/followers/readers/comments game. I've discovered over the course of my blogging timeline that my readers follow my blog without being "official" followers. They keep up with my writing but may not leave comments, etc. Besides Husband. He's the best follower.

You know what I mean if you're a blogger - you want followers and comments naturally. I don't want to ask others for forced comments or follower status because it feels forced, but unfortunately, sometimes in the world of blogging, numbers matter. This week I needed help - which I hate asking for - in the way of shameless begging to Facebook friends to "join this site" and build up my follower numbers. Friends helped (and feel free to keep "helping" - aka "liking" on the right sidebar under CONTACT ME... while you're at it, feel free to SUBSCRIBE via email) and I'm grateful for the support. In a "perfect" world, I wouldn't ask for that help, I would have 634 followers and each post would boast 24 comments on a bad day but alas I'm not there yet. But maybe asking for that help from my community of readers isn't a bad thing but instead a good thing. Maybe being vulnerable and asking for help in this realm makes it easier to ask for help in others.

...continuing on the road to an imperfect life.

Photo Credits:
Gordon Creek Road (adapted by DTWB) - Luke Detwiler
Moth - Amy

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 8 - That Kind of Mother's Day #itsarevolutionbitches

I slept in on Mama's Day - although sleeping in as a mom has a totally different meaning than it used to - but when I woke up, I woke up to an empty house. Husband was up to something.

When he got back he had flowers and breakfast. He bought me some plants that I mentioned wanting since I'm constantly trying to "home-ify" our house. In true DR style, we had to MacGuyver a way to fit the plants through the bars onto our sill so putting each plant in a bag and tying the bags to a rope, he threw the plants up and I heaved them up 3 floors. While heave hoing, I stopped to find out what the hellions were up to - they were to quiet - and yelled, "Get off that table!" Then I turned back to the plant I was heaving and give it another ho. A minute later I stopped again from the window - at which I was holding a plant on a rope - and yelled, "Don't smack your sister the face." Obviously the plant heave-ho took a lot more time than we expected due to the consistent disruptions.

Once the kids were in bed Husband humored me in helping to re-arrange our furniture because he knows I love re-arranging furniture. Lift table, move table. Life chairs, move chairs. Nope, let's try again. Repeat. In fact, it seems that the only "relaxing" thing we did to celebrate Mama's Day in the kind of way that I would have imagined myself celebrating it before I was an actual Mama was by ordering out - and even that was off since before I was a Mama I would have imagined myself being finely dined. So with a re-arranged living room pizza on the way we watched House of Cards - our new (beyond) guilty pleasure.

It wasn't the most glamorous Mama's Day. Heck, I didn't change out of my lounge around clothes which every mother knows are yoga pants and a t-shirt. I didn't wear make up or do my hair. Didn't even put a comb through it. Never even left the house unless you count moving furniture onto our porch in which case I left my house for 6.5 minutes. And that picture up there? From months ago. No pictures to show from Mama's Day on my camera, Blackberry, iPad, or iPod.

But I love my husband. I love my kids. And I love our nice new living room so life is good. All is right in the world. And I wish you that kind of Mama's Day.

The Prepared Mama for carrying bandaids and Neosporin and Benadryl wherever you go.

The MacGuyver Mama that makes cups out of paper plates or belts out or rope. You know that motherhood takes a lot of creativity.

The Stylish Mama who still manages to look goooood. How the fu...?! Go ahead with your bad mama self.

The Organized Mama who dates the calendar,  finds the correct bin for the right toy, folds clothes, prepares ready-to-go bags for quick and efficient exits and knows where everything is all of the time without having to look. Get it, mama!

The Stick to Your Guns Mama who knows it would be so much easier to "yes" at times but still says "no" and then deals with the ensuing whining that inevitably follows.

The Punching Bag Mama who is carrying their screaming child in one arm and grocery bags in another thus having no hands to deflect the oncoming smack that screaming child will land on her face all the while remaining calm.

The Dance Mama - no not the kind on that reality show about dance moms. Ewww. But the kind of mother that dances because your daughter told you to and when she says twirl, you mother effing twirl.

The Tired Mama who wakes up all night with your sick kid but does it willingly because can't no one else be with your kid when your kid is sick and you like it that way.

The Selflfess Mama who... oh wait, that's all you mamas out there. 

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 7 - See You Pretty #itsarevolutionbitches

They’re called “selfies” and can sometimes be referred to as #selfies. I like to take these to remind myself that even I am not perfect. I know, I know. You’re probably saying to yourself But Jen you’re soooooo pretty. And I agree. I am pretty. Thank you. So are you. We all are. We just don’t always see it.

I could look at that picture and do what magazine editors do before printing a picture on their glossy covers. I could find faults everywhere. I could knit pick all the things that are wrong and magnify them with arrows and I could choose ugly words to define myself. 

And just like that I have made myself the ugliest, most gross thing on the planet. Well done. 

Or…

I could choose something else. I could choose better words. Pretty words. Words that don’t make me feel bad. I could choose to see the whole thing differently, to see me pretty.

And do you see what happened there? Do you see how when I saw myself pretty, so did you see me pretty?

We push a lot of blame on the media for their influence of what is pretty — blame well placed since the definitions they create make pretty a very singular thing. Pretty is long hair. Pretty is straight hair. Pretty is thin. But we too are to blame. Who gave media such control if not us? Pretty doesn’t come defined. It has nothing to do with our hair or our weight. Like the tree that falls in the woods, can someone tell us we’re ugly if we’re not listening.  

Being pretty is in the choices we make. Choose to use words that make you pretty. Choose to see your imperfections as perfections. Choose to not accept that being pretty has boundaries. Choose to not be confined or defined. Choose to see you pretty.

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 6 - My Kids aren't Pinterest Hipsteratis #itsarevolutionbitches

I remember when I was a kid asking my dad if this yellow pair of jeans went with a coral-colored top (it was the 90's so color was certainly in). I really didn't know. I didn't understand how people could look at two colors and say Yeah. That matches. It wasn't until I was in high school, maybe college, ok when I joined Pinterest that I got a good idea of what matched and what I should definitely stop wearing.

I love clothes. I reaaaaaally do. But sometimes I wish I had a personal shopper person to buy my clothes and put me together because often I don't have the brainpower, time, or funds to put outfits together so instead I throw on a t-shirt and jeans, the go-to garb of people who don't know what to wear. At least that's what celebrities say.

In the style then of the "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" book, if you give a C+ stylish mom a child, she will dress that child at a C+ average.

Yes, I check out Pinteresty outfit ideas for both my daughter and son but who has the money to spend on clothes that my Amazonic children will outgrow in a week. Just this week, I noticed that Husband had still been sleeping Santiago in his 9-months pajamas. The kid's feet were being slowly crushed in his footies and if he stretched his leg, his PJs were going to rip Hulk style. Up until recently he was wearing onesies that could really go either way - boy or girl. I wish I could say the same for his bibs but most of them say Daddy's Princess or Cool Chick. Poor kid. Sorry in advance buddy. I'll get the tab on any therapist bills you need paid. Most of the time I have him in lounge pants - that I should add are 6 month old sized since he is skinny and tall like his dad but which means he has pants that perfectly fit his waist but are long shorts or short pants... or basically don't quite fit. And his hair? It doesn't really want to be told what to do yet.


I don't care what you say, boys are way harder to dress. Whether he looks like a surfing farmer or a gardening surfer, I just can't seem to get it together with that kid. I figure as long as his clothes are covering his privates, he's fine to go outside, right?

Rafaella has it a tad better because lucky for her girl clothes are made sweet and cutie patootie. With her it's all about dresses because, really, how can you f^ck up a dress? So since Mama (me) doesn't have to work too hard to dress her in what some designer already made cute-to-go, she usually looks pretty darling. Unless she doesn't and on those days I say the nanny dressed her.

Kickin' old school with a strawberry jumper and tilted baseball cap

I keep telling myself that one day, I'll do a better job. Whenever we go back to the states I walk into little kid stores and marvel at the adorable pieces my kids could be wearing and then remember that my daughter grows whole toddler sizes every week and spending money on that is as pointless as throwing the money in the garbage can and setting it on fire. So I get overwhelmed with it all that I leave the store and go shopping for myself.

So I'm not an A+ mom when it comes to my kids' style. I'm not a stylish mom like Mejorsie (that's bestie in spanish) which is why I made her Santiago's Godmother (at least I plan for their future which means I get an A+ in that field). I'm just average when it comes to having the Pinterest Hipsterati kids that dress like David Beckham or Audrey Hepburn. Most of the time they just look dressed and have there privates covered.

But sometimes, sometimes I get it right.

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 4 & 5 - Spring Break and the Bunny

Should I feel bad that I might be the only mom on my FB feed that hasn't dyed hard-boiled eggs, stuffed plastic ones full of prizes, or taken a picture of my kids with the Easter Bunny? Cause I kinda feel bad but I kinda don't. It's kinda like that hashtag #sorrynotsorry. Except it's more #tootiredtobesorry.

Since last week was Spring Break, the family and I traveled to Cabarete, an active beach goer's paradise. Wavy beach, laid-back town, kite-surfing capital and lots or nothing to do...  your choice. In our perfect life we would have had two cars to get us there, but since we are talking about our imperfect life, I should mention that in order to save our somehow always dwindling money we didn't rent a second car. Instead we crammed in to our SpaceWagon - yes that is her actual name and it is as glorious as she is - 4 grown ass adults, 2 babies complete with car seats, 2 dogs, 2 pack and plays, and the baggage that accompanies that many people. And that's why the SpaceWagon is awesome. We all fit.

Our first evening of vacation started with Rafa waking up every hour or so needing to be put back to sleep. This kid is a monstrous sleeper so when she woke up saying, "Gripe ~ cold." I knew we were in trouble. I don't remember a night - inclduing her newborn months - that she slept this miserably or that I did. It was one of those nights that only a mother could understand. Tired, rundown, wanting to be held and that was just me. Poor Rafa couldn't get comfortable either.

And this was the first night of our vacation.

I shouldn't say it like that because really any beach vacation as imperfect as it could be will always be - in its own way - perfection, unless there's a tsunami. There was lots to enjoy like our perfect breakfasts at Cabarete Coffee Company or our scrumptious shrimp dinner at Papi's in their special curry sauce, or the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous day we spent with the family of one of Husband's student's. It is one of my favorite things about living here - this idea that business and pleasure are so interjoined. In the states, I would never dream of accepting an invite from parents to visit their beach house. Here it would be considered rude not to. And somewhere between the fresh ceviche they made us and the gin and tonic that Dad concocted for me with his tailored Gin bar or citrus and rose-infused gins and the third bottle of champagne we uncorked I thought, Gosh... this is pretty good for an imperfect life. ;)

The car ride home - 4 hours on a Dominican highway - as new as it is - always reminds me of why I don't like traveling on this island. It's long. And boring. There are no rest stops with promises of Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts or even Carl's Coffee (whoever Carl is) So for 4 hours I sat in the third row of our glorious SpaceWagon edged between a suitcase and one dog waiting fruitlessly to be transported back home. And by the time we got back home Saturday evening, I was done. Done with vacation. Done with packing and unpacking. Done with sleeping in a bed with sheets that made more sound than thunder. Done with Rafa's cold and the stomach bug that my father got, that then my mother got which was the reason I gave up my bed that night and slept in a recliner. D-o-n-e. Hashtag that! #done.

At 5am, when I had to get up to drive my parents to the airport, I felt more dead than alive. Even the streets matched my outlook. The sky was still dark, the streets were quiet. Not a soul on the road... well almost and the sadness of taking my parents to a place that would fly them away from me. Major imperfection to this life.

By 7 am Easter morning, I had no room for a bunny and it's eggs. You know what I had room for? My couch. And I felt a little crappy about that. Shouldn't I be hiding pastel-colored eggs and posting adorable bunny-eared pictures of my kids dressed up in beautiful Easter gowns? Cut yourself a break, I reminded myself. I do Christmas BIG and birthdays BIG and right about now that's all the BIG I could muster. Does it all ahve to be BIG? Do I have to post all of my BIGness to Facebook? And well, doesn't that just bring me back to why I started down this Road to an Imperfect Life because looking at everyone's newsfeed of their Easteryness made me feel all small and bad mom-like. So I'm giving myself a break this time, a pass, a passover (I couldn't help it. That joke was there for the taking, Husband.)

Sometimes you have to tell the bunny to hop along because your due for a nap. #sorrynotsorry, bunny. Maybe next year. Or maybe not.


Oh. Week 5 that's easy... our nanny called out Tuesday and I woke up Wednesday with a migraine. An all day Wednesday that flooded into Thursday and imprisoned me into the 4 walls of my bedroom for entirely too long migraine. Migraines will always be the devastating car crash on my Road to an Imperfect Life.

But I keep driving.


Photo Credits:
Cabarete Beach Town Jeff Space Ritual
Cabarete Kite Surfing - Swell Surf Camp

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 3 - The After Baby, Baby Hair

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I found out that your hair falls out after you have a baby about 3 weeks before I had my first baby. No time to change my mind now. A friend I had recently made dropped that golden nugget of information on my lap and since I hadn't read up on what to expect when I was expecting, I had no idea this was a thing. Apparently postpartum hair loss is "a thing" and it has something to do with resting hairs and growing hairs and estrogen levels dropping. I was happy to know this before it started otherwise with the handfuls of hair that were dropping from my scalp like dead Autumn leaves I might have thought I was going bald.

I was lucky with my hair loss (not something I thought I'd ever say) because it wasn't erratic. Yes, a ton was falling out, but at least it was falling out evenly so there wasn't one spot that was more noticeable. Besides Follicle Mountain that emerged in my drain after every shower, I wouldn't have even really noticed if it hadn't been for when that hair - the baby hairs, the after baby, baby hairs - started to grow back.

Although they were always there like shifty teenagers trying to sneak out, the baby hairs weren't too noticeable when my hair was down. But I live on an island and a hot mother-effing island. So for most hours of the day, my hair is up: high ponytail, low ponytail, high messy bun, mid head ballerina bun - there is variation to my updo but up is up. I leave it down occasionally but long hair down on a hot island is as comfortable as taking your wet bathing suit off to pee. Not comfortable.

With my hair up most of the time, the after baby, baby hairs look like they are out to party. Wayward and unruly they curl and stand in whatever direction they choose. They don't like to be told what to do, damn rebel hairs. They have their own revolution going.

But here's the thing. Santiago turned 1-year-old about two weeks ago, so I don't know that I could officially say that I have a baby anymore. I remember so clearly his little babyness - like it was yesterday that we slept with a low-dimmed light on in our bedroom so that when he woke up in the middle of the night we didn't have to fumble around for him. But it wasn't yesterday, that was a year ago and since he is no longer a baby and we aren't certain we are ever going to have a third child, this might be it for me as far as babies go. And the only thing I have left to remind me of babies are these hairs, these after baby, baby hairs.

These tresses are more than disobedient strands, they are proof that I had a baby not so long ago. Proof that even after you have a baby, the battle with your body still wages. Proof that having a baby is only the beginning and that months - shit - yeeears later you still have battle scars. And scars mean you survived something.

Imperfect lines that say you came out of something scratched up but victorious. 

These imperfect hairs remind me of what this body can do, that it can take 18 months of changes and a year of roller coaster hormones and 3 years of (hair) loss and still grow back... stronger.

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 2 - Images of Frustration Exist Too

I almost broke my nose yesterday.

Correction. My daughter almost broke my nose yesterday. On accident. No, not really. Kind of on purpose. 

I can't argue with many moms on the playground when they look at my daughter who is more an observer kind of kid rather than a jump-er kind of kid and say, "Wow. She's so calm." Truth is when they see her, she is calm. But when she's home, in the comfort of our people, calm is a train that left the station a long time ago.

Yesterday, calm didn't just leave the station, it mother-effing went off the rails and crashed into an oncoming train. 

I don't even know how it started. That's not true I do know. The mother-effing iPad and "fotos" that's how it happened. She woke up and the day started like every other day but within an hour she spotted the iPad on top of our bookcase. All the way, up top, as if it was hidden because it was. She found it anyway. 

When I told her she couldn't play with the iPad like I usually do in the mornings, she went to our nanny, who also said no because her mother JUST SAID NO. Our calm little train exploded and screamed, from the gut, at her loudest of levels directly IN our nanny's face. Lock down Time out #1.

Time out means me dragging her into her room and locking the door until she calms down and then says I'm sorry. Sounds easy enough except she's my daughter. Apologies don't come easy. Eventually when both conditions are met we leave the room but I should have known where yesterday morning was headed since Time out #1 ended by 8:15. 

The morning continued. I made breakfast like I always do. I told her to sit in her high chair like I always do. I bribed showed her her juice like I always do because normally this works to get her in her chair quicker. She gets OJ once a day for breakfast so it is an easy get-in-your-chair treat. She wins. I win. Sometimes it is a bit more work, a bit more of a struggle but eventually I pick her up and take her to her chair without too much difficulty. 

Yesterday was different. I sat her in her chair and she kicked a little and whined a bit but she was conserving her energy for this: When I had her in the chair that she obviously didn't want to sit in, she pulled her head full of curls as far back as she could, wound up and threw her 8 pound skeleton at my face, clocking me with her colossal head in the nose. Her head that had always been in the 95th percentile at the doctor's office - so it's big! - just took to my nose like a Gallagher sledgehammer to a watermelon. 

For a minute, I thought she broke it. For a few hours I had a headache. 

She is a sweet child... usually. That's the child most people usually see, the one that I post pictures of on Facebook because those are the easy pictures to post. I don't think these pictures show that I'm some great parent that has all the answers they're just quicker to post: the ones where she looks adorable and smiley and not like a sledge hammer. But these images exist too: the ones of her not listening to her mother, the ones of me having less patience than I wish I had, the ones of both of us screaming and crying and being less than perfect. 

And the road continues...

Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 1 - The Revolution, Bitches #itsarevolutionbitches

I love posting my life on Facebook: how happy my kids are. all. of. the. time. How smiley and clean my family is, how no one throws a tantrum. ever. No one has a runny nose, no one screaming bloody murder or obscenities. I love posting the sunny days and beach outings and non-migraineful days.

While I'm on the topic, I also love looking through Pinterest and pinning things pretending that this is my real life. These are the outfits I will one day own (dream on) that hang in my magnificent walk-in closet that is inside my master suite bedroom which is painted in the perfect combination of colors to fit my zen or spiritual chakra or feng shui or whatever the word is I'm looking for. I love pinning the foods I will one day (probably never) make, the places I will someday visit when I'm a zillionaire writer, the perfect (non-stained) outfits my kids will wear when I have the time (and buttloads of money) to accessorize them the way a child of 0-years-old should be accessorized.

I'm a sarcastic person so I didn't actually mean that I loved those things. In fact, I actually kind of hate it. Facebook sometimes reminds me of the Jones' and why I hate keeping up with them (don't even get me started on those Kardashians). It's so hey, check out my life, my peeerfect life without any of the this is my real life lifeness. And I don't do this to make people think my life is perfect, most of the times I post these pictures to keep my mom in the loop of what we're up to but in posting all the joyous, loving, non-messy-life moments no one gets to see that my real life isn't always that neat. Real life is a whole cup of coffee spilled on the floor that my one-year-old grabbed off the table like a sloppy drunk, which is exactly what happened this morning.

Months ago I began this thought process with my love / hate relationship with my fake online life. And then I read THIS POST that totally resonated with me. My online life only shows a small slice of life; the part that is cleaned up and often times Instagrammed to look vintage (or Lomo) and cool. But I don't want people to look at my life and think, "Gosh. What a together chick. What a beautiful family and life and perfectness she's got going there," because that isn't my truth. Around this time I started Fighting my Good Fight, feeling a bit like Alice falling through the rabbit hole and I thought I want to write about my ugly, my vulnerable, my not Pinteresty perfect life. This was in September. And then as most bloggers do, I got sidetracked. I wrote other stuff, swearing I would get to this... one day.


3 weeks ago, I found this on a past co-workers FB page: 40 Days of (Imperfect) Beauty. Apparently, I wasn't the only one having these thoughts that there is something a bit damaging to our psyche about always trying to maintain, keep up, airbrush, and smooth overe. And so again, I made the promise to myself to start this, my own imperfect life revolution. And in the process invite others to also welcome in their own imperfections, like a big hug to yourself.

So I'm starting today. March 27. Good a day as any. And I'm starting by owning my imperfection with time and not committing myself to writing about my road to an imperfect life every Monday or every Wednesday. Maybe I'll just leave it at every week. And if I miss one week, I'll try not to be so hard on my imperfect self.

This is a journey that I think is worth taking and one that I think is really important in a world full of reality shows that don't show reality and airbrushed models that need not be airbrushed.

We are not perfect.

So... who's coming with me on my Road to an Imperfect Life.

This is a revolution, people... are you ready?