These are The MOMents

***First a special Thank-you Shout-out to Sarah for saving the day and switching with me yesterday when I couldn't find my laptop charger... oh the joys of moving. She rocks- please make sure you check out her excellent post here if you missed it. ***

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“It must be so nice getting out of the house every day.”

It is.

Except for when my toddler wakes up early enough to see me go.  And he calls out for me screaming, clinging to my legs begging for me to pick him up.  Sometimes I squeeze out the door, trying to justify myself saying  “bye bye” and “I love you” as many times as physically possible.   Then I try not to let myself get emotionally entangled in the resounding notes of his little voice screaming through the door as I walk to the car.  I tell myself he will be ok.  He will stop crying in just a few moments.  Daddy will pull out some graham crackers or turn on Elmo and suddenly everything will be right with the world.  

Mommy who? Let’s watch Yo Gabba Gabba! 

But other times I give-in, and I pick him up.  Then his grip is so tight as he whimpers into my shoulder.  I pat his back and coo “It’s OK’s” and “It’s alright’s” in his bed-head hair until his breath becomes even and his body relaxes against mine.  And then I realize what a disservice I’ve done to both of us with this stolen moment as I push the clock to its breaking point before I have to put him down so I can go; and his cries start all over again. 

Then my heart is nearly broken.

My mind is racing with the dishes in the sink, the laundry on the floor, the furniture I’m dying to rearrange, the many half-done (or not done) projects I have planned, the lunch I forgot to pack, and that little tear-stained face calling for his mommy.  Calling for me.

When I get to work, I’m once again filled with guilt, for a variety of different reasons.  I’m on time, often early, but many of my coworkers have gotten there before me.  I’m rushing to get to my room so I can set-up for the day, figure out and polish my agenda, attend before school conferences, and answer parent e-mails.  I’m not as prepared as I want to be.  And that giant stack of papers I brought home the night before thinking I’d have plenty of time to grade?  Back onto my desk they go… still ungraded.  Maybe I can squeeze a few in before first period? DING!  The bell.  Ugh.

My lunch and planning hours are filled with tutoring, running to the office to turn in yearbook money, lesson planning, answering more e-mails, and… you guessed it… more grading.  Sometimes I get a chance to start my lunch- sometimes not.  My 5^th period got pretty used to listening to me lecture with a fork in one hand. 

By the time the day is over I sit like a zombie at my desk.  Should I answer more e-mails?  Should I set-up my lab for tomorrow?  Oh and the grading…. I can totally do that at home.  Right? Right.  I can sit on the couch and watch TV and whip those grades out like nothing! Way preferable to sitting here.  Yup. That’s definitely what I should do. 

So I drive home.  I roll down my windows.  I turn-up my music.  I make every attempt to look super cool and take a few minutes to not be anyone but an embarrassingly enthusiastic sing-along commuter. (And just so you really get the picture, I’m not talking about the kind of sing-along commuter that is adorably cute listening to Celine Dion and belting the high notes… I’m ashamed to say my playlist is filled with various classics orchestrated by the very talented Snoop Dog and Justin Bieber.  I’m pretty gangster like that. Until we hit a stop light. Then I assess my fellow commuters before quickly making the decision to either roll up my windows and turn down the volume so I can act like a normal civilized human being; or I go ahead and try to pull off the “yes I’m a skinny white girl in glasses listening to ‘rap’ that isn't even really credible with people who actually listen to rap” look as I really wish I owned a pair of prescription sunglasses.)  

 I let myself forget the smattering of sticky-notes all over my desk.  I force myself to forget the angry parents, calling me onto the carpet for their children’s shortcomings.  I try and forget the angry teens- cussing me out and throwing desks because all of their pubescent problems suddenly have my face.  I’m hurt, I’m angry, I’m tired.  I don’t understand why I can’t just teach.  Why don’t they want to listen to me?  Why don’t they care even half as much as I do?  Why do I care so much? But I knew what to expect going into education- especially middle school; and this is what I signed up for.  This is what pays my bills, and ensures my family has food and clothes and all those other wonderful necessities- and strangely enough, this is what I enjoy doing.   So I decide to forgive them.  And I go home to my family.

Often times I feel like a mechanical woman.  Get up, go to work, come home, go to sleep, repeat.  I hear my alarm go off in the morning and sometimes I literally find myself saying out loud “Are you serious?!”.   I feel like I’m trapped in some kind of time-warp.  Some cruel real-life version of Groundhog Day.   I start thinking to myself- “Wasn’t I just here?  Didn’t I just drag myself out of bed a few minutes ago?  Apparently not.  I guess that was yesterday… here we go again…”

Being a parent is probably the most rewarding thing I have ever accomplished.  It’s a wonderful, warm, glowing feeling.  You are someone’s moon, sun, and stars.  With Graham, I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to swell anymore.  I really worried that when the new baby came I wouldn’t  be able to give him the same sort of love and affection I felt for my first son.  But now that Xander is here, I understand that love multiplies; it doesn't divide.  I honestly feel like my cup is overflowing with tenderness and adoration for these little men.

But with the blessings come trials.  To know the sweet we have to know the bitter- and with the sweetest of callings come the most testing of difficulties. 

Teaching , like motherhood, is a job of service.  Between the two of them- the biggest amount of “me time” is generally spent in a pity party.  It’s hard.  Really hard.  Sometimes cry-myself-to-sleep-before-I–do-it-all-over-again hard.  But what brings me out of those pity parties every time is realizing it’s worth it.  It’s so incredibly worth it.

I don’t regret a moment of motherhood.  I don’t regret getting married young and having my children “early” and “close together”.  I feel like it worked out so perfectly. 

Of course I have moments of doubt.  Of course sometimes I feel weak and I sit on the floor of my shower looking at my chipped toenail polish and droopy stretch-marked belly.  Sometimes I have that same "what the heck is happening" feeling I get with my alarm clock, but on a much bigger scale. 

Wasn't I just 18?  Didn't I just graduate high school? Don’t I still go to dances and sleepovers and wonder about who I’ll marry and how many children we’ll have?  Someone somewhere must have messed-up right?  The time-control person must have accidentally set their coffee mug on my life’s “fast-forward” button and they just haven’t noticed it yet.  Any moment they will see the blinking light and realize what happened.  Then they’ll hit “rewind” and everything can carry on at a “normal” speed. 

I think it’s important for us to remember that being “worth it” does not make it any easier.  There are moments, days, weeks, where I literally think I am going to lose my mind.  Thankfully I have an AMAZINGLY SUPPORTIVE ( I cannot emphasize this enough) husband.  I totally don’t deserve how good he is to us.  He brings me from the edge more often than not.  But he’s got a pretty full plate too- and he’s not always able to completely pick up my slack.  On nights when he has class- it doesn't matter how long or hard my day at work was.  It’s my turn to take over.  And as any parent knows, two-year-olds don’t care if you have a headache; they want to color!  They don’t understand that your feet hurt- they want to dance!  So we color, and we dance, and then the mercy of bedtime falls upon our house.

Like my parenting friends- “Me Time” takes a back-burner to all sorts of other things.  I sneak it in when I can and I savor those moments.  We probably watch a little (…a lot) too much TV at our house.  We probably eat on the sofa instead of sitting up to the table a little too often.  (Ok- we never sit at the table.) We probably don’t go outside (…what is this bright light you speak of?) and play at the park or go swimming or do all the things “good” parents are “supposed” to do.  But we get through each day bit by bit- and we’re happy.  We have tickle fights, eat ice cream when we want, and yes… watch “uno mas” episode of whatever TV show we’re plowing through on Netflix or Hulu or whatever. 

I let the baby cry for just a few more moments while I count to ten and take a breath.  I stay up a little later than I “should” to chat with friends on facebook or pin some links on pinterest.  I eat the last cookie and I get the last scoop of ice cream.  I stay in the shower much longer than necessary; and I write ridiculously long blog posts to get everything out of my head. 

Being a teacher is tough.  People always say how lucky I am to have weekends, holidays, and summers off.  And they’re right.  But I feel like I deserve it.  I earned it.  I'm sacrificing being with my own children so I can teach other people's.  I miss smiles and giggles, first words and first steps.  I miss so much- why should I miss any more?  You can't win.  You can't please everyone.  

I've gotten off-colored comments from people at work when I talk about being a mom, and from other moms when I talk about work.  It seems like everyone thinks you "should" be something different.  Something other than what you are.  It's upsetting... but in the end I know it doesn't matter.  Those people are a footnote in my life, and nothing in my children's lives.  And while I am probably nothing to the people who are so quick to criticize, I am everything to my children. So that's where I'm going to put my effort. When I’m not at work, I’m a full-time mom.  And you don’t get any time-off for that.  You can’t call-in sick, even for unpaid time off.  And honestly… I’d never really want to.

These truly are the moments.  And I cherish. every. one. 

Even when I complain.