I am never in the running for Mother of the Year, but I try to make sure my kids know they are loved even if I am simultaneously prepping their delicate minds for years of therapy as adults. For instance, I give my kids the choice between carrying a bag lunch or buying. Surprisingly, one of my three kids wants me to make lunch every day and another prefers it on occasion. I try to drop a lunch note in when I think about it as well.
My lunch notes are boring because I am too groggy in the morning to do better than "I love you!" or "Have a great day!" on a torn off corner of notebook paper. There are a ton of printables online that do the work for me, but I found them a little bit too cheesy and disingenuous. I decided to write my own sincere notes (that I promise I will not actually put in my kids' lunches). My husband will totally get his note, though. I'm no saint.
I don’t have to answer to anyone about how I spend my time, my money or my Saturday evenings. I don’t have to ask anyone if it’s okay if I go out with the girls. I don’t have to consult anyone about how I’m raising my daughter. My boyfriend is a great guy, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything, but I’m good with not being married to him.
Winter. What started as a four-day weekend turned into a ginormous blob of unending time home from school for my three kids because of winter. I don't even know what day it is or when I last had a shower. They have been home since last Thursday and according to the all-knowing computer, it's Friday of the next week. If the snow magically evaporated at this very second, the kids will still be home for two more days. You might not be able to tell, but I'm whimpering as I type this. I love my little snow bunnies, but I need them to stop touching me and asking for sandwiches and seriously, no. No more trips outside to build a snowman. It's ice, kids. Ice doesn't make a good snowman. Do not make me throw a chunk at you to prove a point. What we have outside is a slippery doom machine of pain.