Feeling a Little Crazy

A little while ago I wrote of how we were adjusting to being a family of 5 and how surprisingly well it has been going.  And I wasn't lying.  It has been easier than expected.

But I can't seem to get anything done.  I'm finding it really hard to get the everyday chores, my very part time job and parenting all done in a timely matter.  I mean seriously!  How do people do it?  With the weather so beautiful these days, my kids want to spend every waking moment outdoors, which I love, but then the day is done and I'm looking at a dirty kitchen, dirty clothes in the bathroom, projects that need to be completed and I'm completely overwhelmed.  I'm exhausted.  I have almost no energy to get anything done.  And trying to exercise?  It's a good stress relief but finding time for it?  Pretty dang hard.

I've been working on giving myself grace.  Trying to realize and accept that my home is not going to look perfect, that I'm not going to lose weight overnight, that I'm going to forget things, that I can't plan everything,  and that I'm not going to overcome bad habits of being self critical by tomorrow.

And I've decided that in learning to give myself grace, I need to fully embrace life, roll with the punches and laugh a lot.  Which if you are friends with me on Facebook or follow me on Instagram, you can see that I've been enjoying the funny side of having three young kids.

So any tips are welcomed!  Unless you're suggesting that I give up sleep in order to exercise more regularly or to give up caffeine.  Cause that's just crazy talk.

 

 

  

Wheelin' and Dealin'

So my four year old has some pretty strong opinions.

And a lot of those opinions have to do with clothing.As a budding fashionista she has no problem telling me what she wants to wear and what she would like to shove to the back of her closet.  For awhile I was fighting her everyday to wear what I had picked out.  Tears were shed, tantrums had, clothes thrown across the room and feet stamped.  I got so tired of it. 

Then one day, while I was heavily pregnant with Addie, I was exhausted and had no energy to fight her before preschool.  I ended up thinking, "screw it" and I let her go to school wearing whatever she wanted.  It wasn't weather appropriate but since we only had to walk across the street I just let her.  Our morning was WAY easier and she was so happy to be in control of something.  

A few days later it was Sunday and she was insisting on some outfit that included a crown.  It was then that I made a deal with her.  She could choose what she wanted during the week and I got to choose what she wore for special occasions and church.  Surprisingly she agreed and happily put on what I had laid out.  

And you know what?  Her combinations haven't been too terrible!  I've had to remind her of the weather at times but we've mostly been able to keep to our deal.  

She likes to show off her clothing choices and will often run excitedly to Josh or I and ask "how do I look?" or "check out my outfit!"  She's even started to ask me what I'm going to wear and tell me what she thinks.  

It has been fun to see what she puts together and watch her try to push the boundaries of what she CAN wear.  In fact we've had to create some basic guidelines: she has to have a top and a bottom, dress ups are not clothes and cannot be worn inplace of actual clothes, clean undies EVERYDAY, no skirts without leggings in the winter, clothes have to be clean.  

I think it's been a positive change for us.  It's one less thing for me to do each morning and she feels like she's in control.  Plus her grins each morning as she comes prancing into the livingroom with her outfit (or some days outfits) of choice are pretty awesome.  

I sure love my free spirited, headstrong, funny girl.

growing up as "that kid"

PTSD.

When I think of it, I think of soldiers and POWs.  Not foster kids.

Growing up, everyone knew I was in foster care.  I was the kid in kindergarten who had their "auntie" join them for the Mother's Day tea party while everyone else had their moms.  I was the kid in first grade that at the end of the school year my teacher told the entire class that "Leslie may be at another school next year so make sure you give her your phone number if you want to talk with her this summer".  I was the kid that had 6 different foster homes before I was in the second grade.  I was the kid that got adopted in second grade and had a big Adoption Day Party.  In fourth grade I stopped attending school and was homeschooled.  Then I was the kid no one ever saw, the kid who was starved, beaten, and isolated.  I was the kid who in 6th grade was enrolled in a private Christian school and the kids teased me for looking like a boy because my adoptive mom had cut my hair into what I now call "The Harry Potter" as a punishment.  That year I was the kid that stole other kids lunches because I wasn't being fed properly at home.  I was the awkward kid at school because my adoptive mom was so controlling and paranoid that I was never allowed to interact with anyone else and never had a chance to learn normal social cues.

But then, by the grace of God, I stood up for myself.  I once again became a foster kid, but there wasn't such a stigma this time around.  My friends alol knew and accepted it, I stopped moving from home to home like I did as a child and grew to love my foster family and adoptive family equally.  I grew in my faith and steadily became more and more confident in who I was.

The  more confident I became the less tragic my childhood seemed.  The flashbacks stopped and I believed I was totally fine.  I mean, when adults are always exclaiming "you seem so normal, so well adjusted!" you start to believe it.  Until something happens and you get what I assume is a very small example of PTSD.

I was working part time in high school, working as a line cook.  I was the only female working and one of the guys was going around whipping people in the leg with a dishrag.  Having been already accepted as "one of the guys" I was so graciously included in this.  The moment that dish towel hit my leg it was like I was reliving my adoptive mom and in my confusion burst into tears, yelled a bunch of expletives and ran off the line.  I didn't understand why I had reacted, so later I chalked it up to PMS and tried to forget it had ever happened.

Then while newly married Josh and I were trying to one up each other with pranks.  I had just finished some prank when Josh thought it would be hilarious to dump a glass of cold water on me while in the shower as his "one upper", but the moment the cold water hit me I was crumpled in a ball hysterically crying.  It was like my adoptive mother had thrown me in a freezing cold shower again as a punishment for some perceived wrongdoing.  I could barely breathe I was so upset and my poor husband was completely mortified and confused all at the same time.

That was when I started reading online of other stories from survivors of abuse.  And although there are sadly hundreds of thousands more stories that are so much more horrific than mine, I was able to identify with their lingering flashbacks.  I stopped feeling like I was defected and realized it wasn't just a switch that I needed to flip to be "cured".

There have been similar instances where seemingly innocent events/actions/wordings have invoked these "flashback feelings" but I've gotten much better at how I externally react.  I don't  know if I'll ever stop having flashbacks, but now I can identify why I'm having them and that its normal and even ok.  I wouldn't actually classify these flashbacks as true PTSD, but it does seem sadly similar, like in that class.

I'm writing about this not because I really want to but because one of these flashbacks happened again tonight and I feel compelled to write.  Sometimes when my past comes back to haunt me it's more painful to push it away than it is to acknowledge it and move on.  Plus it's cheaper to blog about all these thoughts than actually go to therapy.  Unless there's a therapist nearby who's taking payment in the form of baked goods.  Cause I could do that.

Life With Three

People ask me all the time, "How's it going with three?"

You know, when I was still pregnant with Addie I was terrified.  Both Bee and Jude were challenging babies especially in the beginning and I already knew how poorly I do life on very little sleep.  Bee was a preemie who needed constant care, she ate every 2 hrs for 5 months and then every three hours for the next two months.  She couldn't regulate her own body temperature for months and didn't smile or coo for way longer than a normal full term baby.  Then we had Jude.  He was colicky for 6 weeks but then didn't sleep for months.  I made it thru Josh's work weeks on maybe a total of 25 hrs of sleep in 7 days.  It was terrible, I felt terrible.  I wanted to throw my baby across the room to make him shut up so I could sleep.  Thankfully it ended and he started sleeping 4-5 hrs a night around 4-5 months.  So when I found myself pregnant a third time I was petrified at how exhausted I was going to be.  I was so anxious I would cry about it all the time.   I was and still am so grateful that Josh gets an amazing amount of time off for paternity leave, but I was prepared to just barely survive the first couple months.  What I was unprepared for was a super mellow baby.  Don't get me wrong, adjusting to three little humans who are pretty close in age and are all needy is pretty challenging.  But instead of just barely surviving the first couple months, I feel like we've been able to enjoy them.  

The first few weeks with Addie she followed the same pattern as our older two.  Woke up every two hours to eat and wanted to be held 24/7.  Then suddenly, she was sleeping 4 hrs in a row around the 2 month mark.  She barely cried except to let us know she needed to be fed, changed or swaddled for bed.  Then one night she slept from 11:30pm-6:30am.  Then around three months she started sleeping 8 freaking hours in a row.  GAME CHANGER my friends.  We have a baby who actually sleeps!  I feel more rested than I did pregnant!  I'd love to say that she sleeps because I have a special trick and am an amazing parent, but we haven't done anything different this time around so I'm chalking it up to her being an angel baby.

The hardest part has been dealing with Bee and Jude.  Trying to keep them from killing each other while trying to not laugh at how ridiculous they are.  They are constantly fighting and trying to get each other in trouble.  Jude knows that if he takes Bee's special drawing of the day she's going to flip her lid, and Bee knows that if she taunts, "Hey! I put away ALLLLL your caarrrahhhhsss!" (cars) Jude is going to go all frantic franny on her and not know how to deal with his emotions.  Or Bee will be super bossy and force Jude to play princesses with her, but then refuse to play cowboys with him.  His disappointment gets me every time, until he retaliates by screaming at the top of his lungs and then the hitting and pushing starts.  Our house gets really loud, really fast.  

So far I've been able to kick them outside when things start to get hairy, but I haven't figured out how to make them nicer to each other without completely distracting them or just ignoring them and making them figure it out themselves.  The other day I was nursing a fussy Addie when a sibling beat down began and I ended up walking across the house to their room, refereeing them with Addie still fully attached.  It was then that I realized I was standing in front of the open window, wearing stained yoga pants paired with one of Josh's ratty old t-shirts with my going-on-three-days-without-a-shower hair pulled up in a greasy bun, in full view of anyone who might have walked by.  That was the moment I realized there was no turning back for me, I was fully entrenched in motherhood.  It was also the moment I wished it was acceptable to drink at 10 in the morning.  Please tell me I'm not the only one!