I've gotten into what some would view as being a very bad bedtime routine with our youngest son. At his bedtime, I go upstairs with him and we snuggle up together in his bed, and read a story. Then it's lights-out, but instead of me tucking him in and leaving the room, I continue lying next to him reading on my phone or iPad until he falls asleep.
Isn't it funny how people will give you their opinions on this? "Oohh, you're going to regret that!" they'll say.
But I haven't regretted it, yet.
If you've followed my blog for any length of time, or if you've read my book, you know that the battle between me and my mouth is very real.
From cliche's, which I slaughter to pieces like some sort of harebrained butcher, to awkward small-talk exchanges that are so heavily wrapped in social anxiety, I invariably say something that earns me a furrowed brow and a silent look of confusion.
And sometimes I just get my words all jumbled up.
We went to Florida last week for a family vacation, and on the way there, I pondered whether I'd fit in my swimsuits or not (I did, but only the super-stretchy ones.)
I didn't wonder whether my foot fit in my mouth. But, alas, it does.
My teenager was forced to emerge yesterday from his dark hole of a bedroom because it was the first day of summer break, and we had to go get his passport renewed.
Just a few days before, I'd stood on the front porch, bantering with him as he walked out to his car, watching him pull out and waving goodbye to him as he left for one of his last few days of his junior year.
He hates when I do this.
"Why do you do that? It's so weird," he'll say in a tone that makes it clear he's disgusted by the whole thing.
An awkward and alarming email came through from my son's teacher last week, saying he'd been caught stealing cookies in the lunch line, and could I talk to him because it seemed a bit out of character.
I assured her I'd speak to him right away because - as I mentioned to her - everyone knows that stealing cookies in the lunch line is the first step toward a lifelong pattern of crime. One minute, your kid's pinching a few cookies, then you blink, and they're all grown up, showing colors and throwing gang signs.
Before I could get to the bottom of my kid's new hobby as a shoplifter, I visited with one of the other moms* waiting for our kids after school. I mentioned my sadness and concern over my child's dark turn toward crime, feeling like she couldn't possibly understand my strife.
My inner dialog this morning as I stretched myself awake: "Hooray! It's a school holiday, so no early rush to get lunches made!"
Followed immediately by: "Booo, it's a school holiday, so the kids will be home with me all day." (don't judge me)
Then, "Hooray! It's Friday, so we can sleep in the next two days!"
Followed by, "Booo, I have a dentist's appointment this morning."
I trudged downstairs to make my beloved coffee, then went back up to get ready for my day. I reached for my contact solution, tipped the bottle over, and poured my perfectly-brewed cup of coffee over my unsuspecting contact lens.
I challenged myself (because that's what I need, is another challenge in my life) to write a blog post every single day for a month. Then I took it down a notch (because I'm all about lowering my own standards), deciding instead to write a post every single day - Monday through Friday - for a month.
The last 24 hours have been spent brainstorming topic ideas that range from parenting, to how-to's and hacks, to books and product reviews. Nothing's off limits, I'll write about anything (this is a not-so-subtle request for ideas - what do you want to hear me blather on about?)
I love my child. I do. My love for him far surpasses the hatred he has for writing. And he has a deep, dark hatred for writing.
Bizarre irony, don't you think, considering his mother has a desperate, twisted love for writing?
He's in second grade, now. In kindergarten, I'd get calls from the teacher saying my son gets distracted during writing practice, and doesn't get his work done. We chalked it up to his age.
And the fact that he's a boy. The maturity thing, you know: boys mature slower than girls, blahblahblah.
Y'all. Oh my goodness. A few weeks ago, I submitted an article to Listen To Your Mother, a live production that celebrates motherhood through original readings performed on-stage by their authors.
If you're one of my subscribers, not only are you a superstar, but you got advance notice of my submission during January. You might remember me asking your advice on which article to submit.
The leader, by far, was the one I wrote about my teenager, so that's the one I sent in.
I've had my fingers crossed for weeks, hoping I'd get an invitation to audition, and I got it, I got it! My audition slot is on February 27th, and if I'm selected, I'll perform for a live studio audience on May 7th.
Kristan (Braziel) LeBaron is an author, writer, marketing professional, and the voice of the blog, Bring Mommy A Martini. Mom to two hilarious boys: one in college and the other in middle school, she writes βreal momβ stories on life with anxiety & depression, and choosing happiness as a daily practice. She lives outside of Austin with her two sons and two lavishly kept dogs.
