Sometimes Groundhog Day offers you a surprise. Not that we are strangers to surprises in our yard. But still. I am beginning to wonder if I harp on the routine around here too much. And maybe I don’t always see the amazing and the unique when it passes me by. Maybe it takes a wild animal to clue me in. Maybe.

I was doing what I always do around 6:00pm – feeding my kids in the kitchen. Chicken, pasta, apple.

And I was saying the usual too.

“Sit in your seat, be sure to eat some apple too, I said SIT DOWN, would you like more milk… HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS THERE’S A BOBCAT!!!”

The next thing I said was…

“DUCK!” And we all ducked under the window.

I know how skittish these animals are. I’ve seen them before and have seen them bolt at any sign of human life (thank goodness considering… you know… my kids play back there everyday).

But I wanted a picture.

So I crawled over to my dining room table, snatched the camera out of my bag and peeked up out the window into my backyard. The bobcat was moving slowly up towards my house and would be passing the kitchen window in seconds. So we all scrambled back into the kitchen, giggling and anticipating. I froze with camera poised, the kids waited – and there it was. It froze too. Gave us this exact stare. And then scurried away.

Surprises. There’s nothing better. And maybe if I paid more attention to whats happening around me, I’d see more of them now and then. The little stuff and the big stuff can make a day more unique if you allow it to. Nothing like an afternoon bobcat to snap you out of it. Message received.

“Secure your oxygen mask before assisting others.”

I heard that phrase three times this weekend. Once on the flight up to Boston, once on the flight back down to Tampa and once over dinner with my best friend. I was in Boston to see her and her family. She just had a beautiful baby girl three months prior and I was finally able to get myself north to meet her.

But over dinner, away from our children, wearily clinking our glasses together – we talked about putting ourselves first.

“I like to think of what they say on airlines before you take off. You know, secure your own mask before helping anyone else.”

She was explaining that if we don’t make sure we have ourselves taken care of, we can’t care for anyone else. And these were wise words coming from the mother of a brilliant and busy two year old and fabulous but fussy three month old. It seemed an enormous gift when she could pass me her littlest one just so that she could shower, just so that she could finish her plate of food, just so that she could be quiet in her space for a moment.

Granted, her words of advice are ones I suppose know on some level already. After seven years as a mother, I thoroughly understand that parents need to have time for themselves before they can care for their families. I get that. I do. But do I apply that advice very often? Does my husband? Does any parent?

When my boys were born, I got used to back burnering so much of my own indulgence. But so much more back burnering followed. Even the most basic functions can get ignored – and you know what I’m talking about here. Raise your hand if you’ve peed and fed your baby at the same time. (Don’t look at me like that. I’m just keeping it real here, folks.)

While considering this whole concept of putting yourself first now and then this weekend, I also happened to get sick. It was certainly ironic. Away from my family and responsibilities, I managed to pack it up, lose my voice (NOT COOL while with my BFF) and spend more time on her couch than out and about in Boston.

And that was fine because I was able to spend plenty of time with her girls, which is why I was there in the first place. (Disregard the germs I probably spread all over their home however… guilt guilt guilt.)

But once I arrived here in Tampa and jumped back into my role as mom, I faltered a bit. My chest cold had settled in for the long haul and (…I could insert a story here about how I dozed off on my 3 year old who decided not to be potty trained while I snoozed but I’ll spare you those details…) I was not functioning so well. So my husband, who is running on a work treadmill at full speed right now, had to find a way to get back home and care for the boys for one more day.

Sure, I put myself first. But only because I had to. And let me tell you – lying in bed while my boys were fed and homeworked and put to bed was strangely surreal. (Or maybe the Nyquil had yet to wear off.) Regardless, there is always a trade off. My husband had to desert his full speed treadmill at work for the time being, let alone find any time to focus on his own needs.

(I wonder when he ever secures his own mask? While I may be putting my kids first most of the time, he is putting work AND our kids first all of the time. Does his commute to and from work count as his alone time, his time to breath and refuel his brain again? I’m not so sure.)

This balance is something we all need to work out better. It is very easy to set your own needs aside because you aren’t going to get whined at or voicemailed incessantly until you DO pay attention to yourself.

(Imagine if you did though. Imagine if your child threatened a temper tantrum if you didn’t go outside and sit in that lounge chair with a book RIGHT NOOOOOWWWW!!!! I bet we’d do it without any arguments.)

I’m not sure I have any recommendations here. Because while I know we all need our time to regroup and recharge – I don’t always. And I don’t know how to insist that we do this every time. Or if we realistically can do it every time. But we can try to do it some of the time at least. And remind ourselves how much better off everyone might be if we did.

Now, if I could only figure out how get the airplane’s exit door open too, and that fun bouncy slide to eject, and then hurl myself and my husband wheeeeeee off the plane and onto a beach in Tahiti.

Baby steps. Oxygen first. THEN Tahiti.

Somehow – thanks to careful coordinating with my husband’s work schedule, begging a close friend to take my kids for an entire day, and fantastic airline prices – I have managed a weekend get-away for myself. To Boston.

I justified my trip as my first chance to meet my BFFs new baby girl. And I truly can NOT wait to hold that sweet baby in my arms.

But let’s be real.

It’s been a lot of 24/7 with my boys recently. A LOT. As a college coach, my husband is in season and crazed (and also in dire need of a break, I might add). So I’ve been doing the single mom thing quite a bit. Groundhog days fill my spring, as they have for years. No complaining here, I swear, its just… this trip? Yeah. Well, I’m thinking of it as my own little kind of spring break.

And while most winter weary college co-eds are packing up sunscreen, bikinis and fake IDs – I’m collecting my “winter” gear, my camera and I just might dust off my ID to maybe try it out at a bar *IF* they even ask for it…

The novelty of one bag of just MY stuff. The possibility of stopping at a coffee shop in the airport to read my book. No bedtime routine. New faces. No dreaded car line. Dressing only myself, not three. Sleep. No homework. City, not suburbia. No coercing my 3 year old to eat his chicken. Just my full attention on my bestie and her family.

(Please note that doing “auntie” things by helping get her girls ready or fed or whatever needs to be done doesn’t count as parenting. It’s completely different, I swear.)

Because it’s the little things. It’s uncovering and reuniting with yourself. It’s being your own person, and not always always always a mom. Just for two days. That’s all.

I love my 24/7 with my boys. That’s what I signed on for. And I am grateful for it.

But, my friends, in two days?

SPRING BREAK BABY!!!!!

I have lines on my face.

And so does just about every woman in her thirties and far far far beyond.

But humor me while I quickly consider this fact. And you probably will since I’m going to bet that many readers have been at this moment, pouting deep within the indulgence of his or her own ego, realizing that her face is simply not what it was.

In those very early, hardly adult years, I think a lot of us kind of kid ourselves. Not me. I won’t get lines. I’ll be one of those Jane Seymour types that never ages. Lines happen to everyone else. Like my mom. Or, ok, if I do get lines, it will be a long, long, very long time from now. Like when I’m as old as Rose from “Titanic”, and they will look beautiful, regal and well earned after the amazing life I’ve led. And then with a dramatic sigh, I will die peacefully in my sleep with memories of steamy love affairs with Leonardo DiCaprio comforting my way to the pearly gates. Lines show up then. Not now…

Not true.

The other day I was flying about my house trying to get my kids out the door to a game. Did they have their shoes, where are their snacks, stop hitting your brother, get in the car, STOP hitting your brother, where is my cell, SIT DOWN, stop hitting your brother, here is your water, are you strapped in, ok.

And I shut the car door.

Well, there I was staring back in the window’s reflection. I’m not sure what it is about a car window’s reflection – but I saw it all. Or at least more than I usually do. Deep, annoyed grooves, pressed lips, sagging parentheses around my mouth, horizontal zigzags across my forehead and two harsh vertical divots between my eyes which I believe are called the “elevens” (thank you Dr. 90210 for naming the ugly).

So much for Jane Seymour.

Now I know this is nothing unique and hardly deserves any sympathy. I am 37. Time goes by, your face changes, suck it up. I’m not even all that woeful and wishing I was a pretty little 23 year old thing. Because I’m just not. I’m a 37 year old mature, regular, typical mom thing. And that’s totally fine.

But seeing that reflection was certainly one more lesson in vanity and the useless time wasted on vanity, a lesson on time gone by and of course my own mortality.

I watch my children grow and run and change around me everyday. My six year old’s ankles have suddenly shown themselves under the cuffs of his pants legs. His new, adult teeth are boldly making their place in his mouth. I find him standing with his hands in his pockets, or lying on the carpet with his hands behind his head – glimpses of the relaxed adult he will be. And my three year old is going to school too and even reading. And finding the bathroom when he needs to go on his own. And finally taking turns. They are morphing before my very eyes, becoming something completely new over the course of days, months and years.

Why do I assume that time stands still for me? That I remain unchanged and unaffected? I honestly shouldn’t. Because I don’t.

This post isn’t supposed to be another wistful feel sorry for myself blather. I mean it. I don’t think I look particularly awful or anything. And I am certainly not hoping to score some free botox for a nice little review on my site. (Although I’m betting it happens on blogs elsewhere.)

I’m really ok about it (…I post here as convincingly as possible…). I’m just making a note of it. I have lines on my face. I am not who I was. I age.

(Bleh.)

Now to make sure any new arrivals become laugh lines instead of any other kind. It’s something to work on at least. That and to someday be as beautiful, as at peace and as satisfied with my life as Rose’s character was in Titanic. I’d toss everything of value in the ocean too if I could have that.

So until then, onward.

(Just promise not to tell my husband about those Leonardo DiCaprio affairs. A lady must have her secrets…)

Look, I know watching videos can take a little time. So certainly wait to watch this one until you’re scarfing a sandwich down at work or waiting for the pasta to boil before dinner. But please do watch this. Because I am pretty sure I can promise you 6 minutes and 39 seconds of the the cutest cuteness you’ve ever seen.

I know I know. I’m his mother. The cutest cuteness? It’s a lot to promise and I am far FAR from objective

But come on, just check it out – even for a little bit.

You see, my three year old told me he was hungry. So I handed over an apple. Dinner would be ready in an hour and I didn’t want his appetite ruined on anything else. But I had no idea that today’s apple would result in such careful consideration. And joy. So even if you don’t think this is the cutest cuteness you’ve ever seen, I will promise you this. You will learn how to plant an apple seed with careful direction from a three year old at the very least.

Enjoy this sweet spring moment I captured yesterday afternoon in my backyard.

So I bought some Diet Coke yesterday. I’m not a huge Coke drinker really but I’ve recently been having the urge to “rest my eyes” at traffic lights on the way to picking up my kid from school. Not good. So I’m thinking an afternoon pick me up once in awhile might just be a good idea.

(Sidebar: I get really… er… hot flash-ish, heart racy and all freakified if I drink too much caffeine. Unfortunately coffee is just a bad idea. Think “Tweek” from South Park. So one Diet Coke has got me covered for a loooong while. Just to clarify.)

But I have this strange aversion to buying drinks that have no purpose. Who needs to get all hooked on the extra sugar and caffeine and aspartame and preservatives and crap for all that extra money. (“Extra money” being the key phrase here. Really? I’m usually just too cheap to shell out for the fun stuff.)

So we mostly drink milk and water around these parts. (Oh and wine. And beer. Both of which have a purpose, but I digress.)

But now and again, I buy some Diet Coke as a treat. (Way to live the life, right?) Oh and it’s purpose? To keep my engines revved so I actually move my car forward when the light turns green rather than take a little afternoon snooze right there in the middle of an intersection.

(… You know what? I should probably just get unsweetened ice tea. I’m betting its cheaper and better for me. Again I digress.)

So I wheely wheeled my kid crammed grocery cart over to the drink section the other day and saw row upon row of Cokes on sale. Which one was the one I wanted? Ummm, the caffeine one with cancer causing sugar substitutes. Yeah that one.

Wait. What’s this? A Diet Coke with pretty blue swirlies on it? What does it mean?

“Diet Coke Plus” it read. “Diet Coke with Vitamins and Minerals.”

Wha…? You mean the Coke peeps are trying to make me think that drinking Coke is good for me? They think that dropping some vitamin B6, B12, some niacin, and zinc in with my phenylalanine and aspartame is really helping a mother out? Or are they thinking that maybe I’ll buy it now because it has a little added value since I can’t get my act together to take a daily vitamin?

Well, it worked. I bought it over the simple red and silver can. Oooh blue swirlies that look all healthy-ish. It can’t hurt, right?

I don’t know. There is something amiss in all of this. I can’t help but feel a little duped. I’ve seen it more and more often these days while I wheely-wheel around my Publix. Crappy products with no real dietary value are suddenly showing up with extra vitamins and minerals. And 5 grams of fiber. And added protein and calcium.

Along side their usual 30 grams of sugar and high fructose corn syrup and trans fat and aspartame and glunk, gook and more bad for you stuff.

It rings a bit sinister I’m afraid.

I mean, SURE, I’d like 5 grams of fiber in my serving of cookies. If I was planning on buying that crap anyway, I may as well have some added something to it. You know, to take away the guilt of buying those dreaded (…nom, nom, nom…MORE…) cookies in the first place.

But if folks think that they can somehow live a MORE healthy lifestyle with these added nutrients dropped in and amongst the regular crap… well… yikes.

There has been a lot more recent priority placed on healthy lifestyles in this country. Which is great. And I am hoping folks are going to make better choices about what they eat and how much they eat. But I just wish these companies would do more to put an overall more healthy product out that we want to buy – rather than keep the same old same old, except for dropping in a vitamin or two, swishing it around and calling it a day.

I know, I know. I still bought the Diet Coke. I still fell for the whole “oooh vitamins in a healthier looking can” thing. (Sidebar: There is a reason for this. And it all traces back to my myers-briggs results which happen to show that I am in the group of people who tend to fall for product placement and advertising more than any other group so its NOT my fault.) I mean, I am not the perfect eater. And my kids need to eat more (ANY) veggies. And we eat fast food sometimes and boxed mac and cheese is part of the rotation and I’ll have a Diet Coke every so often. Sue me.

It’s just. Dude. I know my Diet Coke Plus won’t make me a healthier person. But does everyone else know that? And will we as a collective group just settle for these “healthier” changes? Or will we push food companies further and start expecting them to take out the bad while putting in the good? And maybe expect them to make a more healthy product for real.

And will WE take more responsibility (rather than rely on a Diet Coke for our vatamin B12) and buy more fresh foods and substitute water for sugar drinks and eat green leafy things and cut back on scary stuff that eats our brains? Or will we buy that box of Cheeze-its because it’s got more fiber now and call that dinner?

I’m just saying.

…I can’t believe I wrote a post about a can of Coke.

…which is sitting in front of me.

…and so I’m totally blaming the caffeine swimming in and amongst my “plus” vitamins for this post’s total random factor and multiple sidebars. For real.

(Disclaimer: I had two VERY large Diet Cokes the other day while waiting for my crappy Hard Rock lunch before the TMBG concert. Which now, in retrospect, might explain my tweeked out fan freak out post. Because, yes, I can keep a caffeine tweek for a full 24 hour period. You’re so jealous, right?)

(Another disclaimer: No the Coke people did not ask me to review Diet Coke Plus nor did I get anything free for writing about it. Other than an annoying, pounding sensation…)

….I think I have a headache.

*Setting down the Diet Coke Plus and walking away.*

I saw some robins in my yard. After my years in western Massachusetts, the sight of robins hopping around green grass, wearily recovering from snow melt, has always signaled the first sign of spring in my mind. So the robins have arrived here in Florida – and while there is no recent snow melt to dodge, they are here hopping and calling and puffing out their chests. I am thinking they are only making a quick stop over here before finally heading north to a well deserved western Massachusetts. You know, once this whole winter thing goes out like a lamb and all.

We also have some green buds on trees and a fine coating of pollen on the cars. Both obvious signs of spring also. Annoying and sneeze-worthy yes, but still hopeful.

But the true sign of spring’s arrival happened here this Monday. My son had his first Little League baseball game. They won 20-8. He made three runs and covered short stop position better than any pro ever could. I swear. And considering how much I know about pro baseball (ahem, cough), I should know.

Spring is coming folks. Enjoy these first few signs.

Live music has its way with me. No, it’s true. I don’t care what I’m hearing live: a local marching band, typical piano bar music, some hoaky cover band. Love them all. But seeing live music that you AND your kids absolutely adore? Well, that’s just about as close to total rock and roll mommy perfection as I can get. My boys and I saw They Might Be Giants live in Orlando yesterday afternoon – and I am still spinning in a star struck TMBG haze. I think my kids are too.

A few years back, when my eldest was a wee two year old watching Playhouse Disney at dawn while I stared half awake over my bowl of Cheerios, TMBG had managed it’s way in between Higglytown Heros (gah!) and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (oy…) for a few musical interludes. Somehow (and it took a great deal I tell you), I perked up. I probably paid more attention initially because these guys were on my college mix tapes. Oh yeah. TMBG. They’re doing kids music now. Cool.

But it was more than that. Their kids music was actually GOOD. And my two year old thought so too – staring, dancing, and staring again. This music wasn’t campy, not sing-songy, not condescending. It kept their usual ironic, quirky, intellectual flair – but styled it just right for kids.

Really, it makes so much sense. TMBG translates perfectly into children’s rock tunes. In the tradition of what they’ve always done for the past 25 years, they wind kooky story lines in and amongst educational concepts. And kids, who totally get kooky story lines, line up to hear about paleontologists and the periodic table and the vowel family. No they do, for real. It’s utter TMBG kid music magic.

I ordered TMBG’s Here Come the ABCs soon after hearing them for the first time. Finally. Music I could bear and my two year loved. Truly, he loved it. “Go for G”, “E Eats Everything”, “C is for Conifer”, “D is for Drums”… we couldn’t get enough.

(For the record, C has never been for cookie but always for conifer. And when we saw an actual conifer – look out, it was a crazy big deal. And you thought Santa was the only Christmas celebrity.)

Some years passed, I had another son and when he was about two years old, well what should come along?  Here Come the 1,2,3s of course. “Infinity”, “High Five”, “Figure Eight”. More magic. And suddenly, lo and behold, both kids loved their music. I was finally the proud mommy of two TMBG fans. Score.

This Christmas, Santa brought the most recent TMBG creation to the Morningside household: Here Comes Science. “I Am a Paleontologist”, “The Bloodmobile”, “Electric Car”. Crank it up, we were all jamming out once again. It’s a bit more mature this time, but isn’t that convenient – so are my kids.

And now both kids are old enough to take it upon themselves to jump online to watch bookmarked TMBG pod-casts, they know it all word for word, they’ve studied whose who in the band, “no Mommy, Marty plays drums and Danny plays Bass. Sheesh.” True kid fans.

So when tickets went on sale for a special family show in Orlando at the Hard Rock Cafe? I’m fairly sure I may have rattled the house with a jarring TMBG groupie squeel. And I was on ticketmaster’s site in no time.

They Might Be Giants! Here comes my family!!!!

(Well, minus my huz. He was away in NC. And he was missed. He would have been there rocking out with us in a heartbeat.)

So yesterday was the day. And in true groupie form, I made T-shirts for my boys and I. My 6 year old helped me design them, carefully over-seeing the entire process. I could have painted my car too. And made signs. But I didn’t. I’m totally not that TMBG freaky, mmmkay?

But the kids were so fired up. Their first rock concert. It was kind of a big deal.

Oh wait! Another total bonus to our TMBG experience was meeting up with Maria from Mommy Melee and Colleen from The Mess Potential is Exponential. We met at the Hard Rock and decided on lunch there. As fab as the company was, let me just leave you with these words of advice. If you want to eat somewhere before a Hard Rock concert in Orlando, the Hard Rock Cafe restaurant itself probably isn’t a great choice. We had a whole slew of issues. It’s a long story but just take my suggestion for what it’s worth. *Disappointed sigh*

Anyway, so in we went after lunch and we were over-joyed to find that our early purchases for TMBG tickets meant fourth row seats! Rock and roll, baby!

(Yes, yes, I’m such a mommy dork, but humor me alright? This was a big deal for my fam.)

Predictably, when the lights dimmed and Marty, Danny and the “Johns” all ran on stage… dude. Consider me totally star struck. And as they started in with the “Alphabet of Nations”, it all became surreal, crazy – my years as a parent actually flashed before my eyes. We’ve listened to these songs ceaselessly on repeat in my car and on the computer and on the DVD player and anywhere my kids will beg to have them on. And now live, before our very eyes, here were TMBG.

They played a ton of our favorites: “Never Go to Work”, “Meet the Elements”, “Electric Car”, “Seven”, “I am a Paleontologist”. Their sock puppets even showed up – but sporting their new “avatar” looks. Hysterical.

I tried to take a few pictures. But they suck. Want to know why? I was afraid I’d get booted for taking pictures so I took them far too quickly. I know. SO bad ass rock star of me.

So we watched and rocked and swayed and clapped and danced. My three year old stared, wowed – often asking “What songs next?” And my six year old remained in “wheels turning, soak it all in, must process this whole damn experience” mode. He said very little. He clapped only when appropriate. He never lost focus. Seeing his favorite band was serious business. And after retelling a few of his favorite moments in the car ride home, he has insisted that we try to see them again. Twist my arm.

Anyway, forgive this hella long post, it was clearly written in a fan crazed froth.

I’m just so happy I got to experience this music with my children. This music, so woven into our days and trips around town and moments home together, has become part of our lives more than I think I even realized. These are the moments, this is when you realize all the groundhog days are worth it, this is when parenting can rock you and roll you with your kids jamming along side.

Hold your lighter up to that and sway to it, yo.

(Oh yeah, disclaimer time. Apart from the free sandwich I got due to bad service at the Hard Rock Cafe, I received nothing for writing this. It was my pleasure entirely.)

I did something a little insane today. I bought my conference ticket to BlogHer 2010.

Some of you might be thinking that’s not so nuts. In fact, its a smart and expected move for most women (and even some men) bloggers today. Because if you want blogging networking? BlogHer will give you blogging networking. And then some. Thousands of people come together at these annual events, all connecting and relating and speaking at podiums and hunched over laptops and checking out the latest techie stuff or parenting gadget and making amazing ideas come to life deep within the belly of the Hilton NYC.

So frigging pumped.

But I’m kind of insane to be considering this. Why?

Well for one, blogging – as much as I truly, from the heart, absolutely adore doing it – brings me very little income to justify the expense. Sure sure, I got the early bird pricing but egads, thats a lot for us as is.

My blogging friends tell me to find a sponsor. And you all know I’m down for that. But I certainly can’t count on it either.

Also, I have two kids. Yeah yeah, I know, like no one else going to BlogHer has kids. But I have a husband with a keee-razy work schedule. And no right-next-door family to come to the rescue. I have some ideas and I know my husband will do what he can to make it work out – but I am nuts-o for registering when it usually takes small miracles to make sure my kids are covered.

But I am going to give it a red hot go. It can’t hurt to try. There is far too much blogging wonderfulness planned NOT to try. And you know what else? I kind of like conferences. I kind of LIKE talking to people and big crowds and excitement and meeting new people. Not that I don’t get nervous and all up in my own head, especially when I’m used to relating to the blogging world through words. I just really really like to talk in real life too, that’s all. And I’m thinking NYC + BlogHer2010 = me getting to put my blogging mouth in motion a whole lot.

Ok. So I’ve justified the insane cost of BlogHer because I like to TALK a lot. Awesome.

Wish me luck people.

…I’m off to go breathe into a paper bag for awhile.

Confidence is such a tricky thing. For anyone. I don’t care how many fancy degrees you do or don’t have under your belt, how hard you rock your job or how many awards you’ve earned as mother of the year. Confidence never comes automatically with any of it.

I am struggling to find a little of it myself these days. I privately brim and bubble with so much self doubt. It feels a little pathetic, and lonely, and then just feeds back into the cycle, so I feel worse and silly and not worth the trouble.

How did I get to this point? Why can’t I find my own private brand of “awesome” and feed off of that all day?

I have been out of an office place for almost seven years. And I am starting to re-fire my engines and consider going back (into something, anything) later this year. I don’t feel ready, I don’t know what I am doing, my professional skills feel entirely too atrophied, any competitive edge I thought I had seems long LONG gone.

Something happens when you stay home with your children. Something happens when you bring home your newborn and have to lower your expectations of productivity to a snails pace. Maybe you’ll get a shower in during the day or a bit of food. Maybe. You don’t prioritize your needs and then you don’t expect to owe yourself much. I think I kind of just got used to never quite being 100% so great at anything ever since. Or I assumed I wasn’t. It’s just not about me anymore.

(Ugh. Patheticness. Am already annoying myself with this post.)

Ok, its not as if I shouldn’t feel proud of some of the things I have accomplished. My children are amazing. And I am grateful for that. And to make a general statement that staying home with your kids makes you weak, well, come on. We KNOW that’s not true.

It’s just you have to dig way down deep to reclaim that piece of awesome I had reinforced on a regular basis beforehand.

Because you know that having children just adds a heap load more reasons to doubt myself. A heap load. When it comes to something so dear to your heart, when you have two children’s futures resting in your hands, when its on you to make sure they turn out ok… well, it’s hard to feel like any kind of rock star parent. There is a LOT to mess up, my friends. A lot.

Plus raising children 24/7 with no job review, or cute clothes, or pat on the back from any sort of boss, or flashy benefits assuring that you are SO worth that fancy “mom” title. Well. I usually have no idea if I am even in the ballpark of doing an ok-ish job as a mom.

So I have to dig deep.

Shovel, sling dirt, Yoo hoo, where’s my awesome? Shovel, sling dirt, it’s gotta be down here. Shovel, sling dirt, I think. Shovel, sling dirt, somewhere.

Somewhere, somehow, that old “who gives a crap what they think” will resurface, that swagger, that special something that I used to have.

Meh. Yeah. I don’t know.

And I know its not just me. I know lots of parents feel this way. Or every day folk stuck in jobs that they don’t love but are lucky to have. Or anyone stuck in any kind of rut or wishing for something more or wondering where the old “me” went and if they ever had it in the first place.

I am going to have to muster up a sizeable amount of “I’ve got nothing to lose” if I want to get back out there and work again. I have to find my value, my real worth and then – *eeps* – actually flaunt it. I have to convince someone, anyone that I am worth paying a chunk of money to and that I am so super-fabulous-awesome even though I’ve only worked part time here and there and really the only productive thing I’ve done over the past seven years is write. But how productive is that when it’s amounted to the equivalent of a few grocery trips and tanks of gas? No disrespect, glad to have that much, but how the hell do I, little ol’ me, translate as anything worthy?

Groan. WOW. I don’t like not being confident. I don’t like how I sound. I feel all kinds of icky when I’m feeling sorry for myself. And then I assume if I annoy myself this much, I must be annoying to everyone else so I back off. Don’t mind me. I’m the frumpy mommy mess, talking to myself in a corner. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I SO scream “hire me!” don’t I?

So yeah. Confidence is a tricky thing. Fleeting, here and there, evaporating, condensing, dropping back in, and gone again.

I think its rebuilt on the little achievements and the possibility of doing more the next time. I think its about taking chances and promising yourself that any risk is worth the reward. Its about reminding yourself about what you’ve done before and your ability to do that bigger and better the next time.

My parenting abilities, my writing skills, my job worthiness, my value as a friend, my position as a valuable, contributing member of society.

I’m working on it. I’m digging for it. Deep. Shovel, sling dirt, I remember leaving it down here, somewhere.