I’m about to say something that may surprise some. Or even deeply disappoint others. Considering the fact that I am a wife of a college coach and the mother of two boys that play baseball and a member of a family perpetually tuned into ESPN, this might actually come across as disloyal. You could even call me a traitor. But, here I go anyway.

I don’t really like sports.

I know. HOW DARE I.

Athletic competition is what makes the world go round for at least two out of the three men in my life. They live, sleep and breathe wins and losses. You’d think I’d find a way to make my way on board, right?

I’m trying. But let me state my case first.

This is not a “girl” thing.

Please don’t assume that  I don’t like sports because I’m female. Enjoying sports has zero to do with anyone’s gender. In fact, I can barely count on one hand the women in my life who DON’T love sports as much as the men in my family. My closest friends played in college and are wildly competitive about their home teams. They roll their eyes at my disinterest. This post is as much for them as anyone else, actually.

Competition for the sake of competition doesn’t excite me.

I get why competition is important. I do. I understand why winning and earning rewards builds self-esteem and work-ethic. I get why we have to lose sometimes to check our egos and clearly establish where we fall in the world’s pecking order. I get it. And I know we all have to fight for our places and spaces and do whatever we can to prove our worth. So, why would someone want to fight one another recreationally? At the risk of further eye-rolling, I just have to say it: Can’t we all just get along? Just sometimes? Fighting to win is STRESSFUL. The wins never last long. The losses suck out loud. I recognize that my distaste of harsh competition is a symptom of my own, bleeding-heart personality. But being aware of that doesn’t make me like it anymore.

Sports breaks the hearts of those I love.

But this… THIS is the real reason I get so frustrated with sports.

Far too many evenings this spring, I stood there besides the dug out. Dirt kicked into my heels and my work shirt binding uncomfortably. There I stood, far far out of my element, staring into my tear-streaked son’s face.

“What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I hit the ball?”

He was asking ME. He wanted me to HELP him. And I couldn’t. I had no advice to give. Hugging him would certainly not help with his peers just out of ear shot, watching us. So I told him to keep trying, to get back in there. I repeated stuff I heard other parents say, “Watch the ball. Choke up on the bat.” (What the hell does that mean?) And he would look at me, hoping that was the answer, get back out there… and miss again.

And then there were wins and amazing plays and big runs, of course. And it was very exciting. In that moment. It certainly seemed worth it to him. But I just prepared myself for the next game or the next time I saw my son pulling his baseball cap down so that no one would see his choking heartache when he missed that last out.

It’s not just about my son, either. I’ve sat in the bleachers of countless Lacrosse games, staring my husband down. For some reason, watching the players run and carry out his instructions is far more stressful than watching him. Why? Because, no matter how much he prepares them, they don’t always listen, they get it wrong and, I know, a game loss is a reflection on my husband directly. So, I ignore those kids and focus instead on him. I’ve come to learn that there are “good” losses and “bad” wins. So, what those kids are doing doesn’t really matter in my world. His responses to what they do does. Regardless of how they do, his state of mind and level of stress is my only concern. Wins are great, but bad losses carry on for days.  They shroud the house in dark disappointment. Wins never make the losses worth it, in my mind.

I suppose this post was finally inspired by the end of my son’s baseball season last week. He has played so well and learned so much. But NONE of that mattered at the bottom of the last inning of that playoff game. We were down 4-2, there was a kid on first, a kid on second, we had two outs and MY kid was up. He swung once, twice, three times… and struck out. Game over. Season over.

He was utterly destroyed.

I know this loss will stick with him possibly forever. He cried himself to sleep three nights in a row.

All of you out there who insist this is teaching him some mighty and important life lesson can suck it, honestly. Good, then, I hope so. But sports brought pain to our home YET AGAIN.

Running after a ball for hours and hours, night after night, for months, MADE MY KID CRY.

Running after a ball for hours and hours, night after night, for months can make my husband toss and turn for that entire season. Or not sleep at all.

I can watch and support and be at every single game they need me to be at — but no one can make me like it.

No 50% chance of a win is ever enough when the hearts of those I love hang in the balance.

I’m here to tell you that your kids hear you. They are listening. When you say the good stuff and… *cringe*… the bad stuff, they are tucking it ALL away and saving it in their brain so that they can refer to it again, down the road, whenever it’s needed.

What did Mommy say about that? Oh yeah.

I know. Not encouraging. But I thought you should know. And here’s how *I* know.

Last weekend, I watched the movie “The Help.” This is after I finished the book AND after I had decidedly parked myself into a permanent state of “feeling sorry for myself” thanks to screwed up plans. So, “The Help” was a FANTASTIC idea — and when the credits rolled and I had polished off my second glass of wine, I literally sobbed. My husband was very impressed by my performance (read: was pretty much wondering if he had married an alien).

But, if you saw the movie, and you’re a parent, you know what got me. It was when Aibileen, the woman hired to help raise a sweet little girl who was far too ignored by her mother, told her the following:

“You is kind. You is smart. You is important.”

She told this to her regularly, hoping to fan the flames of her self-worth. And that little girl recited it right back to her in the final scene of the movie.

SWOON. *clutching my chest* I loved that. I did.

And then didn’t give it another thought.

The other day, I happened upon a friend and favorite blogger’s post about this very topic. Read it here. While I disagree with her less-than-enthusiastic feeling about the movie and book (WHAT?! Girl, come ON!), I loved her point. It is up to us to build our children’s self-esteem. It’s too easy to harp on the “Did you wipe?” and “I’ll tell you one more time, pick up after yourself” nonsense, that once they get tucked in to bed and out of your hair, you don’t always think, “Did I make my kid feel good about himself today?”

Granted, Angie’s point is also not to go overboard. WHICH I GET. I’ve seen waaaaay too many grown people brought up thinking their finger-painted refrigerator masterpieces owed them some sort of “I’m the awesome-est person ever because my mommy said so” kind of entitlement.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. I just simply realized that you need to tell them that they are really great now and then. And not to take for granted that they already know this.

So, I decided to try it. Curled around my enormous almost 6 year old in his bottom bunk at bedtime, with the lights off, and his breath slowing, I whispered to him very carefully:

“You are kind. You are smart. You are important. You are special.”

I think I said it to him another time, too. Not sure if he heard me. I didn’t get a response either time. *shrug* Whatever, it felt good saying it out loud to him. Back to the everyday at hand.

Early this morning, while I was still deciding if I wanted to play possum when he crawled under my blankets and snuggled in deep next to me, he said:

“Mommy. I’m not sure if all my friends THINK I am kind and smart and important and special. This one girl is bossy so she doesn’t think so. But my other friend shares his toys so maybe he thinks so.”

I rolled over and probably looked kind of mind-blown. But I curled around him and we had a chat about how some friends will be good friends and some won’t and how that’s ok, blah blah blah. But he kept coming back to it.

“My teacher thinks I’m special. Pretty sure.”

I guess it seemed to me as though I had somehow given him permission to expect that he IS those things. Like he had actually listened and then filed them away. And had since been going through his day looking for those particular things to be reinforced by others. And sometimes they were and sometimes they weren’t.

When I told my 5 year old these things, I also told my 8 year old. A quieter, far less chatty kid, he has yet to give me any indication if these qualities about him have registered at all. But considering how quickly they registered with the younger one, I have to think that he was listening, too.

And maybe they always are, really. I am fairly sure they hear (however, never register that they hear) alllll kinds of other stuff I keep telling them or mentioning off-handedly or yabbering on the phone to others or mumbling under my breath.

All of it, stashed away. To consider and absorb and adopt as reality.

I’m not going to lie when I say that this knowledge scares me a little bit.

I am far too irresponsible to have little stenographers in my life, typing away and stashing every damn thing I say into their minds.

BUT THEN AGAIN they don’t remember to put their socks in the hamper! Or flush! Or sit down while they eat! NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I TELL THEM.

But, maybe that stuff isn’t really as important to them.

We do our best and hope the good sinks in more than the bad.

And, of course, whatever bad they do take note of simply gives them “character” and “prepares them for the world.”

Right?

Now I feel better. I think.

I can safely say–with the highest authority–that when 24 hours of free time is yanked away from a mother, from any parent, she feels a stupid angry, foot stomping, utterly heart-broken kind of a disappointment.

But, before I go on, let me share a disclaimer. These are, indeed, first world problems. And not even real problems in the very grand scheme of things. I’m well aware. Thanks for noticing. Anyway…

Disappointment. Yup. It builds in the back of your throat, leaving a bitter taste and a very heavy, heavy heart. The festival and 24 hours planned with my friend this weekend have been canceled due to weather. No friend, no music, no 24 hours of kid-free me, no fun.

Why so dramatic?

Oh. Well. Don’t you know?

This is about time, you see. Free time. Time to be yourself and find yourself. Time most parents just don’t ever get.

Let me be clear, however. I don’t really care or think about “getting out” much during the normal routine of my week. I’m not home stewing and pouting about some “grass is greener” bullshit. Things are good, you know? The kids are doing great in school, work is trucking along, we have busy days, and baseball evenings, and chores to get done and trips to the pool. Bills get paid, everyone is healthy, things are moving along nicely.

I’m lucky and grateful for it.  And while I grumble about losing so much time at our local baseball fields and never getting a moment alone with my husband, that is just parenting. It’s cool.

I GET IT.

But then, when you allow yourself the possibility of freedom, you kind of start to get… excited. REALLY excited. Because it’s not an easy thing to finagle. It’s coordinating my schedule, my children’s schedules, my husband’s schedule, and then the same for any friend involved. It’s making sure every mother’s child is accounted for during that time away. And, as I’ve mentioned before, my really great friends don’t live around here. So if it (gasp, what a lucky thing) involves them (!!), it means airline tickets and money and planning this whole thing out way, way in advance.

And when ALL of that actually happens and those stars somehow, just barely, align — you look around and think… I’m free.

Waahoooooooo!!!

You let yourself get psyched. The gerbil wheel of everyday responsibilities suddenly becomes more obvious but something you can now actually imagine having a break from. 5 more days. 4 more days. 3 more days. I can get all of this done so I can make it happen.

Freedom is just about here!

A. WHOLE. TWENTY. FOUR. HOURS.

If your time is your own, stuff like this, stuff like canceled concerts and friends having to change plane tickets, is a bummer. But not the kind of thing that almost makes you weep at work. That would be silly, right? No grown woman would actually weep over a missed concert.

Thanks to some horrid weather, the 24 hours is gone. And I *almost* did weep. Almost. But I didn’t.

Because the gerbil kept right on turning. Deadlines, baseball, groceries, dinner, dishes, more baseball tomorrow morning.

And how can I really complain? I mean, HOW DARE I. I am so sweetly blessed with this family of mine. Nothing can suck that bad when I have THIS, right?

Very right. Yes. It doesn’t suck, not one bit.

So, that’s why this kind of disappointment triggers that pouty, angry little girl deep, deep down. The Veruca Salt buried somewhere inside me RISES up and has herself a fine hissy fit right there in my brain.

I want *MY* way. For ONCE.

Silly. Bratty, really. But I want it. I want my time away.

So I’m pissed. I love my family and love that we will have a weekend together after all. But if you were to look at me right now, I’m afraid you would see right through my exterior and find my bouncing ringlets, and bright red, tear-streaked cheeks. My patten leather shoes stomping in a rage with clenched fits punching at my crinoline all around me.

Mommy time away is that big of a deal, people. It just is.

“I want the world. I want the whole world. I want to lock it all up in my pocket. It’s my bar of chocolate. Give it to me now.”

–Veruca Salt

I’m kind of proud of Tampa.

Damn, I hope that doesn’t sound too condescending. But I really am.

It’s not news to anyone reading here when I share that I am a huge supporter of LBGT rights and that I kind of can’t see straight when any person, law, idea or organization segregates, discriminates or excludes a person for their sexual orientation, gender, race, class, any of it. But you all know this, color me “bleeding heart”, it’s what I stand behind. So there.

Florida, meanwhile, has had an, ahem, shaky past with some LBGT and race issues. And that has made me less than proud to live here sometimes. For example, when I first moved here, same sex couple were not allowed to adopt. Mind-blowing.

However, as of 2009, this changed. (Breathe out sigh of relief.)

And, more recently, Tampa has put forward a couple initiatives to try and get things on the right track towards less discrimination, also.

Firstly, Tampa has recently created a domestic partnership registry — the first of it’s kind on this area. It would offer partnered couples more rights as family than it did before. I’m thrilled to hear this. It’s not perfect. But it’s a start.

Also, and what I am all fired up about today, Tampa is hosting it’s first Erase Hate Festival this weekend, on April 21st. I am thrilled about it. With family activities happening all afternoon and great musical performers on stage in the evening, I think this is pretty much one of the best ideas Tampa has had in awhile to foster an open, accepting community — at least in my humble opinion.

One of my dearest friends also happens to be a DIE HARD Brandi Carlile fan. Brandi is the featured performer on Saturday. So, my friend has bought a plane ticket down here and has managed to win two V.I.P. tickets for both of us.

*cue squee… now…*

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, we all kinds of fired up for this. And I kind of think that anyone in the Tampa Bay area should be, too.

Did I mention that this event is FREE?

I think you should go. I do. If you live around here, I mean.

Here are the details. Follow them on Twitter here. They are on Facebook, too.

See you there?

PLEASE NOTE: THE EVENT HAS BEEN POSTPONED. Hoping I can attend when it is rescheduled.

Remember how you got shipped off to your grandparents when you were a kid? Maybe you were kind of excited but also not so sure about how fun it could really be. Because the toys were different, the food was different and the rules were very different. And maybe home with Mom and Dad wasn’t so bad after all. But, without any say in the matter, you went and trusted that these people had to be OK because they are kind of your parents, too. Then, as the days passed, and you bumped along in their musty sedan and stopped at their favorite donut shop and stared up at those crinkly, familiar faces, you found a new kind of love and routine and comfort. They became your home, too.

The time I spent with my grandparents was such a gift and, as much as I hated the mystery jello salad and ran into my mother’s arms, grateful to go home, after the weeks had passed — they wove themselves into my heart and my history.

My grandparents were parents at a different depth and breadth. They were my parents to the next degree. They stood one step above the pedestal my parents existed on and their opinion had a certain weight because, well, they were the boss of my parents. And THAT was cool.

Since I’ve gone back to work, my father has graciously offered to come down for a week at a time when I’ve needed help with childcare. We call that time “Camp Gramp” and I hand over the keys to my car, my pool pass, my two children and all of my trust. And off they go.

I know how lucky they are for grandparent time. Grandparents don’t always live right nearby. And sometimes they leave us far, far too early.

(I can’t help but think about all I need to catch my mother up on. I suspect she knows in some way but she is still missing so much. And it breaks my heart.)

So back to Camp Gramp. This Spring Break, they took Tampa by storm. They revisited the SS American Victory, spent an entire day at The Florida Aquarium, splashed their afternoons away at the pool, leapt waves the beach, spotted animals at the zoo, got haircuts, watched Harry Potter movies over and over and, well, snuggled a whole lot.

I keep thinking (hoping) that they are relearning the world a little differently from the way I have taught them during those short periods of time. And maybe they are learning to love my dad the way I do. I want my boys to KNOW him and get him. And build their own kind of relationship that is different to theirs and mine. I want theirs to be the kind that gets Skittles at the gas station but also knows how the sound my father’s voice can get if one of them pitches a fit at the zoo.

It makes me wish all of my family were closer. The other grandparents and all the various aunts and uncles they have scattered here and there. But that’s OK. Because when they DO see them, those relationships solidify a little more with every visit and those routines develop in a matter of days because kids LOVE routines and predictability and the constant of those people that are the boss of their parents and so so familiar.

I’ll take what I can get and cherish every second they get together and hope the memories are making themselves without me even really realizing it.

Thanks for Camp Gramp, Dad. I know how much work that was. But I love you and, even if they probably won’t ever love your New York Yankees, they sure do love you, too.

Hold on. A nomination for best Local Blogger in Tampa?

Say what?

I’ve been typing away on this here blog for over four years now. By now, I consider this space on the internets my dear, sweet friend. From the start, it was a place to use my brain while I raised my babies, kick around a couple ideas and, most importantly, connect with others kind of like me. I’ve found friendship, adventure, cool products to try out, a love for social media and even, in a round about way, a job and new career.

But no matter what fun it has brought me and no matter how hard I’ve worked on this little blog of mine, it has always existed because it was fun and enjoyable and therapeutic for me. And if it wasn’t fun or seemed like too much work, I took a break. I write when the feeling moves me and don’t let anyone call the shots here but me.

So, when I get any kind of public recognition for the work I do here or the way that I connect with my community, I stop, look all around and then ask… “Who, me?”

It’s kind of like when I was 12 and lip-syncing to “Like A Virgin” in front of my dusty and stickered bedroom mirror. I thought I was pretty bad-ass, and if they were going to pick the coolest Madonna wanna-be then, well, that would be moi. But if someone were to storm into my room with a big smile and slap an award on my shirt and tell me I’m awesome for my unmatched Madonna lip-syncing skillz… I’d say exactly the same thing.

“Who me?”

The local CBS news affiliate WTSP and DealChicken.com have nominated me as one of the best local bloggers in Tampa.

I am very honored. Really. I truly appreciate the recognition.

I like what I do here. But it’s all kind of blush-worthy when someone else OTHER than my wonderful (however, far from objective) family members like what I do here, too.

Anyway.

If you want to vote, click on the button below. Your recognition means more than you know.

BEST Local Blogger

If you feel the need, leave a comment so that I can thank-you properly, too.

Because it’s not everyday that something I do — simply for the sake of JOY — actually gets recognition. But when that day happens along, it is always a very good day.

Most of the time I think I have this parenting thing figured out well enough that we can get by. And by get by, I mean that my kids are wearing clothes, can speak in sentences and know how to give pretty decent hugs. (What else do you need, right?)

But when I do screw-up at parenting, I do a fairly decent job at it.

I know. It’s not like I’m the only one who screws-up with their kids. It’s just a whole lot easier when you are comforting someone ELSE about their screw-up rather than reconciling your own.

Also. I’m probably over-reacting a little bit about just how bad I screwed up. But it was bad enough that I needed some time to pass because I was… embarrassed. And now I am posting about it as some sort of strange blogger’s version of repentance. Maybe if I share it with EVERYONE, I will pay my dues and be forgiven.

This past Monday morning, I had only one of my sons in my car, the older one. My five year old was off to the doctor with my husband for a re-check on a recent ear infection. So my eight year old was in the back, lunch in his backpack, ready to go, staring out the window. We were earlier than usual, I had a busy day ahead. Funny that the crossing guards weren’t there yet because I wasn’t THAT early. Oh well. And look, no one is really here yet. Odd. Well, I wanted to get him dropped off earlier than usual so I could get a quick jump start on the work week ahead. I felt badly that none of his friends were there yet so I thought I would be nice and told him he could go get a second breakfast in the cafeteria if he wanted. I’m a nice mom like that.

And then he jumped out of the car. I waved, and drove off.

Something felt weird. Well. I had to call the office and tell them my other one would be late.

“Hi, could you transfer me to the sick line?”

Pause.

“Um. You know there is no school today, right?”

……!

Cue mad, heart-in-my-throat U-turn, holy shit.

“But I just dropped my oldest son off!”

“Where is he?”

“Sitting out front!”

“I’ll go let him know you’re on your way back.”

“…How could I have forgotten??”

“Um. I don’t know, actually.”

And as I pulled up, there was a woman from the school office talking to my son whose eyes were filled with tears. Confusion, embarrassment, fear, all of the above.

I rolled the window down.

“Thank you!!! I can’t believe I did this!!!”

Small smile and a wave. And, as she walked away, a huge bubble over her head that read something like this: “Some mom, dropping her kid off like that on a teacher planning day, unbelievable.”

When he got in the car, I asked him if he knew it was a planning day. And he said yes.

He said yes.

But he assumed that I, his parent, the responsible adult KNEW what she was doing when she dropped her child off. He trusts me, you see. When I say a shot won’t hurt, he believes me. When I drop him off on a teacher planning day, well, there must be a good reason.

He said he thought he would just read his Harry Potter book.

Mind-blown. Utterly mind-blown.

I know parents do this stuff. In fact, I am quite sure it is some sort of parenting requirement to either forget to pick your child up, drop them off at the wrong time, leave them in the wrong place or never even get their kid to the place they were supposed to be at all. I know my mom did and every mom I have shared this story with has had some story to comfort me with.

But what bothers me is where my 8 year old son is right now. I remember 8. I remember how scary the world could be, and how confusing. I remember being scared of venturing into it without my parents because they needed to be by my side to interpret how all of it works.

Sometimes I really hated being a kid.

And to be left, and knowing my parents screwed up, and not knowing exactly what to do or how to fix it… well, that is a very lonely, very scary thing. The stuff of nightmares, honestly.

He’s fine of course. But I haven’t come close to quite forgiving myself. I ignored my spidey senses. Scratch that. It shouldn’t have taken spidey senses to figure out there was no school WHEN NO ONE WAS THERE. I ignored that enormous detail. And thought, “Well, people will get here eventually…I gotta get to work.”

Not OK.

So here I am. Admitting my super screw-up to who ever is reading this. Because I want to make it very clear that I am no where NEAR close to having a real clue about this whole parenting thing. NO WHERE CLOSE. I don’t care what soapbox I tend to climb up on now and again when a rare streak of confidence sneaks in. *I* was willing to leave my child in front of an empty school… without looking back.

I do good, but I do bad. And then I do some good again. I just have to hope that this lesson will prevent so many more screw-ups in my future. And then prepare me when I mess up again. And I can tell myself that if I forgave myself this time, I can do it again the next time.

A little postscript to this story.

That very same day, I came home for lunch only to find that my children’s beloved pet hamster, Scabbers (yes, named after the rat from Harry Potter) had died out of the blue.

And that, my friends, is exactly how parenting goes.

When they handed me my child, they said give him contact. Skin to skin. Love him close. It’s good for him. Oxytocin and stimulation and security and comfort. He will thrive. Studies have proven it.

So I did. I folded him in and held him as close as I could. I couldn’t bear to do anything otherwise anyway.

From the very early days of nursing, sleeping, nursing, sleeping — for both of us — he locked into my center and we remained deeply connected. Of course, months passed and our tether unwound itself slightly further everyday. He crawled and then balanced and discovered there was something more than Mommy’s arms. But the more he tottered away, the faster he found his way back. Slipping into my lap, reaching for my cheek.

As he grew,  a quick kiss to a scuffed knee cured him. A hug told him he was fine. A snuggle started his day. And mine.

When I pushed his bike away, he always looped back. For a high five, a hug, contact.

Always, always contact.

The other night, we sat and watched his brother play T-ball. He sat next to me, close, and helped me play “Words with Friends.” Connected, side by side, locked-in as usual.

But then I put my arm around him and kissed his cheek.

Suddenly, he broke contact.

And he looked at me as if I had hurt his feelings.

“Mom. Don’t.”

And he inched away. Somehow, over night, the rules had changed and I had broken his trust. How could I ruin it like that?

It dawned on me that constant contact was not at all that he needed. I had better not stray too far, but… affection? No. This kind of love would not help him thrive or feel more secure. Not, at least… IN PUBLIC

…What planet had I landed on?

It was completely bizarre to realize that reaching out to him the way that I always had would now repel him. That I was reacting to him in a way he was not OK with.

Knock it off. Be cool. Just SIT next to me.

But then I remembered that he was my bird on a wire. And he was going to be 9 (!!WTH!!) in 2 months. So I stopped. I calmly collected my love and put it all back where it belonged. And let him fill back into his space at his own pace. Things were changing and that had to be OK.

Tonight, we were back at baseball. This time we were playing “Scramble” and he had gotten his highest score. My gut, my everything, wanted to wrap right back around him and give him an enormous smooch right on that perfect cheek. Oh yes I did, here comes mama, I’m-a-comin’ to love on you!….

But I stopped. His eyes shot to mine. Was I going to do it? After fair warning the other night, was I going to break his trust and establish our normal connect… IN PUBLIC?

I went back to the game, shrugging it off and reminding him that it was MY turn. I focused on the silly word game in my hands. Hugs? Who needs ‘em.

But, groan, I had to ignore every instinct in my body to love on him — I don’t care HOW much it embarrassed him — I just wanted to  smoooosh him. But no, I wouldn’t. (TORTURE!) And, for mama’s far and wide, oh Lord, reaching for their babies is an urge like nothing else. But I stopped it, I held it, I didn’t break these new, firmly established guidelines of how to parent… IN PUBLIC.

And he watched me collect myself. And go back to the game.

Do you know what he did next? My bird on a wire inched slightly closer. He did. I didn’t react. He inched closer again until, very subtly, we WERE connected. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee, there on the bleachers, under the baseball lights, surrounded by Grandmas and DSing older brothers and ring-pop smacking older sisters.

And then, when we got in the car, and we drove along in the night utterly exhausted by our days, I heard it.

“I need snuggles.”

The rules, it seems, do not apply once the prying eyes of Grandmas and ring-pop smacking girls have been left behind. So, as soon as I dropped our day’s worth of this and that onto the floor of our foyer, I pulled him near me. He wrapped himself around my neck and allowed the connection to spin back to life.

And he said, “Thanks, mom.”

These are the kinds of things people in my neighborhood get notices for:

And don’t think this isn’t for real, either. Here’s where we found a mother and five babies destroying my backyard a few years back.

My yard still hasn’t recovered.

Florida. It’s wilder than you realize.

I’ve come to the conclusion that being a grown-up can make you a terrible friend. Not only does it make you a terrible friend, it renders you fairly useless at finding new friendships and gives you no hope of fanning the flames of any potential ones.

Let me explain.

I used to be a pretty good friend, or so I thought. I wasn’t the kind of girl who had dozens and dozens of flighty, here and there friendships. I’ve been a cereal monogamist from  he start. I always focused on a few but loved those few with all I had.

So nice of me.

Fast forward to now. I don’t call my friends. That just takes too long. I hardly check my voicemail. That takes too long, too. I follow them on Facebook certainly, but it takes something really cool or really, REALLY cute to inspire me to make any effort to comment. I don’t see my friends. Because that would require calling them. And making a plan. And organizing childcare.

And it’s not that I don’t think I am capable of being a good friend. I’m just not being a good friend currently. At least, not very well.

But I love my friends, right? I do. I really do. They are worth every effort, of course. So why don’t I make that effort?

*Insert whiny, super dramatic groan here.*

Because I’m too busy. And too tiiiiirrrred.

Waaah.

Being a grown-up — and my definition of grown-up means a bill-paying parent with a mortgage and too much laundry to do — requires that you put friendships at the bottom of your priority list.

I remember learning about an animal behavior theory in college. This is a complete bastardization of how it works (its been a couple decades) but it goes something like this: An animal’s behavior very often depends on it’s environment and immediate needs. So, if it’s life is in danger, food and sleep are back-burnered and an animal does anything in its power to get safe. If it feels safe, ok, then it’s about food, water and shelter. If that’s taken care of then, then sleep is on the agenda. Once they have got that need under control, it’s about procreation — find a mate, make a baby and then take care of the baby. Then, if all of these more important needs are met and accounted for, an animal will… wait for it… play.

That’s me. I’m too busy knocking the rest of my survival list down to think about something as self-indulgent as PLAY.

Ok, yes, I am being dramatic.

(Can I get a resounding “FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS!” from my personal Greek chorus? Thanks…)

I hardly, HARDLY (no really, I mean it) have the worst, most exhausting, impossible life. Hardly. But I can’t help it. When the day is done and everything is crossed off the list. What do I do? Do I call a bestie? Or call someone I’ve been meaning to have drinks with for two years? (I actually know a few people like that.) Nope. I go to bed.

So I blame being a grown-up. But really, I should blame myself. Women all over the world manage friendships with far more on their plate.

Remember when I talking about how I wanted to “mom date” again? Yeah. Well. I still do. I still want to meet a couple choice moms, just like me, who I could call and go grab a beer with when I need to. And the crazy thing is that they are here, around, if I only sucked it up and TRIED more.

Wait. “Say Yes To The Dress” is on. I’m already in my pajamas. Man, wouldn’t it be nice to be rested and ready to go tomorrow morning? Yes, yes it would.

So the friendships flounder and I suck out-loud at being the kind of friend I always prided myself on being.

Instead, I just go with the standard, “My real friends understand. THEY get it.”

Sure. SURE they do.

Promise I’ll try harder.

(Cue Greek chorus: WE DON’T BUY IT!)

I said “TRY.”