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Mothers of the Year, because we all deserve an award.

Cracked nipples.  Sleep deprivation.  Public tantrums.  Our only reward is our children?  Kidding.  Mostly.

MOTY Tip: Always Be Closing

2/1/2019

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By Annie

Problem: Husband has a super early meeting and is long gone, Kid 1 is in the nasty throes of hormonal tweenhood, Kid 2 is down for the count with a double ear infection and a violent stomach bug, and Kid 3 is tired.
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No, seriously tired.
Tired leads very quickly to tantrum, which escalates at lightning speed into I HATE SCHOOL AND I’M NEVER GOING AGAIN. And throwing things.

Oh, and you? You have a new business pitch for a major account, an hour away, and it’s snowing steadily overtop of this week’s Polar Vortex ice sheet. You must get these kids dressed and out of the door. 

Solution: Cupcake breakfast! Instant cooperation! 

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Pro Tip: Don't forget to wipe the electric blue icing from your kid's face
Plus, you’ve bought yourself 10 minutes to transform into a savvy marketing boss. Just hold off on treating yourself to a cupcake… blue tongues go over better in preschool than they do in pitch meetings. 
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Cupcakes are for closers.
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The 100th Day of School Is Approaching! Gather Crap and Make Weird Costumes!

1/24/2019

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By Annie 

OK, OK, I get it. The 100th Day of School celebration is a marvelous idea from a pedagogical standpoint. It’s a timely opportunity for cross-curriculum learning centered on a common theme that allows for reflection, creativity and all the math. I was totally on board last year when Henry was in kindergarten, if a little confused by this relatively newfangled milestone. Admittedly, Henry was only partially on board:
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That is 100 feathers hot-glued to a T-shirt. Yep, probably exactly 100…
But let me tell you, mamas, my enthusiasm was partly due to the fact that I assumed this 100 Day extravaganza was just a kindergarten thing. Imagine my shock and horror when the 100 Day papers started coming home in the almighty folder last week. And the first grade teachers? They are upping the game. Now we have to make a project (entirely at home in our free time) that uses 100 of any object AND the kids are supposed to dress up like they are 100 years old, which surely makes for some totes adorabs social media posts but is truly about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What does a 100 year old look like? Wear? And how does that translate into actual clothing and accessories my 7-year-old boy can don for a day? Especially when I shoot down his request for a pipe? And is there something at best reductive and at worst ageist and offensive about this whole concept? Welp. Now in addition to the 3,117 things I need to accomplish in any given week as a parent of three school-age children and who also has a full-time job an hour away in the middle of a winter, I get to figure this out.

Fortunately, Henry is two steps ahead of me.

“Aren’t most people dead by the time they’re 100?” he asks, after the pipe idea is nixed.

“Yes,” I say, and his eyes light up with that mischievous glint that melts my cold heart every time.

“Can I go as a zombie then?”

We already have a zombie costume from Halloween. My heart flutters. I will try to say no… but, mamas? I can’t be 100 percent certain that I will.  
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So... tempting...
Pro Tip: When tasked with making a project that involves gluing 100 of any object onto a poster, purchase something that comes in a pack of 100! Get self-adhesive for a double win. We went with googly eyes. 
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That Feeling When You Need to Send an Apple to School But Ponder Having a Psychotic Break Instead

9/27/2018

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By Annie
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​In hindsight, it was a simple request. 

Each child needs to bring a peeled, cubed apple to make applesauce in class. 

Certainly not one that should have resulted in me, quite literally, with my face buried in the kitchen counter, cheerful note clutched in my cold, shaking hands. I was caught in that thorny pause, you know, the one when you’re deciding if you’re going to collapse into tears of defeat or kick it into full-on rage-bitch mode. 

Peeled and cubed! I uttered under why breath, when my husband gingerly approached me, no doubt wondering if this was the moment everyone who knows me has been suspecting all along, the moment I actually have a psychotic break. Because all the school papers. 

PEELED AND CUBED! I holler, rage-bitch emerging. My husband listened sympathetically while I ranted, but… I knew. I knew the apple request was not obscene. This wasn’t a mental split. It was just a Wednesday. 

It was a simple request, really, well within reason of the first grade teachers. Only… it was two days before said apple – peeled and cubed – was due, and I didn’t have any apples. Not even a shriveled yellow one that had been kicking around the fridge for a couple weeks. We were completely apple-less. Procuring an apple – peeled and cubed – would require a trip to the grocery store, the nearest of which is 15 minutes away, and it was already a full 20 minutes past bedtime, and the following day was, as it always is with two full-time working parents with hour commutes and three school-aged kids, jam-packed.  

(And yes, that’s right, I said didn’t have an apple. Go ahead and judge me, assholes. I tried telling my tween just yesterday that apples are like “nature’s candy” and, let’s just say, it wasn’t well received. Unless, maybe you like profanity from 11-year-olds.) 

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Open Reply to Suzanne Hayes in Regard to Why I Will Definitely Not Stop Calling my Child “Kid,” Thanks

4/11/2018

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By Annie
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Dear Ms. Hayes,

Your latest post for POPSUGAR caught my eye. Not because it hit on some hot button parenting issue that's close to my heart, but because the topic just seemed so absurd. Surely, I thought, there must be more to this than meets the eye. So, I clicked. I read. And I marveled that  A. someone published this and B. you really do seem this bent out of shape over the fact that moms are referring to their kids as… kids. 

Der… huh?

Yep. Apparently this quick informal noun isolates my child, positions him as nuisance or a brat (um, have you met my kids?), and detracts from the hundreds of hours I invested in selecting just the right name (which, incidentally, I never expected to be compensated for by a set number of times the chosen name was spoken).

My kid is a special flower, damn it, and his intricately researched name shall be used! 

OK, OK, let’s just take a giant step back and reenter the MOTY world for a hot second. We use “kid” a lot in our space (e.g. “My kid is being an asshole today” or “My kid peed on his sister’s face this morning.”) And it’s not just, as you flippantly suggest, because those three li’l letters are easy to type. “Kid” is actually a nuanced usage common to the discourse community of relaxed, non-helicopter, free-range-leaning parents. It’s part of our lexicon, and it bears a certain welcome edginess that, when tossed around by a leggings-wearing, disposable-coffee-toting mama, cues me into the fact that, hey, this lady is perhaps just a little bit brash and whole lot awesome. 

“Kid” says, sure, maybe this mama tries her darnedest to feed her kids organic kale smoothies peed out by Gaia herself every day while they all craft alliterative haikus around the breakfast table… but she’s not above Dunkin' Donuts and cartoons. 

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Open Letter to the Fifth Grade Reading Fair Powers That Be

2/19/2018

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By Annie

Let me start by saying that I love the Reading Fair. In fact, I adore it and everything it stands for. This former English major turned MFA student turned failing memoirist/adjunct composition instructor and now copy director at a small ad agency is just thrilled by the way it inspires kids to read. To read! To eschew YouTube tutorials and Musical.ly drivel and crawl inside the dogeared pages of actual chapter books? Yeah... pure wizardry. And the Reading Fair doesn’t just inspire kids to read but also to think critically about story structures and to create utterly unique visualizations of their budding analyses out of the very materials that elementary school magic is made of – trifold poster boards, construction paper and rubber cement. 

​You see, Fifth Grade Reading Fair Powers That Be, it is my deep affection for the Reading Fair and all its didactic glory that made me feel so betrayed when the assignment guidelines for your fine event came home in my daughter’s backpack, and I read your closing line on the instruction sheet:
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Remember to google Reading Fair Projects for more ideas on how to present your book.

(Insert the deflated balloon whistle of my sinking heart.)


My first reaction was outrage: Why are we telling 10-year-olds to look online for creative inspiration when their very own brains hold the kind of artistic wonder and freedom we as adults can only dream of rediscovering? Why, when our eager, curious, hardworking children reach a point in their captivating ideation process are we dismissing them with a simple, “Google that shit?” 

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In Case You Need One More Thing to Feel Bad About, Your Teacher Gift Probably Sucks This Holiday

12/15/2017

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By Annie
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The last week of school for 2017 is approaching and, in addition to panicking about what to do with all this extra kid energy for the next two weeks, many MOTYs are also scrambling to pick up last-minute Christmas gifts for our kids’ teachers. What a lovely gesture, right? Giving a small token of appreciation to the adults who nurture and educate our children during the many hours they are in school. Right?? 

Wrong. 

Apparently, as a quick Google search will show you, there are all sorts of dos and don’ts when it comes to teacher gifts. All those ideas you thought were super cute (… or at least feebly passable)? Well, they are total shit. Here’s why:

Mugs – Teachers love coffee. Point taken. They don't love 37 mugs per year, nor do they have the shelf space in their homes or teacher lounges to store them.
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Ornaments – Can you possibly, with your non-teacher brain, fathom just how many ornaments an elementary school teacher accumulates over the span of his or her career? Take 25 students (minimum) and multiply that by 35 years (minimum) and then you can begin to calculate a rough estimate of the gross proportions of offensively superfluous ornaments any one teacher may receive in his or her lifetime. 
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Christmas decor – How about a nice little holiday decor for the home? Sound good? Um, who the actual fuck do you think you are, assuming you understand this relative stranger’s personal aesthetic within the sacred cove of his or her own home? Nice try, asshole.

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5 Things Graduate School Taught Me About Motherhood

12/12/2017

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By Annie
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This mug sits on my bathroom sink. It serves as my family’s toothbrush holder. This is partly because I can’t handle the kind with the holes for the toothbrush handles because they are impossible to clean and always end up with a vile, syrupy funk in the bottom. And it’s partly because this particular shade of green matches my bathroom. But, this cheap, chipped-edge coffee mug is also a relic from my time as a graduate teaching assistant and MFA student. I bought it spontaneously at Giant Eagle on the way to campus, on the glorious day my GA buddy brought his coffee pot in to our makeshift office and we penniless, haggard grad students began living like kings. It makes me smile, looking at this mug and remembering. It’s funny how an intensive academic program I completed six years ago and which has little to do with my current career infiltrates my daily life still… 

First, a disclaimer: Let me state that I am not implying that you need an advanced degree to be an awesome mama. There are women of all levels of education – including those who never finished high school – who are far more competent mothers than I. (There are likely hamsters who are better mothers than I, and they eat their babies.) In fact, there’s pretty much no direct education or training that can prepare you for the patience-depleting assholery and genuine emotional turmoil that lie ahead as that sweet li’l fetus swims in your uterus. But graduate school was a part of my journey. And here are the things that it taught me (besides how to give a subpar explanation of the Toulmin Method to a sea of disinterested college freshman… which, incidentally circles back around to relevant as the tween years are upon me):

1. You’re not going to be the best anymore. Most people in graduate school were  the best in their undergrad classes. The smartest. The most thorough. The most creative. It’s incredibly jarring when you realize that everyone sitting in your masters classes with you was also always the smartest, the most thorough and the most creative. That pesky small fish/big pond deal. It’s lonely and weird to look around and see everyone learning faster than you and no one caring if you keep up or not (see #5). As a mom, your early trips out into motherhood arenas can be a lot like that. Parks, mommy & me groups, even family gatherings. Everyone else seems to just get it, to simply know how. Accept it. Then ask them for help. 

2. You don’t get to have a life for a few years. My first week of grad school, my advisor gave me an article that was written by the graduate assistants from the previous year. It said, in thick bold letters, “School. Sleep. Social life. Pick two.” Being a parent is kind of like that. Except, a truer version would be something like, “Parenting. Sleep. Social life. Romance. Self care. Intellectual curiosity. Etcetera ad nauseum. Pick one. But only pick parenting. Or else you are a really shitty human  who doesn’t deserve to have kids.” Oh, and no one is going to think you’re clever or accomplished for going through with it. The only accolades you’ll get is that occasionally your kid will spit up on a bib instead of on your clothes or inside your mouth.

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Open Letter to my Microwavable Oats

11/1/2017

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By Annie
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Dear Microwavable Oats,

Here’s the deal: you say you’re microwavable but you’re not. Stop lying. Stop pretending to be something you're not. Stop luring hella busy working moms into buying you and then exploding in epic proportions all over the inside of our microwaves moments before we need to leave for our morning commutes while hungry, bratty kids stand by and demand their breakfasts.

This has to stop.

I’ve tried quick oats. I’ve tried old fashioned. I’ve tried rolled, and I’ve tried steel cut. I’ve read your instructions, triple-checked cook times. I’ve measured with the precision of a scientist. When you’ve jauntily suggested I cook the oats for two minutes, stir and then cook another minute… I’ve diligently stopped the microwave every 30 seconds to stir in hopes of avoiding Oat-ageddon. 

But alas. 

We always end up here, you hardening, thick and cocky, across my microwave and crusted to my bowl. Me, defeated, with heart palpitations and already five minutes late for work. 

I don’t know who you think you are and what kind of sick enjoyment you’re getting out of this desperate dance, but please. For the sake of my children, for the sake of my aging microwave and for the sake of my kind-hearted husband who is the recipient of my most brutal outbursts, please stop. 

I don’t want any delightful oatmeal hacks from well-intentioned friends. I don’t even want to hear the words “overnight oats” because they disgust me in ways I can’t fully explain in this post (think: bloated cereal left too long in milk…). I don’t want any practical assistance or emotional support, and I damn well don’t want that one triumphant bitch who can make you chiming in to say how easy this all is.

Here’s what I want: the truth. You aren’t microwavable. Come clean – for working mamas everywhere. You owe it us. And Oatmeal? You owe it to yourself.
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Why I Run

6/28/2017

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By Annie
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​I started running again after my third child was born. It was those damn last 15 pounds that did it. After my first two kids, the weight just fell off. I didn’t exercise. I didn't diet. Yep, I was that annoying chick who just nursed my babies and lived my blissful size 0 life. But after stretching and collapsing a third time, my torso and thighs, defiant and defeated, simply gave up. I spent a few months cursing my way through bitter elliptical workouts in the basement before I finally decided I hated my body enough to run.
 
More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away. 
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#badassmotherrunners

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Working Mama's Kitchen, 7:27 a.m.

1/31/2017

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By Annie

Someday, my kitchen will not be filled with five bodies at 7:27 a.m., approximately seven minutes post intended departure time as I try to weave my way through chaos and humans, frantically packing my lunch and searching for the lid to my travel mug. Someday, there will be no tiny bodies sprawled out on the floor in front of the heating vents. Someday, there will be no ranting almost-tween sugaring her morning tea, no dog anticipating scraps of bread and lunch meat. Someday there will be no couch cushion cover air-drying on the chair after a toddler pissed on it in her sleep, no crusty booster seat on the table, no clutter, no screeching, no obstacle course to get from one side of the room to the other. I will be disproportionately wistful and will pause to look at the empty spaces...

But this morning, can everyone just get out of my face already? I'm late. I want my coffee. And I want to sit in the silence of my messy car as it carries me an hour away from home.
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