Crazy mom or crazy world?

I have something in me that calls all the shots.  It tells me how to feel, how to act, how to be.

Anxiety.  Worry.  They work together so well in my mind, and they win.  Every time.

The most crippling feeling is the unimaginable worry I have in every single thing that involves my children.  Anxiety not only wins, it rules.

I know every mom has some extent of worry when it comes to her kids, but I feel completely and utterly consumed by it.  It affects everything I do.

My mind won’t rest when my kids are out of my care.  They could be with someone I trust more than myself, it doesn’t matter.  This affects needed alone time with my husband.

I find myself saying “be careful” or “you’ll get hurt” like a broken record.  This affects the memories I make with them each day.

They are not allowed out of the grocery cart at the store.  This close proximity causes them to fight more and affects my mood, but it’s just the way it’s going to be.

I feel just a little bit better when I feel them sleeping against me in our bed instead of in theirs down the hall.  This affects my sleep.

I have reservations letting my kids play alone in even our backyard without keeping a watchful eye on them.  This affects what I can get done in a day.

The list goes on and on.  Yes, I know my worry today does not control the results of tomorrow, but I keep on worrying.  Yes, I have faith in the good Lord above, but I keep on worrying.  Yes, I don’t want my kids to live in a bubble, because that only hinders them.

But, I keep on worrying.

I often wonder if I’m a crazy mom because of the constant precautions, sometimes unnecessary ones, I take.  Then, I remind myself of a sad realization and cut myself some slack.

Our world today is a scary place.

Evil people with a pocket full of bad intentions lurk around every corner, and social media and transportation have given them a boosted platform.  They attempt to take kids from parks, from grocery stores, from their own freaking beds, from right up under a parent’s nose.   

It’s my worst nightmare, and I have extreme anxiety because of it and the realization that it could happen at any given moment.  At times, I feel so defeated having a mind obsessed with the bad that could happen instead of the good that does happen.  However, it’s sad to admit that I am somewhat thankful for this restless mind. 

Our world today makes me consider my anxiety as a blessing in a roundabout way.

While it is tiresome, it keeps my guard up constantly.  If my heightened, out of control level of anxiety keeps my child, or someone else’s, safe from danger just one time, then I will gladly deal with my worrisome nature for a lifetime.

In my short 35 years, I have come too close too many times to this danger.  At five years old, if my mom wouldn’t have screamed and yelled after seeing that car pull up behind my bicycle down the street that carried the man who tried to grab me, I would have been taken.  Gone.

If I would have smelled the “perfume” that strange man offered me at a gas station in college, I would have passed out according to the warning I saw on the news months later of men using this method to kidnap women.  Passed out and taken.  Gone.

Another strange man asked me to fill up his tank and offered me a bigger gas can than the one I was using recently. I could have it if I would get it from his car.  This man, whose appearance and car could have fit the description of a man responsible for two attempted kidnappings in nearby neighborhoods, could have been trying to get me away from my car so his friend could get to my kids.  You just never know.  Side note:  ALWAYS lock your vehicle when filling up your tank.  I’m so glad this time was no exception to that for me. 

There is good left in this world, but I’m starting to worry that the bad is beginning to outweigh it.

While I believe that prayer, medicine, and other calming agents might lessen my anxiety, it will never be cured.  Not unless people change, which will set in motion for our world to change.

My rest stopped when I became a parent and my heart filled with a fierce love and sense of protection.  I don’t believe it will ever stop regardless of their age, either.  I’d rather have them than my rest, though.  There is no question.

So, am I a crazy mom, or are we living in a crazy world?

Personally, I don’t think I’m crazy.  I’m just a Momma Bear ferociously protecting my cubs in this sad, sickened world.

If you are in the boat of managing your anxiety, please comment below and let me know any thought, insight, or method that has helped you.  I’d love to hear them.  

Holla,

Ramsi


Don’t burn your stomach flub on the iron.

Before you read, this post is NOT meant to belittle anyone of any shape or size. Every human being is beautiful! This blog entry just strives to boost the confidence of women who may struggle with their post pregnancy bodies. I know I do. Now, get to readin’, and don’t forget your humor.

FLUB.

Flub, flub, flubby, flub. It sounds like a cute, playful word, right?

NO. It’s not. Actually, the word can kiss it.

I’m a mom of two. I have stomach flub. I may weigh less now than I did in college because I have to share every dadgum bite I try to eat, but I have stomach flub. I’m afraid it’s here to stay, too. Dadgummit. I know what you’re thinking.

Just go work out if it bothers you that much.

That’s what I used to tell my mom, who had four kids and a full-time job, when she complained about her flub. Just pop in the gym after school or walk outside in the neighborhood. How hard could it be?

Mom, I’m totally eating those words.

Like, gagging and choking on them. I understand now.

Have you ever tried to run around the block with a 26 pound baby strapped to you or take an ankle-biting toddler who has to examine every speck of dirt and bug along the way?

Also, do you have the TIME to run around the block with a 26 pound baby strapped to you or take an ankle-biting…..you know?

Now you must be thinking, how about a gym membership?

Well, then I have to pay for a babysitter and the membership. See? It’s a vicious, time-sucking circle to just go work out when you have littles at home.

Next, I’m going to complain about the “mom-kinis” I wear now instead of that banging, beautiful two-piece suit locked away in my drawer. It just mocks me. It reminds me of the in shape body I don’t have anymore.

Ironing is now a painful chore, as if it wasn’t bad enough because, well, just use your imagination. I might as well just iron those tiny baby clothes directly on my flub because my belly just pushes the board out of reach anyway. I’ll have a burn mark either way, so.

I can’t do hot pants and crop tops. Well, I never did do hot pants and crop tops, actually. Once upon time, I could pull it off, though. Now? That’s just laughable.

I have to do a freaking Kung Fu maneuver to squeeze the stomach flub out of my son’s room at night so the door doesn’t reach the point where it squeaks and wakes him. Side note: add WD-40 to the Walmart list. You may have flub but, girl, you can pick up that can and your groceries at the curb now. Leave those kids locked in their seats and let the associate load the car. There’s always a silver-lining.

I’m certainly going to complain about wishing my old body back, but

I’ll accept the stomach flub. Here’s why.

I’ve got little arms that wrap around it when they want to cuddle. It just feels like a hug that’s extra big and extra tight, and that’s just extra special. I may not like the extra baggage, but I want that extra love. Extra – I guess that’s the word of the day.

I’ll embrace the dadgum stomach flub. It represents my pregnancies and the birth of my children.

It doesn’t change you on the inside either. Well, it does.

You love bigger and harder and more fiercely.

Also, it doesn’t change how people view you. If it does, sucker punch them in the schnoz. They need some manners, and they need Jesus. The people that really matter in your life could care less about what you look like.

And, husbands/significant others, you probably do anyway, but always tell your lady

she’s beautiful

and mean it – even if she does have a few extra pounds that won’t go away. Besides, you actually had something to do with this!

She needs to hear it often in this season of wiping little tushes and wearing spit up, not makeup. You have more to love, after all. Wink, wink. Bow-chicca-wow-wow!

Ok, back to being PG.

So, you can work out (and clean your house – see my other post, The mess will be there later. Your kids won’t.) when you’re older and the littles are grown. You may not know your name or what year it is or some other old fart issue, but you’ll have your time.

Take your cane with you on the treadmill. Ain’t no shame in that. Hell, strut with it, and go on wit’ yo bad self. Just don’t take your wheelchair. That totally defeats the purpose.

Old farts, please don’t be offended, and I hope you have a sense of humor. I have stomach flub, and I’ll be an old fart one day soon, too.

Stomach flub, I guess you’re OK. You shielded and protected my growing baby in the womb. Now, you shield and protect me from growing boys who like to DDT their mother in the living room. I’ll have the time to take care of you later. Until then, meet my friend, Spanx.

Holla,

Ramsi

P.S. – Old farts, schnoz means nose. Stay hip, don’t break a hip. Nothin’ but love…

The mess will be there later. Your kids won’t.

Growing up, my house was always a mess. I’m talking can’t see the kitchen counter color because of the mail, newspapers, and other random stuff cluttering it kind of messy. There were always dishes in the sink and mounds of clothes waiting to be folded in the loft. Half the time, we couldn’t find the remote to the TV because it was under something.  You had to be careful in our toy room to not step on something and hurt your foot.

You know Was what, though? We had parents that furnished a toy room full of toys. We had parents that bought us our favorite Disney movies on tape and watched them over and over with us. We had parents that cared enough to make sure we had clean clothes. We had parents that made us eat dinner as a family at the table instead of in front of the TV.  We had parents that would dirty the kitchen making cookies and cakes with us. We had parents that would get down on the floor and roll around with us and walk with us to get ice cream and Taco Bell (Taco Bell is still my favorite fast food, by the way. Bean and cheese, baby. Don’t hate.)

Most of all, we had parents that were always present. Our well being and happiness always took precedence over any stupid housework or other adult worries, and I’m the woman I am today because of it. We were more important than it all, and I’ll always be thankful for the rockstar parents they were and are still today.

By no means am I saying that parents with clean houses aren’t good parents, I just understand why my house was always a wreck. Now that I’m a mom, I understand it more than ever. I have two beautiful boys, and I stay home with them. Before them and when I lived on my own, my house was immaculate, and I loved the organization. I couldn’t stand if one fork lay dirty in the sink. Heck, I even color coded my clothes in my closet. Stupid, I know.

My world looks SO different post kids. It resembles the cluttered messiness of my childhood home, and I couldn’t be happier. It may drive me crazy sometimes, but I’m at peace with letting my house go. The mess will always be there to clean later. My kids won’t. They will grow, and rolling around on the floor with Mom won’t be cool anymore. The little step stool my son uses to stand by me over the stove and help me cook won’t hold his weight anymore. Animated movie watching will be a thing of the past. It makes me tear up just thinking about it.

You moms with littles, I’m not preaching at you, but just try saving the mess for later and see if it’s a positive move for you and your kids. Your real friends and family don’t care what your house looks like.  Let them come and enjoy you and your precious babies. YOU enjoy your precious babies. Pick up some extra Play Doh instead of that dust bunny in the corner. Give the hours you spend cleaning back to them. Give them those memories with you before it’s too late to make them. This messiness is just a season of life you’ll wish back one day. I promise.

If you come to my house and see all the toys all over the floor, now you know why. We play hard. Wear your steel-toed boots, though. Those legos are just dadgum colorful little bastards waiting around to wreck your life. I don’t know why I buy them.

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I won’t tell you how long these towels have been sitting on my couch unfolded, and this is just one of many examples of neglected housework. I’m so proud. I’ll do it later…

Until next time, play now, clean later, and let your kids cover you in dadgum farm animal stickers. I know I am.

Holla,

Ramsi

PS – Now that all of us kids have grown and moved away, my parent’s house is always immaculate. Until the grandkids come over… 🙂

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Yup, another blog.

Writing.  It’s so therapeutic and clears the cobwebs that fog my head.  In a world full of sleepless nights, dirty diapers, crustless PBJs, boy bathrooms, and Bubble Guppies, it’s just what I need.  A little adult conversation, which is what this sort of feels like, certainly helps, too.  So, here we go – another blog about being a mom (and other stuff).  Buckle up!  It’s a bumpy ride, but it’s the BEST ride!

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I keep this sign posted in my kitchen for some good vibes.

Hi, I’m Ramsi.  I’m a teacher turned stay at home mommy to two beautiful half Hispanic – half white little boys.  Thank God they didn’t get my dadgum pasty ghost-white coloring, so I love the “mix of mexy” in them.  They are my world and as much as I joke about the stresses of being a mom (well, you’ll eventually see that), I wouldn’t want my life any other way.  This crazy, exhausting, exciting, intense, unforgettable thing we call motherhood that spins us into a myriad of emotions on a daily basis is what I’d like to chat about.  I’m passionate about other things, too, like teaching (about ten years in the English, AVID, and elementary classroom), education, kindness, and my reality TV guilty pleasures like Big Brother, so there will be some random ramblings mixed in here.

Before I post my first official post while sitting on a fence post in Post, Texas, I have a few disclaimers.  Number 1 – I’m super sarcastic.  You can ask some of my prior high school students or close friends, and they’ll tell you.  It’s just the way I am, and I carry it everywhere I go.  Blogging isn’t an exception.  I love to be silly and laughing uncontrollably is one of my favorite things to do, so if my future sarcasm offends anyone, I apologize ahead of time, and I’ll allow you to stop reading my posts.  Number 2 – I use the word “dadgum” a lot.  Like, a lot.  It keeps me from saying a really naughty word (which do slip sometimes, I admit, but never in front of my kids) when I want to add emphasis or express passion about something.  Sorry if it gets annoying.  What’s annoying are the little red squigglies under the word dadgum when I type it.  Like, get over it, Spellcheck.  It’s my word.

Well, I’ll get to writing and posting a little bit later.  Stay tuned, my friends.  Or, don’t, if you don’t care about kids and moms and life and stuff. Dadgum.

Holla,

Ramsi