I'm completely crazy. I try to hide it, but it rears its ugly mug at the most inopportune times. Nuts. Certifiable. Wacko.
Don't tell anyone, but...I love it. I'm not a huge fan of normal. What's the fun in that? Show me your insanity and I'll know you're real. Valid. True. Honest. Bear your flaws and we'll be friends. Lifelong. Behave as though you've never laced together profanities in your mind, and artfully (albeit silently) lobbed them at your screaming offspring...and I say, bullshit. Get real.
Be real.
Being a crazy parent has its advantages. No one expects me to follow the annals of parenting literature. We don't sing songs about vegetables and feelings and how the sun always shines on a positive attitude. I don't adorn their foreheads with label-makered names and spun sugar quotes from my favorite board on Pinterest. I don't sew. I'm terrible at hairdos. And, they always have breakfastlunchdinner on their faces. Always. Sometimes their day of the week undies say Sunday when it's clearly Thursday afternoon. I don't always check if they wash their rears in the shower. Ok, I never do. I have forgotten to make Pink put her earrings back in for exactly two months. And then there was that time we had Swedish Fish and Easy Mac for dinner.
One time Judy Moody said SHUT UP DUMMY!! And I laughed hysterically...with my daughters.
And there was that time I wore a fake mustache...
I am clearly crazy. My parenting license should be revoked...
But...since being a mom happens to be my absolute favorite job with a cherry on top, I try to make the crazy work in my favor.
Maybe, just maybe, crazy = awesome, enlightened, educated, funky, spunky, moxified kids who understand real. Maybe, just maybe, they'll thank me because I took the time to talk to them instead of taking up all of their time with the newest psycho parenting technique. My only parenting technique is to be honest. And real.
We talk, a lot. The other day I had a bath time conversation with Pink about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Of course I spared her the gory details. But, she needs to know about equality and injustice. She asked and I answered. That's my job.
Tink asked why our neighbors, who happen to be two men, live together. Are they brothers? No. Not brothers. Do they love each other? Yes. Why? Because love is love. I love you and they love each other. Do you understand me, Tink? Yep...like I love you, Mommy? Yep. We can love whomever we choose. I'm glad. Me too. Me too.
They've asked about tampons and boobs and love and death and divorce and Taylor Swift and where tears come from and what it means to have a broken heart. They ask if I've ever broken someone's heart. Yes. And they're disappointed in me. They ask if I'll try harder next time. Yes. Yes. Yes.
I'm not sure how to parent. I learn it anew each day. But I do know how to look in their eyes and tell them the truth. Maybe it will ruin them for life. But, maybe, just maybe, they'll look someone else in the eye and see them. For real.
And maybe they'll wear a fake mustache...and just laugh at the craziness of it all.
