I think the old saying may be true: The more things change, the more they stay the same.

As soon as I start feeling like I’m succeeding as a mother, reality takes a sip of my Seltzer and spits it back in my face.

And I become….a Smother. (Yes, like Mrs. Goldberg, pictured below from the very funny modern-day-80’s-comedy.) I can’t help it! I just love my kids so much!

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I may no longer be new to motherhood, but I’m still hard on myself and often oblivious of my smothering. (Please keep reading and you’ll understand what I mean). (I promise, after this long Jackie-tangent, to get to a point!) 🙂

When my kids were really young, I was very hard on myself. If my son didn’t succeed at potty training every week, I felt like a failure. I honestly felt like I had failed as a mother. I have to admit, I got a little Smotherly in my potty training rituals.

As soon as I woke up, my boy was on that little potty. He was on it before play time, Callou time, before swim, after swim, before book time, before bed time. You get the idea.

And if he didn’t go, I wasn’t much fun to be around. Just ask my husband.

I was OBSESSED.

With my daughter, I was a little more relaxed at first. She was 20 months and started going on the potty successfully and I felt like I had won the Lottery. Then we flew home from Disney and I could smell a foul odor the minute we landed at TF Green Airport. Before I even had a chance to put her dirty tights in a plastic bag, I felt that familiar feeling. She went back to her old, smelly ways for several months.

I felt like I was the worst mother in the world.

My kids were behind. I thought for sure they would end up going to second grade in pull-ups.

But you know what?

They didn’t.

Before their third birthdays, they each “got it”. Barely any accidents, boom, they were trained.

For good.

All my SMOTHERING hard work paid off.

So I guess I wasn’t the worst mother in the world after all.

Now, things have changed.

Or have they?

My kids are 10 and 13, and I’m proud of them. I try to back off and not smother them too much. (Well…sometimes.)

Now we have a new member of our family.

Yes, we took home a new eight-week-old puppy this weekend. A beautiful, English cream Golden Retriever who stole my heart the moment I saw her. And our five year old Golden, Marley, has been taking to our Maggie really well. Like any envious big brother with a gentle heart. He may give her questionable looks and steal her toys, but he also drops them on the floor to share with her as well.

I can’t help it. Having these two new “kids” reminds me of those early years as a new mother.

The first night, despite my putting Maggie in her crate at 11 p.m. and getting up at 3:45 a.m. and again at 5:30 a.m. to let her out to do her business. Each time, she ate snow or bounced around, came inside and did her business…inside. On a towel.

I felt like once again, I had failed as a mother.

So I removed the towel. Sprayed some “No Go” on the floor and tried again. Several more times.

This time, I froze …and tried to let it go. I watched Marley run outside, and allowed her to follow her big brother. She jumped up and watched Marley as he sniffed around for the perfect place to do his doody. Then she copied Marley. When he was done, she tucked in her backside, sniffed around and then..all I could see was YELLOW SNOW. She did it! Maggie PEED! She peed outside! I was literally hooting and hollering like a giddy girl. She did it!

She peed outside! Maggie did it!

She did it again and again, all day long.

So yay, I hadn’t failed as a mother smother.

She needed to figure it out on her own. And the less I intervened…and relaxed a little, the better off she was.

I’m not going to lie, she woke up and had an accident on the floor today. Once. But I know it’s going to take time. She’s eight-and-a-half-weeks old for crying out loud.

True, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Once a mother smother, always a smother mother.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to be a little less hard on myself. And them.

And try to back off …and let nature take its course.

I beg you to give this some thought.

Could you be turning into a High-Maintenance Sally?

Do you often find yourself, due to dietary restrictions, ordering things ON THE SIDE?

The older I get, the more I realize, to my utter dismay, I may be turning into High-Maintenance Sally.

If you’ve ever seen the movie, When Harry Met Sally, you know what I’m talking about.

There is a scene when Harry Burns, (played by Billy Crystal), says to Sally Albright, (played by Meg Ryan), “There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.”

Sally replies, “Which one am I?”

“You’re the worst kind; you’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.”

“I don’t see that.”

“You don’t see that? Waiter, I’ll begin with a house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. “On the side” is a very big thing for you.”

“Well, I just want it the way I want it.”

“I know; high maintenance.”

The older I get, the more I realize I’m starting to become high maintenance.

Maybe just a little.

I’m not trying to be a total pain in the rear.

I blame age. I just often find I need things a certain way, or the poop hits the fan.

Literally.

For example, I used to be fine with no-name-brand detergent.

Not I get a rash.

I used to be fine with no conditioner. (OK, if you’ve seen my high school portrait, I guess I really couldn’t get away with it – I just THOUGHT I could!)

I used to wake up, take a shower, get on my ten speed and go about my day. Three Rave perms a year, and I was set. I could eat ANYTHING on the menu and not worry about a thing.

Even in college, I’d go for a run, take a shower, slap on my jeans shorts and boom, I was set. I could let my hair air dry in the sun and never worry about a thing.

But after two kids and 19 years of marriage, things have started to change.

I NEED a hair dryer.

I get a headache if I order the wrong salad dressing.

I feel nauseous if I eat shellfish.

I skip conditioner for one day and I look like the lead singer of Quiet Riot.

You know you’re becoming High-Maintenance Sally when:

• You order things ON THE SIDE because you know you’ll end up spending half the  day in bed if you don’t.
• You try to drink a different beer than your “usual” and you end up with a hangover that lasts for days.
• Boxed wine makes you gag.
• Just the mention of the words, “Lemon shot” makes you cringe and want to run to the toilet.
• You snack on ONE granola bar that happens to have artificial sweetener in it and you get a gnarly migraine.
• You can’t pluck your eyebrows because they’re too thick and you can’t get them waxed because it causes an allergic reaction that makes you feel like the Elephant Man.
• You have to drive 20 minutes out of the way, a few times a month, to get your eyebrows professionally THREADED.
• Wearing cheap earrings actually does cause an ear infection.
• You HAVE to get your hair colored professionally every 6 to 8 weeks or you look like a Golden Girl.
• You buy a pair of jeans from the sales rack and the rear splits in half after one wash.
• You try a new brand of yogurt, just for poops and giggles, and you end up sitting on the potty, not laughing… for
• I’m really ashamed about this one: You get a horrible headache from the off-brand candle your daughter bought for you from her school store, so you secretly switch it out for a different scent that you can tolerate.
• You get a rash from off-brand cosmetics.
• You can’t skip a shower or else you look like Kramer during his bath binge.
• You convince yourself you need a pair of boots for the rain, another for the snow, another for girls’ nights, another for carpooling and two more because you can’t just have them in black!

I have been fighting a cold for about a week now and when I’m really feeling sick, I can’t help myself. After loading my body with enough Green tea and Vitamin C to temporarily tranquilize a small rodent, I climb in bed and browse through Pinterest, Facebook, US Weekly and other “junkfood-for-Jackie’s-brain” places to catch up on the latest style trends. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with having a little fashion fest when you’re nursing a cold, right?

But during a recent Sunday online style search, I was disappointed. Very disappointed. Although the latest fashion trends for 2015 look fabulous on Kardashian and her kisters, they just aren’t for me.

I’ll throw out some examples:

1. CAPES. Some capes are really cute. I have tried to wear the “cape” look. But I look like I’m stepping off of the Scooby Mystery Mobile wearing one of my grandmother’s afghans around my shoulders. There are some people who can pull off this look. But I am not one of them. If you don’t believe me, I’ll snag my faux fur Restoration Hardware throw blanket off my couch, toss it around my neck and wait to see the kinds of looks I get at the grocery store.

2. Mod 1960’s mini-dresses. Short mini dresses. So short, even my 10-year-old daughter calls them “inappropriate”. (I love that she says that. My only hope is that she keeps this up in high school.) OK, I love 1960’s dresses. My best friend and I practically STARTED our elementary school’s mini skirt trend in the fourth grade. Hello, have you not seen a bazillion FB pictures of me wearing my favorite Jackie O glasses (that sadly cracked in two during our recent move)? I also worship style icons from that era. My mother named me after Jackie Kennedy for crying out loud. But a dress so short that the hem line stops right past my panty line? Especially since my 43-year-old southern cheeks have been expanding from post-holiday Lindt truffle overload? Um, I think I’ll pass. No, thank you.
3. Real fur coats. Long fur coats. I’m super happy with the new fluffy cashmere gloves my husband gave me for Christmas, but I’m not about to go out and buy a long and trendy real fur coat just because Kourtney Kardashian is wearing one. (Not a real fur coat, that’s cruel.) Mark my words, even if I did, it would go out of style the following week and someone would splash red paint on it.
4. Military khaki. I’m OK with military jackets. But, does this mean I need to wear shoulder pads? Because, to quote Jimmy Fallon, “I can’t.” Plus, when I was 11 years old and I participated in a four-hour “Color Me Beautiful” program with my mom, I was shown that even a hint of khaki green fabric near my freckled face makes me look like I actually need to puke. I mean I can’t…I’m a spring! Not an autumn! 

5. Short sweater dresses. To quote my daughter, “Ew!” Some sweater dresses are cute. BUT…the last time I wore a sweater dress that looked good on me, I was a junior in high school. I’m sorry, but these short dresses are MEAN to a woman my age. They highlight everything. Not just my curves, but my bubbles, my flab and my back fat. No thank you.

Oh, dear, I guess this makes me officially unstylish this new year. That’s such a bummer. Being from Texas, I love to dress up and keep up with the latest fashions, but I can’t seem to EMBRACE new trends. But wait….one more search gives me hope. THANKS TO PRINCESS KATE, I’ve realized there’s a style trend I can follow! Black tights! Hello, black tights! Thank you, Kate Middleton, for bringing back simple black tights. You can drop $10 at your local drug store and look like a princess? AND tuck in muffin top without cutting off your blood circulation? And make your grandmother happy because it keeps you warm while wearing a dress? Hello, black thick tights, I love you! I guess I’m not as much of a fashion failure as I thought!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Shut the front door, it’s January. How are you doing so far this NEW YEAR?

Me? I’m doing fan-fubbing-tastic.

I got my workout in this morning. I’ve had enough green tea to flood a basement. I’ve put away 85% of the Christmas decorations. I’m getting back to work. And I have a smile on my face as big as my expanding post-holiday waistline. I’m not going to lie. The cheesy grin has a lot to do with the fact that the holidays are over.

“Ba-hum-big, Jackie” you say?

Oh I said it.

I’m glad the holidays are over! I’m relieved! Yahhhoooo!

Don’t get me wrong – we had a nice Christmas break. We made great memories with our kids in our new home. With my parents. With my in-laws. With all of our relatives. We hosted and hosted and hosted until I practically bled twinkling lights and festive platters.

We had some relatives decide to stay not one week, but two. And others stay not just two weeks, but three. I love them all. I’m grateful for them all.

But as of 11:35 a.m. last Thursday? Like the Griswald holiday turkey, I was done. Dried to the bone, done. I’m not just RELIEVED the holidays are over. I’m fan-fubbing-ecstatic! OK, so it just so happens I experienced this ba-hum-bug revelation on my way home from the airport. Dropping my folks off at the airport, to be exact. Now, I love those two people who brought me into this world more than you could ever know. They are sweet people with big hearts. And I did everything possible to make sure their visit was awesome. From decorating a mini American Girl Doll-themed Christmas tree with my daughter to investing in a new Keurig, we did it all. And they appreciated it. (And mentioned anything I happened to forget. ;))

But there’s a rhetorical reason we should keep visits down to “Ten days tops,” as my husband says. “Ten days tops,” I always nod in agreement, cringing when I receive the actual reservations. I start to get a holiday facial twitch from all the stress of trying to make everyone happy. I try to control it by downing one Lindt truffle every 30 minutes.

My father will make any excuse possible to extend a trip to see his grandchildren. (Who he still thinks are 3 and 6. And me? In his eyes, I think I’m about 13.) I adore my parents dearly. But there is a point during a visit when you’re done. I’m not sure if it was Day 2 when my mom realized she forgot her prescription cough medication in Florida or Day 7 when I woke to the sound of my own snoring on the sofa at 7:30 p.m. (Or Day 10 when my dog ate an entire platter of assorted cheese, crackers and pepperoni.) Son of a…that’s another post for another time.

With the kids home for the break, relatives coming and going everyday, the dog humping the new sofa cushions, (one child home sick with flu-like symptoms an entire week before vacation), and house renovations going on during holiday prep time, I was done.

I could not wrap another gift, vacuum up another ball of Marley hair, clean another toilet, change another bed, or contemplate lunch, dinner or appetizers.

I had a migraine the size of Miami.

All day long on New Year’s Day, after forcing in a mini workout, I fought that gnarly headache. I sat in bed with my daughter watching crap TV for most of the day. And it felt like heaven.

Somewhere, in between over-dosing on Lindt truffles and forgetting to work out for several days in a row, I lost it.

And today, as I dropped my daughter off at school and proceeded to have a celebratory rock concert in my car, I realized it wasn’t all that bad.

We had a lot of fun.

We made great memories.

We had a nice time. I love my family and wouldn’t change them for the world.

I’ve come to the realization that the holidays are a lot like giving birth. You forget everything as soon as the next one comes around. You forget about all the stress, the pain (in the arse-ness) and the emotional exhaustion. You look forward to making more It’s-A-Wonderful-Life and Bing-Crosby-Christmas-Carol holiday memories with loved ones.

Life is short. Life is good. Life really is wonderful.

Here’s hoping you have a wonderful, fun-fubbing-tastic 2015!

Wishing you a wonderful Christmas and New Year! May 2015 be filled with more “awwww” moments. (And less “ew” ones!) Wishing you peace, prosperity and plenty of mommy sanity. 😍

XO – Jackie

There’s a reason you might have seen cob webs on my blog lately. Aside from the fact that I need a new Swiffer, I’ve been caught up with a few things over the past few months. Like… oh I don’t know…moving to a new house (without professional movers). Unpacking everything with my husband and kids (and trying to understand how we have accumulated so much stuff over the years). Trying to organize and fill the house. Then repacking everything we originally unpacked on the second floor and moving it to the first floor while we have the hardwoods redone. Celebrating our new home with friends and family. Celebrating our anniversary. Finalizing a dream publishing agreement with Robyn Lane Books of Texas (woot-woot!). And…well…the obvious. The *&^%$###@ holidays.

Joy to my weekly Yahoo! calendar, the holidays are coming. How can it be the second week in December already??!

I can almost hear my parents on their way from Florida. (Which is a good thing….and a not-so-fabulous thing.)

I love them dearly, but, as my husband reminds me, I tend to get a little stressed prior to their visit, ESPECIALLY when they come during the holidays.

Why?

Because, like I said…I tend to get a little stressed this time of year.

Why?

Because no matter how hard I try, I have to admit I’m not Martha. Or Rachel. Or even my adorable 4-ft.-11 Italian mother-in-law who often finishes her Christmas shopping before Labor Day weekend. (Or my talented cousin who decorates five themed trees throughout her house that look like they belong in a New York City storefront.)

Rather than live in the present and all that other blah-blah-woof-woof I read in magazines and blogs this time of year, I tend to turn into a Gremlin. I start out all wide-eyed from rainbows-and-unicorns-expectations and morning jogs and then I gradually sneak a Lindt truffle every hour and skip enough workouts that I turn into someone who growls at the thought of another holiday deadline.

Oh yes, through the years, I have a tendency to turn into a Holiday-zilla. 

(I even have frizzy hair and stress zits from past Christmas photos to prove it.)

The days I forget to blow dry my hair, I actually LOOK like a gremlin that gets wet and snacks after midnight. It’s not a pretty sight.

Now I do appreciate the holidays. But…as soon as Black Friday arrives, I’m a goner.

After baking cookies and meat pies throughout November, rather than sing Christmas Carols, I actually feel myself tensing up just glancing at the Advent Calendar.

Now, I WANT to start Christmas shopping early.

But I never do.

I didn’t even START my list until a few days ago.

I want to order my holiday cards in November, thinking I will find that “picture perfect” picture where the four of us are captured together, smiling, without red eyes.

But I never do.

Even our dog is squinting in this year’s photo card, which I have ordered…but will probably receive two days before Christmas even though I paid extra for expedited shipping.

Through the years, my expectations tend to get so crazed, I end up screwing up something. Not everything, but something.

I also STINK when it comes to giving gifts. I do try…

I once gave a black patent leather purse for a family Yankee gift swap. I thought the “rule” was girls swap girly gifts with the women and boys swap boy-ish gifts with the men. I was born in Texas, I should have Googled Yankee swap before I participated. I ended up getting my own gift back because no one wanted it!

But my mother taught me to give gifts that YOU WOULD want to receive. (And I’m sorry, but who wouldn’t want a cute black patent leather clutch that goes with virtually every holiday ensemble?)

Last year, I gave something safe and non-gender-specific from Bed, Bath and Beyond. It was so safe and boring, I can’t even remember what it was. But I crossed it off my list, right? 😉

Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves?

Why can’t we just enjoy this time of year? THEY’RE THE HOLIDAYS. I’M SORRY, BUT THEY SHOULD BE JOLLY, NOT STRESSFUL!

Why do so many women have to be so good at it, they make the rest of us look bad??! 🙂

This year, Christmas is going to be different.

I’m determined to NOT turn into a Holiday-zilla.

I KNOW I can do it!

I just took an Advil. I drank some green tea. 

That’s a good start, right?

The glass is half full, not drained to a puddle.

The tree is decorated. The wreaths are up.

ALMOST all the gift have been ordered. (Except the yawn-Yankee-non-gender-specific ones.)

I have a feeling everything is going to be OK… (even if you can’t really see the tree because it’s buried in a room with everything we own from the second floor).  

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!

Do you suffer from pale “mom” legs? If, from a distance, you look like you’re wearing white tights under shorts and you’re NOT a drummer for a grunge rock band, I beg you to grab a pair of sunglasses and check out my latest guest post in Bluntmoms.com, called “Pale Mom Legs”. It will make you feel like…. Malibu Barbie. http://www.bluntmoms.com/pale-mom-legs/

Do you ever look back on your younger years and wonder, “Was I a good kid?”? Did my Dad think I was a good daughter?

I seem to do a lot of “looking back” since embracing my 40’s. I think I was a good daughter. OK, so my attitude as a teen left something to be desired. Especially after moving from Texas to Rhode Island. I mean, I was a good kid, almost too goody-goody before we moved.

But those daddy-daughter trips to the hardware store followed by a milkshake?

Or lunching at Chili’s after going to Target on Saturdays? (Oh, yes, they had Target in Texas way back when, and it was glorious.)

It wasn’t long before they turned into, “But, Dad, I can’t today.”

“But, Dad…I’m going to my friend’s house.”

“But, Dad, I can’t.”

“Dad, can I borrow the car?”

I was the only girl. The baby. My Dad and I always got along. We could walk outside, play catch and talk about…everything. Or nothing in particular. We’d run errands together and he let me bring a friend along while my mom cleaned and my brother was out doing whatever the cool kids did in the 80’s.

I’ve always adored my father, with his groomed beard and glasses. I’ve always admired his corny jokes, his math wizard-ness and everything he contributed to the Space Program. I remember skiing together in Colorado, flying down moguls, giggling. And crying into his chest after we lost dear friends on The Challenger. And after he lost his job.

But something happened after we moved away.

I turned into a 16-year-old.

I’d race through dinner so I could be with my boyfriend (my now husband! ;)). My friends.

I didn’t mean to say that.

Or have that party.

Or put off doing the leaves.

It just happened.

I turned into a teenager.

But this Father’s Day, as I look back (like the hormonal mid-life mother I am), I realize I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m so grateful that my Dad is still around. I have a lot of people in my life, my husband included, who have lost their fathers. That alone breaks my heart and makes me want every visit, every phone call, and every email with my dad to count from now on.

I recently visited my parents in Florida and it was one of the most memorable trips we’ve had together.

Did we go on a cruise?

No.

Did we go to Disney?

No.

Did we lay out at the beach?

No.

Did we tour his old stomping grounds at Kennedy Space Center?

Not this time. Although i would have loved that.

Actually, I just flew out there to support my parents while my mom had surgery.

We did a lot of…NOTHING. And my mom’s surgery went really well.

I have to say it was the most special time I’ve spent with my parents in a long time.

During that trip to a little town just outside of Cape Canaveral, Florida, to see my folks, I was happy to do nothing special.

Just visit.

Just chat.

Just shoot the “hey” on the patio with the two people who brought me into this world.

So, we giggled.

We cooked.

We hung out. We piled whipped cream on top of hot cocoa when the rain started pouring down.

We took pictures of birds hanging out in the backyard.

I jogged to the tennis court to watch my Dad play a few matches with his buddies.

The day my mom had her surgery, my Dad took me out to lunch at a diner right around the corner. It’s his favorite hole in the wall, with pleather booths and a big banner that hangs from the ceiling that shouts, “Best Pie in Florida”. Because it was Tuesday, we got a free slice of pie. It was honestly the best $12 meal I’ve had in my life. Because it was just me and my Dad again.

Did we do anything special?

No.

We sat there in that booth, sharing a slice of key lime pie, talking about everything…and nothing in particular.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!