Did you know the expression, “waking up on the wrong side of the bed” originates from the Roman times? They actually believed that getting out of bed on the left side was bad luck, and if you vacated on the wrong side, you were in for a bad day.

I have to wonder from which perspective this bed-exiting occurs? Is it the left side of someone facing the bed, or the left side of the person lying in bed? Regardless, I DID it. I woke up on the wrong side of bed, and boy, did I have a bad day because of it!

I can blame the bed for my behavior, right?

I literally woke up grumpy. And not the- just waking up and eventually I will feel happy mode – like my husband does every day, but the- cursed left-sided waker, in it for the long-haul, gonna have a bad day- kind of deal.

I was tossing and turning all night from allergies and from precious little stinkers who woke up at random nightly intervals. Needless to say, the morning was less-than-inviting. I moved from the bed, to the table for breakfast, then to the couch where I plopped down for some mid-morning wallowing. You can’t really wallow as a mother with the hundred inquiries from energetic and impatient children, within the span of five minutes. But I tried.

Mommy, can you get me a snack? No.

Mommy, will you play dolls with me? No.

Mommy, I have to go potty! That’s not a question.

After being rejected, time and time again, my five-year-old pulled out, what we have coined “the Hair Basket” and bravely asked, “Can I do your hair?”

My mouth started to form the word NO, but after considering it said, “Sure.”

Moving from the couch to the floor, my daughter pulled out the spray bottle and begin spraying and brushing my hair. It didn’t take long to feel like I had just stepped out of the shower but she was giggling and enjoying herself. Somehow the three-year-old got involved and started playfully ripping the hair from my scalp with a plastic torture comb.

Of course, if you give a mouse a comb, they are going to want to give you a makeover! Out popped the eye shadow and lip gloss. I told my silly girl to keep it to the light colors since we had to go grocery shopping. The little guy either missed the memo or was ignoring me because suddenly I felt the makeup brush down the length of my nose as he excitedly said, “Mommy, you Tiger!”

The kids spent twenty minutes yanking my hair until my eyes watered, smearing lip gloss all over my cheeks, and drawing cat whiskers. But it dawned on me- sometimes parents feel so much pressure to spend money or plan elaborate activities to build special memories for their family, but all kids really want from us is to be present in the moment. Even on the days when those darned Romans curse the bed. Even when the moment includes the most painful hairstyle of all time. All they really want is Mom. (Or Dad.)

And I can give them that.

By Krystle Ricks

I once knew a lady with nine kids. Nine. She had motherhood down to an art. I remember going to her house and witnessing a perfectly organized playroom with labeled toy bins, and a militant schedule of cleaning for her children. I always admired her tenacity, although I never wanted to be “Officer Mom”. My dreams aimed a little less drill sergeant but equally as organized.

I am not that lady.

Generally, my house is chaos. Whenever I hear the doorbell ring, my stomach drops and I crack the door open as thinly as possible, hoping to hide as much of the background mess as possible. Sometimes the laundry room has barfed its unwashed contents into the living room. Sometimes, the newspaper has been unfolded by little hands and scattered all over the front hall. Dirty socks sometimes miss the laundry basket by twenty feet or so.

Sometimes, people comment on how cute my girls look, and I realize it’s because these people rarely see both of my girls with brushed hair. Sometimes, people comment on how nice I look and I realize it’s because for the first time in a month, my hair isn’t in a ponytail. Half the time my children resemble cavemen. Half the time their shoes are on the wrong feet. If they’re wearing shoes.

The other day my daughter wore pink Hello Kitty Overall shorts with a rainbow skirt on top, a white shrug, some chunky heels, and a knitted purple hat… and I let her go out in public like that.

Sometimes, my kids eat popcorn and Fudgecicles for dinner, also known as “snacky dinner” because I forgot to thaw the roast. Again. My three year old has played so much “Super Smash Brothers” on the Wii U that he associates all colors by the character it matches. (I hold up a red crayon, he calls it “Mario!” I hold a purple crayon, he calls it, “Bad Mario!” Green: “Luigi!”

Sometimes I feel so discouraged by how much I am not the mother I dreamed I’d be, with the masterfully cleaned house, the perfectly done up children with matching outfits, the perfect rationing of t.v. time of less than 30 minutes a day… but I am not that lady.

But sometimes, I remind myself: My kids are alive. They are healthy. They are smiling (when they’re not arguing.) I’m trying. I’m improving. And for today, that’s enough.

by Krystle Ricks