Every month, Omaha Mom shares original stories, tips, and inspiration from their social media pages. Here’s the round-up of our favorites from March.
Nail Tips for Busy Moms
During my time in quarantine, I decided to try out some new nail polish techniques. This was by far my favorite.
Next time you are at a home improvement store, pick up a roll of painters tape. Not because you plan to repaint a room in your house, but to add it to your nail polish stash. You can cut any shape or pattern without going to the salon.
My biggest tips?
1. Make sure the base coat is completely dry before applying the tape.
2. Basecoat AND topcoat are important.
3. Cut carefully. Size differences are fairly noticeable.
Enjoy your new, fabulous nails!
Dance it Out
She came at me all grumpy-faced and frustrated.
“I can’t do this,” she said.
I bit my tongue. I didn’t correct her. I didn’t tell her she can do it—that she simply didn’t want to.
That’s my usual motto: it’s all in the attitude. This time, I knew it wouldn’t cut it. I knew I needed to change tactics.
I grabbed my phone and turned to something that would help: Music.
As much as my recent, workout-fatigued legs didn’t have it in them, as tired and equally grumpy as I was, I pulled her out of her seat and made her dance, made her move, made her get out of her funk.
We started with some Taylor Swift to “shake it off.” A little Uptown Funk to “get into a groove.” Megan Trainer to remind her she’s “Good Enough” as is. And “Panic!” At the Disco because she needed “High Hopes.”
We listened. Danced. Sang. Jived.
And in the space of four volume-at-the-max songs, her entire attitude flipped on its head. She didn’t need another lecture on attitude or to be calmly redirected. She needed L O U D and she needed M O V E M E N T.
Restored and refreshed, she completed her task with ease and a smile.
Today, music fed her soul.
Dance invigorate her heart.
I saved the lecture for another day.
A Mom, a Birthday Plan, and a 5 year old—erh, 4 year old
It was my daughter’s fourth birthday. I woke up early to pick up her custom number 4 donut. Her brother had one for his birthday a few weeks back, so I knew she’d love one of her own.
No line, quick check out.
When I got to the car, I took a peek, but I found a number 5 inside.
I went back to the cashier. I didn’t make a big scene but did ask if this was the right box because it was the wrong number.
The cashier went in the back. A few long minutes later, the owner came out. She’d printed off my order and showed me my own email.
I had in fact typed a number 5. (I blame all the multi-tasking that us
parents are always doing).
I didn’t react well at that moment. On less sleep and already dreading the tantrum I thought would ensue, I asked the total stranger for advice on what to do. The woman was so sweet and offered to make a new one, but I didn’t have the time to wait.
I spent the whole drive home thinking of different things I could say to her to make it better: “Five is actually great because it means it’s a bigger donut, more surface area” or “they probably knew how silly
you are and wanted to play a birthday prank,” etc.
When I got home, my daughter was already awake. I said, in a flat affect, almost afraid of her overreaction: “About your donut, I have to tell you something. It’s a 5.”
Her response? “That’s funny. Cool. Can I eat it?”
Shows what I know, what any of us know on any given day.
Her birthday morning was memorable for so many reasons. But it was an especially good lesson for ME in not overreacting – and in freely extending grace and mercy to those around me.
I can already tell 4 is going to be a good year for us.
Best (Dance) Mom Ever
I’m not a dance mom.
That mom that can apply mascara to her squirming preschooler without poking anyone’s eye out, knows all the twists and turns to the performance, and can spin the perfect dance bun in 2.5 seconds.
Not. Even. Close.
It took me three years to learn of the donut bun and even still, my dance buns are lopsided at best.
My daughter had a performance and wanted twin dance buns. Our prep time was extremely limited and while the first bun went in fairly easily, the second one did not.
I tried twice at home before telling her to get in the car. We were already late.
She was distraught. How could she perform with two mismatched buns and one with superior dysfunction?
As my husband drove the 30 minutes to the recital, I once again, tried to fix that bun. This time, at 75 mph in the backseat of my car, fighting my husband’s erratic driving, my daughter’s inability to sit still, and my blooming carsickness.
During this whole process of trying – and failing – my daughter was ever verbal about her dissatisfaction.
Even though she knows dance buns are not in my skill set, she still struggles with accepting my lacking ability over her desire for impeccable hair. While not perfect, I succeeded in making it less dysfunctional
and at the bare minimum, similar to its twin.
She turned from her selfie reflection on my phone and smiled. “You’re the best mom ever.”
Somedays, it takes twisting a bun in the back of a car at 75 mph while choking down bile in order to earn that tag.
Still, I’ll take it.