7 Childhood Movies that Motherhood Changed

Although I was born in the mid 70’s, I was a child of the 80’s. If you watched MTV because they had music videos, understand locker jokes from You Can’t Do That on Television, and had a Trapper Keeper… I know you feel me. Legit, child of the 80’s, feels.

Having kids changes everything.

EVERYTHING!!

I had green hair in high school and wore 14 hole combat boots. Now?? I bake. Cookies, pies, brownies… you name it, I bake it. Betty “Fucking” Crocker ain’t got nothing on me, but I guess I’ve lost substantial street credit. Undoubtedly, motherhood changed me; changed my values, my habits, and my patterns. However, it also changed the way I view things. I noticed this substantial change recently as I watched some movies that were favorites in my youth; but now invoked totally different emotional responses from me. Here are my Top 7…

1. The Karate Kid

As a kid:

I couldn’t imagine anything more fantastic than having an older man, whom I wasn’t related to, help me and teach me about karate.

As a mom:

I would never let my sons hang out, ALONE, with an old, single man whom they are not related to. Are you kidding me? And why is he giving Daniel expensive gifts? A car? Jesus, that’s a red flag right there.

2. Stand By Me

As a kid:

Besides the fact that River Phoenix was completely hot, the idea of an adventure, sans adults, with my friends was a hell yes.

As a mom:

Holy shit. These kids could have gotten killed about 20 times in this movie. If not by the evil and disturbed Kiefer Sutherland character, then the train, or the junkyard dog, or the gun, or just wild animals, or if Teddy went mental. This whole movie was just 2 hours of an anxiety laden discontent. I’m still working through this one in therapy.

3. Beaches

As a kid:

I loved Bette Midler. I loved the music. I loved daydreaming that I, too, would one day be on Broadway as a big star.

As a mom:

The Barbara Hershey character dies. End of. {sob, sob, sob} I could never watch a second of this movie while pregnant. Not. One. Second.

4. Adventures in Babysitting

As a kid:

Babysitting, hot guys from college, road trip with that funny and annoying Darryl kid, getting to catch your cheating, slimy ex-boyfriend. This movie had everything.

As a mom:

This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. This is the reason I never leave the house childless {shiver}.

5. The Breakfast Club

As a kid:

This movie was cutting edge. It was real, it was raw, it was AWESOME. We didn’t have cable so I watched this one with the horrible TV dialogue edits… “Hot beef injection” was changed to “Hot wild affection” and I didn’t even care. I had this one memorized. Word. For. Word. Actually I think I still know this movie by heart, yet I walk into the bathroom and can’t remember what I went there for.

As a mom:

Why don’t schools offer shop classes anymore? Holy crap, I hope my gifted child isn’t so concerned with achieving, that he tries to hurt himself (with a flare gun). I can’t believe they smoked weed in the library. We never did anything like that. {cough, cough}.  John Bender is still totally hot. At least that hasn’t changed.

6. Back to the Future

As a kid:

Doc Brown? The eccentric inventor was every kid’s dream as a BFF. Micheal J Fox was at the height of his popularity as Marty McFly. Even my mom swooned over him. Time travel, the DeLorean… an amazing cinematic superstar. I loved Back to the Future.

As a mom:

Again with the old man/teenage boy thing. What was up with the 80’s? And the idea that my child would get to witness my high school self? Omigod, please no.

7. The Goonies

As a kid:

The Goonies had it all! Adventure, romance, friendship. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they went on a TREASURE HUNT in underground caves. The Goonies was the tits.

As a mom:

Where the FUCK did their parents think they were? I mean, really? By the time Chunk called the cops hadn’t there been an Amber Alert issued already? And instead the sheriff thinks he’s lying because he’s an eternal storyteller? And don’t think The Boy Who Cried Wolf reference was lost on me. Cave kissing? Being chased by the Fratellis and stuck in a freezer with a dead body? I. Just. Can’t.

Motherhood isn’t just what you do… it’s what you are.

You sleep it. You eat it. You breathe it. You own it.

It can’t be turned off or toned down.

I wonder if At the Movies was different for Gene Siskel after he had children.

 

 

 

When Plan B Saved My A

With the Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby ruling hanging in the air the easiest thing for those of us who’ve already had children is to turn a blind eye. Change the channel, ignore the newspapers, pretend Mother Jones doesn’t exist. I’ve just been sitting in a corner humming Fancy when it comes to the whole thing. But, like I’ve explained to my 3-year-old, just sitting here with my eyes closed doesn’t mean you can’t see me. You can see me, and I look like a freak with my eyes closed in a crowded room.

The biggest problem I’ve been having is that while I might not agree with the ruling, I am a law-abiding citizen and I support the American Justice System and the Supreme Court. I will support what they have decided. And although it doesn’t effect me personally anymore it effects women everywhere.

So the big picture is… what are we going to do about it? How are we (a collective group of women) going to make sure that no one ever has to deal with an unwanted pregnancy because of cost?

Yeah I said it. The two words that people dread grouping together. Unwanted Pregnancy. There are so many factors that establish whether you are ready for motherhood and they go well beyond just financial reasons. I couldn’t imagine having to carry a child that was a product of rape. I couldn’t imagine having to endure 9 months of anything I didn’t want. And lets not forget that after 9 months you have a real, live, baby.Yeah, that. They show you a video at the hospital and you’re off. Welcome to motherhood, you better pick this up quick.

Having kids was the greatest joy and the biggest hardship I’ve ever faced wrapped into one adorable package of blue velvet. But there was a time when I couldn’t even imagine becoming a mother again. And that’s when Plan B saved my A.

My second son was 6 weeks old. I was happy and lucky and walking around in that new baby haze that can only be described as foggy. Trying to set a schedule, trying to get some sleep, trying to stay sane. My boys were 5 years apart and Hubby’s work wasn’t going so well. Shit had gotten really, real… and I was surprised and ecstatic that we were able to hold it together while lots of the creature comforts were falling apart.

I had just gotten the go ahead from my Doctor to resume all physical activity. I was ready for some closeness with my man again. I was ready for intimacy. Yup, super ready. That’s when something happened that I’d never before experienced… one broken condom was all it took and I was sure this mistake, this accident, would result in a pregnancy.

To say I freaked out would be putting it mildly.

I lost my shit.

The idea of another baby rocked me to my very core. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready for a third child but I sure-as-shit I wasn’t ready for Irish twins. How would I manage? What effect would another baby have on my current children, one of whom was still a newborn himself. What if it wasn’t just one baby? Actual twins? Or (dare I even think it… more)? That night I stayed up on the internet, pouring over my options. There was only one option, Plan B.

This wasn’t an abortion. I have no clue if I was actually ovulating at the time. I didn’t do an ovulation test. This was a precaution. A precaution like using a condom. And that precaution had already failed me.

In the past I’d always known when conception had occurred. I’d had 2 children and a miscarriage in between. My body had never failed me in the “knowing” department. It’s been my personal experience that the love and bond I felt with my unborn child was what made me a mommy long before they were born. It was my intent to have them, to love them to raise them that made the whole experience real. That intent was what made them a baby. My baby. This was not yet a baby. It was not yet a member of my family or a voice that laughs or cries or sings. But the idea alone, Irish twins, children 9 months apart was real. The chance was there.

The next day I packed up my newborn and my 5-year-old and headed off to a national drug store chain. As I walked up to the pharmacist and requested Plan B I tried to use telepathy and speak to him. “I can’t do this. Not now. Do you hear me? It’s too soon. I’m fucked if I’m pregnant. I’m barely holding it together right now. Please don’t judge me. Please don’t shame me.” He gave me a knowing smile as he stared at my matted hair, my eyes framed by sleep deprivation, my shirt stained with a mixture of peanut butter and formula, and rang me up.

That was the most important $50 I ever spent.

Three years later I gave birth to my last child and I couldn’t be happier with my decision. I was just lucky I had the $50.

My only advice to women in childbearing age is to vote.

And not work for Hobby Lobby.

Running Away and Joining The Circus

The circus always freaked me out inside. On the outside I was fine.  “Yay, circus… as long as I can eat peanuts.” But not on the inside. My inside was all “Shit, the damn circus.”

It wasn’t the clowns. Everyone is always bitching about the clowns. I have no beef with clowns. Mimes, yes. Mimes are super freaky. Why are you in a box? Why are you holding a flower but everything else is expressed though gestures and accompanied by music? Yikes. Clowns, whatever. Unless we are talking about the clown from It, and I don’t think we are.

The circus freaked me out for many reasons. The complete “freak show” of it all was a big part of it, and I’m not talking the “bearded lady” or the “tattooed man”… that was never part of the circus I grew up with. Now that I live in Florida that is the crazy shit you see at the fair. I’d never been to a fair in New York. The fair is a completely different post. The freak show part of the circus (for me) was that it was a stage show, not like Shakespeare in the Park or My Fair Lady, those are actual stage shows; but that it had all of these animals and performers looking like they belonged somewhere else. I cannot think of a single thing stranger than seeing an elephant in the same place I have seen a hockey game. That’s just fucking ridiculous. I’m not even a huge animal rights advocate but at 7 years old, when my grandmother took me to the circus, I knew it didn’t fit.

As a Stay-At-Home-Mom I’m with my kids all day, everyday.

ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.

If you’re not a Stay-At-Home-Parent just let that resonate a little bit. Let it marinate in your brain until you feel it. Do you feel it? Good. If you are at home, like me, know this, I FEEL YOU!

On Sunday my husband doesn’t work, and under normal circumstances I usually get some sort of reprieve from my band of merry men. I don’t get mani’s or pedi’s or massages or facials. Usually I just leave the house for an hour. 60 minutes where I don’t have to do shit for anyone else. That is 1 hour for me out of the 168 for everyone else. Boom.

Until recently.

Hubby has been coaching a soccer team and they have had tournaments on Sunday for the last couple weeks.

Today was the first Sunday Hubby had been home in a long while.

I NEEDED A BREAK.

As I grabbed my purse and keys to “go to the store” I said.. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I’m gonna take my sweet ass time.” He smiled and nodded as I sprinted out the door like a teenager heading to a kegger.

As I put the key in the ignition I actually thought of just GOING…

Driving… driving away… far, far, away… Going to Key West… Or Miami… or joining the circus.

And that, my friends, THAT, is how batshit fucking crazy these kids can make you. They can drive you to the brink. Screw that, they can push you way beyond the brink. Screw that, I’m at the point where I don’t even recognize the brink. The brink? What brink? The fact that I even considered (just for one hot minute) running away to join the circus (an entity that I’ve always loathed in its entirety) as a happily ever after from my current home life situation says volumes in itself.

Besides, I don’t have nearly enough tattoos.

 

 

Aunt Flo Gone Wild

So this is what it’s come to…

Pitiful.

It’s almost as if my body has decided to revolt against me.

Menstruation after motherhood is straight up cruel.

I’m wearing a pair of leopard print, full bottom, granny panties to bed. Sayonara thong back. Why you ask? Oh the reason is ridiculous. After giving birth to 3 beautiful boys, I had a tubal ligation. A procedure I would do again in a heartbeat, because I know we are done having children. But I definitely would have thought twice about this decision if someone had warned me about what having my tubes tied would mean to my body, my menstrual cycle and my energy level.

The baby is 4 months and 3 weeks old. This is now the 6th time I’ve had my period since his birth. Crazy right? And this time, Aunt Flo decided to get here a week before she was scheduled. There is nothing worse than an unwanted and unexpected house guest when you have a family to think about.

Many family members act differently after you have another child. You can have jealous brothers and sisters, wishing that they too where adding children to their mix. Your own parents can either be supportive or think you have lost your damn mind, and usually, your other children are either pleased or disappointed by having a new sibling… but Aunt Flo? Aunt Flo had handled it the worst.

She never just walks in through the front door at lunchtime anymore… Nope, now her flight comes in at midnight or 2 am. You’re groggy and tired and well… bleeding like you’re dying. Aunt Flo can do that to you. Because you’ve known her a long damn time. You’re used to her bullshit. But after kids? Her bullshit has been magnified 10 times over. I really wouldn’t mind the old Aunt Flo, with her old ways. But the fact that she’s waking me up every 2 hours for clean underwear is incorrigible. I mean, the bitch has been in my life for 24 years. I should already know what’s up. Now she is no longer comfortable with the bedding I have, the towels I have, the tampons I have… now, after 24 years of “sisterhood” Aunt Flo needs pads again. Really?  What in the sweet fuck is that? Pads? I’m not 12.

Nope, not 12. The 3 children in front of me asking for fruit snacks and Slurpees are a daily reminder of my age. Sadly, Aunt Flo hasn’t gotten the memo. That bitch never checks her inbox. EVER! Honestly, after that last 5 months of the new Aunt Flo, I’m really starting to miss the first time Aunt Flo showed up unannounced.

It was a track meet in the 8th grade and I was 13. I was wearing green short shorts with gold trim (think 80’s) and my stomach hurt horribly. Of course I thought it was nerves. I had just finished a 100 yard dash and I was warming up for my long jumps. I was young. I was gangly. I was boobless. I thought I had years to go until I met Flo. That’s when Aunt Flo decided to sashay into the track meet. Decked out in a flowing red dress, red hat as if she was about to watch the Kentucky Derby, 6 inch stiletto heels and all. I left the track meet in pain and shame, dreading to tell my mother that we’d have to set up a room for my “unannounced visitor”.

I begged Mom not to tell my father. Although we were close I just didn’t think that “my” Aunt Flo was any of “his” business. Of course, he brought me home a dozen white roses and I cried. I didn’t want to have to hang out with Aunt Flo every 28 days. I didn’t want to be a “woman”. I was still just a girl.

Aunt Flo and I have never been besties. I mean, how could we be? Always wondering if she was coming… or going because Hubby had already come. Pregnancies were a lovely and wanted distraction from her monthly visits. But then our final son was born. And I guess Aunt Flo really missed me. Or she is now working with Tampax and the pad companies as a lobbyist… either way, she’s obviously teamed up with Lady Macbeth and they are, at present, playing a high stakes game of Texas Hold-em in my uterus.

Lady Macbeth just took the pot with a straight flush. I need to go lay down.

19 kids and counting? That Duggar woman is starting to seem like the smartest chick on earth.

 

Hey Lady, Your Bigot is Showing

I’m really in the wrong profession.

This whole “Stay-At-Home-Mom” thing isn’t very lucrative and since I obviously have a face or a demeanor that makes every batshitcrazy person on earth feel like they can confess their innermost thoughts to me, maybe I should be a shrink, or a probation officer… or a priest.

Okay, the Priest thing is a bit far-fetched.  Firstly because I’m a woman and secondly because I’m Jewish.

I never thought much of what other people thought of my religious beliefs.  Maybe because I was born into Judaism, maybe because I grew up in a proverbial melting pot of religions and different ethnicities, maybe because I watched a large amount of Sesame Street in the 1970’s.  Whatever the reason, I really believe that a person is defined by their actions, and that is what makes them a good human being.  But as I’m getting older I’m discovering the hard way that more and more people are walking around with bigotry and hate in their hearts and their minds.  And now that I have brought 3 children into this world this fact is extremely discouraging.

My husband’s cousin and I went out for lunch today.  The baby had just gotten some inoculations at the Doctor and was a bit crabby.  When I finally was able to get him to nap I was just super excited to get some girl time with my friend and enjoy some delicious lunch.

I’ve always been friendly and, come to find out, my cute baby is a conversation piece to many people.  I’m always happy to oblige… I mean how can you dislike someone standing with you and complimenting your child?  I can’t.  I’m a sucker for the kid compliments.  And it’s usually a pretty welcome part of life as my days are mostly spent without adult interaction, unless you count the bag boy at the supermarket.  So, when our waitress started with the small talk I was more than happy to oblige…

“So, my daughter has a 2-year-old.  And she wants to have more… but her husband put his foot down and said only after their son is 5.”

Wow, 5? That sounds pretty arbitrary…

“Yeah, I told her, that’s too much of an age difference.”

{My first 2 kids are 5 years apart, but to each his own}

“Well, you know what the real problem with her husband is?”

What is that?

“He’s a Jew… {at this point she must have seen the shocked look on our faces}  You know, Jews are notoriously stingy with money.”

Oh are they?  Well I’m a Jew.

“Oh but you’re a woman… I don’t know, are lady Jews stingy?”

{Shock.  Disbelief.  Is this chick crazy?}

I don’t think so, but then again I also don’t think my religious practices or my lady parts have anything to do with how I spend my money.

{Can she see this conversation is nuts?  She has to know how bizarre this conversation is?}

“Well, he makes my daughter work… and pay for daycare too.  She can’t stay at home and she can’t even drive his new car.”

I hate to break it to you… Louise, is it?  But I don’t think that being a Jew is your son-in-law’s problem.  I think the problem is that he is just… a dick.

And there it is.  The elephant in the room.  Some people are just assholes.  And because they are assholes people will take what they lack in their personality and group them together by the whole of their parts.  And you know what?

I’m tired of it.

Judge me on me.

Judge me based upon my actions and nothing else.

At that exact moment, what I wanted to do was bitch slap this lady and scream in her face, “Hey lady, your bigot is showing!”  What I wanted to do was talk to her manager and have her fired for being such a judgemental piece of shit.  I wanted her to feel as bad as she had made me feel just to show her how shitty it felt.

But that’s not me.  That’s anger.

I haven’t been that person in a very long time.

I don’t need you to feel bad so that I can feel better.

I can feel better just by remembering that I am better… better than this whole conversation.  Because I can walk away and go back to my life filled with love and poops, laughter and tears, food and wine, stitches and skinned knees, laundry and little bickering voices, and baby belly laughs.

I will have pity in my heart for that woman because she doesn’t know any better.  And she’ll never have the pleasure of getting to know me.

Period.

I still tipped her 15% because she did take our order, serve our food, refill our drinks and promptly bring us our check.  I appreciate the fact that someone else waited on me.  There is value in that.  Her son-in-law might be the cheapest bastard on the planet.  But I am not.

She performed her job.

As for her people skills?  She should probably avoid public speaking.  Unless it’s for the KKK.

Tonight I’ll read my sons The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss before bed.

And hopefully, if the time ever comes, they too will be able to turn the other cheek no matter what side of bread you choose to butter.

My Toddler, Chuck Norris

I cook almost every night.

Sometimes it’s an escape.  I day-dream that I”m a world-class chef about to serve my love on a plate to some A-list celebs.  They rant and rave about the party in their mouth.

Sometimes it’s a freaking chore and a half because in actuality I’m cooking for a bunch of little boys who would prefer frozen chicken nuggets and Velveeta shells and cheese to any of my homemade delicacies.

Back in our heyday… BC (Before Children), the Hubby and I would dine out quite a bit.  At least 5 nights a week.  It was a complete and total waste of money but in BC world, money didn’t matter.  We worked, we ate, we drank.  I vividly remember leaving my job (where I got to wear pencil skits, fitted button down shirts and heels) and going to a bar… ALONE… and indulging in many dirty martinis.  BC was the shit.

Fast forward to now… AD (After Delivery), and dining out is a novelty.  And with 3 kids you have to be prepared that their behavior will quickly go to shit and you won’t even get to eat.  That’s happened on numerous occasions.  One kid will act up right after we order and we will run from the restaurant, to-go boxes in hand.

Saturday night we went out for dinner with the children.  We had a fantastic time, the food was excellent and they were really well-behaved.  It was bliss and completely out of the norm.

We had leftovers from that dinner which our waiter kindly sent us home with.  I’ve been dreaming about this doggie bag for two damn days!  I couldn’t wait to be able to quietly and without interruption enjoy them for lunch today.

But the best laid plans can always go to shit.

The big kids were at camp, the baby was taking a nap and it was just mommy time.  That in itself should have had me on high alert but I was just so excited for my food.  The microwave beep made my mouth water!  I was super hungry.  I hunkered down with a huge plate of food on the coffee table while I sat down to eat on the couch (a big no-no in front of the kids).  I was watching some amazingly mindless daytime television and had just popped the second bite of food in my mouth when the phone rang.  I absent-mindedly answered it expecting to hear a solicitor on the other end.

It was not a solicitor.

It was camp.

My 3-year-old had been running, slipped, and fell (headfirst) into a metal bleacher.  He was fine, but bleeding and they thought he needed to see a doctor.

I put down my fork, packed up the baby, and rushed off to Middle Monkey with speed and focus that I had forgotten I possessed back in BC.

The fifteen minute drive to camp felt like hours.  It was raining and there was a cop behind me.  Sometimes having a wonderful imagination is a bad, bad thing.  This was one of those times. Visions of my beautiful but precocious child bleeding and crying blurred my vision.  When I finally arrived at camp I didn’t even turn off the car or move the baby, I just threw my car in park, left it running and went to assess the damage.

As I met the camp director at the curb she filled me in…

“He’s doing great.  He’s such a trooper.  The cut looks deep.  We have it under control.  He might need stitches.  He didn’t even CRY.”

Wait? What?

“Yeah, he didn’t even cry.  Not at all. He’s unbelievable.”

{Unbelievable is an understatement}

As I walked into the nurse’s office I found my little man, sipping on a juice box with a big gauze pad taped to his forehead.

“Hi Mom.  I fell.”

I heard buddy.  You okay.

“Yeah, I okay.”

Does your head hurt?

“A little.”

Holy shit.

My kid is Chuck Norris.

This little boy, who cries when he can’t have two packs of fruit snacks… This little shit, who annoys his brother to the ends of the earth, where he is finally forced to use physical violence to subdue him (barely) and then he cries like a hungry infant… This MONSTER, who weeps when I ask him to pick up a book/a toy/a sock, or worse, put down the toilet seat… This terror who sobs when he has to finish his dinner to get desert… doesn’t cry when it’s the real-time for tears?

The time when he could really be hurt and everything should be super scary is the time he has decided to be cool, calm, and collected.

Fuckin’ Chuck Norris.

And he really didn’t cry.

Through 3 hours at the emergency room, through 5 stitches in his forehead (right above his eyebrow) he was the biggest 3-year-old badass I’ve ever seen in my life.

When we arrived back home he ate an ice cream sandwich and fell asleep watching The Lego Movie.

I’m just sitting here watching him sleep and counting my blessings that this was our first trip to the ER with 3 boys and it was only for stitches.

My leftovers can wait until tomorrow.

 

The Evil Queen, Chicken and Dumplings, and Snow “One More” Bite

The boys started asking for chicken and dumplings two days ago…

Asking?  Not really.  More like begging.

But it’s summer and we’re in Florida.  It’s freaking hotter than Hades up in here.  I was hoping they’d just forget about it.  Nope.  Not that lucky.

I get it… shredded chicken, creamy sauce, yummy dumplings. Amazing. I make a mean Chicken and Dumplings.

So tonight (when they were at soccer practice) I began the process.

It’s not that chicken and dumplings is difficult to execute.  It’s not even that chicken and dumplings is super labor intensive… under normal circumstances.  But I have 3 kids.  And there is nothing normal about having 3 kids and trying to make meals from scratch.

The 9-year-old loves and eats everything.  Always with a please and a thank you.  I would travel the world with Boy Wonder.  And my first stop would be Japan or India.  Boy Wonder would make us proud in any culinary situation.  His love of food is the reason I learned to cook.  And he’s pretty appreciative of my skills.

The Middle Monkey isn’t a fantastic eater.  Compared to other kids his age he eats wonderfully… but by our family standards?  He’s a shitty eater.  Unless he wants to eat…  and since he’s been asking for chicken and dumplings for days I thought this was a no brainer.  But now… now??  Not so much.  I get it.  He’s 3.   It’s all about power and control when you’re 3.  3 year old’s are like mini Napoleon.

We are all almost done with dinner and of course, Middle Monkey is starting his normal shit “I don’t like chicken.  I don’t want this bite.  I don’t like vegetables.”  It’s enough to make a sane man crazy.

My poor Hubby.  He is the sane man.  He’s rational, he’s all heart and he loves his family.  And while he’s sitting next to Middle Monkey saying “Have two more bites and then one more bite.”  This is our normal coercion eating tactic with this child.  I’m in the kitchen doing the dishes (already fed up) saying

“Just have him eat.  Stop spooning it for him… Jeez.  If he doesn’t want it that’s fine.  No desert then.” 

I’m not the sane one.  I’ve lost my patience long ago.  I’m the Pink Floyd parent… “If you don’t eat your meat you can’t have any pudding.”

I guess everyone has a breaking point. Cause that’s when Hubby broke.  It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him angry..

“I’m tired of you not eating!  I’m tired of Mommy being mad!  You can just go to bed RIGHT NOW!”

And with lighting speed Daddy hauled Middle Monkey off to his room and put him in a time out.  You could hear the 3-year-old scream as he closed the door.

He saw the look of unhappiness on my face right away…

“What? This is ridiculous! You’re right. I get it.”

It’s not about being right. It’s about us not babying him.

“That’s why I finally said screw this.”

I know that babe, but you blamed it on me.

“I what? That’s insane!”

You said, “I’m tired of mommy being mad!”

“Well, I am. And you most definitely are.”

Yes, you are right on that, I am over this dinnertime bullshit dance he does. A dance that we let him do. But one minute you’re helping spoon-feed him and playing Lets Make a Deal, and the next… the next you banish him.

“Jeez, I did do that, didn’t I?”

Yup. So now I’m the Evil Queen and he’s Snow “one more” Bite.

“Good lord… I get it. I’ll go get the prince.”

Fingers crossed that dinnertime goes a bit better tomorrow evening.

The story of Snow White has been retold a million times over.

I’m not really a fan of fairy tales.

 

Incessant Questions: Why Motherhood is the Longest Job Interview Ever

I almost cracked this morning.

Legit, straight jacket, get thee to a nunnery Ophelia, cracked.

I was depositing a check into the ATM at the bank, an action I have done countless times.  An action that, is so simple, a trained chimp can do it.  Shit, my 3-year-old can most definitely do it.

But there I was.

Depositing a check.

And the machine had so many questions. Pin number?  Language choice?  Deposit?  Withdrawal?

Questions that should have been easy to answer.  Answers that I use everyday… but this morning,  I sat there, dumbfounded.  Shocked at the slow reaction time of my brain.

Then it happened.

I started to laugh.  And not just a giggle, a full on, no-holds-barred, belly laugh.  I sat in my car laughing for at least 6 minutes.  I laughed to long and so hard, I scared the baby.

After 3 consecutive days with all of my children, I am questioned out.

These kids are like little sponges, small but powerful and mighty super computers.  They all are little Johnny 5’s yelling at me… “Input! Need more input! Input!!! INPUT!”

I am their Encyclopedia Britannica.  The source of the start of all knowledge.  And I am tapped out.  I’m tired of talking.  I’m tired of answering.  I’m tired of questions.

Because there is a 5 year age difference between my oldest 2, I’m slowing discovering that the questions asked of me are on 2 different levels of my consciousness.  The 3-year-old asks questions of evolution and general ideas about life and science…

“Where do lollipops grow?”

“Will I be big like Daddy one day?”

“Is Daddy your brother?”

“How your ‘gina (short for vagina) work?”

“Where did I grow?”

While the 9-year-old asks questions of fact…

“Do I have soccer tonight?”

“What did you pack me for lunch?”

“Do I have to read everyday this week?”

“When does so-and-so get back from sleep away camp”

“Can I play with my cousin on Wednesday?”

This huge age difference forces me to recesses of my brain I didn’t know existed.  If the average human only uses 10% of their brain, I’m pretty sure the average mom is forced to use more.  Where the hell is Alex Trebeck when you need him?

Of course, like every mom, I want my kids to be well-rounded, inquisitive and knowledgeable.  I answer all their copious questions with as much of a straight face as I can keep and to the best of my knowledge based upon their level of understanding.  But, MY G-D… I feel like I am on the longest job interview EVER!!  And I don’t see the end in sight.

No one likes interviewing for a job.  Personally, I’d rather have a root canal, it is quicker and less painful.  If you are interviewing for a job that means one of two things… either you are out of work (in that case the job interview is really high pressure because you need a job) or you hate your current job and are looking for something else (in that case the dream job just seems to be right there… you can almost touch it… also very high stress).

But here’s the thing about the job interview that is Motherhood…

I ALREADY HAVE THIS JOB!

It’s mine.

My resume has been checked and is on file.  Background check?  Done. You little animals have my DNA.  References? Ask your father. And your grandma. Ask your other grandma.  But the incessant questions will continue, no matter what.

They will always have questions for me.

Maybe about quantum physics or my past, or their future, or what color is made when you mix red and white… and no matter how much I’d like to hide in the closet with my headphones on listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album in its entirety, on repeat… I can’t.

At least not today.

Because they asked for Chicken and Dumplings for dinner and I’m gonna make it.

At least with that, I just have to follow the recipe.

The Nap Drop and How I’ve Screwed Myself This Summer

Parenting doesn’t come with a manual.  Period.

When I’ve tried to describe parenting to people without kids I often use the example of a scientist.  Each kid at each different stage of their life is almost like coming up with a hypothesis and trying to either prove or disprove said theory.  Everyday you suit up in your lab coat (yoga pants), you have your Bunsen burners (microwave) and your beakers (bottles of formula) and you keep meticulous notes (post-it’s piled on the refrigerator door) as to your findings.

Dropping my 3-year-old’s nap this summer was a bad idea.  It was a hypothesis that has been completely disproved by my toddlers personality late in the day.  It is entirely my fault and I will take one for the team on this.

He was not ready.

He is not ready.

But the problem with kids, unlike scientific data… is that they are human beings.  You can only manipulate kids so far, while scientific findings can be skewed to the left or the right.  And this ain’t G.I. Jane. We can’t “un-ring” that bell.  I will never be able to get nap time back now that he has seen the no-nap world.

When we started planning for the summer we decided to send both of our older kids to the same day camp.  The 9-year-old loves this camp and it just seemed like the logical and proximate choice for his little brother as well.

Only problem, camp ends at 3:45… which is 45 minutes after my toddler would usually start his nap.

“No problem”, I said.  “He can handle it”, I said.

Silly mommy, naps are for 3-year-olds.

He’s now a month into camp and although he loves being a big boy and all his new friends he comes home from his day cranky and exhausted.  Trying to get him to lay down and relax at 4 in the afternoon is pointless and futile.  He won’t do it.  A couple of times he’s passed out on the ride home but I can count those instances on one hand.  And when he has fallen asleep in the car he has only once stayed asleep when I brought him into the house.

In so many words… I’m fucked.

The afternoon nap was a win/win situation for everyone involved. The toddler got much-needed rest, and woke up ready to wreak havoc on the rest of us with a smile on his face.  I had 2 much-needed hours of time without him.  I was able to accomplish so much in the afternoon.  I will look back on the time of nap as a peaceful time, before I marred the kingdom with my foolish dreams where I wasn’t a captive in my own home from 3 to 5PM.

All I can do now is pass on the wisdom of my idiocy to you.  Please, please, please… for the love of all things holy, hear my cry (actually, at this point it’s more of a sob mixed with a wail followed by a gulp of wine).

If you are still blessed enough to have a napping child… hold onto this time with a fierce grip. Heed the words of Jack from the Titanic and “don’t let go”.  Screw Frozen… and “don’t let it go”.  I’m telling you this because I don’t want anyone to go through the evenings of crying and whining and complete exhaustion I’m going through right now.  I’m telling you this because no sane person should have to deal with a 3-year-old attached to your leg, crying, “DADDY!!!! DAAAAADDDYYY!! I WANT DAAAAADDDDY!!!” over and over again for 45 minutes as you try to roast a chicken and your Hubby is running late.

I’m telling you this as a public service.

I’m telling you this as a friend.

Learn from my mistake.

Long live the nap!