Confessions of a Scary Mommy Page 11

  Okay, so we’re not really enemies, since it would require her to actually know I exist.

  Come to think of it, I don’t even know her name. But still, I’m not a big fan of hers, and for good reason. Well, understandable reason, at least . . . As I huff and puff my way into the pool area, snapping at my children and dripping with sweat and tangible frustration, she glides onto the cement, effortlessly. She has a baby in her arms and three other children obediently by her side while my three fight over my two hands the whole time. She always looks like a million bucks, this horrid woman, her tanned body rocking the killer—gasp, white—bikini. She’s composed, her hair is impeccable, and she’s always laughing. The first few times I saw her, I logically presumed she was the Swedish nanny—what mother of four looks like that?! A gorgeous nanny, I could live with. It was still annoying how enjoyable she found the whole hellacious experience, but I didn’t find it personally offensive. She was getting paid for it—it was her job to have fun! Unfortunately, though, last summer, I got the devastating news. She’s their mother; all of them. Four young children, whom she carried and birthed, ranging from an infant to a five-year-old. She held them in that washboard stomach and nursed them from those perky tits. And that is why I despise her, Mrs. Fucking Swimsuit Model.

  I do my very best to ignore her and concentrate on the task at hand: the water. For some reason, until I had kids, the notion of people frolicking in communal pools didn’t really get to me. Maybe it’s because I was always clean and naively assumed that others were as well. Once I had kids, though, I learned firsthand just how nasty the little creatures are. The way they sweat and the way their feet stink. The skinned, bloody knees and the way they eat their own boogies. They are just gross, gross creatures. Suddenly, sharing a big, warm bath with them isn’t so appealing.

  And that’s on a good day. On a bad day, you’ll hear children announce that they just peed in the pool, making you realize that they can’t be the only ones and the pool is green for a reason. And then things can get really shitty. Everyone has been inconvenienced by some kid taking a crap in the water, but can all mothers claim that child as their very own? I can. It happened on the hottest day of the summer a few years ago, and the pool was shut down for a full twenty-four hours after Evan identified the floating brown thing as his own. Not the best way to make friends in a new neighborhood, that’s for sure.

  And then there’s my own meshuggaas. Water happens to be the one place where I hang up my cool, relaxed mom hat and become the neurotic mother who normally drives me nuts. But water is scary. If the kids trip and fall running, they’ll get a bruised knee. If they fall off of a swing, they might get a bump on the head. But accidents in the water? That’s a whole other ball game, and not one that I want to mess around with. No way am I going to trust a bikini-wearing, sixteen-year-old lifeguard with my most precious belongings. When I am at the pool, I take my job very seriously. My job? Keep my children alive.

  I glance around and see other mothers of young children engrossed in their books or glancing up from conversation and wonder how on earth they can be so relaxed. And then I feel that I need to keep an eye on their children as well. I may as well buy a lifeguard shirt and get a whistle. Who thought it a good idea to put children in an environment they could drown in, anyway? For me, fun is entirely out of the question. It’s about survival.

  My kids, on the other hand, think it’s the best thing ever. “Mommy, look at me do a flip!” “Mommy, watch me hold my breath!” “Mommy, did you see that?!” “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I swear, I get whiplash just from following their directions.

  It’s fucking exhausting.

  Unlike me, my kids are never, ever ready to leave the pool, no matter how long I have suffered. We swim for a few hours, have a snack, and then they want to swim some more. We play Marco Polo and I give piggyback rides. We play in the sandbox and then the pool again. It’s never enough.

  In order to actually get out of this twelve-foot-deep death trap, I’m always stuck bribing them with ice cream or threatening them with “If you don’t stop acting like this, we won’t be coming back.” It’s a threat that I actually mean and would love to follow through with. If I can’t leave without three children melting down and making a scene, I won’t do it again. The rare punishment that would actually benefit me.

  Unfortunately, the threats inevitably whip them into shape, and we’re back sooner rather than later. At the pool. Otherwise known as hell on earth.

  Chapter 22

  DIDN’T I ALREADY GRADUATE?

  Mommy Confessions

  • TV taught my daughter to read and I took the credit. Thanks, PBS Kids! You’re the best!

  • When my daughter asked me what comes after a trillion I told her “a gazillion.” Um, we are homeschoolers. Not supposed to just make shit up.

  • My daughter’s homework confuses me. She’s nine.

  • Do kids really need to learn how to spell? Isn’t that what spell-check is for?

  • I sincerely hope my kids get my looks and my husband’s brains. If it’s the other way around, they’re screwed.

  • If public schools are free, why in the world am I constantly writing them checks?

  • I homeschool my kids. Honestly, I have no idea what the hell I am doing.

  • I suspect my son will surpass me in math by about fourth grade . . . I’m tempted to tell him he actually doesn’t need any more math than that to succeed in the real world.

  • I do all of my daughter’s school projects for her. It’s nice to actually DO something for a change.

  • I refuse to sign up for PTA. Been there, done that. Wish I could go back and warn the sweet, naive young me who once tried to “get involved”!

  • God bless recess teachers . . . walking around a playground filled with hundreds of children is something I actually have nightmares about.

  • I wonder whether my kids’ teachers are as excited about summer starting as I am about school starting back up.

  • My daughter is learning about topic sentences, supporting details, and conclusions. Huh? Better her than me.

  • I can’t stand kids. Too bad I’m an elementary school teacher.

  • I pack healthy lunches for my kids solely because I don’t want their teachers to judge me.

  • I yelled at my son all morning for being difficult and slow . . . the school just called for me to pick him up; he’s got a 103 fever. I feel like an ass.

  • I’m terrified that my son will be a nerd and get bullied like I was. I don’t want that kind of pain for him.

  • I wish I was one of those moms who miss their kids when they’re at school, but some school days are just not long enough.

  • I’ve never, ever volunteered at my kid’s school and I’m a stay-at-home mom.

  • I let my kids stay home sick from school when I know they’re not even sick because I like the company.

  • Most nights, I end up doing my son’s homework for him. It’s wrong, but just so much easier.

  • My four-year-old is going to think I’m an idiot because I keep answering his 32,094,230,940 questions with “I don’t know” or “Ask Daddy.”

  A few years ago, my dad sold the town house he’d been living in since I was a college student. When it came time to move from the place, he presented me with a big box containing all of my transcripts and report cards from kindergarten through senior year of college. Some of the papers I’d never even seen and some I had long ago tried to banish from my memory. As I thumbed through them all, I was struck with a single thought: my children sure as hell better be more impressive students than I was.

  My grades weren’t awful, not bad even, but phrases like “lack of focus” and “not living up to potential” were echoed year after year after year. Teachers criticized my inability to concentrate on the task at hand, claiming I was a daydreamer and a doodler. They said I lacked ambition. It was clear that I just “wasn’t giving it my all.” But I couldn’t help it. I didn�
�t like sitting in a classroom when the weather was a balmy seventy-five, and the grass was a far more comfortable location to learn. I didn’t like taking tests or worrying about grades or rehearsing for speeches on states I’d never been to. I resented being told that I held my pencil the wrong way or, later, that typing one-handed was incorrect. When I graduated, I swear, I heard the angels singing from the heavens. (Or perhaps it was my teachers. Either way.) Hallefreakinglujah. I was done!

  Or so I thought.

  The feeling hit me as I was walking down the halls during Lily’s kindergarten orientation, like a ton of heavy textbooks. The little desks and lockers and chalkboards filled me with familiar dread. The building even smelled like the exact same mix of industrial cleaning supplies and musty old library books that I remember my own school having, twenty years before.

  I was back. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  Ben is in kindergarten this year and it serves as a constant reminder that I have yet to master even the most basic of skills. Penmanship, for instance. I’d argue that his handwriting is more legible than mine at this point. These days, I can barely read my own notes. I would have made a really good doctor, at least where handwriting is concerned. The other big lesson he’s studying? Sharing—a skill I’ve never quite mastered myself. If I could password-protect everything belonging to me, I would. My food, my computer, my bed—they’re all mine! Hell, I would draw a permanent line down the middle of our king-size bed to prevent interlocking legs or wandering arms belonging to my sleeping husband. I frequently wake him with “That’s my side!” when he’s coming dangerously close to invading my personal space. I don’t share drinks with the kids because of that backwash thing, and I resent giving up the last bite of my dessert. What’s mine is mine and what’s theirs is theirs. Clearly, I wasn’t paying attention in school even at the age of five.

  And then there’s the homework. As a student, it just seemed horribly unfair to have to continue the fractions and spelling when I was done with the day, when Barbie dolls and crayons called my name. I stomped my feet and fought with my parents and did everything I could do to get out of actually sitting down and attacking the bastard. It sucked to be me. As a parent, it sucks more.

  Though Lily is only eight, her homework assignments perplex me. All those years of falling asleep in math class and having successfully convinced my principal to let me drop calculus for pottery have come back to haunt me. Even her English work is over my head. Sure, I know how to properly write a sentence, but dissect it? No clue. Predicates? Clauses? Compound sentences? I’m already drowning. Years and years of confusion and frustration at the kitchen table have flashed before my eyes. Screaming matches, hair pulling, and tears, from both of us. If this is lower elementary, how the hell am I going to survive the later grades? Turns out, I’m not smarter than a second grader.

  As a parent, there’s so much more to school than just school. The PTA, for example. The Parent-Teacher Association should be a thing of good. A thing of purity. A thing of grace. Unfortunately, for me, it’s more like a thing that nightmares are made of, far worse than forgetting about a test or walking down the halls naked.

  I discovered, early on, that there is little room for casual volunteering at school. Once you start with, say, the gateway Halloween party or something, there is no going back—you’ve claimed that task for life. And it’s not the actual volunteering that’s bad. It’s nice to be involved in your child’s education. It’s wonderful to get to know the teachers and the syllabus and to be able to envision your child in each of his or her classes. Of course. It’s the other parents that kill me. Everything just has to be so . . . complicated. I was once on a party committee that took the group three hours to name. There were votes and discussions and pros and cons about a freaking party. Don’t even get me started on how long the invitations took to settle. Days. Seriously. Just give me a task and let me do it the way I want to. That’s the kind of volunteering I can handle.

  If the PTA is overly complicated, it’s usually thanks in no small part to the PTA president. No matter what the school, the state, or the religious affiliation, the PTA president is usually the same. It must be part of the job requirement. Her hair, whatever color it may be, is usually pulled back into a tight ponytail. She carries around a clipboard, and sometimes a microphone, too. She is usually dressed in some sort of high-end athletic gear, her tight ass bouncing as she quickly bolts by. She knows everything about everyone and makes coffee on par with the best shop in town. She’s always in a hurry, off to extinguish (or ignite) some school fires concerning bake sales or teachers’ gifts. Sure, she might look all kind and innocent, but beware: she’s got motives. And those motives? To suck you into her world.

  A big part of her world is the dreaded fund-raising. As a kid, it’s mildly fun to go carting cookies from house to house, competing with your friends for top sales. But to a parent, fund-raising is a dirty little word. It brings out the worst in people, despite the fact that it’s all for a good cause. When I was a kid, fund-raisers were limited to yearly chocolate pawning and the annual car wash. These days, it’s everything from wrapping paper to calendars to soap, numerous times throughout the year. Parents camp out at grocery stores and movie theaters and peddle the goods at office lunches and conferences. It’s insanity. And who wants an overpriced roll of wrapping paper, anyway? How about something we actually want to buy? Alcohol, for instance. That would be the perfect school fund-raiser. Or how about a sickroom for children with lingering fevers to spend the day hanging out in instead of being at home? Or classes over winter break? Practical things that I, for one, would gladly pay for.

  Even the things that once seemed the most simple for students are challenging this time around, like actually getting to school. For a kid, mornings might not be pleasant, but they certainly aren’t all that complicated. You pretty much roll out of bed, get dressed, and get driven to school, oblivious to the behind-the-scenes action that is surely taking place. For a mother, mornings of young, school-age children are a carefully orchestrated combination of timing, skill, and luck. It’s nothing short of an act of God to get three children to school by eight, looking halfway presentable.

  They need to be awoken prematurely and dressed. Lunches need to be assembled. Forms need to be signed. Breakfast needs to be prepared. Teeth need to be brushed. Bags need to be packed. Shoes double laced. All before the children would even like to be awake. Or at least fully functioning. On a good day, I get everyone out the door relatively unscathed. On the challenging days? I’m dripping with sweat and hyperventilating in the car pool lane. Really, it’s all almost enough to make me consider keeping the kids home day after day after day after day and just teaching them myself.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’d rather just complain.

  I must have been paying attention the day they taught that lesson.

  Chapter 23

  GIRL, REPEATED

  Mommy Confessions

  • I’m torn between wanting the absolute best for my daughter and being jealous that she has it so much better than I ever did.

  • Being the mother of daughters, I know why some animals eat their young.

  • My daughter told me today that she never wants to speak to me again. She’s three. Why did I want girls, again?

  • For years, I prayed for a girl. And then I had one and prayed that she’d become more like my son.

  • My daughter is so much prettier than I ever was. I can’t help but be jealous.

  • I buy my girls nice clothes and shoes in an effort to ensure they are cool.

  • If I can’t survive my daughter as a toddler, how the hell am I going to get through the teenage years?

  • All my life, I wanted a girl. Finally I got one and she’s the biggest tomboy in the world. I love her, but kind of feel gypped.

  • I don’t like my daughter’s teacher because she’s prettier than me.

  • Having a girl is so much more complicated than having boys
. Not sure I’m up for this.

  • I’m disappointed that my daughter is not as pretty as I imagined her.

  • My daughter only whines when I’m around. Makes me think there’s something suspicious in her DNA.

  • I’m insanely jealous of my daughter’s legs.

  • My girls are the cool kids that I never was. I’m equally envious and proud.

  The summer of my seventh-grade year, many of the girls in my class got their periods. Of course, we didn’t call it a period back then; it was simply referred to as “it.” “Did you hear so-and-so got it on the playground?” or “She has it, that’s why she didn’t feel like going to the party” or “When you get it, did you know that you need to stay in bed with the lights out all day?” All we did was think about it, whisper about it, and plan for . . . it.

  The girls who were on the early end of the development chart were the lucky ones that summer. Suddenly they were experienced and so much more worldly than those of us who rushed to the bathroom, every day, to see whether we had a surprise waiting in our days-of-the-week underpants. I wasted countless hours just willing my period to arrive, waiting for the day when I would finally become a woman.

  It came, without much pomp and circumstance, one October day of my eighth-grade year. And it was, without a doubt, the biggest disappointment of my short life. Where was the glamour? The feeling of being a grown-up? The excitement? There ought to have been a T-shirt blazoned with “I got my period and all I got was this lousy maxi pad.” What a bust. Along with bidding adieu to childhood, I also said good-bye to ever confidently wearing cream pants, feeling entirely comfortable in white sheets, and not breaking out like clockwork the third week of every month. If this was the dive into womanhood that I’d been waiting for, I wished I’d appreciated childhood more. And, although it all started with a period, it was only the beginning.