Confessions of a Scary Mommy Read online

  Obviously, I have no experience being a boy, but I can say from personal experience that being a girl isn’t easy. It’s confusing and emotional and turbulent and just plain hard. Surviving it myself was no small feat, and then I was lucky enough to have a daughter. I’m starting to realize that it may even be harder the second time around.

  I have the same amount of love for all my children. It’s perfect and equal and if my heart were a diagram, it would be sliced up in three pieces, each individually beating for the three of them. But that love is very different when it comes to Lily versus the boys. With the boys, my love is easy and simple. They are mysterious little creatures to me—the way they run around smashing their behinds together and can shoot a Nerf gun with perfect aim, yet are unable to direct their urine into a receptacle with more than enough room. Their needs are relatively easily met and there are few layers of emotional complexity. They are foreign and bizarre and I don’t see all that much of myself in them. I adore them in the purest of ways, without any other emotions junking it up.

  My relationship with Lily is another story entirely. My deep love for her is combined with a mixture of awe, concern, regret, and hope. Identifying with her the way I do, I somehow have a more complicated love for her. She loves fiercely and yells loudly and feels everything so strongly. The intensity is sometimes entertaining, but more often terrifying. The scariest thing? I remember exactly how it feels.

  I remember friendships being so volatile that I would scribble out girls’ names in my diary only to rewrite them on new, clean paper to paste over the scribbles. I remember cutting faces out of photographs and then needing to get reprints made once we resolved that particular battle and I again wanted their images adorning my walls. I remember being told that “hate” was way too strong a word to describe someone with whom I’d just had a sleepover the week before, but I also remember knowing that hatred was exactly what I was feeling. I’m always taken aback by the intensity of Lily’s friendships, but I shouldn’t be, because I lived them, too.

  I see Lily slyly eating chocolate and remember doing the exact same thing myself, as an early introduction to the world of fucked-up body image and food issues. Will she spend years yo-yoing and worrying about the fact that her body is flat in all the wrong places and round where she wishes it weren’t? Is it even possible to raise a daughter who won’t at some point have these issues? As painfully hard as I try, I fear that I am failing miserably. Am I sending the wrong message by putting lipstick on before leaving the house? Should I stop getting pedicures and just embrace the au naturel way my nails were born to look? Is adding blond highlights to my mousy-brown hair telling her that her hair is any less beautiful? I wonder about it all.

  I remember the person I was in high school, always on the outside looking in, and hope that she finds her place on the inside, where it’s far easier, while still maintaining a strong sense of who she is. But is that an impossibility, just like looking at food simply as fuel and moving because it’s natural to do so?

  I want for her everything that I wanted for myself back then and never got—the date to homecoming and the close group of fun girlfriends and the popularity and the confidence and the acceptance. But as a parent, I’d kind of rather she be stuck babysitting on a Saturday night like me, where I know she is safe and sound and out of trouble.

  I worry endlessly about her preteen and teen years. If this level of emotion and drama is what we’re dealing with at eight, what the hell do those years have in store for us? I kid myself into thinking that we may be dealing with the worst of it now, but I know that’s not the case. I dread acne and pudgy boobs and locker rooms and school dances. I ache for the time when someone breaks her heart and makes her question just how wonderful she really is. The thought that some punk could in an instant undo all of the confidence and self-assurance we have given her makes me ill.

  They say you only get what you can handle, and I’m pretty sure that’s why I ended up with only one girl. But I am forever thankful that the powers that be thought I was up to the task, because I wouldn’t trade my girl for the world.

  Even for one with less hysterics and door slamming.

  Chapter 24

  THE ACHING-OVARY EPIDEMIC

  Mommy Confessions

  • I want a baby just so I can do a dramatic announcement on my blog. Seriously.

  • I like my children best when they are newborns. I like them less every year after that.

  • I am dying for another baby and my husband has put his foot down. I’m devastated and tempted to “forget” to take my pills.

  • The only time my husband and I have sex is when we’re trying to get pregnant. I can’t wait for those two lines already.

  • I would be happy having a baby every year so I could always have a newborn. I’m destined to be some crazy freak with nineteen children, but I don’t care.

  • I used to think “baby fever” was an actual illness.

  • I want to have a baby just to beat my best friend to it. She always does everything first and it pisses me off.

  • I want another baby so badly that when I see puppies and kittens I automatically envision a newborn baby. I have three young kids already and DH would probably pass out if I told him I want another.

  • I love having babies. Kids, I’m not so crazy about.

  • I desperately want to have a baby, but only because my sister’s pregnant and it kills me to see her getting so much attention.

  • Sometimes I wish my son was still little—then I go to the store and hear kids screaming and I’m happy that I don’t have a little one anymore.

  • I told my husband I thought I wanted a baby and he came home with a freaking puppy. So not what I meant.

  I absolutely, positively do not want a baby.

  Three is, without a doubt, the perfect number of children for me. It’s neither too few for a rowdy game of tag, nor too many to fit comfortably around the kitchen table. I love the way they look, all lined up together, separated by two years and one foot, almost exactly. I love the triangle they form when they stand in a circle and the fact that, most times, there is at least one who is not driving me totally crazy. We can still drive home a friend or two from school, but the kids have enough entertainment at home to stay busy. A family of five is just right for us.

  I can’t even imagine what carrying and delivering another child would do to me; the souvenirs they have left on my body frustrate me daily. My midsection looks like a crime scene, purple spiders crawl up my legs, and my once bouncy and predictable hair is an undecided mess between curly and wavy. I have a patch of gray hair above my right temple that I attribute solely to Evan, and my hips never went back to their prebaby location. My feet are a full size larger than before and not a single one of my old high-heeled shoes even comes close to fitting my bloated, ugly-stepsister feet. I don’t even want to think about what my vagina would look like after pushing another kid out. Let’s not even go there.

  For the first time in eight years, I don’t have a child in diapers and that fact brings me immense joy, never mind immense savings. I no longer carry around a diaper bag, and if I’m really living on the edge, I can actually get away with just carrying a clutch during short outings. It’s liberating. I finally got rid of all our sippy cups and crib sheets and don’t miss schlepping around an infant carrier in the least. Things are finally getting easy.

  I remember back when I had babies, looking at the mothers who were long out of the young years and feeling pity for them. How sad that they no longer had adorable little feet to tickle and baby fat to grab, I thought. Their kids were more inclined to ignore them than shower them with sloppy kisses, and nobody stopped them at the mall anymore to tell them just how very irresistible their babies were. How sad that must be for them. Poor, poor mommies.

  Snort.

  I’m just starting to discover the benefits of having older children: The conversations with real people instead of mere animal noises and horrible baby
songs. The feelings of real pride, instead of just happiness, and the ability to enjoy doing things that I actually want to be doing with my family. They are turning into real human beings with real beliefs and identities, and it’s an amazing transformation to witness.

  And then there’s the beauty of the help they can offer. Instead of simply creating more work, older kids can actually help lessen it. Sure, Lily changes her clothes five times a day, but she also folds the laundry and puts it in drawers. They all help set the table and pick up leaves outside and can even walk the dog. Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, they’ll even fetch me a Diet Coke and rub my back. Having older kids is almost like having servants. For free. Seriously, it’s all kinds of awesome.

  Much as I do love the baby phase, I haven’t forgotten just how draining and consuming and frustrating it all is. I know I’m just not up for it all again.

  Really, I’m done.

  So why is it that when I spot a baby out and about I get the urge to just grab it and run for dear life? The ache in my ovaries is palpable.

  When friends show off newborn pictures on Facebook, I immediately go shopping for them, lusting after little pink and blue layettes and booties of my very own. I imagine Lily with the little sister she dreams of, or the boys with one more male in the house to roughhouse with. Halloween-themed costumes for four and a sweet little body falling asleep on my chest. Once again.

  If I’m really in the zone, I fantasize about how I would announce the big news to my husband, my parents, and even my blog readers. Matching big sister and big brother T-shirts? A dinner of little Cornish hens and baby carrots? I never did do a big, dramatic reveal with my other kids, since I was so busy dry heaving and sobbing, so this could be my chance.

  I waffle between wanting to rip out my IUD with my bare hands and take the plunge and wondering whether this is all just part of being a woman. Would I always feel like this, even if I ended up with six or seven children of my own? Does the baby lust ever go away, or is it just part of my DNA, programmed into me like pale skin and thin fingernails? I can never have enough candy corn, for instance, but always end up regretful and more than slightly nauseous. Would a baby have the same effect on me? I’m pretty sure it would.

  And really, it doesn’t matter. We can’t afford it, can’t agree on it, and I’m just not willing to make the necessary sacrifices. The end.

  I’m most definitely done.

  (I think.)

  Chapter 25

  THE MOMMY RACES

  Mommy Confessions

  • I think I’m a better mom than every single one of my girlfriends.

  • My sister refuses to buy organic food for her family and it makes me crazy. She can afford the best—why not give it to them?

  • People stare when I breast-feed my three-year-old, but we love it. I have no plans of stopping.

  • I judge people who don’t cloth diaper. Is your convenience worth more than the future of our planet?

  • My neighbor breast-feeds her four-year-old. It makes me want to puke.

  • I hate to judge other mothers, but I do. A lot.

  • I think moms who formula feed are selfish. I also think that most moms give up on breast-feeding too easily—you want the best for your kids? Then give them the only normal food there is.

  • The woman ahead of me at the market had a cart full of crap. No wonder her kids were fat and unruly.

  • Mother dropping her kid for sleepover at my house: “No food dye, no dairy, just soy milk, only organic food, and we don’t eat ANY fast food.” I let them eat all the junk they wanted. They seemed fine.

  • I would never want to be a stay-at-home in a million years. I would die of boredom. How do those women do it?

  • I would never tell my best friend that we co-sleep. She would totally judge me.

  • I’m a much better mom when other people are around to watch me.

  I order pizza for dinner so often that the shop knows my order before I start to place it. I yell too often and too loudly. My car is a complete pigsty. I often forget about homework and class projects. I can’t bake a proper pie to save my life. I don’t love reading to my kids. I scowl at mean kids at the park. I often forget to brush their teeth. I leave the house in slippers. I don’t volunteer at school enough. I love it when the kids bite their nails so I don’t have to cut them. The boys’ bathroom reeks of pee . . . I could go on all day. These are my mommy confessions.

  If there were a Mother of the Year award, I certainly wouldn’t be the winner. There would be no trophies lining my built-in bookshelves and no grand award ceremony to attend. No plaque of recognition would hang on my bedroom wall, there would be no tiara to waltz around in, and I certainly wouldn’t hear a speech about how flawless and perfect I am. No, I’m most definitely not Mother of the Year material. Hell, I wouldn’t even be a contender.

  So, it’s a good thing that motherhood isn’t a competition. But it seems not everyone got the memo.

  When Ben was two years old, we had an acquaintance over for a playdate. I had a few free hours in the morning, so with the help of my pal Betty Crocker, I had whipped up a plate of brownies. As I presented the tinfoil-wrapped plate to her, you would have thought I was toting a severed head, complete with live lice, on a silver platter. She recoiled as I handed it over. “Are these organic?” she asked. “Because we rarely eat sweets, and if we do, they must be organic and unprocessed.” I had to fight my eyes from rolling out of my head, but I bit my tongue and simply replied that they were not, and I’d grab some bananas for them instead. I then had to sit through a twenty-minute lecture on how much healthier we’d be if we adopted her way of looking at food. Suffice it to say, we never had a second playdate with them. And, also, I ate the whole tray of brownies myself.

  Mothers constantly fight to one-up each other, in an effort to feel better about our own parenting. It starts as soon as those two lines appear on the pregnancy test. “You’re only five months along,” the competitive mom will balk. “I looked like you do now when I delivered my baby, and, the day before, I participated in a triathlon.” You’ll hear how she gained only twenty-five pounds, remained stretch mark–free, and quelled every pregnancy craving by drinking spinach and blueberry smoothies. Her baby was miles ahead of every baby before he’d even been born, having listened to Mozart and Bach in utero. His future circumcision and vaccinations would set him up for success, and a spot at Harvard was being held for him already.

  Once the baby is born, the Baby Olympics commence. When did he or she roll over? Smile? Sit up? Sleep through the night? Crawl? Walk? Run? Of course, when and how he did all of this is clearly a reflection on you, the mother, rather than just his natural course of development.

  What you put into your baby is suddenly completely open for public scrutiny. Not having breast-fed my children, I was tempted to carry a sign stating, “Breast is best but I’m using formula. You win.” It never ceased to amaze me the way complete strangers thought they had any right to tell me what to do with my own baby. “You’re just not trying hard enough,” I heard from friends and family, when they had no idea the number of hours I spent agonizing over my lack of milk production. One even had the balls to tell me I was basically feeding my baby airplane fuel. I still can’t figure out how she got there.

  When the kids were old enough for solids, the sign could have been altered for organic, free-range, unprocessed foods. Sure, that stuff is best for all of us, but a Goldfish cracker certainly never killed anyone. Making all of my own food from scratch, however, just might kill me. McDonald’s once in a while isn’t going to forever clog their intestines, and a few nights of too much candy around Halloween will leave no permanent scars. So, why say anything when I give my kid a sandwich on—gasp—white bread? Yours can have his lean turkey and veggies on double whole wheat and mine can have his peanut butter and jelly. They’re both fed and happy and we’ve done our jobs.

  The decision about returning to work is another one that’s alway
s sure to ignite competition. Personally, I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot being able to work from home on my own schedule and still spend afternoons with my children. I tried being solely at home with the kids and was unfulfilled and depressed. Working full-time from home was an even less desirable situation, leaving me downright miserable, and the mere thought of going back to an office right now makes me want to cry. So I’m home, working on and off throughout the day and night, while taking care of the kids. It’s the solution I’ve found that works for me, but that doesn’t mean it will or should work for anyone else. The stay-at-home mom versus working mom is one of the most fiercely debated issues, each side convinced that they are choosing the right way. The thing is, there’s no right way for everyone. Do what’s right for you. Period.

  But I do get it. Deeming someone else a bad mother can, indeed, make you feel like a better one yourself. It’s not right, it’s not productive, and it’s not beneficial, but it seems to be the way we’re built. Shouldn’t we be secure enough in our own parenting, though, that comparing ourselves to others becomes obsolete? There are moments when I am an exceptional mother and moments when I am a complete and utter failure, all in the span of a few minutes. While I certainly would prefer to be caught only in those moments of goodness, I’ll also admit to the others. I wasn’t a perfect person before I had kids and I’m certainly not a perfect person now that I have them. Neither are you. (But don’t worry, I won’t tell.)

  Last year, I was eating out alone with my kids. They were wild and disobedient and I was wondering why on earth I ever even bother to take them out of the house, for anything, ever. As I was about to bury my head in my hands and cry out of pure exhaustion and desperation, a woman in her eighties passed by the table. I was expecting a lecture on how my unruly children ruined her meal, or some tips on getting them to eat anything other than french fries on their plate. Her advice, however, was far more important. “Enjoy these days,” she sadly warned. “They’ll be over in a heartbeat and you’ll miss them for the rest for your life.”