Confessions of a Scary Mommy Page 6
Like clockwork, grilled cheese is what each of my children suddenly wanted from two years old on—it’s like they were programmed that way, somehow. Grilled cheese did expand to macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and french fries. Typical kid fare. Even when I try to climb out of the food rut we’re in, it’s unsuccessful. “This is gross,” they cry over the homemade mac and cheese I spent hours shredding and mixing. “We want the real mac and cheese, the one in the blue box!” There’s nothing like a preference for Kraft to make you feel like a real nutritional failure.
Another surefire way for me to feel like this is by volunteering in the kids’ classrooms at lunchtime. Sure, there are the lunches that will make me feel like I’m in good company—the fellow peanut butter and jellies with crusts still intact and bags of grapes and Goldfish. There are even the kids who bring the same Lunchables every day, making me feel slightly better for actually doing some bit of assembly at five o’clock in the morning. But then there are the others. The beautiful color-coordinated Tupperware containers boasting last night’s leftovers and a rainbow assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. The bento boxes filled with exquisite little pieces of art, fashioned out of rice, radishes, and berries. The soups still warm in thermoses and crustless, spa-worthy mini-sandwiches. There are some mouthwatering lunches in that cafeteria, but from what I’ve seen, they’re also most likely swapped for a forbidden bag of Doritos.
I keep telling myself that it can’t possibly go on like this forever. Eventually, my children will learn that there really is more to life than orange cheese and bread or noodles. There’s a whole world of turkey and stuffing and pad thai and bouillabaisse and bacon and frittatas and fish tacos just waiting for them to discover, and I’m quite sure they’ll come around.
Until then, though, I’m going to savor the silver lining: their pickiness means more deliciousness for me. So what’s the rush?
Chapter 11
THE “PERFECT” PICTURE
Mommy Confessions
• I am always behind the camera, but never actually in the picture.
• My daughter threw up ALL over Santa’s lap. The look on his face makes it my favorite picture ever.
• My twins are three and we’ve still never had a family picture taken.
• To get my kids all to smile for pictures, I burp on command. Always makes them laugh.
• I’m the worst mom in the world: I refuse to order school pictures. Thirty bucks for a terrible, posed shot? No thank you.
• I secretly submit my BFF’s Christmas card to the Awkward Family Moments website. I think it would be hilarious if they someday publish her photo.
• I totally forgot that it was Picture Day at school this year. Yes, that is my child with the uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth.
• My husband has about a thousand more pictures with the kids than I do. At least if we both die, they will remember what he looks like.
• I bribe my kids with chocolate to get them to smile for photos.
• I had to Photoshop a family picture together since nobody was capable of smiling at once.
• I’m thirty pounds overweight and too embarrassed to ever get my picture taken. It makes me sad that my kids will never see their mom with them when they were little.
• I’m pretty sure the “perfect” picture is nothing more than an urban legend.
Before I was a parent, I had a long list of things from my own childhood that I vowed to do differently. I was never going to sing at the top of my lungs when my kids had friends over the way my mom did. I would let my kids dress in the trendy clothes instead of the classics, so they didn’t end up looking like they were ripped from the set of Little House on the Prairie like I did, and I’d allow mine to watch the same TV shows as their peers, unlike my own folks with their silly, rigid rules. And then there was the antiquing. The horrible, dreaded antiquing. Much of my childhood was spent groaning about having to pull over at musty roadside antique stores and watching as my parents rummaged, bargained, and purchased their little treasures. It was so [insert eye roll] boring and it was, like, so cruel that they subjected my brother and me to it. I vowed never, ever to do such a thing to my own children. And, still not having gotten over the torture myself, I’ve so far succeeded.
But my biggest parenting vow by far was not to photograph my kids incessantly the way my parents photographed me. Most of my childhood memories contain my father, right up in my face, documenting my every move with his camera. It was annoying and embarrassing and I’d be dammed if I did the same thing to my own kids.
Of course, just like my vow never to allow Nerf guns and character T-shirts under my roof, the picture-taking one never had a chance in hell. I’d venture to say that I’m even worse than my father ever was. Lily’s first sentence was an adamant “No cheese!” directed toward me as I tried to get the seventeenth shot of her burping her baby doll. But I got the shot! And it’s adorable! It will live forever in the pages of her first photo album! If I’m really lucky, someday she might even appreciate it, the way I do the endless early pictures of me. I just can’t help myself. With the camera, I’m borderline abusive. It’s just in my blood.
Lily’s first Halloween, I was so anxious to capture her in the precious little ladybug costume that I simply couldn’t wait until she woke up from her nap. I practically ripped her out of bed, shoved her in the costume, and plopped her outside for my photo shoot. My ladybug was not amused and scowled through every single picture I eagerly snapped. We ended up putting her to bed early, completely missing out on the neighborhood party and on trick-or-treating, which I’d been so excited for, just because I had to go and break the cardinal rule of never waking a sleeping baby. I wish I could say that I learned my lesson that day, but all I learned is that if I don’t get the perfect picture the first time, try again the next day. And the day after that. And, if necessary? The day after that, too. My favorite Halloween pictures that year came six days after the actual holiday, from our fourth photo shoot. I’m not going for perfection; I know that with kids, that’s an impossible goal. I just want to document our experience. With smiling faces and beautiful lighting, of course.
It’s not fun being this photo obsessed, but what is a proud mommy supposed to do? For previous generations, photos simply got stuck in frames or albums for close friends and family to see once or twice a year. These days, we post them to Facebook and tweet them and e-mail them and, if they’re really good, arrange them to music and share them on YouTube. They’re everywhere, and they’ll live on forever. The pressure is almost too much to bear.
My photo-taking technique has, um, matured the longer I’ve been a mother. Instead of simply telling them to “say cheese,” like I did with Lily, I’ve gotten more resourceful. I know what works with my kids, and I’m nothing if not dedicated. “Fart!!” I’ll yell at them, trying to elicit a smile. “Poop, burp, tushy face,” I continue, as they lighten up and start to laugh. “Diarrheeeeeeeeeaaaaa!” I scream. Finally, they collapse into giggles and I snap away. It might not be the most restrained approach, and it might result in some appalled looks from innocent witnesses, but I get my frame-worthy pictures. Totally worth it. And mildly psychotic.
Clearly, the school photographers aren’t onto my tactics, because without me there to micromanage, my kids’ class pictures are always failures. Evan’s from this year is the closest to perfection I have seen yet—his smile is authentic and adorable, his hands folded sweetly on the desk, his shirt clean and hair combed. The problem? The enormous booger hanging out of his nose. How did nobody notice that?! Such a thing would never have happened on my watch. Neither would the freshly stained shirts, pathetic grimaces, and half-closed eyes of school pictures past. I buy the pictures out of parenting obligation, but it’s never a thirty bucks I’m happy to spend. They just don’t share my high standards.
Whatever. I’m willing to look like a fool in order to capture frame-worthy images of the people I love most. And while I’m quite
confident that my children will one day vow never to torture their kids the way I have them, I’m also pretty sure they’ll break that vow once they have kids of their own.
At least, I hope so. I sure as hell don’t want to be the one behind the camera in thirty years. I’m exhausted.
Chapter 12
THE MOMMY CLUB
Mommy Confessions
• I have triplets, so why am I lonely?
• I have absolutely nothing in common with my childless friends anymore. When I see one of them on my caller ID, I cringe because I know I will be made fun of when I try to explain why I can’t just drop everything anymore.
• I stopped liking my best friend when I saw what a terrible mother she is. Her child is a monster . . . I never would have predicted kids would kill our friendship.
• If I had to give up my husband or my girlfriends, I’d give up my husband in a heartbeat.
• I avoid my best friend’s phone calls because she’s incapable of talking for less than an hour at a time and I have no hours to spare.
• I go out with my girlfriends every other Thursday night. I swear, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane all week.
• Since I’ve had my baby, I feel like I’ve lost most of my “friends.” Don’t have anything in common with them anymore and have no idea how to start making new ones.
• I like my online friends more than my real-life ones.
• I talk to my mom more often than I talk to anyone else . . . when did she replace my girlfriends and how the hell did that happen?
• My best friend does everything perfectly, but she can’t control her children. I’m secretly thrilled about this.
• I stopped speaking to my best friend because she had the life that I wanted. I miss her every day.
• My five-year-old has deeper friendships than I do.
• I wish I could be happy for my best friend’s amazing children, happy marriage, and perfect life, but I’m too busy seething with jealousy.
• My husband says I am his best friend . . . I love him, but friendship-wise, he doesn’t even make my top-ten list.
• I consider my kids to be my closest friends these days. I’m pathetic.
The moment you’ve birthed/adopted/fostered/surrogated/whatevered a child, you instantly become a card-carrying member of the biggest club on Earth: the Mommy Club. Congratulations! There is no hazing and no pledging and membership is instantaneous and guaranteed. The Mommy Club is overflowing with mothers of all shapes, sizes, and colors, with only one necessary bond: a child.
Sadly, one cannot be a member of both the Mommy Club and the Non-Mommy Club at once. The new mom, having just made the transition, will inevitably try to simultaneously keep both memberships—attempting to play the role of a carefree and unburdened girl to her childless friends and the loving and doting mom to her new mommy friends. Her childless friends won’t buy it, though, hearing the cries from a baby in the background of a phone call or smelling the stench of spit-up, buried underneath her perfume during a night out. The new mother’s cover will be blown, and her former membership immediately revoked, along with the ability to pee in peace or actually flip through an entire magazine in a single sitting.
The Non-Mommy Club is objectively a much more fun club to be in, with conversations never once containing the words “diaper blowout” or “questionable rash.” Long dinners of seared tuna and sushi are consumed along with bottles of wine and pretty pink martinis. Impromptu slumber parties and all-night gab fests are not uncommon and shopping or mani/pedis over lunch are considered a strenuous activity. It’s the kind of club you want to be in, rather than the one you need to be in.
The New Mommy Club, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as fun or easy. Though induction is a given, the club doesn’t necessarily guarantee companionship, acceptance, or solidarity. There is no orientation to meet fellow members and no quarterly get-together. Every member has one important thing—perhaps the most important thing—in common, but that’s where the similarities end. Having been knocked up at the same time isn’t enough to sustain a decent relationship, as any lonely new mother will eventually learn.
Once I was booted from the Non-Mommy Club, I set out to meet some people in my new club. It wouldn’t be hard, I thought. There were millions of women just dying to talk sleep patterns and solid foods with me, along with Hollywood gossip and the best shades of lip gloss. I thought it would be easy and natural to find those people, but I was sorely mistaken—making friends as an adult is hard. The last time I’d really sought out new friends, I was working at a job with other young people looking to forge relationships, too. It was just . . . effortless. As making friends should be. Before that, I made friends in college, surrounded by other eager and enthusiastic students searching to find their people, too. This time, though, was different. The other mothers I met seemed to be content with their relationships and I just didn’t see any vacancy signs hanging in their windows.
Entering the Mommy Club felt like what I imagined it would have been like coming into a new high school halfway through sophomore year. Except this time we had real babies to keep alive, not just experimental eggs playing the role of child. There were cliques within cliques and figuring out just where you fit in was mind-numbing. Was I an earthy mom, one who would wear her baby and sing the benefits of cloth diapering? Was I an active mom, who insists on sprinting with her stroller rather than taking leisurely strolls around the mall, or who does reps with full baby bottles as if they were free weights? Was I a hip mom, striving to maintain a sense of trends and coolness? Was I a laid-back mom, just letting kids be kids and enjoying the ride? I was lost in a sea of diaper bags, infant carriers, and stretch marks, having no idea where I belonged.
After a few months of loneliness and boredom, I got more proactive. I schlepped my baby to story time and baby stores and playgrounds where there was a high likelihood of running into members of the Mommy Club. If I saw a mother who looked like someone I could be friends with, I’d try to think of possible ways to start a conversation. “Need a wipe?” “A teething biscuit?” “How about them toddlers?!” It was just like dating, minus the possibility of free dinner and sex. Although, at that point, I probably would have considered swapping teams if it meant having a girl to see a movie with on a random Wednesday night.
Back in the Non-Mommy Club, friendships were completely selfish and my criteria were pretty much limited to whether or not I had fun with the person. If we shared the same sense of humor, the same interests, and the same idea of a good time, that was pretty much enough. With kids in the picture, however, there was so much more to consider. Could we survive a trip to the zoo together? To a water park? To an indoor play zone? Were they responsible enough to keep an eye on my kid at the pool? Trustworthy enough to drive them to a playgroup or to keep their sick kids far from mine? And, lastly, could I tolerate their children? A nearly impossible list of criteria to fill.
But I’ve found them: my Mommy Club friends. The ones who I cry to and laugh with and who help me survive the sometimes impossible days of motherhood. They are neighbors and parents of classmates and old friends who’ve had children—and bloggers, connected through the computer rather than everyday lives. They’ve taken years to find and aren’t always the people I would have expected, but they are mine. And, it turns out, they’re just as good as those Non-Mommy Club friends. Sometimes better.
Chapter 13
THE BIGGEST BABY OF ALL
Mommy Confessions
• My husband thinks I need to be more patient with the kids . . . this coming from a man who hasn’t spent more than two consecutive hours with them EVER.
• I sometimes crush up Midol and put it in my husband’s food—it makes him sooooo much easier to deal with.
• I tell my husband we are out of milk so I can run to the store for ten minutes of quiet time. I don’t tell him I drank the last of the milk.
• I’m married, but sometimes I feel like a single par
ent.
• My husband is taking his paternity leave to help me with the baby. He will be here for FOUR months . . . we’re on day four and I am already wishing he was back at work.
• I think I should have more say-so over our kids than my husband. I’m the one who did all the work to bring them into this world while he jerked off into a cup.
• I don’t complain that my husband thinks he deserves to sleep in every weekend because he works so hard; instead, I spend those morning hours spending his hard-earned money online.
• Sometimes I let my kids sleep in bed with us so I have an excuse not to have sex with my husband.
• If I’d known the kind of father my husband would be, I never would have married him.
• I picked a fight with my husband last night just so I could storm off and lock myself in my room. If he didn’t think I was mad at him, he would just keep coming in there every few seconds, asking me for things.
• Sometimes, I am scared at how smart my son is . . . he is only seven and I really think he may be smarter than my husband.
• My husband manages to “sleep through” our hungry infant every night. Last night I pulled all the covers off of him, threw them on the floor, and slammed the door on my way out. He didn’t sleep through that.
Last winter, on the coldest day of the year, I decided to take a rare bath. After I was all dried off, I continued the alone time with a face mask and a quick call to a girlfriend. Jeff was downstairs with the kids, and surely, everyone could survive without me for a little while longer. Besides, didn’t I deserve a few more moments to myself? From the bathroom, I could hear one of my children loudly banging around in the family room. My precious baby was obviously getting restless. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I hollered, waiting for the green clay to dry so I could wash it off. “But, I neeeeed you,” I heard from below. “Pleeeease come downstairs!” I ignored the wails as the huffing and puffing intensified. When I finally descended after a whopping fifteen minutes of alone time, I found my baby sulking on the couch. “What were you doing for so long?” he wanted to know. “I was so lonely.” And there he was—the biggest baby of all. My husband.