I have a really hard time disciplining my children. I’m not talking small punishments, like sitting in the corner or not getting dessert. Those are a piece of cake. I mean, the big stuff. The stuff that comes after numerous warnings, countless chances and never ending tantrums.

The problem? Those punishments always seem to punish me, too. And, frankly (said in my whiniest voice while stomping my feet,) it’s just not fair.

Let’s review the punishments that really get to my children:

• Cancelling play-dates: Not only do I look like a dick to the other parent, but I need to deal with annoying children complaining of nothing to do all afternoon and I have to entertain them.

• Not attending birthday parties: Again, I look like an asshole backing out and I’m already out the gift, plus I have to make lunch.

• Going to bed early: So I need to listen to screaming and crying for hours? That makes for a relaxing night.

• Going to bed without dinner: OK, so I’ve never done it, but I would without a doubt end up stressing all night that they are malnourished or dehydrated and that I am the sole cause.

• Turning around the car mid-trip: Are you kidding? After strapping the kids in, packing everything up, and schlepping somewhere I’m supposed to just turn around? Does anyone actually do this?

• Taking away TV time: The only time that my children are ever peaceful and quiet is during the hour when they watch television. I am not about to give that up.

So, what does that leave me? Time-outs? Pfft. I’d kill for a time out, myself. It doesn’t seem like much of a threat. Time in their toy-filled rooms? Nah…

Perhaps, I should record their meltdowns and subject them to incessant screenings. That’s certainly punishment for me.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

I learned something today. Actually, I just relearned something I’ve learned every Memorial Day weekend since becoming a mother: I fucking hate the pool.

It’s not as simple as the fact that donning a swimsuit makes me want to crawl in the fetal position and stay there until September. It’s not the fact that I glare at carefree, bikini-clad teenagers burning them with my eyes. It’s not even the communal germ fest of wet, hot bodies bathing in piss-filled water or the notion that I’m exposing my children to the sun’s cancer causing rays. No, it’s just the fact that I am a complete nervous wreck each and every time we go.

I’m not normally such an intense mother, but when I’m at the pool I morph into secret agent mode. My sole mission? To keep my three children alive. I scan the pool looking for obstacles that pose potential tripping hazards. I annoyingly holler their names should I lose sight of them for the briefest moment. I barely smile, let alone engage in conversation that would require me to take my eyes off of any of them. I gladly give into ice cream and popsicle requests as long as it brings us out of the water and secretly pray for sudden thunderstorms the entire time we’re there. It’s just all way too stressful for me.

Am I alone here? Because poolside, it certainly feels like I am. Everyone else looks like they’re having the time of their lives, while I’m sure I look like a constipated wreck. I see mothers casually flip through magazines or chatting with each other. I actually saw a mother of young children reading a novel poolside. How is that even possible? I just don’t get it.

I do, however, totally get ignoring my children while in the comfort of our own home. I’m really good at that. You know, lest you think I’m always so attentive.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

Almost a year ago, I wrote a post that I called “The Terrible Threes.” My opening words were  something like “Are parenting experts actually… parents? Being one myself, I have a serious bone to pick with them: The “terrible twos” are crap…” I went on  and on to talk about what a joy the twos were and how hellish the threes turned out to be. Blah, blah, blah. Well, today, I’m rescinding my words. I was sorely mistaken.

My dearest third child is approaching two and a half, and the last thing I would describe him as is “adorable, chocolate covered sweetness.” Yes, he is adorable, and sweet. Dangerously so. But he is also the biggest pain in the ass in the universe.

When he eats, he doesn’t gently push aside his plate when he is satiated, he throws it on the floor and laughs about the mess. He haphazardly grabs whatever snack he wants and leaves chaos in his wake. He removes his diaper in upscale stores and abandons it on the floor. Bath time is more like a flood and he sky dives off of any high surface he can find. He instigates fights with his siblings and bursts out in laughter when I reprimand him. He is a walking disaster and every misbehavior is followed by a smile that makes it impossible to stay angry at him.

The latest battle is bedtime. We ditched his crib when we moved, thinking he was ready for a big boy bed. {Big mistake}. I got into the bad habit of laying down with him and singing his lullabies, since we also got rid of the glider. Apparently to a two year old, that means that we will shall now be roommates. The first few days, it was endearing when he held my face and demanded that I lay down with him. Now? Not so cute. He storms out of his room when he gets lonely. He screams in my face when I don’t escort him back upstairs and stay with him. When I do fall asleep with him, the moment I wake up and attempt to move to my bed, he is awake and alert. Short of handcuffing him to the bed, I’m not sure what else I can do.

So, how does this work? If two is terrible, surely three is a breeze, right? RIGHT?

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

For the first five years of my children’s lives, I baked all of their birthday cakes. Come to think of it, baked is not an adequate word; I slaved over their birthday cakes. Poured my blood, sweat and tears into cake pans time and time again. I am not a natural baker and the process made me far more miserable than happy, but the hours I spent creating them was a proof positive of my undying love for my kids. Good mothers bake their own cakes, so bake the cakes, I would, dammit.

Last year, Lily had a dual party with a friend (from which I learned that I am way to much of a control freak to ever do that again,) and the friend’s mother was in charge of the cake. Since I got to choose the venue, made the invitations and the goody bags and the thank you notes, it was only fair. The result of this team effort? A store bought ice cream cake simply bearing the words “Happy Birthday” sitting sadly on the table. I hid a scowl thinking that I would gladly have taken on cake duty in exchange for paper goods if I had known that was what she had in mind. Sure, it tasted like a little slice of heaven, but c’mon, where was the creativity? The effort? The love? I would never do such a thing to my own offspring.

Except this year Ben wanted a dinosaur birthday. Specifically, he wanted a big dinosaur cake. I spent days pouring over recipes as the date loomed closer. Everything I liked looked so complicated. Icing tips? Fondant? Oy. I had homework to deal with and boxes to pack and dinners to make. Was this stress worth it? For my four year old?

I was at my local grocery store when I saw it: A perfect dinosaur cake. Perfectly frosted, perfectly decorated and perfectly baked. Perfectly $19.99. And it fit perfectly in my trunk. The vanilla cake with butter-cream frosting was delicious and Ben was thrilled with it. So was I. And if any mother’s judged my lack of cake making, this year I was the wiser one. Not slaving over a cake doesn’t make you a failure. My kids prefer a mom who isn’t a basket case the day of their parties, anyway. And it allows time for other things, like making kick ass thank you notes. Which I will hope to get out one of these days, over a month after the party.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

I babysat a lot as a teenager. A lot. My Saturday nights pretty much consisted of a standing date with George Clooney on Sisters and whatever free snacks I could score. (Not so bad, in retrospect.)

There were the good houses to babysit for and the bad houses. The good ones were stocked with Oreos and Hawaiian Punch and Cool Ranch Doritos. They had phones that I was free to use and cable stations that my folks didn’t subscribe to. The parents were laid back and funny and, most importantly, they always rounded up.

The bad houses had barren pantry’s, void of yummy treats and only milk to drink. They had educational magazines, network TV and actual stuff for me to do, once the kids were tucked away in bed. Those houses sucked, and had I not been saving my pennies for the newest Tiffany and Debbie Gibson cassettes, I would have declined those jobs in a heartbeat.

I vowed that when I was old enough to employee sitters I would be the house that sitters enjoyed coming to. I’d be the cool mom who seemed more like a friend than a boss. I’d have the best kids who were just a joy to watch. I’d offer the best snacks and fun magazines and make people yearn to sit on my couch.

Needless to say, I am not. I introduced a new sitter to the kids this week. She is wonderful and trustworthy and everything you want in a babysitter. Things were going along swimmingly until it was time for lunch. I made the kids their fruit and sandwiches and told the sitter to feel free to eat anything, opening the pantry for her. Inside, I found dry pasta, olives and baking staples. And that was it. Instantly, I realized which category my house fit into.

Sickened, I paid her an extra ten bucks to get lunch and sent her on her way– the last thing I want to be known as is that mom in the sitter circuit. I’m heading to the market before she comes back on Friday, and I’ll be leaving with Oreos, Doritos and fruit punch. Just for her.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

Before motherhood, I wish someone had told me to:

1. Enjoy sleep.

Nap. It’s a luxury that becomes a necessity you never seem to have enough of. Buy nice sheets. Roll around in them. Spend a whole day in bed. The next time you do it, you’ll be comforting a feverish, puking child and that’s not nearly as enjoyable.

2. Appreciate your body now.

As flawed as it may be, after children it will be worse. Droopier, stretched out and mushy. Even your feet will be bigger. Get a pedicure and flaunt them.

3. Drive a fun car.

A convertible or a Beetle. Blast music that you love. Soon you’ll be driving a minivan and singling along to The Laurie Berkner Band. Even when you’re alone in the car.

4. Travel with your spouse.

Family vacations are wonderful, but not the same. And finding someone to watch three kids under five? Impossible.

5. Eat out at really nice places.

Indulge in a five course meal. Chew your food. Savor it. Soon you’ll be dining at chain restaurants scarfing down left over grilled cheese. If you’re lucky enough to get to a nice restaurant once you have kids, you’ll be paying the equivalent of an extra meal in babysitting fees. Linger.

6. Do things spur of the moment.

Jet off somewhere at the last minute, with nothing but the clothes on your back. Have an impromptu adventure. Once you have kids you’ll need to plan everything.

7. Call in sick to work and use the day for yourself.

Moms never get the day off, and you’ll make up for that sick day ten fold by caring for sick children when you are indeed yourself, sick.

8. Spend money on yourself.

Invest in some really great forever items, because once you have kids the trade off will not seem worth it. You’ll calculate the number of diapers you could buy for the cost of those designer sunglasses. Buy them now and wear them later.

9. Pee with the door shut.

It will be years before you get to do that again.

10. Under-appreciate your parents.

Roll your eyes at them. Question their actions and judgment. Tell them they don’t know everything. Once you have kids you’ll have a new-found appreciation for them, and discover that they know a lot more than you gave them credit for. Ignorance is bliss.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

Ben is my impossible eater. He happily eats macaroni, fruit and grilled cheese. That’s about it. Maybe, ravioli if the wind is blowing in the right direction. Occasionally, a carrot or pea enters his system, but it’s a very rare occurrence. Getting him to eat anything he doesn’t want to is pure torture. Because of this, I’ve resorted to some pathetic ways of nourishing him. Some days, I can get him to eat chicken or lasagna by pretending he’s a baby and spoon feeding him. Or I tell stories and make him take a bite in between words. We’ll listen to music and eat when certain words play. I’ll try anything.

Last night I was at my wits end— none of my usual tricks were working and the kid hadn’t eaten all afternoon. I’d made tortellini, and there was spinach in it. The horror. Evan happily shoveled them in his mouth, as he does with every morsel of food ever presented to him. Lily ate her 13 and was on to her strawberries and banana. Ben was in minute 17 of his hissy fit and I had a pounding headache. I picked up his plate and was about to chuck it in the sink and shoot myself send him to bed. For some reason, my desperation led to me to ask “want to be a doggie and I’ll feed you on the floor?” His eyes lit up and he nodded yes, sliding onto the ceramic tile. I proceeded to feed him his entire plate of food. Spinach and all. It was a miracle.

I knew that it wasn’t the wisest parenting move, but he was eating spinach for crying out loud. I stifled the voice in the back of my head warning of inevitable repercussions and patted him on the head. Go me!

Sure enough, he bolted down from bed this morning barking and asking for waffles on the floor. Silly boy, that’s a deal I’m only willing to make for vegetables.

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.

Getting Lily to take medicine is an absolute nightmare. I’ve tried mixing it with chocolate syrup, paying the extra five bucks to get it flavored, crushing it into cookies, slipping it to her while she sleeps… nothing works, at least not easily. She literally needs to be pinned down to the ground and force fed, tears streaming and screaming all the while. Her white Shabby Chic bedding is tie-dyed with a rainbow of medicines, ranging from Pepto-Bismol pink to royal blue to deep purple, all the result of nighttime battles that she won. It’s terrible and my heart sinks at the first sign of an impending infection.

Ben developed a bad cough today. When we got home, Lily asked me if I should give him some medicine. I agreed and instantly she began taunting him; “Be-e-en, come get your medicine, little baby,” she sang. I could see the wheels turning in her head— here was the payback for that Lego tower he knocked over last week. Retribution for the unprovoked pinch and kick in the car. For the zebra he got at the party last week that she couldn’t go to. For the book that he got to pick out the night before… Ben was going to get it and she was going to love every last minute. Oh, the joys of being an older sister.

I called him over. Lily watched, eyes gleaming with excitement. Ben simply opened his mouth and swallowed the red syrup, proclaiming “yummy.” Shocked silence ensued from the peanut gallery. Suddenly, Lily let out a loud cough. “I think I need some too,” she whined. “Not fair.”

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©Scary Mommy™ 2010 All rights reserved.