You know the old saying that we each are our own harshest critics? Well, it’s bullshit. At least in my house it is. It’s not that I’m especially easy on myself, but rather that the kids are constantly critiquing me. And they’re brutal.

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It starts first thing in the morning. I’ll be innocently showering when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside of the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump. “Ewwwwww” they shriek as I rinse out the conditioner, thinking that in the future 3AM showers would be a far wiser idea.

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Once I get out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. “What’s that purple squiggle, Mommy?” A spider vein, I sigh. “That one, too?” Yes, that one too, honey. “Over here, too?” Yes, my darling, that’s what they’re called. Let’s move on.

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“OK.”

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“What’s this?”

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It’s a stretch mark. That’s a scar. That’s a vein. That’s cellulite. That’s hair. That’s a wrinkle. That’s a bruise. That’s… crap… what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, alright?

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Lily, my child who is convinced that gym shorts worn with tights underneath are some kind of fashion statement in the year 2012, frequently greets me with “is that what you’re wearing?” and an accompanying eye roll once I make my way downstairs. In all fairness, it’s a somewhat acceptable response for the days when I do, in fact, leave the house in the sweatshirt I slept in and slippers, but much less appreciated when I have actually put some effort into being presentable. Yes, Lily, I hiss. This is what I’m wearing. Thanks, my love.

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The patch of white hairs, the stubble on my legs, the heels in need of exfoliating… nothing goes unnoticed by my lovely children. At the end of the day, as I read the boys bedtime stories, Evan inevitably focuses on my face. “What’s that dot?” he will ask, pointing to the tiniest pore or a birthmark or a chicken pox scar. One by one, he counts them like he’s counting sheep, falling asleep to the comfort of my imperfections.

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Fortunately, my skin is thick and there are a few “Mommy, you’re pretty’s” thrown into the mix for good measure. And, who other than my kids is really examining my nose from half an inch away, anyway? On the plus side, their attention to detail is impeccable. It would just be nice if the attention wasn’t focused on me for a change.

I spent a half hour in the Hallmark store the other day looking for the perfect card to send to a new mommy friend. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t exactly what I was looking for.

In case you’ve ever encountered the same problem, I made a few to share…

Might as well let new moms know what they’re in store for, right?

Well, I certainly think so. 

So, I’m writing that book. Twelve chapters down and twelve to go. My deadline? Two weeks. Now, I’m not great with math, but I’m pretty sure that’s not an enviable situation. Perhaps my method of writing is the problem. It goes something like this…

Walk the dog, make the lunches, pack the bags, get the kids dressed, drive them to school and come back home.

Open up the computer and write a sentence.

Suddenly, see an e-mail alert. Know I should ignore it, but what if it’s important? It would be irresponsible not to at least check it.

See that it’s a Groupon. Maybe not vital, but certainly time sensitive. I debate for five minutes if saving thirteen dollars at a restaurant I’ve never planned on eating at is worth it. I decide that, indeed, it is.

Purchase the Groupon.

Tap nails on the keyboard while waiting for the credit card to clear.

Crack a nail. Dammit.

Head upstairs for nail file and pass a towel on the floor.

The towel reminds me that I have laundry in the washing machine which needs to be dried.

Put laundry in dryer.

Empty lint tray.

Take lint into bathroom to throw away and glance in the mirror. Shit, when did my eyebrows start looking like that?

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

Study face. Is that really what I look like?

Note to self: Invest in some wrinkle cream, STAT.

Wrinkle cream is expensive. Need to make money. Ahhh, the book. Have to write the book to get the money. Crap.

Go downstairs and stare at previously written sentence. Doesn’t seem so genius upon reflection. Delete it.

Write another one.

And another one.

Watch me go! I’m in the zone.

Another sentence.

Was that noise my stomach? Yes, it was. Suddenly, I’m starving and can’t possibly concentrate.

What do I want to eat? Maybe I’ll go on to Twitter for some lunch ideas; I haven’t been there all day.

Log onto Twitter.

Get sucked into the Twitter abyss for 15 minutes. Head starts to pound. Need food.

Make a turkey sandwich and use the last slice of bread.

How do I need more bread already? Jot down a note to stop at the store on the way to get the kids.

Check the fridge and pantry to see what else we’re low on. Quite a bit, it seems. Rewrite list on larger piece of paper. Bread, milk, paper towels, laundry detergent and Cheerios.

Stomach again.

Need drink with lunch. Open soda. Put can into recycling and notice it’s overflowing.

Take out recycling.

Notice plants are dying and water them, reflecting on what a terrible idea plants are for a mother of three.

Sit back down at the computer with soda and sandwich.

Realize it’s been five days since  last blog post.

Attempt to start a post.

Nothing.

Go back to the chapter.

Nothing.

Check Facebook.

Check e-mail.

Check confessional.

Check community.

Comment, delete, delete, comment.

Bounce between post and book for nearly an hour, completing neither one.

Notice that it’s time to leave to get the kids and I missed my window to grocery shop. How did that happen?

Still have no chapter, no blog post and now no food.

Vow to be more productive tomorrow.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Lord, help me.

I ran into an acquaintance the other day who had recently delivered a baby. She looked phenomenal, with no remnants whatsoever of the baby weight lingering around.

“How the hell do you look like that?” I asked, not even attempting to mask my utter annoyance.

“Oh, you know,” she explained. “Since I had a baby plus a toddler, I just spend all of my time running after them so the weight fell off. Plus, I just never seem to remember to eat!”

That was not the response I wanted to hear.

I’ve seen countless celebrities singing the same tune and it always makes me crazy. I have three kids and I have never once found myself running after them. Maybe I’ll dash over if I hear a loud thud followed by silence, but certainly not often enough to break a sweat. Sure, I’m with them constantly, but my normal pace is more like a saunter. My heart rate is steady and you could never call gently pushing a kid on a swing an aerobic workout.

And, how does one forget how to eat? Like, ever? The only time I ever came remotely close to not eating three square meals plus snacks daily was when I was working in an office for ten hours a day, in a cubical all alone. But, babies eat regularly. Kids are constantly asking for snacks and meals and treats. Never mind, that their plated constantly need to be “cleaned.” As a mother you are surrounded by food– how on earth is it forgettable?!

If you’re rocking a post-baby body and I ask how you got it, please give me a response like:

“I’m starving and miserable, but I really wanted to get in these freaking jeans again”

“Breastfeeding. It’s the best diet ever.”

“I work my ass off at the gym 24/7.”

“Genetics. You should see my mom.”

“Honestly, I have no idea how the hell it came off so fast.”

Or, even the dreaded, “I’m eating less and moving more.”

Those I can understand. I can’t relate to them, but I can live with them.

But, please don’t give me the running around and forgetting to eat bullshit.

I’ve been there. I know better.

Of course you have heard of the book, Go the Fuck to Sleep. I would like to suggest a follow up, inspired by my husband…

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The dishes are washed, everything tidy in its place
The leftovers boxed up, my dear, and the counters wiped away
I’ve asked you six times, don’t make me say it again
Please, for the love of God
Just empty the fucking trash can.

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You work hard and need your rest
I do know that and care
But you slept all night and napped three times
You’ve more than gotten your share
It’s time to awake and get on with the day
Wake the fuck up already, you hear me OK?

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You’ve been flipping for an hour
But have yet to pick a show
Could you be more annoying?
The answer is no.
Surrender the remote, I’ll ask one last time
or I’m kicking you out, on your fucking behind.

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The day is getting dim
Soon it will be night
I can’t see a thing, my love
You have to know I’m right
I’m not as tall as you so I need your larger height
Would it kill you to change that fucking hall light?

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I know you feel sick but I do as well
My nose is stuffy too
and my throat sore as hell
Please stop complaining
It’s just a little cold
So shut up and cope
You’re not that fucking old

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I love you so much
I value what you say
But now I’m trying to sleep
And you’re keeping me awake
For the last time, my sweet,
I just don’t give a crap.
Enough already, really
Just shut your fucking pie trap.

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I’m laying in bed, desperately needing my rest
You’ve been sleeping for hours
Happily passed out on your chest,
How are you so loud, I really don’t know
But if you don’t fucking stop snoring,
You’re gonna have to go.

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Is this too much to ask,
from the man I adore?
I really don’t get why I’m so easy to ignore.
Start listening to me, that’s all there is to it.
Oh, and the dog needs a walk
Just fucking do it.

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Please repeat after me:

• I shall maintain a sense of humor about all things motherhood, for without it, I recognize that I may end up institutionalized. Or, at the very least, completely miserable.

• I shall not judge the mother in the grocery store who, upon entering, hits the candy aisle and doles out M&Ms to her screaming toddler. It is simply a survival mechanism.

• I shall not compete with the mother who effortlessly bakes from scratch, purees her own baby food, or fashions breathtaking costumes from tissue paper. Motherhood is not a competition. The only ones who lose are the ones who race the fastest.

• I shall shoot the parents of the screaming newborn on the airplane looks of compassion rather than resentment. I am fortunate to be able to ditch the kid upon landing. They, however, are not.

• I shall never ask any woman whether she is, in fact, expecting. Ever.

• I shall not question the mother who is wearing the same yoga pants, flip-flops and t-shirt she wore to school pickup the day before. She has good reason.

• I shall never claim to know everything about any child but my own. (Who still remain a mystery to me.)

• I shall hold the new babies belonging to friends and family, so they may shower and nap, which is all any new mother really wants.

• I shall attempt to not pass down my own messed up body issues to my daughter. She deserves a mother who loves and respects herself; stretch marks, cellulite and all.

• I shall not preach the benefits of breastfeeding or circumcision or home schooling or organic food or co-sleeping or crying it out to a fellow mother who has not asked my opinion. It’s none of my damn business.

• I shall try my hardest to never say never, for I just may end up with a loud-mouthed, bikini clad, water gun shooting toddler of my very own.

• I shall remember that no mother is perfect and my children will thrive because, and sometimes even in spite, of me.

I swear at my kids.

Yes, I said it and I meant it. Each and every day, I swear at them.

I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Our kids can be assholes. Tell me your child hasn’t ever deserved to be cursed at and I’ll call you a liar.

I’ll even go so far as to say that I believe that swearing at my children makes me a better parent.

I’m not talking curse words like “dammit” and “hell.” Oh, no. I pull out the big guns. Those four letter ones of which I am such a big fan.

Now, I would never actually shout obscenities directly at my offspring. Obviously.

But, when Lily is screaming that I ruined her life by taking away the hot pink hair dye which came with her new Moxie Doll that was staining the entire first floor of my house, I may just have seen the words “shut the fuck up” float over her head in my imaginary commentary of the scene. And it may just have kept me from really losing it with her.

When Even is thrashing on the floor because I didn’t let him have a third bag of Goldfish before lunch, singing a little ditty that goes “Shut the fuck up, you pain in my ass. Shut the fuck up, my dear.” in my head, somehow, makes the moment more bearable.

And, Ben’s incessant whining can be blocked out by my asking “are you ever going to shut your little fucking mouth, you annoying child?” in my head. Logically, I know the answer is “not likely,” but just asking always makes me feel better.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Just fucking shoot me now.”

“Fuck off, sweetheart.”

Does saying these things mean that I love my children any less than a non-swearing mother? No. Does it make me a bad parent or role model? No, I don’t think so.

Because, by thinking these awful things, I keep myself from actually saying anything terrible to them. Which, I argue, would be far worse.

It’s a coping mechanism, of sorts. A tool to survive motherhood.

So, next time your child is screaming at the top of his lungs that he doesn’t want that shower or need to brush his teeth or that no, he will not stop taunting his sibling despite a hundred and three warnings, flip him off in your head.

I know he deserved it.

It seems like there’s an app for everything these days. Need to determine a paint color from nothing but a flower petal? Done! Find the best Indian restaurant in a three mile radius with reservations for tonght? You got it! Track your dreams, food intake and footsteps? Easy-peasy.

But, how about the apps you really need? The ones that would make parenting a pleasure? It’s about time someone came up with these…

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]]> http://www.scarymommy.com/mom-developed-apps/feed/ 97 http://www.scarymommy.com/motherhood-is/ http://www.scarymommy.com/motherhood-is/#comments Mon, 13 Jun 2011 12:05:45 +0000 Scary Mommy http://www.scarymommy.com/?p=13545

I read this confession before falling asleep last night:

“I really, truly, honestly wish someone–ANYONE–would have told me what it was really like having kids. Before I had them.”

Well. it may be too late for that person, but for all you yet- to-be-mothers out there who really want to know what it’s like, I’m going to do my very best to describe motherhood for you.

Here goes.

Motherhood is middle of the night wake up calls for a glass of water or a fan or a light or a blanket or a bear or a kiss or a band-aid.

Motherhood is making lunch after lunch after lunch after lunch only to find the healthy contents stuffed behind a car-seat.

Motherhood is all of your spending money.

Motherhood is not remembering what it’s like to get a full night’s sleep.

Motherhood is siblings bickering over who can look out of which window and who started it and who you love the most even though you love all of them the same but at the moment you don’t like any of them in the least.

Motherhood is wiping more poop than you ever thought you’d see in your life.

Motherhood is a car so filthy that you are embarrassed to let your own husband see it.

Motherhood is hearing the word “why” at least a hundred times a day and most of the time, not having an answer.

Motherhood is knowing, just from the touch of a forehead, almost exactly what your child’s temperature is.

Motherhood is stretch marks dominating your belly and feet a full size larger than before and sad, deflated boobs.

Motherhood is finally appreciating your own mother.

Motherhood is fantasizing over reaching the bottom of the laundry pile, knowing full well that it’s never going to happen.

Motherhood is singing all the words to your kids favorite songs even though they annoy the hell out of you.

Motherhood is never feeling at peace unless all of your children are with you, under your own roof.

Motherhood is always feeling mildly sick but never being able to wallow in your own misery.

Motherhood is never peeing or showering in peace.

Motherhood is using your sleeves to wipe runny noses and your spit to clean dirty faces.

Motherhood is being able to identify just who is coming down the stairs based solely on the thudding of their feet above you.

Motherhood is not even wanting to say “I told you so” even though you did, countless times.

Motherhood is when, just as you want to curl up into a ball of pure exhaustion and desperation, one of your children suddenly farts or burps or does something spontaneously funny. It’s the moment when you dissolve into a hysterical fit of laughter; the kind that you haven’t had since you and your seventh grade BFF were caught passing notes about which boy in your class you’d most want to be stuck in a closet with. It’s the moment you pause and look at your children, all piled on your bed, breathless and rosy cheeked, and think that the only things that really matter in the world are right there in front of you. They are yours, and they are worth every sacrifice and sleepless night.

And then, it’s the moment, two seconds later, when one of them will accidentally kick the other one on the arm and the other will bite in retaliation and you will wish, for the hundredth time that day, that you could just rewind time and savor that peace and joy for more than an instant.

Rinse and repeat a million times. That’s what motherhood is to me.

What is it to you?