Today, I was feeling rather Super Woman-y. It's been a particularly busy day without being insane...just one of those days where there's a lot to do and hopefully at least a portion of it gets done. The Favorite had to leave early, so I was in charge of the creatures from the get-go. We did the breakfast thing, then the Middle One had swimming lessons, I got in a workout while the other 2 played in the playroom, we did the lunch thing, The Dude did the nap thing, I did some of the cleaning stuff, before a quick shower and then I had to run to my old job for some freelance training. On the way home from that, I stopped to do the grocery thing. At this point, I was feeling rather accomplished for having made it through the day with no major freak outs. I pulled into the parking lot, behind a minivan and that's when I saw it. A seemingly benign bumper sticker that read:
Motherhood is a Proud Profession.
My immediate thought?
What a crock of shit.
Not only did I think this...I said it out loud. To myself. Yes, that's right...I talk to myself. And sometimes I also answer.
But, I digress.
Now, don't misunderstand me. Motherhood, fatherhood, parenthood....whichever hood you rock, there's a lot to be proud of. But it's not a profession. You can't go to school for 4, 6 or 10 years and walk away with a degree in Motherhood. You can take parenting classes, certainly. And while they may guide you in your parenting behaviors, if you fail, guess what? You're still a parent. Even if you suck at it.
And in my world, fantastical as it may be at times, professionals get something magical...it's called a paycheck. Yes, yes, I know...children give us so much more than money. They give us unconditional love, super squeezy hugs, sloppy, milky kisses and uncontrollable giggles. They also give us hacking coughs, dark circles under our eyes, gray hairs and wrinkles. And I hear the teenagers tend toward giving parents a mild case of alcoholism and/or early onset Alzheimer's. I don't know about you, but none of my former bosses gave me any of that stuff. (Alcoholism to be determined.)
I'd also like to take a moment to look at the basic biology of this grand "profession". Just because Person 1 inserts a certain something into Person 2, and Person 2 happens to be experiencing certain biological happenings that result in the formation of a creature, does not a professional make. I'm just sayin'.
So, no, I do not believe Motherhood, or its counterparts, is a profession. I believe parents should try their damndest to be the best parents they can be, but I also believe it's a bit of a crapshoot. I'm pretty sure Adolph Hitler's mom didn't think she'd given birth to the anti-Christ.
I'm thinking I'll take the over/under 7 and hope it plays out well for us all.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Schooled by Logic
There are times when I think I may have made a big whopping mistake by breeding children. Those times have been relatively frequent for the past few weeks. I think the combination of mass amounts of snow, bitterly cold temperatures, a small house, the pressures of Christmas, an overworked husband, a teething baby and incredibly energetic children has just taken a good trouncing on my soul.
At times like this, I tend to forget that the kids are just that...kids. They constantly do goofy-ass things that I don't understand. Take, for instance, the Middle One. Just this morning, she was running in circles (and no, that is not a figure of speech) on our rug in the living room. After watching her for about 3 minutes, and getting dizzier by the minute, I finally said, "Anni, knock it off. Quit running in circles."
Her response?
"But Mama, it makes me happy."
And there it was. The answer that kicked me in the ass just hard enough to make a dent in my at times too-thick skull.
What does every parent want for his/her child? Happiness. And I'm pretty sure the majority of us don't really care how that child achieves happiness, as long as it's safely.
Does it make any difference in my world if my kid wants to run in a circle in the living room? Not one bit. Do I get why she wants to do it? Not one bit. But if it makes her happy, am I going to let her do it, and probably 90% of anything else that might make her happy?
You bet your ass I am.
At times like this, I tend to forget that the kids are just that...kids. They constantly do goofy-ass things that I don't understand. Take, for instance, the Middle One. Just this morning, she was running in circles (and no, that is not a figure of speech) on our rug in the living room. After watching her for about 3 minutes, and getting dizzier by the minute, I finally said, "Anni, knock it off. Quit running in circles."
Her response?
"But Mama, it makes me happy."
And there it was. The answer that kicked me in the ass just hard enough to make a dent in my at times too-thick skull.
What does every parent want for his/her child? Happiness. And I'm pretty sure the majority of us don't really care how that child achieves happiness, as long as it's safely.
Does it make any difference in my world if my kid wants to run in a circle in the living room? Not one bit. Do I get why she wants to do it? Not one bit. But if it makes her happy, am I going to let her do it, and probably 90% of anything else that might make her happy?
You bet your ass I am.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Times, They Are A'Changing
So, somehow I conned my husband into throwing a jewelry party for me. And by conned, I mean I suggested he call his buddy, who happens to run a bar, to see if it would be feasible for him to gather a group of men, in a bar, where there is both beer and greasy food, on a Sunday afternoon, during a football game.
Wait a minute...who exactly got conned here?
But I digress.
Anywho, he gets a few guys to show up, we get a few orders, we have a few drinks and everyone's having a good time. I had dropped the kids at my mom's for the afternoon and went back to hang at her house, leaving the husband and a few of his buddies at the bar for a couple more hours. I offered to be the designated driver (purely because inebriated men are much more likely to buy jewelry than sober ones) for anyone who needed a ride home.
So, I pick up the husband at 6pm. He's got one other guy who needs a ride home. The kids are in the middle seat, super excited to see their daddy. Husband rides shotgun. Buddy rides in the way back.
Now, let me paint you a more detailed picture of the men in this equation.
Husband stands at 6'2, usually sports a baseball hat, some sort of Carhartt jacket, works with his hands all day, avid hunter, would love to be an avid fisherman but has 3 kids and prefers to hunt. He's not overly macho, but you certainly wouldn't confuse him for a metrosexual (even though he does clean up real nice).
Buddy is shorter than husband, but built Mack truck style. Shaved head. Camo jacket. Also an avid hunter. Works with the husband, so knows the meaning of manual labor. The guy is completely hysterical, but if it came down to a fight, you'd definitely want him in your corner and not the other way around.
So, Husband and Buddy are a little schnockered, but not out of control. Kids are excited to have people to talk to in the car besides Mother Dearest (have I mentioned Middle Child has taken to calling me Mother at bedtime?). Husband decides some tunes are in order and is bragging to Buddy about the girls' ability to sing Jimmy Buffet songs. So, the whole car is rocking out to some Jimmy Buffet, girls and grown men having a grand old time.
Then, things take a slight turn.
Jimmy gets a little old, so Buddy starts asking the girls what other songs they know. He starts listing off songs (ABCs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, Humpty Dumpty, etc.). The girls, of course, know all these songs, and more, and are eager to share their vocal incantations with Husband and Buddy. Next thing you know, 6'2 Husband and shave-headed Buddy are singing along, at the top of their lungs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, complete with hand gestures.
Now, I'm pretty sure neither one of these big, tough guys ever really envisioned this moment in their lives, but I can tell you right now, it made me love both of them a little bit more and it's probably a moment none of us will forget.
Wait a minute...who exactly got conned here?
But I digress.
Anywho, he gets a few guys to show up, we get a few orders, we have a few drinks and everyone's having a good time. I had dropped the kids at my mom's for the afternoon and went back to hang at her house, leaving the husband and a few of his buddies at the bar for a couple more hours. I offered to be the designated driver (purely because inebriated men are much more likely to buy jewelry than sober ones) for anyone who needed a ride home.
So, I pick up the husband at 6pm. He's got one other guy who needs a ride home. The kids are in the middle seat, super excited to see their daddy. Husband rides shotgun. Buddy rides in the way back.
Now, let me paint you a more detailed picture of the men in this equation.
Husband stands at 6'2, usually sports a baseball hat, some sort of Carhartt jacket, works with his hands all day, avid hunter, would love to be an avid fisherman but has 3 kids and prefers to hunt. He's not overly macho, but you certainly wouldn't confuse him for a metrosexual (even though he does clean up real nice).
Buddy is shorter than husband, but built Mack truck style. Shaved head. Camo jacket. Also an avid hunter. Works with the husband, so knows the meaning of manual labor. The guy is completely hysterical, but if it came down to a fight, you'd definitely want him in your corner and not the other way around.
So, Husband and Buddy are a little schnockered, but not out of control. Kids are excited to have people to talk to in the car besides Mother Dearest (have I mentioned Middle Child has taken to calling me Mother at bedtime?). Husband decides some tunes are in order and is bragging to Buddy about the girls' ability to sing Jimmy Buffet songs. So, the whole car is rocking out to some Jimmy Buffet, girls and grown men having a grand old time.
Then, things take a slight turn.
Jimmy gets a little old, so Buddy starts asking the girls what other songs they know. He starts listing off songs (ABCs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, Humpty Dumpty, etc.). The girls, of course, know all these songs, and more, and are eager to share their vocal incantations with Husband and Buddy. Next thing you know, 6'2 Husband and shave-headed Buddy are singing along, at the top of their lungs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, complete with hand gestures.
Now, I'm pretty sure neither one of these big, tough guys ever really envisioned this moment in their lives, but I can tell you right now, it made me love both of them a little bit more and it's probably a moment none of us will forget.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sh*t Happens
This morning, my husband was home from work for a few hours, so I had a solo ride to pick up the oldest from preschool. I was sitting at a stoplight, looking at my fingernails (no, I'm not an abnormally vain person; I got acrylics put on for a friend's wedding a couple weeks ago and I'm still not used to the silly things). So, I'm looking at my nails and I notice something underneath the middle nail on my right hand. And upon closer examination, including the ever-important sniff test, I came to the following conclusion:
I had sh*t on my hands.
My youngest, god bless him, awoke from his nap happy as a clam and covered in sh*t. At this point, I'm running a little late to pick up the oldest and the husband in knee deep in plastic window covering and a "helpful" 3-year old, so it's up to me to de-sh*t the 10-month old. This involved in-depth wiping (at least 4 wipes, for you seasoned pros, so you know it was a messy one) and a complete wardrobe change. I get him situated, do a quick hand wash and hand him off to his dad so I can pick up the 4-year old.
Now, I've changed a few diapers in the past 4 years. If I had to guess, I'd say no less than 84, 612...but that's a rough estimate. And I can count the times, on one hand, that I've actually gotten sh*t on myself. And as I sat at the light (yes, this light is unusually long), I was amazed at the role sh*t has come to play in my life.
Before you have kids, sh*t isn't really something you talk about, and if you're a woman, it most certainly isn't something you ever DO. But once kids enter the equation, your life, to some extent, is ruled by sh*t. You talk about sh*t, you worry about sh*t, you discuss sh*t with pretty much anyone who will listen. It happens, people, sh*t happens.
For example, there was the time my oldest awoke from her nap covered in sh*t. (This seems to be a recurring theme in our house.) My oldest was around 9 months old and woke up from her nap COVERED, and I do mean COVERED, in sh*t. There was no special reason for the debacle. It was simply a lovely early summer afternoon, the husband and I were doing some yard work while the baby napped, and she decided to throw in a little something extra to make the day extra special. Upon discovery, I had no idea what to do with the kid. She was, as was her brother, happy as a clam and yet covered in sh*t. I didn't want to put her on the changing table, thinking it best to contain the sh*t if at all possible; I didn't want to put her in the tub with her clothes on, because it seemed to defeat the purpose if the sh*t got all over the clean tub before I even got any water in it. So, I, panic stricken by this point, rush around trying to find my husband, so one of us can hold the sh*itter, while the other one stripped her. Well, my darling husband apparently worked up a bit of a thirst mowing the lawn and walked down to the corner bar for a cold one, unbeknownst to me. You can imagine how thrilled I was to learn about that. Anywho, I finally attempt to strip the sh*tter while holding her, trying my best to not get sh*t anywhere else. And I was the master, let me tell you. I held her over the laundry sink, careful not to get sh*t on her face or in her hair. I thought, "Hell, this is a piece of cake. I'll get her stripped, stick her in the tub, hose her down and we're good to go."
And then it happened. I was so happy with my mothering capabilities and sh*t retention and ability to keep the sh*tter from crying, I kissed the little darling. And what did I kiss, you may be wondering?
I kissed sh*t. Not only did I kiss sh*t, I then got so grossed out when I realized that I kissed SH*T, that I wiped my mouth as fast as possible, only to spread the sneaky sh*t that was on my hand ALL ACROSS MY FACE.
That's right, folks. I was, quite literally, a sh*t head.
And as important as sh*t is in a parent's day to day life, it is more important that you don't leave your preschooler AT school once her day is over. And so, I drove, sh*t finger and all, to preschool to pick up the 4-year old. And I'm pretty sure no one knew, but even if they did, chances are good they've got a couple sh* t stories of their own and they'd be the last ones to judge.
I had sh*t on my hands.
My youngest, god bless him, awoke from his nap happy as a clam and covered in sh*t. At this point, I'm running a little late to pick up the oldest and the husband in knee deep in plastic window covering and a "helpful" 3-year old, so it's up to me to de-sh*t the 10-month old. This involved in-depth wiping (at least 4 wipes, for you seasoned pros, so you know it was a messy one) and a complete wardrobe change. I get him situated, do a quick hand wash and hand him off to his dad so I can pick up the 4-year old.
Now, I've changed a few diapers in the past 4 years. If I had to guess, I'd say no less than 84, 612...but that's a rough estimate. And I can count the times, on one hand, that I've actually gotten sh*t on myself. And as I sat at the light (yes, this light is unusually long), I was amazed at the role sh*t has come to play in my life.
Before you have kids, sh*t isn't really something you talk about, and if you're a woman, it most certainly isn't something you ever DO. But once kids enter the equation, your life, to some extent, is ruled by sh*t. You talk about sh*t, you worry about sh*t, you discuss sh*t with pretty much anyone who will listen. It happens, people, sh*t happens.
For example, there was the time my oldest awoke from her nap covered in sh*t. (This seems to be a recurring theme in our house.) My oldest was around 9 months old and woke up from her nap COVERED, and I do mean COVERED, in sh*t. There was no special reason for the debacle. It was simply a lovely early summer afternoon, the husband and I were doing some yard work while the baby napped, and she decided to throw in a little something extra to make the day extra special. Upon discovery, I had no idea what to do with the kid. She was, as was her brother, happy as a clam and yet covered in sh*t. I didn't want to put her on the changing table, thinking it best to contain the sh*t if at all possible; I didn't want to put her in the tub with her clothes on, because it seemed to defeat the purpose if the sh*t got all over the clean tub before I even got any water in it. So, I, panic stricken by this point, rush around trying to find my husband, so one of us can hold the sh*itter, while the other one stripped her. Well, my darling husband apparently worked up a bit of a thirst mowing the lawn and walked down to the corner bar for a cold one, unbeknownst to me. You can imagine how thrilled I was to learn about that. Anywho, I finally attempt to strip the sh*tter while holding her, trying my best to not get sh*t anywhere else. And I was the master, let me tell you. I held her over the laundry sink, careful not to get sh*t on her face or in her hair. I thought, "Hell, this is a piece of cake. I'll get her stripped, stick her in the tub, hose her down and we're good to go."
And then it happened. I was so happy with my mothering capabilities and sh*t retention and ability to keep the sh*tter from crying, I kissed the little darling. And what did I kiss, you may be wondering?
I kissed sh*t. Not only did I kiss sh*t, I then got so grossed out when I realized that I kissed SH*T, that I wiped my mouth as fast as possible, only to spread the sneaky sh*t that was on my hand ALL ACROSS MY FACE.
That's right, folks. I was, quite literally, a sh*t head.
And as important as sh*t is in a parent's day to day life, it is more important that you don't leave your preschooler AT school once her day is over. And so, I drove, sh*t finger and all, to preschool to pick up the 4-year old. And I'm pretty sure no one knew, but even if they did, chances are good they've got a couple sh* t stories of their own and they'd be the last ones to judge.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Rainbows, Puppy Kisses and Other Crap
This past Saturday I turned 34.
I like my birthday. Always have. I like getting presents, I like opening presents (ok, who are we kidding...I freaking LIVE for presents), I like getting a little extra attention, I like that I don't have to be in charge of the day but I can be if I want, I like eating whatever I want, I like making wishes - I pretty much like it all.
And I don't mind getting older. Although I will admit, 34 sounds a LOT older to me than 33 did. I do mind the gray hair that appears to be attached to my increasing age, but that's why someone got the bright idea to become a hairdresser, right? Just so I don't have to acknowledge my grays. Kudos, original hairdresser, whomever ye may be.
This year for my birthday, I decided to make some resolutions. For me, a new year begins with my birthday, rather than a calendar year. It just seems to make sense. I might make a few half-hearted attempts at a New Year's Resolution, but it's usually in the crapper by the end of that first week. So this year, instead of doing the New Year's thing, I'm going to start early.
Being a stay-at-home mom, I've found that's it's really easy for me to get stuck in a certain mindset. And for the past few months that mindset has been "Will this day never end, why can't it be bedtime, I'm so hungry I could eat my foot, will my stomach never be flat again, I'm so crabby I can barely see straight, where is the Chardonnay, why don't we EVER have enough chocolate in this house, why must this bra be so damned uncomfortable, oh great here's another friggin' bill, and if I ever see another gray hair on this head I'm going to lose my ever lovin' mind!" More or less. Usually more.
And quite honestly, I am sick to death of having this mindset, but it's a nasty old habit to break. I'm just not one of those naturally peppy, morning loving, puppy kissing, rainbow coming out of my ass kind of people. I tend toward the sarcastic, the dry, the realistic...and there's absolutely nothing wrong with these tendencies. What's wrong is getting so mired in looking only at the negative that my entire day is spent looking toward the end instead of appreciating the moment.
Part of this is because I am a planner...and right now I've got no plans.
Part of this is because I do the same thing, day in and day out, and it gets old.
Part of this is simply because it's easier to stay stuck that it is to break out of the muck.
But today (well, Saturday, actually), I made a resolution - a goal - a vow, to myself, to start digging out of the crap. To start appreciating the fact that my 4-year old is smart as hell and that's why she makes me crazy; to laugh more at the fact that my 3-year old is almost constantly in a state of undress; to look at my 9-month old, knowing that he's my last baby, and not want to rush him toward potty-training (like that would ever happen); to look at my husband at the end of the day and know that no matter how god damned tired we may be, we both did the best we could today.
And to know, above all, that what I'm doing now matters in a way that nothing else has really mattered before...and I'm not talking about being home with my kids. I can't honestly say that my kids are any better off with me being home than they would be in daycare. I don't know if that's true or not. And I don't really care, because it simply doesn't apply to my family right now. What does matter is that my kids have a mother who is deeply involved in their day to day lives, hopefully for the better, and that we're all in this together.
And hopefully, we'll all make it out alive. (Please refer to sarcasm comment above.)
I like my birthday. Always have. I like getting presents, I like opening presents (ok, who are we kidding...I freaking LIVE for presents), I like getting a little extra attention, I like that I don't have to be in charge of the day but I can be if I want, I like eating whatever I want, I like making wishes - I pretty much like it all.
And I don't mind getting older. Although I will admit, 34 sounds a LOT older to me than 33 did. I do mind the gray hair that appears to be attached to my increasing age, but that's why someone got the bright idea to become a hairdresser, right? Just so I don't have to acknowledge my grays. Kudos, original hairdresser, whomever ye may be.
This year for my birthday, I decided to make some resolutions. For me, a new year begins with my birthday, rather than a calendar year. It just seems to make sense. I might make a few half-hearted attempts at a New Year's Resolution, but it's usually in the crapper by the end of that first week. So this year, instead of doing the New Year's thing, I'm going to start early.
Being a stay-at-home mom, I've found that's it's really easy for me to get stuck in a certain mindset. And for the past few months that mindset has been "Will this day never end, why can't it be bedtime, I'm so hungry I could eat my foot, will my stomach never be flat again, I'm so crabby I can barely see straight, where is the Chardonnay, why don't we EVER have enough chocolate in this house, why must this bra be so damned uncomfortable, oh great here's another friggin' bill, and if I ever see another gray hair on this head I'm going to lose my ever lovin' mind!" More or less. Usually more.
And quite honestly, I am sick to death of having this mindset, but it's a nasty old habit to break. I'm just not one of those naturally peppy, morning loving, puppy kissing, rainbow coming out of my ass kind of people. I tend toward the sarcastic, the dry, the realistic...and there's absolutely nothing wrong with these tendencies. What's wrong is getting so mired in looking only at the negative that my entire day is spent looking toward the end instead of appreciating the moment.
Part of this is because I am a planner...and right now I've got no plans.
Part of this is because I do the same thing, day in and day out, and it gets old.
Part of this is simply because it's easier to stay stuck that it is to break out of the muck.
But today (well, Saturday, actually), I made a resolution - a goal - a vow, to myself, to start digging out of the crap. To start appreciating the fact that my 4-year old is smart as hell and that's why she makes me crazy; to laugh more at the fact that my 3-year old is almost constantly in a state of undress; to look at my 9-month old, knowing that he's my last baby, and not want to rush him toward potty-training (like that would ever happen); to look at my husband at the end of the day and know that no matter how god damned tired we may be, we both did the best we could today.
And to know, above all, that what I'm doing now matters in a way that nothing else has really mattered before...and I'm not talking about being home with my kids. I can't honestly say that my kids are any better off with me being home than they would be in daycare. I don't know if that's true or not. And I don't really care, because it simply doesn't apply to my family right now. What does matter is that my kids have a mother who is deeply involved in their day to day lives, hopefully for the better, and that we're all in this together.
And hopefully, we'll all make it out alive. (Please refer to sarcasm comment above.)
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Sex Talk
Disclaimer: If you are my mother or will have trouble looking me in the eye the next time you see me, you probably don't want to read this.
So, my dear friend is getting married next week and I'm in the wedding. Technically, I'm the "matron" of honor, but I hate that word, so no one's allowed to call me that anywhere other than the program. In an effort to help her with her pre-wedding preparations, I sent her a big long list of things she needs to do. One of the items was as follows:
Pack a bag for the wedding night. Lingerie and some comfy clothes for the next day.
She responded with some sort of garbled choke about the idea of the lingerie. I told her to pack it simply for the sake of packing it. If it doesn't get used, no harm done. After the newly anointed husband has removed all the pins from her hair, helped her out of her heavy dress and applied balm to her blistered feet, the mood might be broken anyways. But chances are, they'll do the deed and crash for a few hours. The deed may not be orgasm-inducing, but there's something to be said for having sex (or making love) or whatever you want to call it, on your wedding night. It might not be great, but it will be the first time you do it as married people. It's a moment, if nothing else.
Having relayed this information, I got to thinking about the topic of sex and the various types of sex people have. No, I'm not a sexual deviant or anything like that. But all women know there are a lot of different kinds of sex to be had. And the types of sex evolve over the years...substantially.
Here are a few I've come across over the years:
New Relationship Sex: This is the type of sex that you have for about the first 3 months of a new relationship, provided, of course, you're sexually compatible. This sex is teeth-rattling, head-banging, dehydrating, note-taking worthy sex. You have sex at least 3 times a day, you drop everything in order to do it and you swear you've never had it this good. This sex is so all-consuming you rarely see the light of day, you eat in your bed and you run out of clean clothes. And you don't care even a little bit. You don't work out and you don't need too...you're burning so many damn calories you could consume 6 Big Macs in a single sitting and not bat an eye. This sex is great, but only last for so long...because if it lasted for more than 3 months, you would both die. Literally. Death.
Relationship Sex: This is the sex that comes after New Relationship Sex. You've sustained yourselves long enough to have entered into a relationship, hopefully you don't have to worry about other "members" in your club, and you still do it as often as you want, but with more sleeping involved. It may not always be as excited as New Relationship Sex, but it won't kill you either.
Wedding Night Sex: I know this sex gets hyped a lot, but I don't get it. I suppose if you've never had sex before, (a topic hardly worth touching on, in all honesty) it's an extra-special night, but I don't know a single person who had mind-blowing sex on their wedding night. At the end of the day, you're tired, you're quite possibly hungry, maybe a little drunk and married. Save the good stuff for the morning and go to sleep already.
Pregnancy Sex: There are a lot of myths about pregnancy. The glow (it's oil), the crazy bursts of energy (never had even one) and horny pregnant women willing and able to take on and make up all sorts of crazy positions. My poor husband was so excited for the horny pregnant woman...he was sorely mistaken. Don't get me wrong...we had sex when I was pregnant. But was I jumping his bones twice a day, every day? Not a chance. At some point we did christen a new position though. We called it the Turtle. I would lay there, he'd attempt to curve his body over my huge belly, and sex happened. Neither one of us miss the Turtle, although it was always good for a laugh.
Barnyard Sex: This is post-pregnancy sex. And no, it's not at all what you're thinking. When the oldest was tiny, we'd put her in her barnyard play yard, so she would be occupied while we did the deed. To this day, that particular music drives us both wild.
Cartoon Sex: Hey, the kids have to be occupied by something if we're going to get around to it. They're too little to go outside and mow the lawn. The cartoons will have to suffice.
Multi-tasking Sex: Also known as Shower Sex. This folks, is multi-tasking at its finest. Not only do you get clean, your significant other gets to feel like they're getting some of the naughty stuff, and you can probably get the shower scrubbed down too. Win-Win-Win!
Late Night Random Sex: This is the good stuff. This is the stuff you have in the hopes of one day, when the children are all out of the house, regaining a little of the New Relationship Sex. It's the sex you have at the end of a long day, after the kids are in bed, maybe after a glass of wine or two, right as you're drifting off to sleep. One of you thinks, "Hey, why not give it a shot?" and after a little "convincing", the other thinks, "Yeah, what the hell, why not?" Time periods differ, but the end result is go-oo-od.
And you both wake up the next morning with a shit-eating grin on your face.
So, my dear friend is getting married next week and I'm in the wedding. Technically, I'm the "matron" of honor, but I hate that word, so no one's allowed to call me that anywhere other than the program. In an effort to help her with her pre-wedding preparations, I sent her a big long list of things she needs to do. One of the items was as follows:
Pack a bag for the wedding night. Lingerie and some comfy clothes for the next day.
She responded with some sort of garbled choke about the idea of the lingerie. I told her to pack it simply for the sake of packing it. If it doesn't get used, no harm done. After the newly anointed husband has removed all the pins from her hair, helped her out of her heavy dress and applied balm to her blistered feet, the mood might be broken anyways. But chances are, they'll do the deed and crash for a few hours. The deed may not be orgasm-inducing, but there's something to be said for having sex (or making love) or whatever you want to call it, on your wedding night. It might not be great, but it will be the first time you do it as married people. It's a moment, if nothing else.
Having relayed this information, I got to thinking about the topic of sex and the various types of sex people have. No, I'm not a sexual deviant or anything like that. But all women know there are a lot of different kinds of sex to be had. And the types of sex evolve over the years...substantially.
Here are a few I've come across over the years:
New Relationship Sex: This is the type of sex that you have for about the first 3 months of a new relationship, provided, of course, you're sexually compatible. This sex is teeth-rattling, head-banging, dehydrating, note-taking worthy sex. You have sex at least 3 times a day, you drop everything in order to do it and you swear you've never had it this good. This sex is so all-consuming you rarely see the light of day, you eat in your bed and you run out of clean clothes. And you don't care even a little bit. You don't work out and you don't need too...you're burning so many damn calories you could consume 6 Big Macs in a single sitting and not bat an eye. This sex is great, but only last for so long...because if it lasted for more than 3 months, you would both die. Literally. Death.
Relationship Sex: This is the sex that comes after New Relationship Sex. You've sustained yourselves long enough to have entered into a relationship, hopefully you don't have to worry about other "members" in your club, and you still do it as often as you want, but with more sleeping involved. It may not always be as excited as New Relationship Sex, but it won't kill you either.
Wedding Night Sex: I know this sex gets hyped a lot, but I don't get it. I suppose if you've never had sex before, (a topic hardly worth touching on, in all honesty) it's an extra-special night, but I don't know a single person who had mind-blowing sex on their wedding night. At the end of the day, you're tired, you're quite possibly hungry, maybe a little drunk and married. Save the good stuff for the morning and go to sleep already.
Pregnancy Sex: There are a lot of myths about pregnancy. The glow (it's oil), the crazy bursts of energy (never had even one) and horny pregnant women willing and able to take on and make up all sorts of crazy positions. My poor husband was so excited for the horny pregnant woman...he was sorely mistaken. Don't get me wrong...we had sex when I was pregnant. But was I jumping his bones twice a day, every day? Not a chance. At some point we did christen a new position though. We called it the Turtle. I would lay there, he'd attempt to curve his body over my huge belly, and sex happened. Neither one of us miss the Turtle, although it was always good for a laugh.
Barnyard Sex: This is post-pregnancy sex. And no, it's not at all what you're thinking. When the oldest was tiny, we'd put her in her barnyard play yard, so she would be occupied while we did the deed. To this day, that particular music drives us both wild.
Cartoon Sex: Hey, the kids have to be occupied by something if we're going to get around to it. They're too little to go outside and mow the lawn. The cartoons will have to suffice.
Multi-tasking Sex: Also known as Shower Sex. This folks, is multi-tasking at its finest. Not only do you get clean, your significant other gets to feel like they're getting some of the naughty stuff, and you can probably get the shower scrubbed down too. Win-Win-Win!
Late Night Random Sex: This is the good stuff. This is the stuff you have in the hopes of one day, when the children are all out of the house, regaining a little of the New Relationship Sex. It's the sex you have at the end of a long day, after the kids are in bed, maybe after a glass of wine or two, right as you're drifting off to sleep. One of you thinks, "Hey, why not give it a shot?" and after a little "convincing", the other thinks, "Yeah, what the hell, why not?" Time periods differ, but the end result is go-oo-od.
And you both wake up the next morning with a shit-eating grin on your face.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Heavy Gets Mushy
In our house, I am the Heavy. In your house, you may have a different name for this position - El Jefe, Enforcer, Sergeant, Captain Bossy Pants. Whatever you call it, chances are good there's at least one of you in your household...and chances are good that if you're one of the aforementioned persons, then you are NOT your kid's favorite parent.
I'm OK with being the Heavy. I'm home with the kids during the day, I spend the most time with them and I firmly believe they need a certain amount of rules and routines in their daily lives in order to make them functioning members of society. No, I don't expect them to be running a government by age 5, but I do expect them to be able to go to the grocery store and behave themselves in a reasonable manner so the store doesn't come crashing down around us.
Being the Heavy, however, has its pitfalls. I'm the one who says no - no, you can't have candy for breakfast; no, you can't throw your sister in the toilet; no, you can't stick your broccoli up your nose. I'm the one who tells them to be quiet when another sibling is sleeping; the one who makes them change their underwear; the one who makes them go to bed at night.
In essence, I'm not the Fun One.
For the most part, my husband gets to be the Fun One. And he's really good at it. Now don't get me wrong...he's perfectly capable of being the Heavy when he needs to be...and he backs me up when my Heavy-ness enters the equation. But by and large, he's the Fun One and also the Favorite.
When the Fun One enters the house after work, the girls shriek in delight and the baby can't get off my lap fast enough. The girls do everything in their tiny powers to keep the Fun One's full attention, while the baby bounces up and down, trying to get in the middle of the action. When the Fun One enters the building, the world comes to a screeching halt...at least our little corner of it.
The Fun One says he's the favorite only because he's not home enough. And I can see his point. I also know the Fun One says this to make me feel better. The Fun One is a smart man.
So, what, exactly is my point here?
My point is this:
The other night, all the kids were in bed, as were the Fun One and I. The house was quiet. It was dark. Everyone was where they were supposed to be, sleeping away the night. All of the sudden, my middle kiddo starts screaming in her sleep. She must've been having a bad dream. I woke up immediately, of course, since the Heavy is known for her listening prowess. The kiddo starts screaming, "Mama! MAMA!" I go in and check on her...she's still sound asleep, but restless from the dream. I tuck her back in, smooth away her hair, kiss her forehead. She quiets down and rolls over. I go back to bed.
As I get back into bed, everything once again in its place, I have an epiphany:
I may not be the Fun One, but I am the one all the kids call for in the middle of the night. I'm the one they call for when they need something - anything; be it soothing from a bad dream, a wipe for their butts, a kleenex for their noses, a cookie or a hug. Sure, the Fun One does all these things too, but in the clinch, they're all calling for the Heavy.
Being the Heavy can be a downer; it gets tiring being in charge of all the rules and regulations. But realizing the Heavy benefits, at 2 a.m., when the house is dark and quiet, is pretty freaking great.
I'm OK with being the Heavy. I'm home with the kids during the day, I spend the most time with them and I firmly believe they need a certain amount of rules and routines in their daily lives in order to make them functioning members of society. No, I don't expect them to be running a government by age 5, but I do expect them to be able to go to the grocery store and behave themselves in a reasonable manner so the store doesn't come crashing down around us.
Being the Heavy, however, has its pitfalls. I'm the one who says no - no, you can't have candy for breakfast; no, you can't throw your sister in the toilet; no, you can't stick your broccoli up your nose. I'm the one who tells them to be quiet when another sibling is sleeping; the one who makes them change their underwear; the one who makes them go to bed at night.
In essence, I'm not the Fun One.
For the most part, my husband gets to be the Fun One. And he's really good at it. Now don't get me wrong...he's perfectly capable of being the Heavy when he needs to be...and he backs me up when my Heavy-ness enters the equation. But by and large, he's the Fun One and also the Favorite.
When the Fun One enters the house after work, the girls shriek in delight and the baby can't get off my lap fast enough. The girls do everything in their tiny powers to keep the Fun One's full attention, while the baby bounces up and down, trying to get in the middle of the action. When the Fun One enters the building, the world comes to a screeching halt...at least our little corner of it.
The Fun One says he's the favorite only because he's not home enough. And I can see his point. I also know the Fun One says this to make me feel better. The Fun One is a smart man.
So, what, exactly is my point here?
My point is this:
The other night, all the kids were in bed, as were the Fun One and I. The house was quiet. It was dark. Everyone was where they were supposed to be, sleeping away the night. All of the sudden, my middle kiddo starts screaming in her sleep. She must've been having a bad dream. I woke up immediately, of course, since the Heavy is known for her listening prowess. The kiddo starts screaming, "Mama! MAMA!" I go in and check on her...she's still sound asleep, but restless from the dream. I tuck her back in, smooth away her hair, kiss her forehead. She quiets down and rolls over. I go back to bed.
As I get back into bed, everything once again in its place, I have an epiphany:
I may not be the Fun One, but I am the one all the kids call for in the middle of the night. I'm the one they call for when they need something - anything; be it soothing from a bad dream, a wipe for their butts, a kleenex for their noses, a cookie or a hug. Sure, the Fun One does all these things too, but in the clinch, they're all calling for the Heavy.
Being the Heavy can be a downer; it gets tiring being in charge of all the rules and regulations. But realizing the Heavy benefits, at 2 a.m., when the house is dark and quiet, is pretty freaking great.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I'm a WHAT?!?!
So, I'm a mom. And yet I wonder, how the hell did this actually happen?!?! (And yes, I do realize it's been a while since I've posted. So it goes.)
I've got friends who are moms. I've got friends who are dads. I'm a mom. My husband, bless his heart, is a dad. My mother and mother-in-law are moms. My father, step-father and father-in-law are dads. And although I do know the logistics of the birds and the bees, I continue to wonder...how the hell did this happen?!?!
Yes, I know...I did the deed. My husband was there...he, indeed, took part in the deed-doing...and enjoyed it immensely, I might add. And yet, here we are, parents. And, I must confess, I'm sort of dumbfounded by the whole deal.
As of now, and for the past 4+ years, I've been in charge of another person's life. And as of today, I'm in charge of no less that 3 peoples' lives, in addition to at least a portion of my husband's life and, on a good day, at least 1/1oth of my own.
And do I know what I'm doing? I like to think so, but I'm not so sure that's actually a factual statement.
Take today, for example. Today, I went to conferences for my 4-year old. Yep, you read that correctly...I went to conferences for my 4-YEAR OLD. My oldest child does not yet participate in a full school day and she still has conferences. I would've preferred to drop her off at preschool for her 2.5 hour day, but instead I went to a 5 minute conference.
But I digress...
So, at her conference, I learned that the 4-year old can count to 30 (that's right, folks, the kid is, indeed, a genius), she has friends, knows her colors, knows her shapes, and likes to play in the kitchen.
I also learned that she has trouble with conflict resolution (read: she thinks the other kid is being "mean" when she goes to play something else) and has trouble deciding which hand to use when she cuts with scissors.
Now, as this child's mother, I can see why she would have trouble with conflict resolution, because before children, I was likely to hide my head in the sand rather than solve the problem in question. If I was upset with you about something, I could have a wicked fight with you, IN MY HEAD, and that would pretty much be the end of it.
As far as the scissors go, I'm blaming that on her father.
And as far as conferences go, I will tell you, in all sincerity, that I came home from conferences a little flustered. I know I've got a smart kid and I know I've got a good kid. And I fully expected the preschool teacher to tell me exactly that. And she didn't tell me that I don't have a smart or that I have a dumb kid (although that's probably not legal) and she didn't tell me that I've got a good or bad kid (again, a legality issue), but at the same time, she didn't tell me exactly what I planned on hearing.
And that wasn't her job.
Her job was to tell me what she sees in school, when my kid interacts with her and with other kids.
And my job, as a mother, is to realize, and accept, that the preschool teacher isn't my kid's mother, that she doesn't know every inch of my kid, that she doesn't know what my kid smelled like when she was born, that she doesn't know what my kid's favorite anything is, and that my kid, simply, is not her kid.
My job, as a mother, is to know that Abigail is ridiculously smart, cries at the thought of missing her father for a minute, loves the color purple (or pink or blue or green, depending on the day), prefers her broccoli with NO cheese, had a penchant for Barbie (in spite of her mother's best intentions) and tells knock-knock jokes that don't make any sense.
And while there are days when I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I have all the confidence in the world that my kid, my Abigail, is going to be the best kid she can possibly be. And that some day, she will know which hand to use for scissors.
I've got friends who are moms. I've got friends who are dads. I'm a mom. My husband, bless his heart, is a dad. My mother and mother-in-law are moms. My father, step-father and father-in-law are dads. And although I do know the logistics of the birds and the bees, I continue to wonder...how the hell did this happen?!?!
Yes, I know...I did the deed. My husband was there...he, indeed, took part in the deed-doing...and enjoyed it immensely, I might add. And yet, here we are, parents. And, I must confess, I'm sort of dumbfounded by the whole deal.
As of now, and for the past 4+ years, I've been in charge of another person's life. And as of today, I'm in charge of no less that 3 peoples' lives, in addition to at least a portion of my husband's life and, on a good day, at least 1/1oth of my own.
And do I know what I'm doing? I like to think so, but I'm not so sure that's actually a factual statement.
Take today, for example. Today, I went to conferences for my 4-year old. Yep, you read that correctly...I went to conferences for my 4-YEAR OLD. My oldest child does not yet participate in a full school day and she still has conferences. I would've preferred to drop her off at preschool for her 2.5 hour day, but instead I went to a 5 minute conference.
But I digress...
So, at her conference, I learned that the 4-year old can count to 30 (that's right, folks, the kid is, indeed, a genius), she has friends, knows her colors, knows her shapes, and likes to play in the kitchen.
I also learned that she has trouble with conflict resolution (read: she thinks the other kid is being "mean" when she goes to play something else) and has trouble deciding which hand to use when she cuts with scissors.
Now, as this child's mother, I can see why she would have trouble with conflict resolution, because before children, I was likely to hide my head in the sand rather than solve the problem in question. If I was upset with you about something, I could have a wicked fight with you, IN MY HEAD, and that would pretty much be the end of it.
As far as the scissors go, I'm blaming that on her father.
And as far as conferences go, I will tell you, in all sincerity, that I came home from conferences a little flustered. I know I've got a smart kid and I know I've got a good kid. And I fully expected the preschool teacher to tell me exactly that. And she didn't tell me that I don't have a smart or that I have a dumb kid (although that's probably not legal) and she didn't tell me that I've got a good or bad kid (again, a legality issue), but at the same time, she didn't tell me exactly what I planned on hearing.
And that wasn't her job.
Her job was to tell me what she sees in school, when my kid interacts with her and with other kids.
And my job, as a mother, is to realize, and accept, that the preschool teacher isn't my kid's mother, that she doesn't know every inch of my kid, that she doesn't know what my kid smelled like when she was born, that she doesn't know what my kid's favorite anything is, and that my kid, simply, is not her kid.
My job, as a mother, is to know that Abigail is ridiculously smart, cries at the thought of missing her father for a minute, loves the color purple (or pink or blue or green, depending on the day), prefers her broccoli with NO cheese, had a penchant for Barbie (in spite of her mother's best intentions) and tells knock-knock jokes that don't make any sense.
And while there are days when I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I have all the confidence in the world that my kid, my Abigail, is going to be the best kid she can possibly be. And that some day, she will know which hand to use for scissors.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dirty Little Secret
Good Morning. My name is Maegan and I am a klepto. And it's all my kids' fault.
It started off innocently enough. Doesn't it always? When my oldest was 1, she had a prescription that needed to be filled monthly, so at least once a month, I'd put her in the stroller, the baby in the baby carrier, and we'd make the short trek up to Walgreens. Once there, I'd do a little shopping, but since my hands were full, I'd put stuff into the bottom of the stroller. I'd only pick up small things, like a bottle of water, some energy drinks, maybe a snack for the older kid. By the time I got up to the prescription counter, at least one of the kids was fussing, so I'd pay for the medicine and whatever happened to be in my hand. It never occurred to me to recall the items in the stroller...until I started walking home. Invariably, I'd get hot and thirsty on the way home, so I'd grab something cold from the bottom of the stroller and realize, "Crap. I didn't actually pay for this, did I?" But by that point, I'd be more than halfway home and I'll be damned if I'm going to walk all the way back to pay for something that I didn't actually mean to steal.
Since baby #3, it's only gotten worse. Now, whenever I go to the grocery store, I've got the baby in the front of the cart, usually at least one other kid in the cart and the other one hanging off the sides. Fragile things like eggs and bananas must be kept away from kicking legs of destruction, cases of Diet Coke tend to squish small bodies, and so they are squirreled away at the bottom of the cart. Once it's time to pay, it's every man for himself as I attempt to keep 2 kids from pushing the buttons on the conveyor belt, because the teenager who rings me up likes to put the bread in front of the canned goods. I need to contain 2 energy-laden bodies within a 2-foot radius so they don't get run over by an 80-year old woman's scooter cart, hand over coupons, stick a nuk back in a baby's mouth, bag groceries, pay for groceries, answer at least 80 different questions, get the groceries in the cart, get my change, check the receipt, corral 2 kids through the parking lot, put 3 kids in car seats, unload groceries, and return a cart to the corral...all in preferably under 7 minutes...or one kid is sure to blow. So, do I remember the various sundries on the bottom of my cart? Sure, I do. Once I start unloading the damn thing. And by that point, I've got 3 kids loaded into a car, as well as perishable groceries, and I'll be damned if I'm going to go back into the store and pay for the stuff the on the bottom of my cart.
Really, I don't steal on purpose. And I'm sure most kleptos say the same thing. But the way I figure it, I've left plenty of paid items in stores since I've had kids. I have no idea what they are, but I'm sure I've done it. And technically, it's the cashier's job to check for items on the bottom of carts. If my 3 and 4-year olds know there are mirrors on the side of the cashier's booth, then the cashier should know they're there too. I never steal stuff from Sam's Club, because they automatically check the bottoms of carts. In fact, they encourage you to leave things there! Imagine that!
So, am I sorry I steal stuff? A little. Will I encourage my children to steal stuff? Absolutely not. But if there comes a day when they have kids of their own, and they're tired and under-caffeinated and happen to shoplift a few things, unintentionally of course, I will laugh with them and direct them to this post.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a chilled Diet Coke calling my name...
It started off innocently enough. Doesn't it always? When my oldest was 1, she had a prescription that needed to be filled monthly, so at least once a month, I'd put her in the stroller, the baby in the baby carrier, and we'd make the short trek up to Walgreens. Once there, I'd do a little shopping, but since my hands were full, I'd put stuff into the bottom of the stroller. I'd only pick up small things, like a bottle of water, some energy drinks, maybe a snack for the older kid. By the time I got up to the prescription counter, at least one of the kids was fussing, so I'd pay for the medicine and whatever happened to be in my hand. It never occurred to me to recall the items in the stroller...until I started walking home. Invariably, I'd get hot and thirsty on the way home, so I'd grab something cold from the bottom of the stroller and realize, "Crap. I didn't actually pay for this, did I?" But by that point, I'd be more than halfway home and I'll be damned if I'm going to walk all the way back to pay for something that I didn't actually mean to steal.
Since baby #3, it's only gotten worse. Now, whenever I go to the grocery store, I've got the baby in the front of the cart, usually at least one other kid in the cart and the other one hanging off the sides. Fragile things like eggs and bananas must be kept away from kicking legs of destruction, cases of Diet Coke tend to squish small bodies, and so they are squirreled away at the bottom of the cart. Once it's time to pay, it's every man for himself as I attempt to keep 2 kids from pushing the buttons on the conveyor belt, because the teenager who rings me up likes to put the bread in front of the canned goods. I need to contain 2 energy-laden bodies within a 2-foot radius so they don't get run over by an 80-year old woman's scooter cart, hand over coupons, stick a nuk back in a baby's mouth, bag groceries, pay for groceries, answer at least 80 different questions, get the groceries in the cart, get my change, check the receipt, corral 2 kids through the parking lot, put 3 kids in car seats, unload groceries, and return a cart to the corral...all in preferably under 7 minutes...or one kid is sure to blow. So, do I remember the various sundries on the bottom of my cart? Sure, I do. Once I start unloading the damn thing. And by that point, I've got 3 kids loaded into a car, as well as perishable groceries, and I'll be damned if I'm going to go back into the store and pay for the stuff the on the bottom of my cart.
Really, I don't steal on purpose. And I'm sure most kleptos say the same thing. But the way I figure it, I've left plenty of paid items in stores since I've had kids. I have no idea what they are, but I'm sure I've done it. And technically, it's the cashier's job to check for items on the bottom of carts. If my 3 and 4-year olds know there are mirrors on the side of the cashier's booth, then the cashier should know they're there too. I never steal stuff from Sam's Club, because they automatically check the bottoms of carts. In fact, they encourage you to leave things there! Imagine that!
So, am I sorry I steal stuff? A little. Will I encourage my children to steal stuff? Absolutely not. But if there comes a day when they have kids of their own, and they're tired and under-caffeinated and happen to shoplift a few things, unintentionally of course, I will laugh with them and direct them to this post.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a chilled Diet Coke calling my name...
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
And the Award Goes to...
Yesterday, I won an award. It's a self-nominated award, but it's an award nonetheless. Care to know what it is?
World's Worst Mother.
That's right folks. For August 23, 2010, I, Maegan Schmidt, was the world's worst mother. No, I didn't beat the children or leave them on the side of the road or feed them to alligators, but the title still remains.
Here's why:
I started the day with excellent expectations. I have the girls scheduled for gymnastics camp all week and they were really excited to go. I bought myself an egg timer over the weekend with grandiose thoughts of trying out a new cleaning regimen (15 minutes per room) and achieving a sparkling house. It was supposed to be wicked hot yesterday, which it was, but then it's supposed to turn into a beautiful week. The State Fair starts this week. We got a big check in the mail from one of my husband's recent jobs. All should've been right with the world.
Here's what really happened:
We started off the day with a 6am voicemail from an unhappy customer wanting some sort of recompense on her floor, because the color didn't match the sample. She never actually saw a sample, so technically it would be IMPOSSIBLE to match, but apparently, that's neither here nor there. So, job stress to start off the hubby's day. Sweet. But I was not to be deterred.
The little girl woke up with a dry pull up! Score 1 for the day. She went potty on the potty, I cheered, we were right back on track for the excellent Monday. A little while later, she pooped in her pull up. I was deflated, but very good about simply reminding her she needs to poop in the potty and not her pull up. We get her changed and we're right back on track.
After about 4 tries, which is 2 more than usual, I finally get the baby down for his nap. Rather than start my magical new cleaning routine, I sit down in front of the computer. For WAY too long. And the day starts taking it's turn...
Baby wakes up and refuses to eat like the usual machine he is. He's moving around, won't sit in my lap, keeps stretching out his legs, wants to stand and is getting cranky because he's hungry, but won't eat. Sigh. In the meantime, the girls have asked approximately 80,000 times if it's time for gymnastics yet.
I feed the girls lunch, we do potty breaks, put on our leotards, get the hair done, finally get the baby fed enough to get him through the 35 minute car ride to the gymnastics center. I go to change the baby and Little Girl poops in her pull up...AGAIN. Enter awards time...I completely lose my mind and YELL, yes, actually YELL at a 3-year old for pooping in her pull up. She looks at me, completely nonplussed, with a dead stare. I want to throttle her. I ask her why she pooped in her pull up, which I know to be a stupid question, and she shrugs and says, "Because I wanted to." I leave the room, attempt to compose myself, do a miserable job of it, get her changed, apologize for having yelled at her, explaining Mommy shouldn't have done that and she's VERY sorry, and load the kids into the car.
On the ride to gymnastics, my car is a cacophony of noises that I simply cannot tolerate. The oldest has taken to making noise simply for the sake of making noise and it makes me nuts. On any given day, it makes me nuts; yesterday, it made me quasi-murderous. I asked repeatedly for her to be quiet, or to just talk to the baby with words and she simply would not do it. My husband called on the way over and I confessed my horrible yelling moment. He asked if I made the Little Girl cry; I confessed that I did. He just sort of sighed, made murmurings about understanding my frustration and told me she forgave me. I reiterated the fact that I'm the World's Worst Potty Trainer, in addition to several other areas in which I completely suck and hung up the phone.
Got the girls dropped off at gymnastics. They were excited. I was excited. Took the baby over to Barnes and Noble, bought myself a high calorie coffee, thinking that would be a quick fix to my craptastic day, ordered a sandwich from a snotty barista and prepared to settle in to write out Little Girl's birthday party thank you notes. Baby had other ideas. First he wanted to eat. Then he didn't want to eat. Then he wanted to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I finally relented a bit with the sandwich, just to stop him from yelling at me. I tried to get him to sleep. No dice. I scarfed down my sandwich and we went off to Petsmart to pick up 40 pounds of dog and cat food. Baby finally fell asleep on the ride back to gymnastics, over 2 hours past his regular nap time. I thought I'd get at least an hour to read my book, so I went into the gymnastics studio, careful not to wake the baby. He slept like an angel until I set down the car seat. Then all hell broke loose.
He wanted to get out. NOW. He wanted to crawl. He wanted to climb on me. He wanted to pinch and pull my hair and yank on my necklace and scratch and chew on my face. And all I wanted was one hour of peace, quiet and no one touching me. So, now I'm crabby at a 6-month old who won't do what I want. I mean really, how dare a 6-month old not do what his mother wants! I feed this little bugger on an instant basis!
Everyone falls asleep on the way home. Husband calls and says he's going to be home...late. Perfect. Get home. Think a picnic is a good idea for dinner. Open the fridge and a shelf comes crashing down, spilling bottles of various condiments across the kitchen floor. Get the girls' picnic ready, get baby's bottle ready, come back to find the girls stabbing each other with toothpicks. Baby fights me through 8 oz. Girls are making so much noise, none of which appear to be words, my head is buzzing. Baby refuses to sit still. Room starts spinning. Girls finish dinner and I send them upstairs to watch a movie. Baby is cranky so I attempt to put him to bed. He starts screaming. I leave him in his crib, hoping and praying he'll just fall asleep. He does not. I go downstairs, try to open a bottle of wine and THE CORK IS STUCK. I burst into tears. "Mother's Little Helper" my ass! Baby is still screaming. I go upstairs, pick up the baby, shove a nuk in his mouth and go sit on the couch. Baby sits still for a moment and then starts climbing all over me again. I'm just staring into space, thinking "Did I make these creatures on purpose? What the hell was I thinking?" Husband shows up a few minutes later, says hello to the girls, opens my bottle of wine and takes the baby. I think the day might be done.
Oh no.
You see, I still have 3 children to put to bed. And in the process, they will break me. The oldest takes over 10 minutes to get her jammies on. While I'm literally standing there watching her. The Little Girl refuses to go potty, so I have to pick her up, physically strip her clothes off and put her on the toilet. The baby starts screaming again. I finally get the girls into bed and the oldest has the audacity to ask me for a kiss good night. I do it, but I so did not want to. Baby is still screaming. Husband and I go downstairs, where I'm forced to watch Antiques Roadshow. Baby is still screaming. Husband tries to get baby to sleep. Unsuccessful. He comes downstairs about 3o minutes later. Baby is still screaming. I go up with a few ounces of formula. He takes about 4 sips. I lay down with him. He falls asleep in about 25 seconds. I'm still dressed, but I'll be damned if I'm going to move. I get him in his crib about 45 minutes later and I'm cooked. Burnt to a crisp.
So, folks, that's how I earned the World's Worst Mother award, at least for yesterday. Like I said, I didn't beat the children, but I did yell and say some truly awful things in my head. It was a day over which I had absolutely no control and it showed in every single movement I took. It was terrible, it was horrible, it was awful, it was no good...it was a VERY BAD day.
And why do I tell you this? Because maybe you need to feel like you're better than other mothers out there. Or maybe you need to feel like you're not alone. Or maybe you need a good laugh. Whatever the reason, embrace it, embrace your kids, embrace any peace and quiet you can get, and hopefully we'll all make it through one more day.
World's Worst Mother.
That's right folks. For August 23, 2010, I, Maegan Schmidt, was the world's worst mother. No, I didn't beat the children or leave them on the side of the road or feed them to alligators, but the title still remains.
Here's why:
I started the day with excellent expectations. I have the girls scheduled for gymnastics camp all week and they were really excited to go. I bought myself an egg timer over the weekend with grandiose thoughts of trying out a new cleaning regimen (15 minutes per room) and achieving a sparkling house. It was supposed to be wicked hot yesterday, which it was, but then it's supposed to turn into a beautiful week. The State Fair starts this week. We got a big check in the mail from one of my husband's recent jobs. All should've been right with the world.
Here's what really happened:
We started off the day with a 6am voicemail from an unhappy customer wanting some sort of recompense on her floor, because the color didn't match the sample. She never actually saw a sample, so technically it would be IMPOSSIBLE to match, but apparently, that's neither here nor there. So, job stress to start off the hubby's day. Sweet. But I was not to be deterred.
The little girl woke up with a dry pull up! Score 1 for the day. She went potty on the potty, I cheered, we were right back on track for the excellent Monday. A little while later, she pooped in her pull up. I was deflated, but very good about simply reminding her she needs to poop in the potty and not her pull up. We get her changed and we're right back on track.
After about 4 tries, which is 2 more than usual, I finally get the baby down for his nap. Rather than start my magical new cleaning routine, I sit down in front of the computer. For WAY too long. And the day starts taking it's turn...
Baby wakes up and refuses to eat like the usual machine he is. He's moving around, won't sit in my lap, keeps stretching out his legs, wants to stand and is getting cranky because he's hungry, but won't eat. Sigh. In the meantime, the girls have asked approximately 80,000 times if it's time for gymnastics yet.
I feed the girls lunch, we do potty breaks, put on our leotards, get the hair done, finally get the baby fed enough to get him through the 35 minute car ride to the gymnastics center. I go to change the baby and Little Girl poops in her pull up...AGAIN. Enter awards time...I completely lose my mind and YELL, yes, actually YELL at a 3-year old for pooping in her pull up. She looks at me, completely nonplussed, with a dead stare. I want to throttle her. I ask her why she pooped in her pull up, which I know to be a stupid question, and she shrugs and says, "Because I wanted to." I leave the room, attempt to compose myself, do a miserable job of it, get her changed, apologize for having yelled at her, explaining Mommy shouldn't have done that and she's VERY sorry, and load the kids into the car.
On the ride to gymnastics, my car is a cacophony of noises that I simply cannot tolerate. The oldest has taken to making noise simply for the sake of making noise and it makes me nuts. On any given day, it makes me nuts; yesterday, it made me quasi-murderous. I asked repeatedly for her to be quiet, or to just talk to the baby with words and she simply would not do it. My husband called on the way over and I confessed my horrible yelling moment. He asked if I made the Little Girl cry; I confessed that I did. He just sort of sighed, made murmurings about understanding my frustration and told me she forgave me. I reiterated the fact that I'm the World's Worst Potty Trainer, in addition to several other areas in which I completely suck and hung up the phone.
Got the girls dropped off at gymnastics. They were excited. I was excited. Took the baby over to Barnes and Noble, bought myself a high calorie coffee, thinking that would be a quick fix to my craptastic day, ordered a sandwich from a snotty barista and prepared to settle in to write out Little Girl's birthday party thank you notes. Baby had other ideas. First he wanted to eat. Then he didn't want to eat. Then he wanted to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I finally relented a bit with the sandwich, just to stop him from yelling at me. I tried to get him to sleep. No dice. I scarfed down my sandwich and we went off to Petsmart to pick up 40 pounds of dog and cat food. Baby finally fell asleep on the ride back to gymnastics, over 2 hours past his regular nap time. I thought I'd get at least an hour to read my book, so I went into the gymnastics studio, careful not to wake the baby. He slept like an angel until I set down the car seat. Then all hell broke loose.
He wanted to get out. NOW. He wanted to crawl. He wanted to climb on me. He wanted to pinch and pull my hair and yank on my necklace and scratch and chew on my face. And all I wanted was one hour of peace, quiet and no one touching me. So, now I'm crabby at a 6-month old who won't do what I want. I mean really, how dare a 6-month old not do what his mother wants! I feed this little bugger on an instant basis!
Everyone falls asleep on the way home. Husband calls and says he's going to be home...late. Perfect. Get home. Think a picnic is a good idea for dinner. Open the fridge and a shelf comes crashing down, spilling bottles of various condiments across the kitchen floor. Get the girls' picnic ready, get baby's bottle ready, come back to find the girls stabbing each other with toothpicks. Baby fights me through 8 oz. Girls are making so much noise, none of which appear to be words, my head is buzzing. Baby refuses to sit still. Room starts spinning. Girls finish dinner and I send them upstairs to watch a movie. Baby is cranky so I attempt to put him to bed. He starts screaming. I leave him in his crib, hoping and praying he'll just fall asleep. He does not. I go downstairs, try to open a bottle of wine and THE CORK IS STUCK. I burst into tears. "Mother's Little Helper" my ass! Baby is still screaming. I go upstairs, pick up the baby, shove a nuk in his mouth and go sit on the couch. Baby sits still for a moment and then starts climbing all over me again. I'm just staring into space, thinking "Did I make these creatures on purpose? What the hell was I thinking?" Husband shows up a few minutes later, says hello to the girls, opens my bottle of wine and takes the baby. I think the day might be done.
Oh no.
You see, I still have 3 children to put to bed. And in the process, they will break me. The oldest takes over 10 minutes to get her jammies on. While I'm literally standing there watching her. The Little Girl refuses to go potty, so I have to pick her up, physically strip her clothes off and put her on the toilet. The baby starts screaming again. I finally get the girls into bed and the oldest has the audacity to ask me for a kiss good night. I do it, but I so did not want to. Baby is still screaming. Husband and I go downstairs, where I'm forced to watch Antiques Roadshow. Baby is still screaming. Husband tries to get baby to sleep. Unsuccessful. He comes downstairs about 3o minutes later. Baby is still screaming. I go up with a few ounces of formula. He takes about 4 sips. I lay down with him. He falls asleep in about 25 seconds. I'm still dressed, but I'll be damned if I'm going to move. I get him in his crib about 45 minutes later and I'm cooked. Burnt to a crisp.
So, folks, that's how I earned the World's Worst Mother award, at least for yesterday. Like I said, I didn't beat the children, but I did yell and say some truly awful things in my head. It was a day over which I had absolutely no control and it showed in every single movement I took. It was terrible, it was horrible, it was awful, it was no good...it was a VERY BAD day.
And why do I tell you this? Because maybe you need to feel like you're better than other mothers out there. Or maybe you need to feel like you're not alone. Or maybe you need a good laugh. Whatever the reason, embrace it, embrace your kids, embrace any peace and quiet you can get, and hopefully we'll all make it through one more day.
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