Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies)

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  CONTENTS

  Motherhood Is . . .

  Introduction

  Lie #1 Motherhood Comes Naturally

  Lie #2 You’ll Be Back to Your Old Self in No Time

  Lie #3 Mothers Hate to See Their Children Suffer

  Lie #4 It Takes a Village to Raise a Child

  Lie #5 Having Kids Keeps You Young

  Lie #6 Parents Wouldn’t Dream of Hurting Their Children

  Lie #7 Parenting Strengthens a Marriage

  Lie #8 You’re the Grown-up

  Lie #9 You’ll Get More Sleep When They Are Older

  Lie #10 Mothers Love Cooking for Their Kids

  Lie #11 You Are Your Own Harshest Critic

  Lie #12 Going from Two to Three Kids Is a Breeze

  Lie #13 The Parent Is in Charge

  Lie #14 Mother’s Day Is All About You

  Lie #15 It Gets Easier

  Lie #16 Pets Make Children More Responsible

  Lie #17 A House Without Children Is an Empty One

  Lie #18 You’ll Look Forward to Your Kids’ Independence

  Lie #19 Being Home with Your Kids Is the Most Fulfilling Job

  Lie #20 It’s Just a Phase

  Lie #21 You Will Succumb to Sentimentality

  Lie #22 Mothers Happily Share

  Lie #23 Parents Have All the Answers

  Conclusion

  Scary Mommy Confessions

  Acknowledgments

  About Jill Smokler

  For my amazing children,

  who gave me a voice,

  and for my husband,

  who makes me a better everything.

  MOTHERHOOD IS . . .

  Motherhood is middle-of-the-night wake-up calls for a glass of water or a fan or a night-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 wiping more shit than you ever thought you’d see in your entire 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 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, and even if it does, someone will end up puking or peeing themselves three seconds later.

  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 not even wanting to say “I told you so” even though you did tell them so, 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 and you forget how exhausted you just were.

  Motherhood is 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 into the offending calf in retaliation and you will wish, for the hundredth time that day, that you could just press the rewind button to savor the peace and joy of your perfect, serene children for more than an instant.

  Rinse and repeat. A million times.

  That’s motherhood.

  INTRODUCTION

  What were you told about motherhood before you had children? That you wouldn’t believe how much you love your kids? That your heart would break when they hurt? That you would do anything for them? All true, without a doubt.

  But there are some other things you might have been told, too: That parenting strengthens a marriage. That it gets easier after those exhausting days of having a newborn. That being at home with young kids is fulfilling. Are those always true? No. Not for me, at least. On the pages of this book, you’ll find everything I thought to be true about parenting . . . before I actually was one.

  Some of the lies in this collection may be totally relatable to you, while others might make you question my morals. That’s okay, because Scary Mommy has always been about lifting the veil on motherhood and helping women find comfort—and humor—in other mothers’ experiences.

  What some of us consider a burden, others view as a blessing. And what some of us are willing to do with a smile on our face, others would prefer a lobotomy to. Volunteering in a kindergarten classroom; taking the kids trick-or-treating for hours on Halloween; reading bedtime story after bedtime story when we should be sleeping ourselves. Some of us love those particular moments and some of us wish them away, in exchange for whatever moments we savor most. It’s one of the many beauties of motherhood: like DNA, no woman’s experience is the same as anyone else’s.

  I would never claim to be an expert on parenting—far from it. This is not a parenting manual or a how-to guide; rather, think of it as a coping resource; a place to turn when you feel like the only mother on earth who isn’t handling the gig with utter grace and ease. It’s a way to find some humor in the not so easy parts of motherhood. Because as wonderful as motherhood is, it’s also the hardest job in the world, and we’d all go crazy if we couldn’t laugh at ourselves.

  That’s one thing I know to be true.

  Lie #1

  MOTHERHOOD COMES NATURALLY

  I am the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I speak three languages. I have negotiated multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. However, just thinking about bedtime for my three kids makes me want to vomit.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #208830

  Once upon a time, I found myself unexpectedly expecting and scared out of my mind. If I clearly wasn’t responsible enough to practice safe sex, it was pretty safe to say that I wasn’t responsible enough to bring a child into the world. A few days after I peed on every kind of stick the drugstore had to offer, I found myself at the gynecologist for further confirmation. As I hyperventilated on the table, flashing back to that night of one too many margaritas, I was consoled by a kind nurse. She was a sweet older woman in faded Dora the Explorer scrubs, with years of experience and wisdom under her belt. “Honey,” she confidently told me in her soothing James Earl Jonesey voice, “motherhood is the most natural thing in the world. You’ll love it.”

  That was the first time I ever listened to a grown woman in cartoon-themed hospital scrubs, and the last. Sh
e wasn’t all wrong; the latter part of her wisdom has certainly proven to be true. Almost ten years have passed since that day, and I love being a mother like I have never loved anything before in my life. I have three beautiful and hilarious and amazing children whom I would lay down my life for without thinking twice. It is, without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. But, natural? No, I’m afraid not. Motherhood doesn’t always come all that naturally.

  Things that come naturally to me: Food. Sleep. Comfort. Privacy. Basically, all of the things that pregnancy and children have cruelly robbed from me.

  Let’s start with pregnancy—not exactly what I would call natural. I spent almost all of my nine months puking my guts out. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t eat what I wanted to eat, since I was being held hostage by this mystery creature who dictated my diet. I craved tuna sandwiches on white bread layered with potato chips, and my normal staple breakfast of Cheerios suddenly made me queasy. The baby I didn’t know prevented me from finding a comfortable position to sleep in and ensured that I ran to the bathroom every three seconds to pee. I had a hard enough time getting used to sharing a bathroom with my husband when we first moved in together. My body—the only thing that was ever mine and all mine—now belonged to someone else. What’s natural about that?

  Labor was another extraordinarily unnatural event for me. Sitting in a chair, legs practically over my head, I felt like some sort of freak show contortionist on display for the doctors and nurses. I half expected someone to start making popcorn. I spent much of my time in labor envying those women who sit on a toilet and shit out a baby. Bizarre, sure, but at least they’re alone, in a room where they’re used to expelling things, having gravity work for them rather than against them. That sounds a hell of a lot more natural to me.

  Once the baby comes, you’re suddenly supposed to know exactly what is best for the child, as if mother’s intuition arrives along with the onset of breast milk. Guess what? It doesn’t. That first car ride home together felt as natural as me driving a spaceship straight to Mars.

  The first few days and weeks home with a baby, I felt more like I was hired to play the role of Mother than actually be a mother. Wasn’t I supposed to have changed overnight, suddenly in possession of all the answers? That’s what I expected, at least, but I remained the same exact person I was before, except now I was responsible for a human being other than myself. I remember a friend telling me that cries were just the baby’s way of communicating and I could decode them if I tried hard enough. Was she hungry? Hot? Cold? Wet? Clearly, I didn’t speak baby because every scream sounded exactly the same to me: like a baby crying.

  And it didn’t become more natural with baby number two even if I fooled myself into thinking that I had the hang of things. I didn’t. When Ben was a few months old, he got sick. Not really sick—just a lingering cough, thanks to a minor cold. I’d been through this sort of winter before with Lily, so I knew the drill. Hell, I was an expert by now! He was stuffy but smiley, and I knew in my heart that he was just fine. There was no sinking feeling in my gut and surely, there would be one if it were something serious. A week or two later, I found myself at the doctor’s office for a routine visit. The doctor knew within seconds that something was wrong and that the “minor cold” was now in my baby’s lungs. He was hooked up to oxygen while I sobbed, still not being able to recognize the wheezing sound that everyone else seemed to identify simply by looking at him.

  Then, there was the time Lily fell off of a bunk bed, and I was 100 percent sure her wails were nothing more than a performance. Her arm didn’t look broken in the least, and she’s always been one to seek attention. Mother knows best, kid. Stop your crying! I gave her some Tylenol and put her to bed. When she woke up, her arm had swelled to twice its normal size and she couldn’t move it without tears springing to her eyes. I’m quite sure that the only reason they started making obnoxiously fluorescent casts was to remind mothers like me just how poor our intuition can be. In my case, it was an eight-week reminder of how very much I sucked.

  After nine years of motherhood, I still don’t have that sixth sense concerning my children. I keep them home from school when it’s clear an hour later that they simply didn’t feel like going, and I send them with the sniffles only to have the school nurse instruct me to retrieve them shortly after drop off. It still doesn’t dawn on me to feed them breakfast unless they ask for it and I never remember to tell them to hit the potty before we depart on road trips.

  The good news is that, unlike when they were babies and the cries were indistinguishable, these days my kids tell me exactly what they need, when they need it. Lord knows, I need all the help I can get. The bad news? Now they never shut up.

  Momfinitions

  MOMMY’S LAW: The inevitable fact that only clean sheets will be wet, that fully snow-suited children will need to pee, and that the moment you sit down with a cup of coffee, all hell will break lose.

  MOMLUSIONAL: Convincing oneself that the possibility of a restful sleep actually exists.

  MSP (MATERNAL SENSORY PERCEPTION): Knowing from the very first ring of the phone that it’s school calling to report a sick child.

  MOMFLEX: The act of instinctively squeezing one’s legs together while sneezing/coughing/laughing in an attempt to prevent inevitable bladder leakage.

  MOM SLEEVES: Sleeves that have been rolled up to the elbow, to serve as tissues to snotty children.

  MOMSONIC HEARING: Knowing exactly which child is coming down the stairs, based on their pace and stomp intensity.

  MOMPREHENSION: The ability to perfectly comprehend multiple loud, obnoxious children competing to speak at the same exact time.

  MOMMY-TASKING: The ability to do a hundred times more at once than a nonmother.

  MOMNESIA: The act of forgetting where you put your keys, your sunglasses, your purse, your shoes, while simultaneously knowing the details of each child’s schedule down to the minute.

  MOMPIPHANY: The realization that you have no idea whatsoever what the hell you are doing.

  Lie #2

  YOU’LL BE BACK TO YOUR OLD SELF IN NO TIME

  If I’d known what having children would do to my body, I’d have spent more time naked in high school. And I would have taken pictures.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #192319

  If “reclaiming your pre-baby body” were an answer on Jeopardy, the question would no doubt be “What is the unattainable myth that generation after generation of women fall prey to?”

  Ladies, there’s just no way around it, I’m sorry to say: You will never get your pre-baby body back. Ever.

  Now, don’t go ramming your minivan into a traffic pole or drowning yourself in seven pints of Ben & Jerry’s. With a massive amount of effort and the blessing of genes that have the ability to bounce back from hell, it is possible to look decent after a baby. But even those freaks of nature who somehow manage to look better after children—even those women secretly hide the marks of pregnancy burned on their bodies forever. It’s just the way it is.

  Pre-baby-making-machine-transformation, shoes were the one thing I was willing to splurge on—my waist size may have fluctuated a bit due to how much drinking or eating out I was doing, but shoes seemed a wise investment. The perfect pair of sexy black heels. A gorgeous knee-high riding boot. Overpriced jeweled slip-ons that made me giddy with happiness every time I wore them. I loved them all and would frequently gaze at them in pure admiration. We had a happy life together. And then I had to go have a freaking baby.

  I expected that my feet would swell during pregnancy, but what I didn’t expect was that they would never return to their previous size. Weren’t feet the one consistency I could count on in life? They’re feet, for crying out loud—they’re not supposed to grow after the age of eighteen. Or, they shouldn’t at least. My leather and suede collection sat mocking me in my closet for years before I finally, tearfully passed them on to a childless cousin. I still cringe in shame every time I tell a
shoe salesman my size.

  Shoe sacrifice is the least of it, though. I have a friend with a knockout figure whose legs are so covered in varicose veins due to a blood disorder during pregnancy that she wears pants even when it’s ninety degrees outside. Another has a frizzy mop on her head and constantly mourns the silky main she was lucky enough to have before her daughter’s arrival, and yet another needs to manually tuck her muffin top into her pants like it’s an undershirt.

  Once you’re a mom, you can look good, absolutely. But you can never, ever reclaim exactly what you had before. It’s a shame you probably didn’t enjoy what you had, when you had it.

  As if losing your flat stomach, perky boobs, and unfurrowed brow weren’t enough, having children will also result in the loss of your mind. Sure, the lack of a fully functioning brain pales in comparison to tube-sock-shaped boobs, but it is pretty frustrating. Even worse, it never seems to go away.

  For a while, I blamed my newfound flakiness on pregnancy brain. Later, it was the mindless routine of feeding and changing and burping a hundred times a day that resulted in my dumbness. After that, it was clearly just a side effect of listening to nothing but Laurie Berkner and the Wiggles. That shit would make anyone crazy! I made excuse after excuse after excuse. Eventually, though, it hit me: having children had not only ruined my body, it had also made me an idiot.

  When Ben was a baby, I loaded him and Lily into the double stroller and hit the mall, ready to play the role of a mom who could successfully handle her two kids in public. I gave an Oscar-worthy performance all the way through the mall, buying things here and there, eating lunch at the food court, and even one-handedly changing a diaper in the Nordstrom restroom. So proud of myself, I trotted out the door, basking in the glow of a job well done. However, the smile washed off my face the minute I stepped into the parking lot and realized I had no idea at all where I had parked the car.