Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) Page 2

  The kids were beginning to get fussy and I entered full-on freak-out mode. Nothing looked familiar, and I debated calling the cops and claiming the car was stolen. Instead, I flagged down security and the elderly guard drove us around for fifteen minutes searching for the “missing” car. Happens all the time, he assured me as he helped me out and wished me well. At the time, I was convinced he was just being kind, but since then I’ve seen a handful of other mothers being driven around in the security vans, babies obliviously bopping on their laps. The mall security escort is the walk of shame for mothers of young children.

  And the list of flakiness goes on. We shout at our kids using the names of their siblings, we’re incapable of finding our keys in less than ten minutes, and we never, ever remember what it is we got up off the couch to do in the first place. We’ve sacrificed our minds for our children, and sadly, they’ll never remember us any other way. The good news? Eventually, we won’t, either.

  Requiem for a Mother’s Body

  Dearly Beloved,

  We gather here today to pay our respects to the mind and body that used to live here—before motherhood. A mind and body that, sadly, was never appreciated until its untimely demise.

  We remember those perky breasts previously so full of life and promise, now sucked dry of all hope and ambition.

  We remember the blank canvas of the stomach that now looks more like the view of the Grand Canyon from fifteen thousand feet above.

  We fondly recall the days when our vaginas were used for recreation rather than science experiments that have forever burned the words mucus and placenta and leukorrhea into our brains.

  We remember how our asses used to defy gravity, and we lament how now they droop toward our thighs, forming some kind of wicked alliance against us.

  We long for the days when a sneeze didn’t equate to wet panties, and when exercising didn’t require a completely empty bladder.

  We mourn the loss of our favorite white pants, which we didn’t actually lose but know will live for eternity in a plastic dry-cleaning bag hanging in the closet.

  Above all, we vow to teach our daughters to savor and appreciate their undimpled flesh while they can. It won’t look like that forever. We can prove it.

  In the name of the good old days, let us all say, Amen.

  Lie #3

  MOTHERS HATE TO SEE THEIR CHILDREN SUFFER

  I so love embarrassing my children. Now I know why my mom always had that weird sneaky smile on her face whenever my friends were around.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #252509

  I would gladly catch a violent stomach bug, if it spared my child from the trauma of throwing up. I’d rather be the one with the broken bone than have my child wear a cast. I’d take the sore throat or poison ivy or seasonal allergies in a heartbeat if it spared any of my children the pain, suffering, or even minor nuisance of any of them. Of course I would; I’m their mother, and, as mothers, nothing is worse than seeing our children suffer.

  Well, that’s kind of true.

  There is a special kind of suffering that won’t pull at your heartstrings, and you won’t try to avoid at all costs. It’s called parental embarrassment, my friends, and it’s inevitable. No matter how hip you think you are, or how cool you try to be, that come a certain age, your child is bound to find you to be THE MOST EMBARRASSING CREATURE ON THE PLANET.

  And if you’re anything like me, you might just enjoy it.

  Now it’s worth noting at this point that the pain and suffering of parental embarrassment is a rite of passage. I have vivid memories of making my parents park blocks away from where they were dropping me off so they wouldn’t be seen. I recall how I always opted to play at other kids’ houses, because I could never guarantee that my mother wouldn’t burst into song and do her best Ethel Merman impression while my friends and I played in my room. When I was twelve or thirteen, my parents could not have been more horrifying if they had skinned and eaten us for dinner.

  Well, what goes around really does come around, because these days Lily is absolutely mortified by me. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks as I descend the staircase looking, I think, pretty decent. She doesn’t like the way I laugh, she doesn’t like the way I wear my hair, and she HATES when I sing. She actually once asked me to change my shoes before her birthday party. This all from a child who thinks it’s high fashion to wear gym shorts over leggings. I shudder to think of what her opinion of me will be in a few short years. The way I see it, I have two choices of how to deal with this: I can either be offended and try everything I can to become a parent who doesn’t embarrass my offspring, or I can accept it.

  Scratch that. There is a third choice we parents have when it comes to embarrassing our children, and that is to embrace it. Embrace it with pom-poms and cheers and glitter, because it turns out that embracing it is so unexpectedly fun.

  Sometimes when I drop the kids off at school, I “forget” to do my hair and remove my slippers. Every now and then when I pick them up, I make a point of being early so that I can come to their classrooms and personally greet them, rather than wait for them to be escorted to my car. I tweeze my eyebrows in the car when I am stopped at red lights, especially when I’m chauffeuring around my kids’ friends with them.

  And that’s just what I do now, when they are little. I have big plans for middle school. We have years of school trips for me to chaperone to look forward to. Public displays of affection and emotion at major milestones, like their bar and bat mitzvahs! Don’t even get me started on proms and school dances!

  I’m sure some people think this sort of behavior is unnecessary and maybe even cruel. But I figure I am just doing my part to keep the karma flowing. Besides, I’d argue that the ability to laugh at oneself is one of the most important traits a person can possess. It will serve them well in life and I’m simply getting my kids started early.

  P.S.: Lily, Ben, and Evan, if you are reading this, please know that Mommy loves her little sheep so much! Hugs and kisses to the three kids with the cutest little tushies in the world!

  Fun Tips for Mortifying Your Children

  • Blast Broadway show tunes and belt out every last word, with the windows wide open.

  • Send elaborate love letters in their lunch boxes.

  • Chaperone field trips wearing a T-shirt bedazzled with your child’s name.

  • Bring pom-poms to sporting events and orchestrate a mommy cheer squad.

  • Carry naked baby pictures everywhere and whip them out to complete strangers.

  • Talk in made-up foreign accents to their friends.

  • Do the Running Man, the Robot, and the Electric Slide when eighties music comes on in the grocery store.

  • Use silly pet names in public. Loudly.

  • Force them to wear matching knit sweaters for holiday photos.

  • Label their clothing with smiley-faces and hearts around their names.

  • Wipe their noses in front of their friends, applauding the contents.

  • Welcome the bus wearing a bathrobe and slippers.

  • Yell “I LOVE YOU!!!!” at the top of your lungs as they drive off for a playdate.

  • Use saliva to wipe their dirty faces.

  • Breathe.

  Lie #4

  IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD

  I invited you into my home as a guest. And you brought my two-year-old permanent markers and Play-Doh. Next time I visit you, I’m bringing your teenage daughter condoms and crack.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #80920

  On a crisp Sunday last October, our family went to a small carnival in a strip mall parking lot. It was a beautiful day, the money went to a good cause, and we knew the kids would have fun. Which they did, as Jeff and I glanced at our watches and snuck forbidden bites of cotton candy.

  At one point, Ben excitedly ran up to me, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled back at my sweet boy, thrilled that he was having such a great time, until I saw the reason for hi
s supreme happiness: a brand-new goldfish. Apparently he’d won it as a prize at one of the booths. And suddenly, without my consent, we were welcoming a new member to the family.

  I ran over to the booth, planning to tell whichever teenager supervising the game where they could shove their goldfish. But to my horror, it wasn’t some pimply-faced sixteen-year-old with a sick sense of humor. It was two mothers whom I knew from school, giddily handing out bags of fish to every kid who stepped up to the table. Mothers of other children. Mothers who know what bringing a fish into the house entails. They may as well have given my kids Ketel One and cigarettes, because that would have been a lot less offensive.

  Is there any greater act of parental treason than gifting somebody else’s kids with a goldfish?

  One minute you are selflessly taking your children to a carnival—someplace you would gladly skip for a visit to the gynecologist—and the next, you’re a pet owner. A pet that you will have to feed, whose water you will have to change, and whose imminent death will force you to have “the conversation” with your innocent children far sooner than you are ready.

  Whatever happened to “It takes a village”?! Aren’t we parents supposed to help raise one another’s kids, not make it harder?

  You know how when you have a baby, the nurse has to physically escort you out to the car and supervise you putting your newborn into the car seat? Well, there should be another law that also requires new mothers to recite an oath of allegiance to all other mothers before they let you pull away: I solemnly swear to always be on team mommy, to never give your kids anything I wouldn’t want you to give mine, to do my best to help you get six hours of sleep each night and at least three solo showers a week, and to never, ever, under any circumstances, give your child a fish. Amen.

  As mothers of daughters, you’d think we’d all be on the same side—the side prolonging our daughters’ innocence for as long as possible. What’s with the moms who let their third-grade daughters dress like whores? Call me a prude, but I think Daisy Duke shorts, flimsy tank tops, and sandals with heels are a little much for a nine-year-old. My rule of thumb: if you don’t know what a labia is, then you shouldn’t wear clothes that expose yours to the rest of us. Look, I respect your right to choose what your kids wear, at least in theory. But if your daughter dresses like a slut, then mine will want to as well. And that’s when I start to hate you.

  And don’t get me started on the parents who moonlight as the rich tooth fairy. Ben came home from school one day with a baby tooth in hand. Look what I lost today, he squealed. I’m gonna be rich! Apparently one of his friends came into school that day with a crisp ten-dollar bill from the tooth fairy. For one tooth! We have three children, and last I counted they each had thirty-two teeth. There is no way I am spending nearly ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on their rotten teeth—and that’s before orthodontics!

  The list of things parents do to make raising children harder for the rest of us goes on and on. There are the parents who do a half-assed job of shampooing lice out of their own kids’ hair. The parents who buy their kids the hot new toy the day it hits the shelves. The parents who throw birthday parties that rival wedding receptions. If I could, I’d gather all of those parents in one room and become the parent who goes Nightmare on Elm Street on their asses.

  Of course, I’m also surrounded by wonderful friends and family without whom I wouldn’t stay sane. The ones who offer to pick my kid up from school when I’m out of town. The ones who provide my kids with after-school snacks when I forgot to pack any. My mother, who folds my laundry when I’m just about to burn it all and start over. But just when I think I’ve found my village, someone goes and gives my kid a freaking fish.

  I suppose, though, it should be expected. After all, every village has its resident idiot.

  Decoding Mom-Speak

  Oh dear, (s)he’s quite a character!

  Your kid is a brat.

  It’s adorable that you let him dress himself!

  I would never let my child look so ridiculous.

  You’re glowing!

  OMG, you’ve gotten so fat!

  Have you lost weight?

  You look like hell, but I’m trying to think of something nice to say.

  I love what you’ve done with your hair!

  Oh look, you showered today!

  Your husband is so lucky to have you.

  And I’m so glad I wasn’t the one to marry him.

  I’m so glad you came by for a visit!

  Please get out of my house and CALL next time, you rude bitch.

  I’ll let you know.

  Over my dead body.

  Oh, isn’t he darling!

  I’m never watching that child for you.

  I promise, you’ll be okay.

  You’re screwed.

  Lie #5

  HAVING KIDS KEEPS YOU YOUNG

  I put salt in my coffee this morning. My hair is unwashed. I haven’t slept in two years. I regularly injure myself on small plastic objects. I envy my pets’ daily routine. I depend on caffeine and Sesame Street. I. Am. Mom.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #127336

  I read an article a few years ago about a gorgeous and slender movie star in her late forties. When she was asked about her secrets for looking so young, flawless, and vibrant, her answer was simple: “My kids keep me young,” she chirped. “I’m always playing with them and running around after them and it has taken years off of my appearance.” It’s a good thing the magazine was in print and I wasn’t in a live studio audience at some talk show, because if that woman had uttered such foolishness in front of me, I would not have been able to restrain myself from physically attacking her. Lady: Your kids are not to thank for your flawless appearance, your plastic surgeon is. And you’re not fooling anyone.

  Whoever first uttered the phrase “children keep you young” clearly didn’t have children themselves. Because once you have kids, you know better. Children don’t keep you young; they prematurely age the hell out of you.

  I can’t say with absolute certainty that the increasing frequency with which I have to color my hair is directly related to having children, but don’t you think it’s suspicious that the gray hairs on my head seem to appear in two-year increments? I don’t have scientific proof that the wrinkles on my forehead become more pronounced every year on each of my kids’ birthdays, but it sure seems like a trend to me. And while I expected that giving birth vaginally three times in four years would, um, loosen things up, I didn’t expect that at thirty-five years old I would be watching commercials for Depends with sincere curiosity.

  Speaking of television commercials, what’s with all the advertisements that show gleeful mothers playfully chasing their children around the yard?

  The last time I chased my own kids, it was to retrieve my phone from an untimely death in a stream. And I definitely wasn’t laughing about it. I had a moment last summer when I thought that maybe I was uniquely lazy, that perhaps other mothers did play chase with their kids. I was inside the house, watching through the window as my forty-something cousin chased after her ten-year-old son. Boy, I thought to myself. She is so playful. Such a fun mom! Just as I was starting to put on my sneakers out of mommy guilt, I watched as she caught up to him, ordered him to open his hand, and snatched a stolen piece of candy out of his grubby paws. She wasn’t chasing after him. She was literally chasing him.

  Running around after kids isn’t a job for parents. It’s for the other people who don’t live with the little suckers.

  Take my brother and sister-in-law, for instance. They are a mere three years younger than Jeff and I, but when they’re around the kids, you’d swear we were separated by generations. They dart around playing chase for hours. They have the stamina and patience for endless games of Simon Says and Red Rover and Marco Polo. And I’m not talking the lazy mom versions that I play here and there (“Simon says fetch Mommy a Diet Coke and we’ll play later!”) but full-on games. Endlessly. They giggle and skip and dance and
somersault while Jeff and I look on with food dribbling from our chins and glazed expressions on our wrinkled, crusty faces. We’ll just let you enjoy the kids, we say. It’s not because we don’t want to go for that three-mile hike, but because we literally can’t. Once we have family in town to entertain the kids, we’re too fucking exhausted to even think about moving.

  Before we had children, family visits were a time to show off our wonderful life together. We’d parade our childless or empty-nester guests around town, eating at the yummy restaurants we frequented and cooking them feasts at home. I’d have candles lit in the guest bath and an array of travel-size shampoos and conditioners waiting in the shower. Clean towels sat at the foot of the bed, and my guests could find their favorite beverages lining the fridge. Their wish was my command, and I made it my mission to make their weekend away as relaxing and enjoyable as possible. These days? My mission is to relinquish all parental responsibility and get a good nap under my belt while they earn their keep.

  We offer our guests a quick tour: where to find clean(ish) towels, what food is still safe to eat, and which bathroom to avoid due to the permanent stench of little-boy piss. Then Jeff and I dart up the stairs to our bedroom, before our guests know what hit them. You’re fine with them, right? we call after them, not waiting around for an answer. They can handle themselves . . . we think. By the time the weekend is over, our guests look like they’ve been through war. Suddenly they’ve acquired new wrinkles, and the light in their eyes seems to have extinguished. But I don’t feel badly. After all, they get to return home to a childless utopia and regain that youthful glow we kissed goodbye with our firstborn.

  So, no, having kids doesn’t keep you young. It does, however, serve as excellent birth control for your luminous and rested childless family and friends. Compared to us parents, they look and feel as if they’ve bathed in the fountain of youth. Or, perhaps that’s just all the sex they’re still having.