by Jill Smokler
Either way, they’re assholes.
Scary Mommy’s Rules of the Playground
1. I will not push you endlessly on the swing. If you want to swing, pump.
2. I will not swing from bars. I am not a monkey.
3. I do not go down slides (for fear of my ass getting stuck midway).
4. We are not playmates. At the playground, I have my friends and you have yours.
5. Stay away from sandboxes at all costs. This isn’t a beach.
6. Hide-and-seek anywhere but home isn’t fun for mommy. Don’t even think about it.
7. There is no need to yell “LOOK AT ME!!!” every three seconds. I’m (half) watching. And if I miss that particular slide dismount, I’ll catch the next one.
8. Don’t ask me to play on the seesaw. I don’t need to be reminded that I weigh more than all of you combined.
9. Don’t tell me you are bored. I guarantee you’ll be more bored at home.
10. Don’t do anything that will result in an ER visit. Or we may never come back.
Lie #6
PARENTS WOULDN’T DREAM OF HURTING THEIR CHILDREN
I have been spit on, smacked around, kicked until I was bruised, my hair pulled out. I need to come forward and speak out. I, too, am a victim of toddler abuse.
—Scary Mommy Confession #253360
Once upon a time I was the mother to a single baby, and my life revolved around her and her alone. Mommy and Me classes. The library. The park. Baby ballet. My heart swelled with her little accomplishments and I could feel it breaking when she hurt in any way.
When my precious sweetheart was around six months old or so, there was a story in the local news about a mother physically abusing her child. Those sort of stories pulled at my heartstrings before, but since becoming a mother, they made me physically ill. I was horrified and called my own mother in a complete outrage. What kind of mother could ever dream of causing harm to her precious offspring, I shouted. How could this be? And then my mother said something I’ll never forget. It was the moment that left me questioning everything I knew about her—as a mother, as a grandmother, and, frankly, as a human being.
The only thing separating the women who do those awful things from those who don’t is impulse control. Everyone has the urge to hurt their children at some time or another; most people just have the intelligence and restraint to walk away.
She could have told me that I was adopted and that Bill Cosby was my real father, and I would have been less shocked. Who was this woman, and did she really just admit to having the urge to harm me?
My mom laughed at my horror and assured me that one day I would understand. But for the next two years, I was undeterred. Every time I recalled that conversation I felt a sense of pride that I still couldn’t relate to that feeling she warned me about. In my mind, it was just one more affirmation that I was a better mother. Obviously.
And then Lily turned three.
I’m not sure who coined the phrase “the terrible twos,” but they mustn’t have been a parent because two wasn’t all that terrible. Lily was sweet, easy, and totally welcoming to her new baby brother. Our days were a joy and the worst thing I ever wanted to do to her was dress her up as a flower and pretend to be Anne Geddes.
Once she turned three, though, everything changed. I think it was around that time that I officially became a Scary Mommy. It was like a switch was flipped and my precious baby girl turned into Satan. And I became that mother I never imagined I could be. The mother who could think about hurting her own child.
The first time it happened, Lily was going on hour two of a tantrum over Lemon Heads. She wanted the entire box of candy, and I wouldn’t allow it. (Side note: Really, Lily?! Lemon heads? Candy isn’t worth getting cut over unless it’s filled with chocolate.) After fifteen minutes, I was ready to cave but held my ground on principle. She wailed like her life was ending and in the process, she woke her napping brother. Suddenly I had two screaming children; plus my husband was out of town and I hadn’t had adult interaction in three days. As she went on and on and on, I had a fleeting urge to throw her against the wall. Throw her against the wall! It was a terrifying feeling. I felt so out of control, so vulnerable. It scared the shit out of me.
And then came a rush of that intelligence and restraint my mom spoke of. I put Ben in his crib, soothed my screaming Lily into the nap she desperately needed, and sat on the front stoop catching my breath. It was the first of many defining motherhood moments for me, as I made a conscious decision about the kind of mother I wanted to be.
With three kids now, ages five, seven, and nine, I sometimes have momentary rages. Oh, who am I kidding? I have those urges all the time. But being a Scary Mommy is in part about knowing how to separate fantasy from reality. We might think like crazy women sometimes, but we love our kids and would never, ever hurt them.
But a girl can dream.
Ten Things Every Mother Needs
1. A strong gag reflex
2. Deep coffee mugs
3. Deeper wineglasses
4. Concealer in the perfect shade
5. Extra-strength Advil
6. Purell
7. At least one room with a lock on it
8. A pair of perfect black yoga pants
9. Mr. Clean Magic Erasers
10. A sense of humor. A big one.
Lie #7
PARENTING STRENGTHENS A MARRIAGE
Every now and then, when I wake up and look at my husband I think, Well, I can either make him breakfast, or beat him to death with the pan.
—Scary Mommy Confession #202999
Before I had my daughter, I heard from friend after friend that having a baby brought them closer to their spouses. That seeing the person they chose to spend the rest of their life with caring for their baby made a strong marriage even stronger. That they were more in synch, more in love, and more committed to one another than ever.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? I wanted to yell to those so-called friends at three o’clock in the morning while attempting to feed a crying baby and simultaneously listening to my husband snoring peacefully in the next room. This makes for a stronger marriage?!? Bullshit, it does.
The very fact that a woman is built to carry and nurse a child ALL BY HERSELF should be enough of a sign that marriage is not meant to survive parenthood. A man’s sole role in baby- making is an orgasm. Literally the best feeling in the world, and poof! He’s done. We, on the other hand, have to suffer through nine months of bloody, mucousy, National Geographic–style hell. And, then, as if that hell weren’t bad enough, we’re the ones who have only two very bad options: pushing out a creature the size of a watermelon from a hole the size of a baby carrot or undergoing major surgery. What are the men doing at this point? Watching. And possibly even smoking a celebratory cigar.
If there were any justice at all in parenting, mothers’ jobs would be done once the baby is born. Our husbands would turn to us with empathetic, admiring eyes and say, “You’ve done enough. Please, I’ll take it from here. Forever.”
But that’s not how it works. As if our ruined vaginas were not sacrifice enough, our boobs become the next casualty in the Battle of Formerly Desirable Body Parts. Suddenly we’re lactating at the sound of random crying babies, suffering from painfully raw nipples, and literally spilling out of our maternity bras.
To add salt to the open wound, we get only six weeks—six?!—to heal before our husbands start nagging us for sex again, which is exactly what got us into trouble in the first place and the last thing on earth we feel like doing.
I swear, it’s a miracle any couple survives the first six weeks of parenthood! First the good news: While it might not feel that way at the time, there will come a point when you do want to have (PROTECTED, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!) sex again with your husband. Your vagina will heal, you will no longer live in fear of spraying him with breast milk, and, at the end of the day, you’re just going to want to feel like a woman again. So here’s the bad ne
ws: your children will make it their mission in life to prevent that from happening.
Welcome to every child’s most favorite sport: cock-blocking their mothers. Maybe it has to do with the whole Oedipal complex. Maybe subconsciously they don’t want another sibling. Maybe they’re simply programmed that way. All I know is that my children thrive on getting in the way of my sex life and there’s nothing to kill the mood like two sets of little eyes peering at me from the doorway. There is, actually. It’s the memory of those little eyes staring at me and, sadly, the image is burned in my brain. Seems it’s burned into theirs as well, since they bring it up frequently to people like my father. Now that was a fun dinner table discussion.
But, it doesn’t end with sex, or lack thereof. Before we became parents, I don’t think I fully appreciated just how much my husband enjoyed doing absolutely nothing. I suppose because I enjoyed it, too, and we had the luxury of sleeping away an entire Saturday if we wanted to. We’d lounge around in bed until well after noon, head to brunch, come home, and nap again, before heading out for the evening. It was gluttonous, selfish, and absolutely amazing.
Sadly, those days ended abruptly the moment we had children. Well, they did for me, at least. “I need my sleep!” my husband cries when I awaken him after I’ve been dealing with the kids for a few hours already. “You can operate without eight hours a night and I can’t!” No, sweetheart, it’s not that. I have no choice in the matter. If I slept as late as my heart desired, the children would tear apart the house and we’d find ourselves toilet-papered to the bed surrounded by wild beasts high on a breakfast of Lucky Charm marshmallows and chocolate milk.
Surviving coparenting requires a love that is rock solid. Between the clashing of differing discipline styles and moral beliefs and dealing with once mildly annoying habits that would now be cause for justifiable homicide, you need it. I don’t view anniversaries as milestones; I see them as miracles. Pop open the champagne and celebrate: you’ve done the (almost) impossible!
As for those friends of mine who claimed parenthood would make my marriage stronger, I’d really like to call them up and scream at them for telling me such lies. I’ll ask them why they hate me so much, why they take pleasure in my pain. I’ll swear to them that I’ll never do to anyone else what they have done to me.
I won’t really, though. I heard half of them got divorced.
An Ode to My Husband,
INSPIRED BY GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP
The dishes are washed, everything tidy in its place.
The leftovers boxed up, my dear, and the counters wiped clean.
I’ve asked you six times, don’t make me say it again,
Please, for the love of God,
Just empty the fucking trash can.
You work hard and need your rest,
I do know that and care . . .
But you slept all night and napped three times,
You’ve more than gotten your share,
It’s time to awake and get on with the day.
Wake the fuck up already, you hear me okay?
You’ve been flipping for an hour,
But have yet to pick a show.
Could you be more annoying?
It seems the answer is no.
Surrender the remote, I’ll ask one last time,
Or I’m kicking you out, right on your behind.
The day is getting dim,
Soon it will be night.
I can’t see a thing, my love,
You have to know I’m right.
I’m not as tall as you, so I need your larger height.
Would it kill you to change that fucking hall light?
I know you feel sick but I do as well.
My nose is stuffy, too,
And my throat sore as hell.
Please stop complaining.
It’s just a little cold.
So shut up and cope,
You’re not that fucking old.
I love you so much.
I value what you say.
But now I’m trying to sleep,
And you’re keeping me awake.
For the last time, my sweet,
I just don’t give a crap.
Enough already, really,
Just shut your damn pie trap.
I’m lying in bed, desperately needing my rest.
You’ve been sleeping for hours,
Happily passed out on your chest.
How are you so loud, I really don’t know.
But if you don’t fucking stop snoring,
You’re gonna have to go.
Is this too much to ask
From the man I adore?
I really don’t get why I’m so easy to ignore.
Start listening to me, that’s all there is to it.
Oh, and the dog needs a walk.
Just fucking do it.
Lie #8
YOU’RE THE GROWN-UP
I beat my kids at Super Mario Bros. and proceeded to do a victory dance that made them all cry. Whoops.
—Scary Mommy Confession #254143
There is this girl I know who just brings out the worst in me. She makes me act petty and competitive and judgmental. I don’t know if it’s the look of superiority on her face, the callous and bossy way she treats her friends, or her flagrant disregard for other people’s feelings, but I cringe every time I see her.
And she knows it.
I can see that my disdainful stares make her a little uncomfortable. I can tell that she tries to avoid me, often going a roundabout way just so she doesn’t have to come face-to-face with me in the hallway. And I suspect she comes home from school every day and complains to her mother and father about “Lily’s mother” making mean faces at her.
Yes, I’m talking about a nine-year-old girl. And I just can’t help myself.
It started one Saturday several years ago, when Lily called friend after friend to see about a playdate. To her dismay, no one was available and they all had the same excuse: “I’m going to ‘Paige’s’ birthday party.” Why wasn’t I invited to Paige’s birthday party, Lily cried to me. Why doesn’t she like me?
Now the mature thing to do would have been to explain to Lily that not everyone needs to be friends with everyone else, that that’s the way life works, and that it wasn’t a big deal. And I did that. I told her all of those things and more. I was so convincing that, to this day two full years later, Lily still tries to be this girl’s friend, despite coming home at least twice a week complaining about something Paige said to her that hurt her feelings. I’m impressed with how mature Lily is about the situation. Despite the rocky relationship, Lily still seems interested in a genuine friendship with Paige.
Me, on the other hand? I’m ready to take that bitch down.
I may have spent the entire two hours as a class helper a few months back shooting daggers at Paige from across the room. There is a slight chance I talked Lily out of inviting Paige to her own birthday party last year—the one that every other girl in the class attended. And I can’t say with total sincerity that I was sorry to hear about a minor injury she sustained on the playground at recess.
I know. I am going straight to hell. I’m supposed to be the grown-up, and here I am bullying a third grader. But the truth is, sometimes we parents behave more childishly than our own kids.
I frequently find myself in this situation with Lily, with whom I sometimes feel like I am on a playdate gone wrong. You know the kind: we start off great, playing nicely and enjoying our time together, and then about fifty minutes in the mood changes, we start to argue about nothing and we end up on opposite sides of the house, pouting about the other’s bossiness. I don’t know what it is about tween girls that make mothers act like bitchy schoolgirls, but it’s a phenomenon that scientists should study.
A few months back, I went to visit my brother and his fiancée in Seattle. As a special treat, I invited eight-year-old Lily to come with me, as I thought we could both use the time together without Jeff a
nd the boys. Big mistake. We spent the six-hour flight out there fighting and the six-hour flight home not speaking to each other. And the three days in between weren’t that much better. Needless to say, I was beyond thrilled to get home and see my mama’s boys who still think I shit rainbows. Jeff, on the other hand, wasn’t as happy to see us.
“Can you two please go back to Seattle,” he hissed at Lily and me as we bickered that first night home about I don’t even know what. “It was so peaceful here without you two.” That’s saying a lot, considering he was home alone with a four-year-old bruiser who breaks everything he touches, a six-year-old boy who speaks so loudly you would think he swallowed a microphone for breakfast, and a ten-week-old golden retriever puppy who acts like a ten-week-old golden retriever puppy.
It’s not just my relationships with Lily and her frenemies that bring out the child in me. There’s the movie Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, which I watch several times a month because God knows I should have been on a teen dance competition in my youth. Then there’s Victorious, my favorite show on television, and of course the Victorious feature-length special. It’s ironic that Lily and I can have so much trouble getting along, since we have the same taste in movies and television.
My husband is no better. If the IRS knew the man who claims “head of household” status on our tax returns, they would laugh their asses off. First of all, he likes Victorious, too. And by “likes” it, I mean he watches it on the DVR. Second, he is afraid of the dark. Well, not the dark really, but the man does check closets before bedtime to make sure no one is hiding in them. And then of course there is his fondness for chocolate milk. Have you ever seen the expression on a waitress’s face when a grown man orders chocolate milk? I do. Weekly.
I suppose all parents are just big kids playing the role of responsible adult most of the time. Sure, our daily obligations help suppress our inner child, but we all have moments of regression. And I’m thankful for that, because sometimes being a grown-up can really suck.