by Jill Smokler
I’ll hate your kid forever if . . .
• S(he) gets my kid sick before a family vacation.
• S(he) ruins my kid’s birthday party.
• S(he) is the reason I am taking my kid to the ER.
• S(he) makes fun of something I love about my child.
• S(he) hurts my dog. (Hello, psychopath.)
• S(he) cuts my kid’s hair.
• S(he) bullies my kid.
• S(he) gives my kid lice.
• S(he) password protects my electronics and doesn’t share the password.
• S(he) picks my kid last for the sports team.
Lie #9
YOU’LL GET MORE SLEEP WHEN THEY ARE OLDER
In the shopping center today, I nearly dropped my six-year-old off at the lost-children sign and pretended he wasn’t mine. I know how bad that sounds, but his attitude was THAT BAD. And I am THAT TIRED.
—Scary Mommy Confession #250762
Ask any mother of a newborn what the hardest part of having a baby is, and I bet she’ll tell you it’s the sleep deprivation. Sure, it’s true that babies do little more than sleep, eat, and poop. The problem, though, is that they do those things in two-hour increments. It’s as if they can’t tell time or something.
I remember hearing over and over again that I should “sleep while the baby sleeps,” which, frankly, is a lot better in theory than in practice. In fact, it may very well be the least useful piece of advice in the history of useless pieces of advice. If all mothers slept while their babies slept, the world would come to a screeching halt. Laundry wouldn’t get done. Email would go unanswered. People would starve! I learned early on with my first newborn that sleep is simply one of the first in a long list of sacrifices you make for your children.
And I didn’t mind, because I was assured that I would get more sleep once my kids got older. Now, I should have known better than to believe this lie, since it was coming from the same people who told me that parenting strengthens a marriage and that I’d be back to my old self in no time. But here I am with three kids, ages five, seven, and nine, and I think I get less sleep today than I did when they were babies.
There are many things for which I have little patience where my children are concerned. The fact that I have to bribe them with dessert in order to get them to eat protein and vegetables, for instance. Or the way they carry on as if they were the Linda Blair character in The Exorcist when I want them to take medicine that will make them feel a thousand times better. Or that they can build towers with perfect precision, yet are incapable of aiming into the toilet.
But what drives me the most insane is their refusal to sleep. Putting my children to bed is a two-hour ordeal that I start dreading from the moment I awake in the morning. If stalling at bedtime were an Olympic sport, my kids would be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. One would think they were forced to sleep on wooden slats in the freezing rain rather than on plush mattresses with high-thread-count sheets in their very own rooms, based on the way they carry on. They whine and bargain and beg for a few more minutes of playtime while I roll my eyes and question their sanity. Don’t they know that I would kill to be tucked in with a story and a kiss by 8:30 p.m.? If I were a cold bitch I would tell them that life doesn’t get any better than this and that they should get a good night’s rest while they can.
Once they finally fall asleep—usually around 9:30 or 10:00 in our house—I have the opportunity to grab about three hours of sleep myself. Most nights, though, I have too much to do, and this is my first bit of me time all day. So more often than not, I head back downstairs and cuddle with my laptop instead of my husband for a few hours.
Like clockwork, just as I am ready to call it a day and head to bed, one of my kids will reappear. If it’s Evan, he’s probably wet himself. So that means a quick shower, which by the way he forces me to take with him. So it’s midnight and I’m washing my hair. Might as well shave my legs while I’m in there, right? By the time we dry off and I get Evan into clean pajamas, Ben stumbles into my room. “I had a bad dream,” he whines, as he climbs into my bed. Somehow, Jeff remains asleep during all of this commotion, happily snoring my sanity away.
Finally, I’m in bed. The good news is I don’t have to wash my hair in the morning. The bad news is Evan and Ben think it’s already morning. They beg to watch a television show. They ask if they can have cereal. Evan begins to ask questions about my belly fat, and Ben, who is lying there with his head on my shoulder, closely inspecting my face, wonders why my nostrils are so big.
After about forty-five minutes, the questions stop and the boys fall back asleep. And just as I doze off to fantasies of Ryan Gosling’s abs, Lily comes barreling down from her room in a mad dash for the bathroom. She flips on all the lights, slams the toilet seat down, and, if I’m lucky, finds her way into our bedroom as well. Of course, she needs to nudge and kick her brothers on her way into the bed, setting off a forty-five-minute session of extreme whining.
“Lily has more room than me.”
“Ben won’t stop kicking me!”
“Evan, did you just wet yourself . . . again?”
It’s two in the morning before I finally fall asleep for good, usually in some kind of awkward position that will require the services of a chiropractor. And then just as Ryan Gosling is getting ready to lift me in the air Dirty Dancing–style, Jeff’s alarm goes off and our day begins.
So, no, in my experience neither children nor mothers sleep better as kids age. I would argue it gets worse. I’m hoping that I’ll finally get some rest when my kids leave for college. Although I hear that when menopause hits it wreaks havoc on your sleeping all over again.
Of course it does.
Perks to Being Awake When
the Rest of the World Sleeps
1. You can empty out your inbox without it immediately filling back up.
2. You can fold and put away every last piece of laundry without a child depositing a filthy article of clothing in the prized empty hamper.
3. You can do all the dishes and the sink will remain empty for hours.
4. You can eat whatever you want, without begging hands suddenly wanting a taste.
5. You can take a long shower, with all the hot water you want.
6. You can drink a glass of water, without a child depositing backwash into it.
7. You can mop the floors and admire them, as they remain gloriously footprint-free, for at least two hours.
8. You can watch anything you want on TV.
9. You can clip your nails or pluck your eyebrows or do a face mask or shave your legs without an audience.
10. You can pee in peace.
Lie #10
MOTHERS LOVE COOKING FOR THEIR KIDS
Today, as I was pressed for time, I heated a frozen Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner. When my children were served, they yelled, “This is the best dinner you’ve ever made!” I cook healthy, balanced meals every day.
—Scary Mommy Confession #258590
As a wife, I fully subscribe to the theory that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Though I may suck at many other wifely duties, at the very least, my man never goes hungry. Eggplant parmesan, lasagna, roasted chicken and potatoes, pulled barbeque pork . . . I know what my husband likes to dine on, and it makes me happy to cook those things for him. Just call me Donna Reed and slap an apron on me!
Unfortunately, the same does not hold true for my children. Happiness is the last thing I feel when feeding them these days. Frustration? Check. Annoyance? Check. Impatience? Check. Rage? Yes, sometimes, check. But, it’s been a while since I got much satisfaction from nourishing those growing bellies.
Once upon a time, when the three of them were tiny babies, I did get pleasure from the act of feeding them. Just the two of us, curled up in a rocking chair, oblivious to the rest of the world. There’s simply no other feeling in the world like being solely responsible for the nourishment of a helpless little newborn. But then they hav
e to go and start solid foods and mess the whole thing up.
You know the face that babies make when they taste their first morsel of real food, whether it be peas, squash, or sweet potatoes? It’s a combination of disgust at the unfamiliar flavor and shock and awe that the person they love most in the world would expose them to such horror. Well, that’s pretty much the face my children make each and every night when I answer the dreaded question, “Mommy, what’s for dinner?”
There are a mere four things I could say that would illicit a response of “Yum!” or “When will it be ready?!” from all of my kids: pizza (delivery only, never homemade), breakfast for dinner, chicken fingers, or macaroni and cheese. And that’s it. I mean, that’s not all my kids ever eat, but that’s all they eat happily.
When I cook anything other than those things or, God forbid, something new that they’ve never before had, the response from the peanut gallery is one of dry heaving, wailing, or flat-out refusal to eat. I find myself bribing them with dessert if they even eat junk for dinner. “Eat three more bites of this meatball and you can have some ice cream,” I beg. “Pleaaaaase . . . just a little more sesame chicken and rice and then you can have your cookies?” I wish they could understand how ridiculous it is.
Lunches aren’t much better. Every morning, I hastily slap cream cheese on some bagels or smear some peanut butter and jelly on some slices of bread, throw an applesauce and bag of pretzels into their lunch boxes, and call it a day. Last year, Jeff had the audacity to offer his commentary on my process. “You’re not making those sandwiches with much love,” he snidely remarked, as I plopped the jelly down, assembly-line-style, on six slices of bread.
And then I killed him. Butter knife straight to the heart.
Gee, Jeff, I’m not sure where my enthusiasm for making our children their crappy lunches went. Perhaps I lost it the six millionth time I smeared that cream cheese. Regardless, love has nothing to do with it. I choose to show my love for my children a billion other ways. Their lunches is not one of them.
Love wasn’t the secret ingredient in Jeff’s dinner that night, either, unless Papa John’s uses a dash of love along with their special sauce, as I retaliated for his unwanted opinion by providing cold pizza for dinner. But at least the kids ate that night, and I got a night off from cooking, which makes me even happier than presenting my man with a delicious, home cooked meal of his liking.
Even Donna Reed needs a night off.
Things Kids Never Say
1. You’re making what for dinner? YUM!
2. I know where my soccer cleats are!
3. I’m going to play with my toys now. I really do have so many of them.
4. Mommy is on the phone right now, so let’s entertain ourselves quietly.
5. That puddle would make an awfully big mess. I’m not going to stomp in it.
6. We’re going to be in the car for five hours? Let me pee first.
7. I’m too full for dessert.
8. I have a lot of homework tonight, I should get started.
9. Can I have some dental floss?
10. We all decided that we want to watch the same thing on TV.
11. We’re going to be late, let’s go!
12. You’re so much more fun than Daddy.
13. Let’s get those thank-you notes over with!
14. I’ve had enough electronics for the day.
15. I have a class project due two weeks from now.
16. I’m ready for bed.
17. I don’t care what my friends are allowed to have or do.
18. What did you ask me to do before? I want to make sure I go and do it.
19. I’m really enjoying this long car ride.
20. I need to wash my hands.
21. I’ll take the smallest piece, please.
22. You’re in the bathroom? Okay, I’ll wait to ask you my unimportant question.
23. We don’t have school tomorrow? That stinks.
24. There’s so much to do in this house!
25. Thank you for that yummy lunch! I didn’t trade any of it at the cafeteria.
Lie #11
YOU ARE YOUR OWN HARSHEST CRITIC
Having a teenager in the house has been detrimental to my self-esteem. Sometimes, I want to treat her exactly the way she treats me, but that would be child abuse.
—Scary Mommy Confession #252463
I’m a horrible mother. My kids watch too much television, they eat too much junk food, and they don’t participate in enough extracurricular activities. They have poor sleeping habits because Jeff and I were too lazy to put them to bed properly when we had our chance, and sometimes they wear shorts in November.
I’m a shitty wife. I’m always cranky and frequently take it out on my husband. I reserve my few moments of pleasantness for my kids, and so all my husband gets is “No,” “Are you kidding me?!” and “Do what I said.” Sex these days is like a drive-in movie: open for your viewing pleasure, but you’re on your own.
I’m so fat. I need a tummy tuck, and my upper arms have a better sense of movement than my feet. I vacillate between three different clothing sizes. And by vacillate, I mean I ONCE hit the smaller of the three in the last nine years.
I can’t even count the number of times that thoughts like this have raced through my head. I’m a mother, a wife, and my own person, but it’s rare that I am satisfied with my performance in one area, let alone all three. My failures seem so obvious—I assume everyone must think the same of me. Strangely, though, every time I’ve ever voiced these feelings, I’ve been told the same thing: I’m too hard on myself. I’m my own worst critic.
This, my friends, is one of the most pervasive and pernicious lies of motherhood. I’ve said it, you’ve said it, and it’s just plain bullshit.
There is nobody harder on a mom than her fellow mother. It starts bright and early with pregnancy. As if the symptoms you’re suffering weren’t bad enough, when you are expecting, everyone’s mission becomes to knock you down. Not literally, of course, because that would be attempted manslaughter, but they will try to knock you down nonetheless. They will insult your appearance, question your choice of lunch meat, and casually note just how much weight you have gained.
Once the baby comes, it’s like you’ve signed on a dotted line agreeing to put every decision you make into the public domain for open critique. Your baby’s name, your decision to breastfeed or not to breastfeed, the sleep habits you’re enforcing . . . everything is simply an opportunity for people to stick their noses in your business and judge away like it’s a spectator sport.
And that’s just what we say to each other’s faces. The behind-the-back talk is even harsher. But because we’re mothers, we find a way to mask our judgment in feigned concern and helpfulness.
We once lived in a neighborhood where, on the first night under our new roof, the queen bee of the subdivision gave us an illustrated list (I kid you not) of our surrounding neighbors. Each house had a little notation next to their name: #2703 hosts the Easter egg hunts and fights loudly; #2708 are going through a divorce, but it’s amicable; #2714 babysits, has a Fourth of July bash, but passed lice around to the whole Girl Scout troop. As she walked in with her tray of brownies and neon nails, I wondered what notes she was taking at my place. #2601: Appears not to have showered in three days, bottle-feeds her infant, and lets the older one watch too much TV—SHITTY MOTHER, her note likely screamed.
Unfortunately, the critiquing doesn’t end with other mothers. Kids can be just as brutal, especially our own. I’ll be innocently showering first thing in the morning when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump.
Once I ge
t out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. “What’s that purple squiggle, Mommy?” A spider vein, I sigh. “That one, too?” Yes, that one, too, honey. “Over here, too?” Yes, my darling, that’s what they’re called. Let’s move on.
“Okay. What’s this?”
It’s a stretch mark. That’s a scar. That’s a vein. That’s cellulite. That’s hair. That’s a wrinkle. That’s a bruise. That’s . . . crap . . . what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, all right?
Speaking of getting dressed, Lily, my child who scoffs at J.Crew’s Crewcuts and lusts over the Justice catalog, frequently greets me with equally colorful commentary on my clothes. She tells me my clothes don’t match, my clothes make me look “flat,” or the color of my sweater is “kinda ugly.” She is the Joan Rivers of the house, and she is ruthless.
The patch of white hairs, the stubble on my legs, the heels in need of exfoliating . . . nothing goes unnoticed by my lovely children. At the end of the day, as I read the boys bedtime stories, Evan inevitably focuses on my face. “What’s that dot?” he will ask, pointing to the tiniest pore or a birthmark or a chicken pox scar. One by one, he counts them like he’s counting sheep, falling asleep to the comfort of my imperfections.
It’s a miracle that any mother has the slightest bit of self-esteem left after the criticism our children and peers put us through on a daily basis. If men were treated like this, I’m quite sure that they would just crawl back into bed for the rest of their lives and mope about their feelings being hurt. But not us. We can take whatever the world throws at us and power on. Our skin isn’t thick, it’s impenetrable. Or getting there, at least.
And, may I just say, you’re way too hard on yourself. We all think you’re doing a great job.
The Seven Stages of