by Jill Smokler
Getting Dressed for a Rare Night Out
1. SHOCK & DENIAL. This is not my body. This is NOT my body. These are not my boobs, this is not my ass, these are not my thighs. No, no, no! This cannot be.
2. PAIN & GUILT. What have I been thinking eating like I’m still pregnant? I deserve this ass. I deserve this stomach. I deserve these thighs. I suck.
3. ANGER. What are you looking at? You’ve never seen a woman surrounded by the entire contents of her closet and three pints of ice cream? Go to hell. You’re the one who caused me to look like this. You and your fucking sperm. You are the last person I want to go out with.
4. DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, AND LONELINESS. Why am I sitting here alone in my closet? It’s because I look like this, isn’t it? Nobody wants me.
5. THE UPWARD TURN. I don’t have to look like this forever. I can start a diet RIGHT NOW. No carbs. No sugar. Gallons of water. MILF-dom, here I come!
6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THOUGH. Okay, so maybe not no carbs. Light carbs. A little sugar. Iced tea. Vodka.
7. ACCEPTANCE. I’m never going to rock the skinny jeans or swimsuit again. Pass the Ben & Jerry’s. And the muumuu. And the wine.
Lie #12
GOING FROM TWO TO THREE KIDS IS A BREEZE
My number-one reason for not wanting to have a third baby is that I pee my pants pretty much every day since my second was born two years ago. At this rate, my kids will soon be more potty-trained than me.
—Scary Mommy Confession #117879
I was feeling pretty cocky back in February 2006. I’d successfully survived the first two years of motherhood with Lily and effortlessly brought a new baby into the house. The first time I had a baby I felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights, but this time I was an Experienced Mother, and my baby was clearly the child of an Experienced Mother. He slept through the night in his room immediately because I actually let him, and he was content almost twenty-four hours a day because I wasn’t fussing with him constantly. With Lily, I waited almost a month before venturing past the front stoop, but when Ben was a baby, the three of us were out and about immediately. I didn’t panic over silly things like stained Onesies and dirty car seats. I laughed at first-time mothers who used things like wipe warmers and bottle sanitizers and Diaper Genies. I relished being on the experienced side of the fence. I had this motherhood thing down.
My standing as Experienced Mother suffered a blow when I found out I was expecting another baby when Ben was only a year old. Sure, I could handle the two of them like a pro, but would three be as easy? I wasn’t so sure. A neighbor and mother of four convinced me that I could handle it. Actually, she went even further: “Once you have two kids, you’ll barely even notice another one,” she confidently said. You’d think I’d learned my lesson about listening to people after that nurse’s sage wisdom a few years before, but I hadn’t. I ate up her every word.
Maybe I’d be like the Duggers, I thought, popping out a baby every year. If it was as effortless as it sounded, why not? I’d get to hold and enjoy sweet newborns and then move on to the next pregnancy while my older kids raised the younger ones. Didn’t sound like such a bad gig.
And then Evan arrived. His birth would prove indicative of his entire existence. Unlike Ben, who came out clean and smiling, Evan was a bloody mess. Literally. Not only was he covered in baby goo, but a blood vessel in the umbilical cord popped as he made his way out and the entire room was sprayed in bright red blood. It was straight out of a bad horror movie and the perfect entrance for the baby who would change my world as I knew it.
The dynamic of going from two kids to three kids is kind of like going from pulling up to Portofino, Italy, in a beautiful yacht in perfect, cloudless weather to finding yourself on the Titanic after its collision with the iceberg. You know the scene in the movie where the passengers are running for their lives as the boat tilts ninety degrees, and if they’re not in a raft by that point, they’re toast and they know it? That’s what having three kids is like for me. On a good day.
In my defense, it’s really a matter of physical limitations: A mother’s body is clearly built for two kids. Two arms to wrap around their shoulders. Two hands to hold. Two ears to listen with. Two knees to bounce children on. Two hips to balance them on. Two cheeks to be kissed. It doesn’t take a mathematician to see that something doesn’t add up when you throw a third kid into the mix.
When you have two kids, sending your child to a friend’s house for a sleepover makes you feel lonely. When you have three kids, it makes you feel like break-dancing.
When you have two kids, going out to dinner at a restaurant is a special treat. When you have three kids, the chances of one of them not living to see breakfast triples.
When you have two kids, finding a babysitter is a piece of cake. When you have three kids, you’re lucky if your own parents will agree to watch them.
When you have two kids, you occasionally feel like a chauffeur. When you have three kids, you feel like a bus driver.
In all honesty, it’s not always that bad. In general I love having three children, mostly because it increases the odds that I like at least one of my kids on any given day. But to claim that I’d barely notice the difference, as my neighbor suggested? That’s ridiculous. Now, maybe if I added a fourth baby to my family, I would barely notice. Not because it would be easy or painless, but because I’d be so crazy I wouldn’t know how many kids I had to begin with.
Come to think of it, that’s probably what she meant after all.
The Tragic Evolution of Motherhood
YOU CHANGE A DIAPER . . .
First baby: Every hour, whether they need it or not.
Second baby: Every two to three hours, if necessary.
Third baby: Once it’s sagging to their knees or strangers point out the smell.
YOUR NEWBORN’S CLOTHES . . .
First baby: Are pre-washed, color coordinated, and folded into perfect little stacks in his or her dresser.
Second baby: You live out of the dryer and graciously accept stained hand-me-downs.
Third baby: Leaves the house in nothing but a diaper and rain boots.
IF THE PACIFIER FALLS ON THE FLOOR, YOU . . .
First baby: Put it away until you can go home and sterilize it.
Second baby: Find a sink to rinse it in or water glass to dunk it in.
Third baby: Suck it clean yourself.
THE BABY BOOK IS . . .
First baby: Completed daily with every minute detail of baby’s day.
Second baby: Random baby pictures thrown into a shoe box.
Third baby: Didn’t the hospital snap a picture for identification purposes?
FIRST FOOD . . .
First baby: Pureed homegrown butternut squash.
Second baby: Gerber’s organic baby food.
Third baby: A dog biscuit swiped from the dog when no one was looking.
YOU HEAD TO THE PEDIATRICIAN . . .
First baby: At the very first sign of distress.
Second baby: When the baby’s been acting fussy for a week.
Third baby: When you remember that you never made the well visit he was due for three months earlier.
A DAY WITH BABY . . .
First baby: Mommy and Me classes, playgroups, baby gymnastics.
Second baby: A play group filled with your girlfriends and a glass of wine.
Third baby: The supermarket, the dry cleaner, and the liquor store.
Lie #13
THE PARENT IS IN CHARGE
Our home is run by a tyrant and we’re all just his slaves. He’s four years old.
—Scary Mommy Confession #254123
One of the theoretical perks of parenthood is that you’re always in charge. No matter whom you answer to at work, you are boss at home. Everyone under your roof answers to you, and you answer to no one. Right? Like I said, it’s a theoretical perk. Kind of like how people say that owning and walking a dog keeps you healthy. Good concept in theory, but in reality you just end
up stepping in shit most days.
Many parents would like you to believe that they are always in charge—that they lay down the law and their little ones fall into place like dominos. They are the ones with the education. They’ve read the parenting books. They have age and wisdom on their side.
I’m not one of those parents. Actually, I might be the one person in the house with the least amount of control over what happens.
It’s apparent the moment you pull up outside of my home that I’ve completely surrendered. The lawn is littered with plastic balls and hula-hoops and bikes. It’s like a nonstop scavenger hunt, with no prize at the finish. It wasn’t always like this. I used to be militant about the kids putting away all of their junk when they were done playing. I wanted passersby to walk by my house and think what a beautiful home, but I fear the more common sentiment these days is I didn’t know there was an orphanage in this neighborhood. The kids simply wore me down, and I honestly stopped caring. Jeff—bless his heart—still tries to keep the yard toy-free, but then again he also still thinks girls don’t fart, so clearly he’s not a realist.
Sadly, the inside of my house is worse. Long gone are the days when I could dictate the décor in my own home. Now couches are covered in mystery stains, the kitchen counter stools are dripping with jam from food fights over breakfast, and I don’t think I’ve seen the playroom rug since we laid it down last year.
Before kids, Jeff and I used to save up our money to spend on decorating our house. Every few months, we’d stumble across something we loved: a whimsical painting to hang in the bedroom, a new flower vase for the foyer table, or maybe the perfect throw blanket for our couch. Carefully curating, purchase by purchase, we made our house a home. Boy, times have changed. The most recent piece of art I purchased was a shockingly insulting portrait of me drawn by my son. He drew me with not two, but three, chins, lopsided, triangular boobs, and a stomach the size of a small town. And I paid a dollar for it!
When did I relinquish control to my kids? When did my house become their house?
As if the physical state of my house weren’t bad enough, a look at my calendar for any given weekend illustrates just how much power my kids have. I don’t recall the last Sunday when each kid didn’t have at least one birthday party to attend. God got to rest on Sunday. Why can’t I? Add to that Ben’s tennis lessons, Lily’s sleepovers, and Evan’s constant desire to play, and I’m counting the minutes until my shift as chauffeur is over once I drop them off at school on Monday.
Motherhood has also forced me to surrender control over my moods. It doesn’t matter what side of the bed I wake up on; the only thing that matters is what side they wake up on. This is especially true of Ben. Of all of my children, Ben is the most reliably pleasant. Easy-natured and generally happy, Ben adds a desperately needed dose of serenity to our house. Usually. Every six days or so, my sweet Ben wakes up with a chip on his shoulder that knocks the wind out of me. Maybe it’s because he is the middle child. Perhaps it’s because his sister and brother demand so much attention that he can never get a word in. Whatever the reason, the kid turns into the devil at least once a week. Regardless of which kid is in a bad mood on any given day, it’s totally contagious, and I end up spreading it to Jeff.
One need look no further than a family with young children out for dinner to see just who wears the pants. Sometimes the bargaining is so intense, I feel like I am at a flea market rather than a restaurant. If you eat five bites of chicken, then you can have french fries, I tell them. Drink your milk and then you can have some lemonade. If you sit still for fifteen minutes you can have dessert. It’s awful, but it’s a small price to pay to have someone else cook dinner and wash the dishes. I’ve even resorted to smuggling PB&J sandwiches into restaurants just to get out of the house and then feigning surprise when the kids tell the waiter they’re just not hungry.
I’ve lost count of all the things that were once mine that I am now forced to share with my kids. Lily frequently uses my lip gloss, leaving it uncovered and crusty. Ben insists on hiding all of our television remote controls so his brother and sister can’t change the channel when he is watching a show, which might be cute if he ever remembered where he put them. And Evan thinks my new iPhone actually belongs to him.
I can’t really pinpoint the exact moment when I relinquished control. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever had it—first kids take over your body, then they take over your life. And I suppose I’m okay with that.
After all, I still get to control my husband.
Murphy’s Laws of Family Vacations
• The night before departure, your child will come down with a cough, cold, or broken limb.
• They will have to pee—so bad—three seconds after takeoff, despite having gone to the bathroom directly before boarding.
• They will refuse to eat the very same six-dollar macaroni and cheese that they inhale at home, when presented with it at an overpriced restaurant.
• You will forget to pack at least one of the following: enough diapers or Pull-Ups, your cell phone charger, toothpaste other than SpongeBob SquarePants gel, or that most special teddy bear.
• You will be completely unable to capture a smiling picture of your children in the adorable outfits you packed for that very purpose. Ever.
• They will be up at the crack of dawn, ready for immediate entertainment, whereas they sleep soundly until seven at home.
• You will spend an hour packing everything you can think of for the beach, only to be told twenty minutes in that your child is bored and wants to leave.
• They will miss the toys they never play with at home and the rooms they never want to spend time in. Upon returning home, they won’t have any interest in either.
• The souvenirs you purchase will break or be lost before you even make it back home.
• You will come back from vacation in dire need of a vacation. Without the kids.
Lie #14
MOTHER’S DAY IS ALL ABOUT YOU
For Mother’s Day, I will trim my pubes. And then I’ll pleasure myself while fantasizing about child-free days, endless bottles of wine, and the time when my husband was actually sexy.
—Scary Mommy Confession #99281
Once a year in May, there is that glorious day celebrating all things motherhood. The day we finally get to sit back and not lift a finger and bathe in the accolades our loved ones shower upon us. The day when we get a year’s worth of recognition for all the sacrifices we’ve made and appreciation for all the little things we do. When we get to relax and breathe in and not spend the day cleaning or overseeing or decision-making . . . or, not.
It turns out Mother’s Day is the episiotomy of motherhood: it’s supposed to be for your benefit but you’re the one making all the sacrifices.
Of all the lies of motherhood, I think this one might be the cruelest. I feel so sorry for new mothers, who tend to look forward to their first Mother’s Day with their newborns with the same anticipation they had for the actual birth of their children. I’ve been there, and my own visions of photo ops, adorable clothing, and an outpouring of appreciation were quickly squashed with the harsh reality that there are no days off in motherhood. Especially in year one.
Somehow, instead of a day spent lounging on the couch with our hands down our pants like our male counterparts on their day, Mother’s Day has turned into yet another day where we are expected to work our asses off.
In the best of Hallmark worlds, ours is a day filled with brunches, bouquets of flowers, and homemade gifts. Super, but who is going to make the actual reservation for brunch? And who is going to spend the morning struggling to gets the kids dressed in clean clothes that fit? And who is going to be stuck changing the water in that flower vase for the next several days? We are, that’s who! Mother’s Day gives new meaning to the word motherfucker. We’re the ones getting fucked.
How about breakfast in bed? Such a sweet notion in theory, but in actuality, it’s the worst gift a chi
ld can give. Let’s let the kids loose in the kitchen while we’re still asleep, oblivious that the house is about to burn down! Perfect! One year, Lily presented me with a plate of toast and some sliced berries. The cinnamon-sugar toast was edible, I was delighted to discover, and I gratefully ate it. Could have been so much worse, I thought, as I debated turning over some cooking responsibilities to my little chef.
Until I went down to the kitchen and discovered what looked like World War III. There was jam plastered on the refrigerator and cinnamon sprinkled across the floor. There were cracked eggs on the counter, the yolks oozing down the granite. The dog was frantically eating the rest of the loaf of bread that Lily left out on the table, and God knows what else that pup ingested. (As a bonus, I found out later that night. And again at 3 a.m.!) Every single cabinet was open, and the sink was overflowing with every utensil in the house—all for a piece of toast and a few strawberries. There’s a reason brunch is really only meant to be eaten out, I quickly learned.
My husband and I have an argument every single year when he asks what I want to do for Mother’s Day. I want to be left alone, I say, every single year. But it’s Mother’s Day, he argues. Don’t you want to spend it with your children?
No, I don’t, thank you very much, I answer. I spend every day with my children, and I am lucky to do so. But, shouldn’t a holiday be treated differently than just another ordinary day? Yes, it should. So, every Mother’s Day, all I ask is one simple thing: to be left the hell alone.
I tried this approach last year. I slept late and played dead when I heard the kids calling for me. I took a shower by myself and without an audience, and I might have even had an uninterrupted bowel movement. I didn’t do any laundry, and I cooked nothing. Jeff took the kids out for several hours, and I had the house all to myself. It was wonderful—for about an hour. That’s how long it took before I started feeling like something was off, like I had lost a limb or something. Before I knew it, I was missing my kids. I longed for their hugs and slobbery kisses, and I hated the thought that they were out experiencing the world without me. I ended up calling Jeff and asking him to come back home.