Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies)

by Jill Smokler

  You see, this is one of the cruel ironies of motherhood. Your kids make you so crazy that sometimes you want to run away, but then as soon as you get a clean break all you want is their company. Of course, there is no day where this is more evident than on Mother’s Day—you know, that day that is all about you.

  You Thought You Were Special?

  Turns out having an annual holiday celebrated in your honor is hardly that big of a deal. Everybody and their mother has their own damn holiday.

  JANUARY 10 is Houseplant Appreciation Day

  JANUARY 14 is Dress Up Your Pet Day

  JANUARY 15 is National Hat Day

  JANUARY 20 is Penguin Awareness Day

  JANUARY 28 is National Kazoo Day

  FEBRUARY 5 is National Weatherman’s Day

  FEBRUARY 19 is National Chocolate Mint Day

  FEBRUARY 23 is International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day

  FEBRUARY 26 is National Pistachio Day

  MARCH 1 is National Pig Day

  MARCH 6 is National Frozen Food Day

  MARCH 10 is Middle Name Pride Day

  MARCH 14 is Learn About Butterflies Day

  MARCH 20 is Extraterrestrial Abductions Day

  MARCH 24 is National Chocolate-Covered Raisin Day

  APRIL 2 is National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day

  APRIL 4 is Hug a Newsman Day

  APRIL 16 is National Stress Awareness Day

  APRIL 18 is International Juggler’s Day

  APRIL 26 is Hug an Australian Day

  APRIL 30 is Hairstyle Appreciation Day

  MAY 4 is National Candied Orange Peel Day

  MAY 6 is National Tourist Appreciation Day

  MAY 16 is Love a Tree Day

  JUNE 6 is National Yo-Yo Day

  JUNE 19 is World Sauntering Day

  JUNE 28 is Insurance Awareness Day

  JULY 7 is National Strawberry Sundae Day

  JULY 13 is Barbershop Music Appreciation Day

  JULY 18 is National Caviar Day

  AUGUST 6 is Wiggle Your Toes Day

  AUGUST 18 is Bad Poetry Day

  AUGUST 31 is National Trail Mix Day

  SEPTEMBER 2 is National Beheading Day

  SEPTEMBER 5 is Cheese Pizza Day

  SEPTEMBER 22 is Elephant Appreciation Day

  OCTOBER 2 is National Custodial Worker Day

  OCTOBER 8 is American Touch Tag Day

  OCTOBER 24 is National Bologna Day

  NOVEMBER 2 is Deviled Egg Day

  NOVEMBER 13 is National Indian Pudding Day

  NOVEMBER 29 Square Dance Day

  DECEMBER 1 is Eat a Red Apple Day

  DECEMBER 18 is National Roast Suckling Pig Day

  DECEMBER 27 is National Fruitcake Day

  Lie #15

  IT GETS EASIER

  I went grocery shopping by myself for the first time in six years. I spent an embarrassingly long time in the detergent aisle opening each one and inhaling the heavenly scent of peace and quiet.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #228532

  When you see a new mother attempting to maneuver her oversized stroller through a too-small door, while her baby is screaming bloody murder and she is carrying three bags of groceries and looking like she is about to lose her mind, you will no doubt be tempted to rush to her aid, hold the door, and tell her gently that things will get easier.

  STOP. Don’t you dare.

  I mean, hold the door for her and help with the bags, of course, even offer to buy her a cup of coffee, if you’re so inclined. But please, whatever you do, do not go telling her that things will get easier. They won’t.

  Go ahead and tell her that she won’t always be walking through life in a complete haze or sterilizing baby bottles for the rest of her life. Tell her that there will be a day in the not so distant future when she won’t be covered in spit-up, or still futilely trying to master the correct way to swaddle. She won’t always be unshowered and mentally exhausted and ready to cry at any and every moment in time. But parenting doesn’t get any easier, and you know it and I know it.

  You know that sinking feeling when you start a new job and on the first day you have that moment when you start to wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into, and if it’s not too late to get out? That’s kind of how I felt my first few weeks on the job of motherhood. I wasn’t sleeping on a schedule that I dictated, my days revolved around feeding and changing and burping, and I still felt like a live science experiment gone bad. This was the light at the end of my nine-month-long tunnel? I wanted my money back, thank you very much. My husband would come home from work and I’d be torn between wanting to hear about his day, for the first adult interaction I’d had in hours, and resenting that he got to have adult interaction all day. I was an absolute mess.

  My experience with my subsequent children’s early days was an entirely different story. After reacquainting myself with adult interaction, I’d decided it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Dealing with school parents and playdates with painfully awkward conversation, and getting my decisions critiqued by people I barely knew? Being home alone with a sweet baby during rounds two and three didn’t seem so bad at all. What had my problem been, exactly?

  Once my first baby grew up a bit, I also gained an appreciation for just how easy those early days truly are. They were undoubtedly draining, but there was nothing challenging about them. In most cases, a newborn can be soothed with one of three things: a clean diaper, a bottle, or a boob. Boring? Sure. But hard? No. Not even a little. Rocking a baby the second and third time around seemed like a pleasure cruise compared to the temper tantrums and potty training I was dealing with from my older child.

  Instead of staring too long at the hot barista who serves me coffee or the UPS man who used to turn me on, I stare longingly at infants, frequently causing their mothers to uncomfortably relocate far outside my gaze. Now, as I’m helping with homework I have no idea how to do or engaging in an epic battle over “all my friends wear bikinis and have cell phones, why can’t I,” I fantasize about stealing a baby, inventing a time-freeze machine, and never looking back.

  So, I’m sorry, new moms. As much as you are suffering, it’s only going to get worse. I am quite certain that no matter how tired and overwhelmed you are, someday you will look back at this fleeting period in your life and laugh at your stressed-out and oblivious self. Welcome to the club.

  Good News, Bad News

  THE GOOD NEWS: You will not be doing three loads of Onesies a day forever.

  THE BAD NEWS: The clothes only get bigger. Sure, you won’t need to wash out baby puke and clean up after explosive diarrhea that seeped out of the diaper, but the laundry only gets worse. Kids want to change sixteen times a day. And they trip on grass. And play sports. And eat like pigs. The laundry doesn’t stop, and the clothes only get a hell of a lot less cute to fold.

  THE GOOD NEWS: You won’t always be schlepping around an infant carrier.

  THE BAD NEWS: You’ll never again be able to seamlessly move a sleeping child into the house.

  THE GOOD NEWS: Your baby won’t always be a blob and will actually smile at you soon!

  THE BAD NEWS: Shortly after that first smile, they also will scowl and frown and pout.

  THE GOOD NEWS: You won’t be breastfeeding forever.

  THE BAD NEWS: You’ll go right back to that pre-pregnancy cup size.

  THE GOOD NEWS: You won’t be reading stupid board books forever.

  THE BAD NEWS: You’ll need to help out with homework that you have no idea how to do.

  THE GOOD NEWS: Your child will one day be able to articulate his or her needs.

  THE BAD NEWS: Your child will one day articulate every single need.

  THE GOOD NEWS: You will soon hear the word mommy and it will be the most wonderful sound in the universe.

  THE BAD NEWS: Soon after, you will hear the word MOMMY!! five hundred times in a row and it will be the most irritating word you have ever heard in your life.

&nbs
p; THE GOOD NEWS: Your child will eventually sleep through the night.

  THE BAD NEWS: You will never get a full night’s sleep again. You’ll be awoken by bad dreams and wet beds, and one day inevitably stay awake waiting for your teenager to waltz through the door three seconds before curfew. Sleep as you once knew it is over. Forever.

  Lie #16

  PETS MAKE CHILDREN MORE RESPONSIBLE

  I hate rodents more than anything, but got a gerbil for my daughter because it was all she wanted for her birthday. Gerbil got sick and guess who feeds the damn rat her meds through a little baby syringe and sings lullabies the whole time? My daughter? HA.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #258866

  Our beloved twelve-year-old golden retriever, Penelope, passed away last spring. Her health had been declining for several months, and one day she woke up simply unable to stand. We brought her to the vet and heard the devastating news we had known was coming for a while: the time had come to put her out of her pain. And, so, we did. We said our tearful goodbyes as she peacefully took her last breaths. We kissed her head and patted her tummy as we lay with her, thanking her for being such a wonderful pet to us.

  For weeks, Jeff and I walked around in a complete daze. We had brought Penelope home a few weeks after we were married and could barely remember a life together that didn’t include her. I would sporadically cry, countless times throughout the day, and unexpectedly finding a tuft of her hair reduced me to a sobbing mess for hours one afternoon. The void she left in the house was palpable, so much more so than I ever could have imagined. But the kids seemed relatively unfazed. Sure, they were sad, but life went on. They bickered and played and antagonized and didn’t seem interested in wallowing the way I did.

  Lying in bed one night, I asked Jeff why he thought the kids weren’t more of a mess. Didn’t they miss her red tail wagging? Greeting her upon entering the house? Feeding her their unwanted chicken fingers? Apparently Jeff wasn’t all that surprised. They’re kids, was his simple answer. They bounce back quickly; I doubt they’ll even remember her when they’re grown.

  WHAT??! OF COURSE they will, I cried. They loved her!! They grew up with her! They rode her like a horse! They chased her around the house! They fed her their food! They played in the snow! Of course, they’ll remember those things . . . Forever! Won’t they?!!?

  I’m not sure they will, he insisted. They’re so little now—do you remember much from when you were five or six? Penelope was our dog, before kids. They knew her for a while, but she wasn’t our family dog. She wasn’t the dog who slept in their rooms and whom they could actually walk themselves. She wasn’t the dog they really helped with. By the time they were born, she was old. They missed out on all of that.

  And then he uttered the words that started it all: they really do need a dog of their own.

  For the next several months, Jeff began a campaign that could rival any billion-dollar run for office. You see, as much as I adored my Penny, I had also become quite accustomed to the perks of not having a dog. The fact that I didn’t have to vacuum every day. That I hadn’t picked up a lint brush in weeks. Not walking a dog in the rain. Not scheduling my day around being home for walks and remembering to dole out flea medication. Turns out, there are lots of nice things about that palpable void in the house.

  But Jeff didn’t agree. To him, having our children grow up without a dog (like the two of us did, I might note) was unfathomable. His list of reasons included unconditional love, added exercise, and, of course, the teaching of responsibility. The most loving and responsible adults had dogs when they were children, he pulled out of his ass like he had spent years hypothesizing it. We went around in circles for weeks, me gleefully wearing all the black I could without it being covered in dog hair, and him pointing out any time one of the children did something the least bit irresponsible. Having a pet of their own will make the kids more responsible, he insisted. As he does about most things, he wore me down, and in the fall, we brought home a new puppy.

  A sweet golden retriever, just like Penelope, Maisy will be the dog who is prominently featured in childhood pictures, greets the kids after school, and hopefully, will even be around to see Lily off to college. She will be our family dog, and they will infinitely benefit from having her. And most of all, this dog will be the one to teach my children about responsibility and whip them the hell into shape.

  Or, not.

  Back when Jeff was busy convincing me that getting a pet would make our kids more responsible (what a fucking liar), I made a list in my head of all the ways this prediction would come true.

  They’ll be more responsible about putting their stuff away, I told myself. Now, five months into the Maisy Era, I can say that’s not exactly how it has turned out. The minute my kids come in the door, they kick (Kick! They don’t even have the courtesy to toss) their shoes on the floor. Next come their coats, and their backpacks follow. I have warned them a million times that Maisy will chew their shoes and their homework. And, of course, they haven’t heeded my warning. Lily’s new Uggs are discolored due to excess dog saliva. And on more than one occasion, Maisy has literally eaten Ben’s homework.

  Well, I told myself, at least having a dog will help make the kids more responsible when it comes to being gentle with pets. Yeah, not really sure how that is working out, either. I am totally convinced that Maisy thinks Evan is a puppy, and she plays with him as if he were her littermate. And he loves it. He puts his face in her mouth, and her face in his mouth. He rides her like a pony, and I once saw him trying to put her in a chokehold. While I had hoped that having a puppy would make my kids veterinarian-like in their care and concern for animals, I worry that they’re actually becoming more like Michael Vick instead.

  I had high hopes for all the other ways in which bringing Maisy into the family would make my kids more responsible. Additional dog duties will help them balance their daily tasks, I thought. They’ll be more careful not to drop food on the floor or leave it out on the counters. And guess what? Some mornings the dog eats three times, as all of the kids feed her without checking if the other already did, and on other mornings she isn’t fed at all. And as far as kitchen cleanliness goes, my kitchen has never been filthier. Rather than complain to me about finishing their food, now the kids just slyly throw everything they don’t want onto the floor, assuming Maisy will finish it.

  As you might guess, poor Maisy has diarrhea. All the time.

  In the long list of times I should have known better than to listen to my husband, this is near the top. I’m already plotting my revenge, though. I’m trying to convince him that getting a vasectomy will make me want to have sex with him more.

  Fool!

  Babies Versus Puppies

  When babies have a tummy ache, they contain the mess to their diapers. When puppies have a tummy ache, they insist on taking it out on your lightest-colored rug.

  When babies teethe, they simply fuss. When puppies teethe, they ruin your favorite pairs of shoes.

  When babies need a bath, they can be gently washed down in a baby bath tub and dried off with a small towel. When puppies need a bath, the bathroom looks like it’s survived a typhoon and every towel in your house is sopping wet.

  When babies are sick, pediatrician’s visits are paid for by insurance. When puppies are sick, you can kiss that vacation you were saving for goodbye.

  When babies come in from the rain, they may need a change of clothing. When puppies come in from the rain, you want to move to a new house.

  When a new baby enters your life, people rush to your aid and can’t wait to help out in any way they can. When a new puppy enters your life, people think you’re insane.

  Lie #17

  A HOUSE WITHOUT CHILDREN IS AN EMPTY ONE

  My kids think I’m kidding when I say I can’t wait to sign myself into a retirement community where they will need an appointment to visit me.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #111354

  We picked Maisy out from a farm abou
t two hours away. You know, to begin our quest to see just how much neediness Mommy can take before she goes bat-shit crazy.

  After a rough drive that included Evan vomiting all over himself, we pulled up to a beautiful farm of rolling hills and mature trees. Horses meandered calmly in the fields. Birds chirped happily and melodically. There was a calmness about the place that almost made me forget about the stench of Evan’s soiled clothes. In the distance, I could see two large golden retrievers watching us approach. The puppies’ parents! I was excited to see them, but as I got closer and got a better view, my excitement turned to horror.

  The sire looked fantastic. Smiling widely and wagging his tail profusely, he was robust and healthy looking. His coat was wavy and soft, and his eyes sparkled with joy and excitement. He looked proud of his puppies and maybe even of his virility.

  And then there was the mother. This bitch was a mess. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and her coat was knotted and gnarly. I’m pretty sure I saw food dangling from her ear. But that wasn’t the worst of it. As she got up and made her way over to me, I saw her battle scars: dangling from her underbelly were seven—SEVEN—saggy, sore, blistered nipples. They were like testicles, only uglier. That poor, poor dog, I thought to myself, as we came face-to-face.

  And just as I was starting to feel guilty about taking one of her beloved puppies away from her for the rest of her life, we shared a moment that I’ll never forget. As we locked eyes, mother to mother, she gave me a look of sheer relief. “Thank fucking God,” her eyes said. “Better you than me. Better you than me.”

  I swear, if that dog could have packed that puppy’s suitcase and put it in my trunk herself she would have had us on our way home without a minute to spare. She was Done with a capital D. We would leave the farm that day with our new puppy in tow, and her mother would get her life and her body back. There wasn’t even a hint of sorrow. I’d call it jubilation.