Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies)

by Jill Smokler

  And I can’t say I didn’t recognize the feeling.

  I sent each of my kids to full-day preschool when they turned two. With Lily, it felt like a necessity. Ben was born the same month that she turned two, and I simply needed the help during the day. The same thing happened with Ben when Evan was born just twenty-one months later. Once again, I had a newborn in the house and needed time to devote to my new baby. But then Evan turned two, and I had no excuse. For a few weeks I even thought about having another baby just so I could rationalize packing Evan off to preschool. But that would have killed me, and then what good would I be to my kids? So I sent him off, too, and waited for the flood of guilt and sorrow to hit. And I waited. And waited. And waited.

  It never came. Suddenly, for the first time in five years, I wasn’t stuck home every day with a baby. I could take long showers and do my hair. I could leisurely read People magazine at lunch, rather than in the checkout aisle. I didn’t have to change my clothes twice a day, and I could spend hours at HomeGoods looking at décor I didn’t need. It was heavenly. Perhaps it was because I knew I would see my kids at the end of each day, but I never missed them for a minute while they were at preschool. I savored picking them up and seeing their joyful faces as they ran toward me with arms outstretched, but I also relished the six hours of me time I had each day.

  Childless vacations were hard to swallow at first. Jeff would frequently suggest that we get away, but I just couldn’t get comfortable with the idea of leaving my kids behind. What kind of mother would leave her kids home while she indulged in fun and relaxation? Me, it turns out.

  We started out small. A weekend away, only a few hours’ drive from home. Then we worked our way up to four days and a plane ride. Before we knew it, we were on a full-blown adult vacation. Sure, I thought about my kids and looked forward to seeing them when I returned home. But miss them? Not as much as I expected to.

  When Lily became old enough for sleepovers, things only got better. One less kid whom I have to nag to brush her teeth. One less story to read. One less kid to force to take a bath or shower. One less mouth to feed in the morning. At first, Jeff and I missed her when she would sleep out. The house seemed too quiet and didn’t feel totally right. But we got over that pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before we started to appreciate making our kid someone else’s problem for a night. Now I keep a duffle bag of Lily’s clothes and toiletries in the car, just in case an invitation for a sleepover comes our way. What can I say? We believe in the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared.

  Now we’re starting to think about sleepaway camp. It’s something I never thought I would even entertain, but now that I’ve been a mother for nine years, I’ve seen the light. My turning point was this past summer, when one of Lily’s friends went to overnight camp for six weeks. At first, I couldn’t believe her parents would send their baby away for that long. How would they sleep at night not knowing what their little girl had for dinner? And what if she got sick and landed in the infirmary? How could a registered nurse possibly give her the necessary care?

  But then I saw the parents out for dinner one night when Jeff and I ended up at the same restaurant. While we scarfed down our food to hurry up and get home to the babysitter before we were out eighty bucks, they seemed to take their time. While they drank wine and nibbled on appetizers, we paid the bill before the food even came to the table. We stopped by their table to say hello on our way out, and the first thing I noticed was how well rested they looked. Tanned and toned, it appeared that they were enjoying their summer. They regaled us with stories about the letters they received from their daughter each day, recounting the fun she was having and the friendships she was forging. They told us about the two-week trip they were about to take and about all the movies they had seen so far that summer. While I thought about flipping their table over Real Housewives–style then and there, I restrained myself, and Jeff and I sheepishly shuffled out of the restaurant and to our car like two middle schoolers who just lost their lunch money to the school bully.

  I spent the rest of the night researching summer camps online, and I have every intention of sending my kids to overnight camp when they’re ready. Or when I’m ready, whichever comes first.

  I realize that, because my kids are still young, I’ll likely eat these words when they leave my home for college and start their own lives, somewhere else. I’ve seen my own parents struggle with an empty nest and I know I’ll someday long for the madness that is my life right now. But for now I’m just trying to get to tomorrow.

  And hoping it’s a sleepover weekend.

  Rules for Playdates,

  (TO BE REPEATED BY YOUR CHILD’S PLAYMATE)

  1. I will arrive on time. I know from experience how annoying it is to be told a playdate is starting at one time and then not having it begin until an hour later.

  2. I will kiss my mother goodbye. I know that I’ll see her soon, and you both have better things to do than engage in pointless small talk.

  3. I will not ask you to endlessly throw balls/do art projects/referee sports/run around after me. I recognize that my sole job is to entertain your child.

  4. I won’t want to watch TV. TV is the babysitter you use when your kid is alone and you are desperate. I won’t ask you to waste it on me.

  5. I will not ask for another snack, three seconds after finishing my first. Actually, I’m not hungry at all, thank you very much.

  6. I will clean up the mess I made. Every last LEGO.

  7. I’ll respect that you have your rules and I have mine. Just because I play video games all day/drink soda/attempt to fly off of furniture at home, doesn’t mean I expect to at your home.

  8. I will include your other children. Pesky little sibling? No way! Just another kid I get to play with.

  9. I won’t leave remnants of number one around your toilet. And I most definitely won’t leave remnants of number two.

  10. Next time, I’ll have the playdate at my house.

  Lie #18

  YOU’LL LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR KIDS’ INDEPENDENCE

  I remember thinking how cute it was when my child learned how to take off her own diaper. Until I came in one morning and saw her finger painting and it wasn’t paint she was painting with.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #254518

  I remember my children’s first steps like they were yesterday. That magical moment when they no longer needed to hold on to my fingers to make it across the room was everything I hoped it would be and more. It was so exciting and gratifying and my heart swelled with pride all three times. It’s the kind of moment that makes this whole mommy thing worth it.

  That was then. This is now.

  Years later, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I was so excited about. My kids figuring out that they were their own people, rather than simply extensions of me? Their growing awareness that I don’t have all the answers? Turns out, our children’s independence is completely overrated.

  Once my children walked, they never stopped moving. Gone were the days when I could leave them and go to the bathroom—gasp—alone, or take a phone call in the other room while they contentedly played on the floor. Suddenly I was held hostage in my own house, stuck in a never-ending game of cat-and-mouse. But only one of us was having fun.

  I naïvely counted down the days until my kids could dress themselves so I wouldn’t have to leave three piles of clothes on the banister every morning. Well, the day has arrived and it’s bad. Bad with glitter and ruffles and mismatched patterns. I mean, I know you’re supposed to foster creativity in your children, but what if your child has indisputably horrific taste? Are you supposed to encourage that? These days, I have to hide the Justice catalog from Lily as I longingly look at siblings dressed in matching pajamas over at L.L.Bean.

  I long for the Halloweens that came before my children could make decisions for themselves aka the good old days when I could dress them up as I pleased. A princess and a frog prince! Cowboy and cowgirl! Wild animals and me as the zooke
eper! A trio of superheroes! Pictures are proudly displayed throughout the house, and holiday cards with my agreeable children still adorn friends’ refrigerators years later.

  That was then. This is now.

  For Halloween 2012 Ben was a Star Wars character, Evan was Wolverine, and Lily was dressed as a zombie prom queen. I died a little that day. There was no theme even I could concoct with those three costumes, and I haven’t even bothered to print out pictures, never mind frame them.

  Once upon a time, my children were friends with the kids I hand-selected for them. I was very discerning. The kid who coughed all the time? Not for us. Little girl who lived almost an hour a way? No thanks. The twin boys in Ben’s preschool class? Twin boys; need I say more? These days my kids tell me who they want to have over after school, and I have no say. The only sliver of control I maintain is the occasional fib about so-and-so being unavailable. But that only lasts so long, and eventually I am forced to entertain the kids who have recovered from the fake illnesses I’ve assigned to them.

  As parents, we spend all of our time preparing our children for the world so they may live independently. After all, that’s the name of the parenting game. But I can’t help but wonder what the rush is. Why not extend their dependency as long as possible? Listen, I want them out of my house as soon as they’re eighteen, like most parents do. I just want to make all of their decisions for them until then.

  25 Reasons NOT to Have a(nother) Baby

  1. Morning sickness that has you throwing up in the kitchen sink because you just can’t make it to the bathroom in time.

  2. Stretch marks on top of stretch marks on top of stretch marks.

  3. Not being able to wear your wedding ring because your fingers have morphed into sausages.

  4. Sex with a fetus in the middle.

  5. Cankles.

  6. Not having your period, but having to still wear a pad.

  7. The entire ninth month of pregnancy.

  8. Changing crib sheets.

  9. Taking that first shit after delivery.

  10. The dried out, ready-to-fall-off umbilical cord.

  11. The aerobic workout that is installing an infant car seat.

  12. Running out of wipes at the worst possible moment in time.

  13. Being on the receiving end of endless and unwanted advice on everything involving your baby.

  14. Trying on your pre-baby jeans for the first time.

  15. Realizing that the baby weight is not going to melt off.

  16. Living in fear that you will wake that baby who took, OMG seriously, an hour and a half to put to sleep.

  17. Cutting teeny, tiny, paper-thin fingernails.

  18. Obsessively checking to make sure the baby is breathing when he or she is finally soundly asleep.

  19. Rectally taking temperatures.

  20. Projectile vomit.

  21. Not being able to soothe a screaming baby in a backward- facing seat because you are concentrating on not wrapping your car around a tree, but at that moment it sounds like a fine way to put you out of your misery.

  22. Searching in the middle of the night for a lost pacifier like it was a million-dollar lottery ticket.

  23. Not being able to turn your head because you fall asleep night after night in the rocking chair.

  24. Maneuvering a stroller around a store not built for strollers.

  25. The fact that babies turn into . . . kids.

  25 Reasons TO Have a(nother) Baby

  1. Not having a period for nine months.

  2. Not having to suck in your gut.

  3. The fun of being able to say “I’m not expecting” when asked how far along you are.

  4. Not worrying about birth control.

  5. Hearing the heartbeat for the first time.

  6. Parking in “Expectant Mother” parking spaces.

  7. The fact that nobody picks a fight with the pregnant woman.

  8. Having your husband cater to your every whim.

  9. The first shower after delivery.

  10. The forty-eight-hour hospital stay.

  11. Scouring Pinterest for the perfect way to announce the baby.

  12. Introducing them to their new big sister or brother.

  13. People bring you meals! And help you with laundry! And want to make your life easier!

  14. That first precious Halloween costume.

  15. Teeny, tiny baby toes.

  16. The smell of their clean heads.

  17. Catching adorable first moments and showing them off mercilessly.

  18. The first smile.

  19. The first giggle.

  20. The epidural.

  21. Precious little shoes that never get dirty.

  22. Catching up on old episodes of Dawson’s Creek and Melrose Place.

  23. Having people ask to hold the baby verses having them run away from your kids.

  24. Having an excuse to be unshowered.

  25. Everything.

  Lie #19

  BEING HOME WITH YOUR KIDS IS THE MOST FULFILLING JOB

  Were it not for coffee, I would spend my days laying facedown on the floor, staring at the carpet fibers, while my four-year-old dances around the house gluing LEGOS to the walls.

  —Scary Mommy Confession #235794

  Before I had children, I was an undeniably bad employee. There was my first job as a graphic designer at one of the biggest public affairs firms in the world. I decided after just two days that I simply couldn’t work someplace where I would be expected to work ten hours a day. I mean, I had so many other important things to do. Like plan a wedding. Then there was my next gig as an art director in the advertising department of a major retail chain. This one lasted two years, mostly because I did whatever I wanted, like take three-hour lunch breaks. I’d slip out of my office at about eleven and head to the outlet mall about thirty minutes away. Then I’d hit the gym, where I would use the steam room for a good twenty minutes after exercising. If it was a slow day at the office, I’d also stop at the brand-new Harris Teeter grocery store near my office and get our weekly food shopping out of the way. How perfect that we had a kitchen at the office where I could refrigerate my groceries!

  My next job was as the design manager at one of my favorite stores. This was the first time that I actually enjoyed my work and felt a sense of fulfillment at the end of each day. Building an amazing window display that stopped patrons in their tracks was very rewarding. I used to love to bring Jeff into the store on the weekends and show him all the vignettes I had created. I didn’t even mind the fact that the job required me to be in by 6 a.m. Monday through Friday. What I did mind, though, were the frequent visits from the district manager who would come in to the store and rearrange everything I had worked so hard on. I also hated it when I had to participate on pesky phone calls on P&L. Sure, I was in management, but I guess it never occurred to me that store performance had anything to do with—or any impact on—my design plans. Details, details.

  When I got pregnant, I felt like I was the luckiest bitch in town. We moved out of the city and into a more affordable home, so that Jeff’s single salary could support our growing family. I had no second thoughts about leaving the workforce. That’s an understatement, actually. I think if I were even the slightest bit athletic I would have done cartwheels up and down our street. While I had moments of enjoyment and pride at my previous jobs, I never felt totally fulfilled. I never felt like I was following my calling.

  After the chaos of having a newborn died down, I attacked my new job as a SAHM with vigor: Mommy and Me classes as often as possible; lunch dates with other moms and their babies; enough tummy time to make any pediatrician proud; three-course home-cooked meals for my husband. I quickly got into the rhythm of my new life, and I patiently waited for the overwhelming feeling of fulfillment to hit me.

  And I kept waiting for the fulfillment. And waiting. And waiting.

  If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that staying home with my kids would b
e the most fulfilling job I’d ever have, I’d hire a really good hit man to kill all of those fucking liars.

  And it wasn’t just people I knew—even people I loved and trusted—feeding me this load of crap. Every women’s magazine I read would have some article in it about the joys of stay-at-home-motherhood. Television shows at that time portrayed moms who stayed home with their kids as heroic, noble, and perky. Researchers and therapists would pontificate on morning shows about what a sense of accomplishment SAHMs experience on a daily basis.

  I have always loved being home with my children. It’s precious time for which I am enormously grateful and that I wouldn’t trade for the world. But fulfilling? Not always. Not usually. It was especially tough at first, as I got used to all of the time at home. And I took it out on Jeff, who I’d pick a fight with nearly every night when he came home from work.

  How was your day? What did you do, he would innocently ask.

  What did I do? WHAT DID I DO? I took care of your daughter. I read to her and bathed her and dressed her and cleaned up after her and ran around after her keeping her alive all day long. THAT’S WHAT I DID. How dare you insinuate that I sat on my ass all day doing nothing. You think I was eating bonbons and watching soaps? Why don’t YOU try staying home?

  “Um . . . okay,” he’d respond sheepishly. “What’s for dinner?”

  What’s for dinner? DINNER? What, I’m your personal chef, too? Seriously? I had a bowl of cereal for dinner. It was delicious.

  I’m actually pretty surprised he bothered coming back at all those first few months. If I’d been in his shoes, the Ramada Inn off the highway exit near us would have been home.

  Considering how much I always despised working, my rough transition to stay-at-homedom confused even me. I didn’t like answering to a boss or having to wear heels or fill out my hours or be held accountable when I inevitably fucked up. But once I gave up work, I missed many of the things I once resented. A long commute in the car translated to precious alone time. Water cooler conversation meant the adult interaction I craved. Even dressing up in stockings and a skirt sounded appealing after being covered in mystery slime all day.