by Jill Smokler
There are few things in life that make me as happy as Thai food. If my husband needs to apologize for something, there’s no better way to say it than with some satay. When I find myself traveling alone to a new city, the first thing I do is look up Thai restaurants on Yelp to plan my lunches and dinners. On the rare occasion when I choose where we eat as a family, rather than the children dictating, there is no doubt where I will choose. My kids groan and pick on nothing but plain white rice and the maraschino cherries that decorate the plates, but I don’t care; they’ll make up for it at the next meal and . . . leftovers! Thai is the only food I never tire of and always crave. Life is just too short not to enjoy good food, and to me, there is simply nothing better than Thai.
For years, I’d been the only one in my family to enjoy deliciousness like Pad Thai and Pad See Ew and Massaman Curry and Tom Kha Gai. It would be so nice to enjoy my favorite food as a family, I’d think again and again. And so I dragged them to restaurant after restaurant, trying to find one that satisfied their picky taste buds. I tried bribing them and reasoning with them and tricking them into trying new dishes, but no tactic was successful. I finally accepted that I was the sole Thai eater in the house and began ordering accordingly. One appetizer and one main course, since I was the only one eating.
Until the day last year when everything changed.
“This is yummy,” Lily announced as she tentatively tasted some of my chicken satay. “Does it always taste like this?” I watched as she wolfed it down, bogarting the peanut sauce for her chicken and leaving me with the random piece of toast I never know what I’m supposed to do with. “I know it’s yummy, Lily. It’s the best.” I smiled at her, gritting my teeth as she eyed the Pad Thai, steaming under the plastic lid. “Think I’ll like that, too?”
Had I not been alone in the house with my three kids and dog, I would have grabbed the box and run for dear life. Even with the kids and the dog, the thought crossed my mind. “I’m not sure, Lily. There are shrimp in there. You know, from the bottom of the ocean. You might not like it.” Much to my dismay, not only did she like it, but she loved it. It was one of those parenting moments where you can see your child blossoming right before your very eyes. Her horizons were broadening. She was moving out of the grilled cheese phase and into one of trying new things and not only accepting them, but enjoying them. She was growing up. But most of all? Bitch was eating my dinner, and I wasn’t happy about it.
I should have known that day was only the beginning. Ever since Lily got her ears pierced last spring, my earrings have mysteriously migrated from my jewelry box into hers. She’s outgrown her princess dress-up costumes, instead opting to trudge around in my high heels and wrap herself up in my scarves. She sneaks into my bathroom when I’m downstairs and tries on my makeup, thinking I won’t notice the telltale signs of glittery lips and black powder around her eyes. What’s mine is hers, she seems to think, regardless of how many times I tell her otherwise.
Sharing has always struck me as an odd concept. We tell our children to share everything—their books, their toys, their food . . . It’s the nice thing to do, we tell them starting in preschool, and certainly the way to solve most issues at home or at school. The trouble is, sharing sucks—as a kid, and even more so as a grown-up.
Like all mothers, the list of things I’ve given up for my children is a mile long, and all I really ask for are a few basic things of my own. A comfortable place to sleep, for instance. But, noooo. Despite having their own beds to sleep in, at least two of my children will make their way into mine at some point during the night. I end up hanging off the bed, kneed in the face and sleeping in one of their plastic-mattress-pad-covered twin beds, just to escape them.
Or, water. In a world that is three-quarters water, is it too much to ask that I get one measly glass to myself? Apparently, it is. Without fail, every time I pour myself a nice glass of ice water and sit down to drink it, there appears a line of children asking for a sip. Were they not thirsty three seconds prior, when I was in the kitchen getting the ice, positioning the glass and pouring the water? Is there some otherworldly connection between their thirst level and my level of contentment? Between the backwash, the germs, and the fact that World War III will break out over who gets the biggest sip, I usually won’t let them have any of my water. And I don’t feel guilty about it. No, I will not share the water of which we have a never-ending supply. Why, you ask? Because it’s mine.
The list of things I must share goes on: my bathroom sink where the kids spit their nasty toothpaste, despite having their own perfectly working sink; my iPhone, without which they make waiting for an appointment for any amount of time insufferable; even my socks, which I keep finding in Lily’s drawers when I put away the laundry (and by “put away,” I mean dump in a pile in her drawers). The fact that mothers begin sharing with their children in utero—maybe that’s where Lily developed her fondness for Thai food, because I sure ate my fair share while pregnant with her—should be a warning flare for all of the sacrifices to come.
But I suppose this all comes with the territory. If motherhood were an ice-cream cone, it would always be one scoop short. And so I will take extra pleasure in reinforcing to my children the importance of sharing. I figure that if I have to suffer, they do, too. Besides, it will prepare them well for parenthood.
10 Things to Do for Yourself
Before You Have Children . . .
(BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER DO THEM AGAIN)
1. Call in sick to work.
2. Savor your food.
3. Act spontaneously.
4. Spend money frivolously on yourself.
5. Pee with the door shut.
6. Have sex on the kitchen floor.
7. Own an impractical car.
8. Travel as much as you possibly can.
9. Wear a bikini.
10. Enjoy a lazy Saturday of doing absolutely nothing. Repeat on Sunday.
Lie #23
PARENTS HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS
Momma knows best—HA! Hardly! I have no idea what I’m doing. So long as you don’t end up dead, maimed, in prison, or spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in intensive therapy, I’m going to call it a win.
—Scary Mommy Confession #199795
“Mommy, what happens when you die?”
“Mommy, what color are God’s eyes?”
“Mommy, is the world ever going to end?”
Questions like these are what keep me feeling like a game show contestant every morning during the car ride to school. I don’t know what it is about the morning car ride that makes my children so inquisitive and introspective, but that fifteen-minute ride has become far too heavy for a mother who hasn’t yet downed her first cup of coffee. Whatever happened to “Mommy, why is the top of your hair a different color than the longer pieces?” Not particularly polite, but at least there’s a pretty straightforward answer.
When faced with tough questions like this, I find myself stuck between the rock and a hard place of (a) making something up or (b) admitting to my children that I don’t actually know everything after all. I can see the argument for each. Intellectually, I know of course that it’s far better to simply say, “I don’t know, honey”—teaching my children a valuable lesson while forcing them to seek out their own answers. But there is something so tempting about carrying on the myth of maternal omniscience as long as I possibly can. In the shallow toolbox of parenthood, it’s one of our most powerful, yet fleeting, weapons.
The minute your kids realize that you, in fact, do not know everything is the minute when your household equilibrium shifts forever. Suddenly you’re not all that authoritative anymore. Not that impressive. And once the seal is broken, it all comes undone. Not only do your kids stop asking you questions, but they actually start challenging what you say. From there, it’s all downhill.
I remember when it first occurred to me that my own parents were fallible. It was at summer camp, on a rare rainy day. We spent those dreary days indoor
s, watching movies and playing games. In between braiding hair and licking orange cheese puff dust off our fingers, we listened to the Free to Be You and Me soundtrack to pass the time. There, on the floor of the community room listening to Marlo Thomas belt out “Parents Are People,” my life forever changed. “Parents are people,” she sang. “People with children. When parents were little they used to be small, like some of you. And then they grew.”
It was an epiphany of earth-shattering proportions. My life was now divided between the time before the realization, when everything was simple and made sense, to after. The after was the beginning of the end.
Whatever it takes, I’m going to maintain the façade of knowing everything with my own children for as long as possible. I know the stakes are high, and I’m not throwing in the towel without a fight. As far as God’s eyes, the answer is blue.
I’m sure of it.
CONCLUSION
I’ve heard, on many occasions, that if women knew exactly what motherhood would entail, none of us would ever become mothers. That’s the reason for all the lies, right? If we were honest with one another about how hard it truly is, would anyone in their right minds sign up for the job?
It’s irrelevant, though, because nobody—not even me and my book of lies—can prepare you for what to expect once you have children. It’s more challenging and frustrating and exhausting and demanding than you can possibly imagine. It will bring you to the brink of insanity repeatedly. Endlessly. To infinity.
But is it worth it? Is there a reason that people keep popping out babies and civilization hasn’t yet come to a screeching halt? Do the positives really outweigh the negatives? That’s the real question, isn’t it? And the answer is an unequivocal yes. Yes, you bet your ass they do.
At the end of the day, that’s the only truth you really need to know.
Parental Lessons
LEARNED THE HARD WAY
1. Superglue has no place in a house with young children.
2. Neither do Sharpies.
3. There is no such thing as allowing your kid to play with your phone “just once.”
4. Never use Google to diagnose illnesses. Ever.
5. Dollar-store toys cost far more than a dollar, in frustration, anguish, and regret.
6. Look in the oven before you turn it on.
7. Always carry wipes, long after diaper wearing has ended.
8. Resist stocking the house with character Band-Aids, unless you’re prepared to buy a box a week.
9. Always keep emergency snacks hidden in the car.
10. Bunk beds are far more trouble than they’re worth.
11. Keep track of who gave what at birthday parties.
12. Never stock D batteries in your house, or you will be forced to make obnoxiously loud toys work after they’ve thankfully died.
13. Buy Mr. Clean Magic Erasers in bulk.
14. Back up your photos.
15. Better yet, print them.
16. There is no point in making beds.
17. Accept the fact that you will inevitably turn into your mother.
18. Always check pockets before washing clothes.
19. There is no such thing as “running” into Target with children.
20. Take more video.
21. Skipping a bath one night (or two) won’t kill them.
22. Find young babysitters and groom them. The less attractive, the better.
23. Always have ample one-dollar bills on hand for lost teeth and bribery.
24. Practice caution when approaching that stray raisin on the floor. It’s probably not a raisin.
25. Keep expensive cosmetics out of arm’s reach.
26. The four-year-old checkup is brutal.
27. Always look before you sit down to pee.
28. Train your children to clean up all LEGOs before bed, since nothing is more painful than stepping on a LEGO with a bare foot at midnight.
29. Save “no” for when it really matters.
30. Overapply sunscreen.
31. Don’t take their word for it when children say they don’t need to pee before leaving the house.
32. Never pay full price for kids’ clothes. They always go on sale and the expensive ones inevitably get ruined first.
33. There’s a reason why people surprise their kids with trips to Disney: their anticipation may kill you.
34. No child went to college with a pacifier.
35. Lock your bedroom door.
36. And your bathroom one.
37. Never open a can of soda handed to you by a child.
38. Walk away from temper tantrums.
39. Or record them for future enjoyment.
40. Upset as you may be, hair grows back.
41. But not on Barbie dolls, so hide the scissors.
42. Never buy more than two pairs of shoes at once. Their feet will inevitably grow once you do.
43. Give away the books you can’t stand reading.
44. TV won’t really turn their brains to mush.
45. Don’t buy any toy that is meant to come apart, unless they can put it back together themselves.
46. Keep a well-hidden stock of lollipops.
47. Don’t allow Play-Doh on carpets.
48. Or in the house at all.
49. A bathroom in a house with boys will never smell clean.
50. The moment you think you have mastered motherhood, your children will prove you wrong.
SCARY MOMMY CONFESSIONS
My husband is higher maintenance than my children. He is more emotionally draining, demanding, and prone to temper tantrums than my preschooler.
I had every intention of buying a movie for the family tonight. Instead, I bought myself Fifty Shades of Grey.
I’ve been a mom for six years and still don’t turn my head when I hear the word mommy. Even when it’s my kid who’s said it.
My children think that the Disney Store at the mall is DISNEY WORLD. They tell their friends they have been to Disney a hundred times.
I arranged a bulk pickup for a broken table as the kids screamed and bickered in the background. As I hung up, the rep asked if I wanted them picked up as well. I actually considered it.
Our baby monitor picks up the signal from our neighbors’ monitor. I find myself sitting with my ear pressed against the receiver so I can listen in on them more than I’d like to admit. Being a SAHM has made me so bored and nosey.
I walk into the kitchen, open all the cabinets, and have no idea why I’m there.
With tears glistening in my eyes, I make sure to say those three wonderful words to my precious child every single day: “It’s bedtime, son.”
Julia Roberts says her kids wake “smelling of promise.” My kids wake smelling of urine.
I feel like I got sold a bill of goods with all the talk about how much fun parenting is. Um, compared to what, a root canal?
My five-year-old daughter just took a shit in the middle of the backyard. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.
I lie to my kids daily. The park is closed; we can’t go. Ice cream costs two hundred dollars; we can’t afford any. Puppies eat little girls; we can’t have one. Grandma has a boogeyman in her closet; tell Daddy you don’t want to go.
I keep waiting for motherhood to click with me. My kids are seven and nine.
I have turned into one of the women I used to pity. The ragged, flustered, frustrated mother who struggles to control her rambunctious children while attempting to run errands.
I told my son we don’t allow sleepovers at other people’s houses, but the truth is, I just can’t stand his best friend.
Today I left work twenty-five minutes early. I didn’t go straight home. I went to a bar, where I sat and drank a beer and played with my phone. No one talked to me. It was lovely.
I fear that in contrast to overinvolved, hyperanxious helicopter moms, I am a submarine mom. Half the time I’m like, “Has anyone seen my son?”
I tell my kids everything will “make t
hem die.” It’s easier. Go in the street, you’re dead. Fall out of a tree, you’re dead. Ask Mommy to get up and put cartoons on at 6 a.m. on Saturday, you’re dead.
Sometimes my kids’ voices are like nails on a chalkboard. I miss the days before they could talk.
I make mean faces at my friend’s annoying two-year-old when she’s not looking. She just thinks he’s going through a crying-for-no-reason phase.
No idea why, but my son is PETRIFIED of a carrot nose that came in a snowman kit. It’s terrible, but sometimes I take it down from the closet and say “Oh, what’s this?” just to scare him. He runs screaming. I die laughing.
The intention was to sneeze gracefully with my face covered. The execution? Right as I sneezed I had to grab my crotch to keep from peeing myself. These are not the mom decisions I envisioned.
I wish parenting came with an instruction manual. That’s why I sometimes would rather be at work, because I already know what’s expected of me.
My daughter skipped class and instead of confronting her about it I posted on her Facebook page, “Where were you during third period today? Inquiring minds would like to know, young lady!” Hopefully the teasing from her classmates will keep her from doing THAT again.
My eight-month-old is like a dog. When you ask if she wants a bath she runs to the closet for the towel and washcloths, then runs to the tub. Good girl, now sit.
My son said to me recently, “Mommy, move your big butt. I can’t see the TV.” Our TV is sixty inches wide.
I bought a bottle of vodka last week at the store. This week I bought three. The clerk remembered me. I shrugged and said, “One for each kid.”
Nothing like a family vacation to make you regret the decision to have children. All the stresses of home, plus all the delightful stresses of unfamiliar places and routines.
My kids frequently ask to play with my stomach flap. For FUN.
I turn the music up so I can’t hear the kids. I’m pretty sure that if one of them gets hurt the other one will come tell me about it.
In response to my daughter’s recent aversion to nudity, I’ve started wandering around the house in various states of undress. I’m hoping it’ll nudge her toward a healthy body image but so far it’s just nudging her to say things like “Please put some clothes on, Mom!”