* Speak to her child in a voice that’s loud enough for her to hear. If she doesn’t come right away, you are being used. (She might have read this book …. Sorry.)
* Make her kid rat her out. Call her over. It’s hands-on-hips time. Then mean mug her until she forces her kid to apologize. You didn’t watch all five seasons of The Wire for nothing.
Don’t worry if you aren’t active in the park. Every mom has an age she rocks, and maybe you aren’t a “toddler mom.” If you want to talk politics or girls or boys or music with your kid, you’re probably more of a “teenager mom.” You could even be an “after they leave for college mom.” You never know when you will blossom.
Remember: She thinks you’re lazy. You think she’s a helicopter. Hey, you’re both right!
* CHAPTER 22 *
How to Hand Off the Newborn Who Just Filled a Diaper
You carried the baby, then you had the baby. You did the hard emotional and/or physical work. You’re home from the hospital, you’re beat, and this infant that you are hoping you feel love for soon will just not stop crapping.
1. Learn to recognize the Mother’s Window.
The Mother’s Window is a small window of opportunity that only a mom recognizes. In this case, it’s the seconds between the moment your baby has pooped in his diaper and when everyone else smells it. Figuring it out is a crucial part of the bonding process.
Every baby has his own “Ahhh” face, and when your baby makes his, you have a short amount of time to hand him off to Dad, Grandpa, or the babysitter. Get to know your baby. Let him help you not change his diaper.
2. Sneak out of the room.
Just go. You may hear a protest cry from the adult, but learn the Bible story of Lot’s wife: Do not look back. Walk away from that mess like an action star walks away from a deadly explosion. Slowly, with a smirk on your face.
3. Simply refuse.
You are allowed to fall apart. Multiple mini-breakdowns may prevent a big one. It is totally acceptable to say “Your turn” to whoever is nearby. Save those hands of yours for cradling the baby’s head during a feeding.
Remember: The Mother’s Window Five-Second Countdown: Baby grunts … 5 … Baby poops … 4 … Mom realizes … 3 … Hands off baby … 2 … Leaves the room … 1 … The room is assaulted by smell. Mom is gone.
* CHAPTER 23 *
Oh, You Just Had an Epic Meltdown
As a mom, you’ve had a good couple weeks. Baths have been given, age-appropriate YouTube videos have been watched, and books have been read.
Something clicked, you’re in a groove. You start thinking maybe it’s time to add some weight to your pack. A kitchen remodel? A puppy? Another child? It all seems do-able!
Then, on a crisp, cloudless day … a rock tumbles down the mountain in the form of a lost shoe. Then another rock and another until it’s a mountain-slide. A sock flushed down the toilet, a diaper pulled off in the crib, peanut butter smeared on two walls, that Mickey Mouse cartoon on YouTube turns out to be a porno starring a girl named “Minnie Mouth.”
What happens next will become the stuff of family lore. You are about to lose your shit in epic fashion. Fifty years from now, your oldest will recount this day to huge laughs at your wake. Words are screamed, butts are spanked, walls are kicked, a watermelon is smashed. When you finish, everyone is crying—your kids, your husband, your dog, you.
OK.
What should you do?
LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE.
* Everyone is alive! (Right?) OK! GOOD. Screaming? Even better … They are super alive.
* Are you at a Walmart? No? GOOD. Yes? Oh no! Get out of Walmart, ASAP. The store’s yellow happy face mascots are staring at you, making your meltdown all that more ironic. (If you must have a meltdown in a store, you will feel less trashy at a Target.)
* Know that it happens to everyone. While no one is condoning child abuse, every mother deserves one “Get Out of Family Court Free” card.
If this happens a lot, you can get cheap or free therapy. MFT grads are required to give thousands of hours of supervised therapy before they can get their license. Let a newbie take a crack at you! Your craziness can turn an ordinary grad student into a real therapist.
If it’s just a onetime freak-out, you are probably furious with yourself for losing your cool. Instead of beating yourself up for being the mother that you are, take a moment and focus on the mother that you aren’t:
Your Own
Correction: Your two-pack-a-day, secondhand smoke-blowing mom. Just spitballing here, but a list of her probable crimes include:
* Putting you in the backseat without a seat belt
* Putting you in the front seat with just a lap belt
* Letting you ride your bike without a helmet
* Allowing you to sell Girl Scout cookies by yourself, in the exclusive Pedophile Woods condominium complex
* Telling you to stand up straight because hunched over you “look pregnant”
* Letting your male swim/gymnastics/track coach take you on overnight trips that included pre-competition “rubdowns”
* Having never heard of bulimia, commenting on your weight loss by saying, “Whatever you’re doing, honey, keep it up!”
That lady is lucky the statute of limitations ran out.
A “Toddlers and Tiaras Mom”
Your four-year-old daughter might be screaming that you are mean, but you know what she isn’t doing? Trying to out-whore another four-year-old whose mom taught her to lip-synch to Lil’ Kim’s “Magic Stick.”
That Mom Who Lives Down the Street
That once-in-a-lifetime meltdown you just had? She calls that “Monday.” She’s writing a book called Fucking Awful Mom. Look for it in stores next year.
A Florida Mom
OK, that’s a joke. Sort of. Maybe not. Sh*tty Mom is conflicted. Of course, not every mom in Florida is terrible, but recent events suggest that, at this moment in history, every terrible mother is from Florida.
If you are a Florida Mom, what the hell is going on down there? Are you being driven insane by the rest of us driving through your state, looking for Disney World? Or is it the senior citizens? Was it a bad idea for all of America to send their parents to Florida, without also sending psychologists for the rest of Florida? Can you leave Florida, raise your kids in Minnesota, then return when you are of retirement age and too old to do anything but enjoy the Early Bird Special?
A Meth Mom
While there’s no “good” time to be a meth addict, certainly the worst time would be when you are pregnant. And you didn’t do that. Tiny victories!
A “Not This Time” Mom
Look, you could have avoided this whole mess with one quick trip to Planned Parenthood. (Unless you live in Kansas. Then, it’s a twelve-hour bus ride to Chicago.) Instead, you let that damn baby blast a four-lane highway through your quiet, oneway street. Surely that counts for something.
P.S. If you are going to remind your kids that you could have aborted them, save it for the right occasion. That is an ace up your sleeve that you don’t want to waste on the three-year-old when she spills her orange juice. Wait until she’s fifteen and throws a house party when you’re out of town. Sit her down on your beer-soaked couch and explain that you are about to tell her something that she will one day pass on to her own daughter when she trashes her house. Then lean in and say, “I could’ve gotten rid of you. And I didn’t. You’re fucking welcome. Now clean up this goddamn mess and never let it happen again or I will build a time machine and take us both back to the day you were conceived.”
Remember: The mom who has never lost control is not worth knowing.
* CHAPTER 24 *
How to Not Hear the Baby in the Middle of the Night
When a mom tells you her baby sleeps through the night, what she’s actually telling you is that she sleeps through the night. All babies cry through the night. They are self-centered and ill-mannered, and they don’t give a shit if they wake you up.
Even worse, mothers are hardwired to respond to their baby’s cries. There is one way to end this cycle of abuse: Make sure that you are unable to hear your baby cry at night.
1. The baby should sleep in his own room.
It is impossible to ignore your baby when he’s crying in a bassinet next to your bed (or even worse, sleeping in your bed). He exited your body for a reason—he’s ready to move on. Let him.
2. The baby’s room should be nowhere near yours.
For God’s sake, do not share a wall. Nothing conducts the sound of an infant’s wail like drywall. If you live in an apartment, move the crib to the farthest possible wall—preferably one he shares with your neighbor.
3. Traditional noisemakers don’t work.
Once you’ve got the baby as far away as possible, it’s time for some aural neutralization. Noise machines are ineffective. Like all animals, babies continue to evolve. Their vocal cords have adapted to modern times and it takes only seconds for their cries to pierce the white noise of fake crickets, fake birds, fake whales, and fake babbling brooks. Never forget: Babies are crafty, and they are on to us.
4. Buy a fan and leave it on until the baby turns three.
But guess what? Babies have an enemy, and it is the fan. Not the dainty, spinning fan of the 1950s, and not the sophisticated, noiseless fan of the future. No. Babies are unable to fight back against the boxy fan of the ’70s. The ugly, cheap fan with a filthy grille. The fan with three settings: “low,” “medium,” and “I just slept for eight hours and I feel great.”
DO NOT TURN IT OFF. The fan allows you to live in a fantasy world where your baby is a “champion sleeper.” But only if it’s on. Should you get cocky and flip the setting to “low”? Well, well, well … this is the moment your baby has been waiting for. He knows you are genetically programmed to come to him, and he will open his little mouth and strike your heart with a wail that will destroy your “champion sleeper” illusion.
Remember: As a parent, you will do way more neglectful things than sleep through your baby’s cries. This is just the beginning.
SECTION SIX
OTHER
MOMS
* CHAPTER 25 *
Old Moms: Hey, Look Who Had
One Good Egg Left!
Congrats old gal, you did it. You had a career, and you had men. Lots and lots of men. Maybe even a woman. You ignored all that “biological clock” crap and partied on, postponing motherhood until the last possible second. And then—when every women’s magazine said your forty-four-year-old womb was finished—you cranked out a shorty.
You beat some insane odds.
So, let’s take a moment and look back on your accomplished life. You made partner, or headed a division, or became the first female-whatever in your company’s history. Or you released eight albums to critical acclaim, or discovered an element, or had groupie sex with a Smashing Pumpkin, or got a second master’s degree or a third husband. Your teens, twenties, and thirties are one long blur of doing whatever the fuck you wanted.
Your life was awesome.
And now it’s over. Hope you kept diaries. Remember that one decade, where you never woke up before eleven A.M.? It will never happen again—not even when your kid is out of the house. By then, you will be a senior citizen. And guess what old people do? They wake up early. Earlier than babies, earlier than toddlers. They put on velour sweats and powerwalk around the mall.
A few things to keep in mind:
IT’S NO ONE’S BUSINESS HOW YOU GOT PREGNANT.
Did that baby come from your last good egg, or someone else’s fresh ones? Was it fertility drugs, fertility treatments, or a night of wine with a young guy and his eager drone sperm? It’s no one’s business. The only thing that matters is that you did it. In the South, women your age are grannies.
YOU MAY BE THE OLDEST GRANDMOTHER SINCE GENESIS.
What if your daughter is like you, and waits until she’s nearly fifty? You’ll be a ninety-year-old first-time grandma. That is some Old Testament shit right there. On the bright side, it will be convenient. As your daughter goes into labor in the maternity ward, you will be close by, staring at the wall in the dementia ward.
OLD SH*TTY MOMS ARE GREAT SH*TTY MOMS.
You won’t resent your kid for stealing your youth, because you squandered it all by yourself. Unlike the young moms, you can’t blame any career setbacks on mommy-tracking. Your accomplishments are your pride, and the lack of them is your fault. But don’t be hard on yourself—if you couldn’t get it together before you had the baby, you probably weren’t ever gonna get it together.
YOU HAVE PERSPECTIVE.
You can appreciate little moments because you have proof that life goes by quickly: your own middle age. Does a twenty-year-old mom understand that life is short? Nope. To her, life is taking forever. (Mostly because she can’t drink yet.)
MAKE THINGS EASY.
Move to a coast. If you’re the only old mom at the park, you can’t possibly be living in New York or California. Move. Be among your people, old mom. There is strength in numbers, and other old moms need you to confirm the outside temperature, in case they have a hot flash.
Remember: Instead of contributing to a college fund, get a good life insurance policy. You will probably die before your kid’s student loans kick in.
* CHAPTER 26 *
Young Moms: Way to Ruin Your Life Early!
Well, well, well. Somebody didn’t get the memo called “You Can Have a Life First.” While other women your age were celebrating their quinceañeras, studying for the SATs, or graduating from college, you had a baby. You did not fall for that Gen-X hype about having it all. Unlike your old mom counterpart, you decided to do the hard stuff first.
It matters not how you got to motherhood—clumsy prom love or just family tradition. The point is, when your kids are out of the house, you’ll be in your forties. Maybe even late thirties.
God damn you.
You and your still-flat abs. You and your easy delivery. You and your eyes without dark circles, no matter how many times your baby wakes you up. Don’t you dare turn the page! You’re gonna sit here and read this entire chapter. Take it like a man, you little girl.
Young Sh*tty Mom, you will find no empathy here, precisely because you are young. This is how good you have it: If you were a stripper, after the baby came, you could be back on the pole in two weeks like nothing happened. You’ll even get extra tips from guys with a breastfeeding fetish.
Unfair.
The following tips will help you live among old and regular-age moms, who will understandably want to scratch your eyes out.
* Watch your mouth. Never say, “Oh, I never wanted to be one of those ‘old moms.’ ” You may be speaking to “one of those old moms” who’s had so much Botox that she looks your age. Anyone who defies nature by giving birth in her forties is not likely to allow wrinkles to ruin her forehead.
* Show some respect. Old moms are Juvéderm pioneers whose brave work in the elimination of marionette lines will make your old age less wrinkled. By the time you get old, they may have figured out how to fix necks.
* Pretend you understand their references. If they start talking about the Pretenders or the Beastie Boys or the Cure or Boyz II Men, just nod and smile. You can Google their dinosaur bands later, when they’re not looking.
(Actually, if you have a smartphone, you can Google even when they are looking, because chances are, they can’t see. And they’re too vain to pull out reading glasses.)
* Don’t ruin it! Use birth control until the doctor has confirmed that you are in full-blown menopause. You don’t want to be a young mom and an old mom. That would mean your entire life is all mom. That only works if your last name is Duggar and TLC is offering you a show.
Remember: You missed out on some wild times (not including the one that got you pregnant at sixteen). Your forties will be everyone else’s twenties.
* CHAPTER 27 *
Your “Friend” Hired a Bilin
gual Nanny
Like all mothers, you want to give your child every advantage. You want your kid to win. You want your kid to crawl to the top of life’s scrap heap and rule the junkyard until they’re stabbed in the back by a younger, more ambitious version of themselves.
It’s the American dream.
You do as much as you can afford. The best private school, or the shittiest apartment in the best school district. Music lessons, sports, quality time, reading from books not screens, a rarely used IKEA easel in the family room. In kindergarten, it’s your four-year-old vs. your friend’s five-year-old (your friend red-shirted), and the winner of that round advances to the finals against the smartest kids from Asia and India.
Just when you think you’ve covered every base, and your kid has a chance of succeeding in this awful global economy, you are introduced to Jiao, your friend’s Chinese nanny.
Second language. Forgot that! Damn it. No one in your family speaks anything but English.
Of course, it wasn’t always that way. Fifty or two hundred years ago, your smelly, hungry ancestors came to America fluent in Italian, Russian, Swahili, or Japanese. They settled in some wretched ethnic enclave or homesteaded on a rocky dustbowl acre only to have their lazy descendants fully assimilate with the WASP neighbors and, in the process, lose the native language.
Now that language is necessary. It’s great for the kid’s brain and future job prospects. Take a moment here to curse your dumb family for allowing the language to die. Meshugenah. Puta. Merde.
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