Sh*tty Mom

by Laurie Kilmartin

  Now what? You may be tempted to give up. Quit the piano lessons and gymnastics classes, sell the easel on Craigslist, and just let your kids watch cartoons ten hours a day.

  Don’t panic, mama. Not yet.

  FLUENCY IN CHINESE IS NOT A PREDICTOR OF SUCCESS.

  Look at the 2012 race for the Republican presidential nomination. Jon Huntsman spoke Mandarin and he never polled above 1 percent. He was creamed by Mitt Romney, who speaks French—the tongue of a fallen empire and Canada’s least loyal province, Quebec. And of course, George W. Bush barely speaks English at all and he was president for eight years.

  Your kid still has a shot.

  GET YOUR KID INTO A PUBLIC DUAL-LANGUAGE IMMERSION SCHOOL.

  Any second language will do. (Except Armenian. C’mon—get serious.) The fact that your kid is learning one at all is what’s important.

  SOME SECOND LANGUAGES ARE CHEAPER THAN OTHERS.

  There’s probably no polite way to say that Mexican nannies are about ten times more affordable than Asian ones. It’s not right, it just is. Don’t be a snob, Spanish is easy. Es muy fácil! Spanish uses the same alphabet as English, which means you can help with the homework. And Univision is the only TV network that is truly committed to its soap operas. What the hell are you waiting for?

  IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO MONITOR A NANNY

  YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.

  Don’t assume your friend’s nanny spends all day reading The Art of War in its original Chinese to her charge. If the nanny is teaching the kid any Chinese at all, it’s probably phrases like “Your parents owe me $2,000 in overtime” and “Your mom keeps a filthy house.” All other times, she’s texting her boyfriend, just like a Colombian nanny.

  SPEAKING A SECOND LANGUAGE ALL DAY LONG MAKES A PERSON HUNGRY.

  If your kid ends up being one of the unwashed English-onlies, don’t fret. As the federal government tightens the noose on illegal immigrants, more and more low-paying jobs will go to unskilled Americans. English-speaking-only Americans. In other words, your kid will always have work. Those foot-long sandwiches at Subway don’t make themselves!

  Remember: There’s always high school. While your kid won’t become fluent by taking high school Spanish 1–5, she will be able to ask for directions in downtown Los Angeles. And maybe that’s enough.

  * CHAPTER 28 *

  How to Deal with Moms

  Who Exercise

  Sometimes you’re in survival mode. Life has dealt you a blow. You’re trying to get back on your feet or even just your knees. During these times, it’s OK to limit your friendships to other bare-minimum moms. Women who aren’t going to throw their mom-complishments in your face.

  Or their abs.

  Moms who exercise regularly and look great can be a danger to your mental health. They walk up and down their driveway, with an inch of six-pack visible in the space where the Lululemon tank top and the Lululemon pants should touch.

  One day, to be polite, you may decide to ask one of these moms what her secret is. Huge mistake! Get back in the house. Say anything: Fake that you just got your period! You’re in a bad headspace. The last thing you need to know is:

  “I run six miles every morning before work!”

  Oh my God. You live next door to someone disciplined and dedicated. Some people would consider that reason enough to move.

  “Oh, I wish I could do that,” you say, “but I can’t because I have to be at work so early.”

  OK, nice save. And it’s true. You have to be to work at eight A.M., and drop the kids off to school, which means you are in the car at 7:30. There’s no way you could run, shower, and get the kids dressed and fed by 7:30 A.M.

  Phew.

  If she was a decent person, she would let you enjoy your excuse, which is as rock-solid as her triceps.

  Oh, no.

  “Me too! I have to be at my desk at eight A.M.!”

  Punch in the gut. Low blow. OK, time to let her have it. Load your Excuse Gun with a round of My Husband Left Me Bullets and aim it at her head.

  “Well,” you say, “I’m a single mom, and I have to get the kids ready for school all by myse—”

  “Me too! That’s why I’m on the treadmill at five A.M., before the kids even wake up!”

  Abort, abort! You’re wounded! Your gun misfired! You’ve been hit by the local “Me Too Mom.” She has the same challenges as you (“Me too!”), yet manages to make time to exercise. And read a novel. And cook dinner. And date. And everything else you wish you could do but can’t. At least not right now.

  Surrender. Put your weapon down and crawl away. Life is cyclical and you’re in a down cycle. Or, to put it another way, sometimes you’re Germany before World War II, and sometimes you’re Germany after it. Like Germany, you’ll be back.

  Remember: One day you’ll be the hot Me Too Mom that your depressed neighbors avoid.

  The “‘Me Too, And’ Mom”

  Even more demoralizing than the “Me Too Mom” is the “ ‘Me Too, And’ Mom.” While the “Me Too Mom” is just a better version of you, the “‘Me Too, And’ Mom” lives your life … with an added degree of difficulty that makes everything harder. And she does it with a better attitude. She’s a saint. You’re a shit.

  Examples of her chirpy responses to your woes:

  “You’re divorced? Me too, and I get no child support!”

  “Your kid is on the spectrum? So are my triplets—both sets!”

  “You’re married, and a paraplegic? I’m a single quad!”

  * CHAPTER 29 *

  Single Moms: Sorry, but No One Will Trust You Until You Get Married

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single mother in possession of her children must be in want of a nap.”

  —Pride & Prejudice 2, in which Mr. Darcy leaves

  Elizabeth Bennet and their two children for Caroline Bingley

  Every single-mom book can be boiled down to these eight learned lessons:

  1. Being a single mom is hard, but not as hard as living with an asshole.

  2. Beware your next crush. Your taste in men is suspect.

  3. In 1970s and ’80s TV icons terms, raising a kid on your own is 1 percent Murphy Brown and 99 percent Alice.

  4. Most married women unconsciously believe that you will infect them with divorce cooties.

  5. Learn to make basic repairs, or join Angie’s List and hire someone with four stars to do it for you.

  6. During election cycles, politicians will use you to rattle their base. The Republicans will shit on you and the Democrats will lionize you. After it’s all over, nothing will change.

  7. Cheer up. Lots of successful people were raised by single moms:

  * President Barack Obama (the first African-American president)

  * Michael Phelps (eight gold medals in a single Olympics)

  * Louis C.K. (amazingly prolific comedian)

  * Ted Bundy (amazingly prolific serial killer)

  8. One day, out of nowhere, a married mom will say something along the lines of “Jim is gone so much because of work, I feel like a single mom!”

  That statement is the mom equivalent of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. The awful silence that follows could easily escalate into the war to end all wars. Advice to both parties:

  Single Mom: Remember, it is illegal to put your hands around someone’s throat, no matter how ridiculous their comments.

  Married Mom: Shut it. Shut your mouth. Shut your mouth before you are strangled to death.

  Here’s the difference between a single mom and a married mom whose husband travels three weeks out of the month. The husband eventually comes back. The single mom, depending on her ex’s participation, never, rarely, or infrequently gets a day off. It’s the court case of Fucking Exhausted v. Totally Fucking Exhausted.

  Remember: Beware the man who’s too eager to become a stepfather. The good ones realize what a huge commitment it is. Anyone who isn’t scared shitless is a creep.

  SECTIO
N SEVEN

  NOMS

  (NON-MOMS)

  * CHAPTER 30 *

  The Nom at Work Who Thinks

  Her Dog Is a Child

  At times, modern language is insufficient. Humans have been speaking for tens of thousands of years, yet we are unable to convey adequate sympathy when in the face of tragedy. We often say, “There are no words.” Less traumatic situations also highlight our lingual impotence, like when that woman at work says, “Wanna see a picture of my kid?” and then pulls out a photograph of a dog.

  It is no use in pointing out the obvious flaws in her analogy. (If you want to go out of town for a weekend, you can’t leave your kid in the backyard and ask your neighbors to give him food and water. When your kid destroys your furniture, you can’t drop him off at the pound. Et cetera.)

  The tricky thing here is that she actually does love her dog more than you love your child. The proof is in the cubicles. How many pictures of your kid have you tacked to your dividers? One, two, three … four. Really? And you call yourself a mother?

  Now, let’s drop by her work space. Multiple corkboard partitions hold twenty or so photos of a golden Lab mix named Raffles, each printed on specialty photo-stock paper. Raffles at a Halloween party, dressed as a cat. Raffles ringing in the New Year, wearing a pair of oversized “2007” glasses. Raffles watching Animal Planet.

  Her desk is a cemetery of framed photos of Raffles’s deceased predecessor, another golden Lab mix named Pickles. Although Raffles and Pickles are identical to the naked eye, do not confuse them.

  Because they are so different.

  For example, Pickles—Do you have a moment? Your meeting isn’t for five minutes, right? Great. Pull up a chair. Pickles—she’s in the green collar—used to looooove to chase squirrels up trees. She’d sit there at the base of the trunk and bark. Sometimes she’d try to climb the tree—never caught one, but loved trying. But Raffles—complete opposite. Doesn’t even notice squirrels. In fact … See that picture of Raffles in the park? See that tail peeking out from behind the bush? That’s right, it’s a squirrel! And Raffles doesn’t even care! Look at her face, she’s like, “I don’t care!”

  There are no words.

  Moms can’t win this unannounced competition. You’ll never know as much about your kid as she knows about her dog, especially after your kid gets his driver’s license.

  Remember: “Dog” spelled backward is “God.” And “kid” spelled backward is “dik.”

  Things That Other People Love More Than You Love Your Kid

  Dog lovers aren’t the only people who can out-love a Sh*tty Mom.

  A Belieber and Justin Bieber.

  Justin Bieber fans feel a love so deep and true that you should tremble in its presence. Perhaps you claim that you would die to save your child’s life. Big deal. A Belieber would die to meet Justin Bieber. Just to meet him. You meet your child every day and you aren’t dead. That’s because you don’t understand love.

  Your first boyfriend (who, in retrospect, was totally gay) and your black rubber Madonna bracelets.

  Have you ever caressed your baby’s face with the same gentle awe that Ethan (who, oddly enough, never pressured you to have sex) once caressed your collection of one hundred Madonna bracelets?

  Your second boyfriend (six years older than you) and his Chevy IROC.

  Has your child ever been washed as thoroughly as Kenny washed his Camaro every Saturday morning? Let Sh*tty Mom answer this: No.

  That never-married forty-five-year-old guy who lives down the street and his Star Wars figurines.

  You’ve only talked to that guy once, but it’s obvious that his special-edition Boba Fett action figure is a greater source of pride to him than your son is to you. It makes sense: Your kid is just another one of the seven billion people on this planet. That particular Boba Fett is a collector’s item.

  * CHAPTER 31 *

  How to Stay Friends with a Nom You Used to Party With

  Remember that mom-friend you had in your twenties? The frazzled, distracted friend who would talk and parent at the same time? You’d call to chat about your boyfriend and she’d say, “Gosh, I’m so sorry—ASHLEY, PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW! DON’T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE. Sorry, yeah, so—ASHLEY, DO YOU WANT A TIME OUT?”

  That’s you now.

  Babies take up space. Every child you have will knock about six people out of your life. You can’t pick which ones either. A good friend will fall away and you won’t notice until you realize you weren’t invited to her wedding.

  You’re a Pilgrim. You left the Old World to start a new life in America. Stop looking back, wondering how your single friends in Merry Olde England are doing. They are having a great time, contracting syphilis from royal princes. Stop trying to organize a girls’ night out. Leave these ladies alone. They don’t know you anymore. You’ve adopted the ways of the natives. What’s this “maize” you’re eating?

  Of course there are friendships you don’t want to lose. You have a few options:

  SOCIAL NETWORKING.

  Facebook allows you to be involved in someone’s life, without speaking to them or even putting on a bra. It’s like working on your friendships, from home. Telefriending. When an old friend posts a status update, “like” it. That’s it. Doesn’t matter what the status is. “Tired of Dancing with the Stars.” LIKE. “Ate pancakes, gonna throw up.” LIKE. “I’ll say one thing about Hitler, he knew how to build a highway.” LIKE.

  Your “like” lets them know you were thinking about them—at least for four seconds. You may not have time for a call, or coffee, or a night out, but you can always find time for a “like.”

  WAIT THEM OUT.

  The Pilgrims never looked back, but they did welcome other immigrants who sailed to their shores. Many of your childless friends will one day land on your doorstep—with an infant in tow.

  Remember: If your friends gave a damn about you, they’d get pregnant, too.

  Yes, You Were Once That Annoying

  One day you’ll notice that all of the stupid things that you, in your Nom state, once said to moms are being said to you:

  Nom: “Is she two now?”

  You: “No, she’s four.”

  Nom: “Oh! I am soooo not a ‘kid person,’ I can’t even tell a baby from a kindergartner!”

  Oh, ha ha ha. Aren’t you the lucky one, so oblivious, so not a “kid person.” Sh*tty Mom has the feeling that one day, you will know exactly the difference between a two-year-old and a four-year-old. Just you wait.

  Nom: “If I ever did have kids I would [x].” With x equaling “a child-rearing idea that sounds great, but in real life is impractical or insane.” Examples of x:

  * “only speak to them in French”

  * “get rid of the TV”

  * “use cloth diapers”

  * “breastfeed until the baby weans itself”

  * “quit my job and stay at home”

  * “keep going until I have a girl”

  Nom: “I don’t want kids.”

  Ah yes, that old chestnut. Usually said with certainty, approximately two years before conceiving. Warn your Nom friend that not wanting kids will not prevent her from having them.

  * CHAPTER 32 *

  “Oh, C’mon, Just Bring Your Kid,

  It Will Be Fun!”

  Remember when your mom told you to use her as an excuse for not succumbing to peer pressure? “Honey, if you want to get out of smoking pot, you just tell your friends that your mom is very violent and will beat you if you get high.”

  Whether or not you actually used her line to, uh, “get out of” smoking pot (she was so naive), the point is, your mom was willing to be the fall guy. Now it’s your baby’s turn. Instead of telling your friends, “I can’t … my mom won’t let me,” you’ll tell them, “I can’t … the baby … ”

  And you won’t even have to finish the sentence. It’s understood. The baby. The goddamn baby.

  Your baby is many things: a joy, a miracle,
a nonstop piss and loose stool factory. She is also a GET OUT OF THE NICKELBACK CONCERT FREE card. The greatest excuse since dogs began eating homework. All those stupid things you did because you suck at saying no? Those days are over. Your baby will give you the backbone you’ve always longed for, and she’ll do it by sucking the life out of you.

  Having a baby is the female version of a rich man losing his inheritance. Now you find out who your real friends are.

  It takes awhile to weed out the weak ones. They can’t comprehend how different your life is now. One invites you to see her boyfriend’s band. Another invites you to an art gallery. They will attribute your first two “no”s to temporary insanity brought on by childbirth. They’ll get suspicious around the third “no,” and by the fourth, they are gone. In their eyes, you have abandoned them. You don’t even care that Jen is banging a drummer because you’re so obsessed with your damn baby.

  Well, good riddance. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, you happy, well-rested, slim-waisted Nom. And don’t come back, until you’re sallow-skinned and seven months along.

  Except … there’s always that one friend who refuses to go away. It’s the friend who says, “Just bring the baby. It’ll be fun!”

  Her innocence is infuriating. It reminds you of the growing distance between you and your old life. Your friend thinks it would be “fun” to bring the baby to a wine bar that has free jazz on Sunday afternoons, while you know it will be hell. Carrots, sippy cups, diapers, wipes, and a change of clothes.