“Eight pounds fourteen ounces? What is that?”
“What?”
“She weighed ten pounds! Ten! Well, you know, nine fourteen.”
Like all smart husbands faced with an unwinnable situation, he shrugged.
How could I have made such a mistake? As I paged through the official documentation, a ten-pound knot formed in my stomach. The hospital record of birth, her crib identification card, and the doula’s notes all confirmed her actual birth weight: 8 pounds 14 1/2 ounces.
She wasn’t just under ten pounds at all. She was just under nine pounds. Nine. This fact would not reconcile with my myth. I was a five-foot-one She-Ra, a warrior among women, a tenpound babymaker!
Now what was I? Just over average? Big deal. And it wasn’t just about me. My daughter had bought into my heavy white lie, too. The thought of her infant self as bigger than the rest had built up her self-image as a tough girl, maybe even helped her become the best defenseman on her ice hockey team. The facts presented in that stupid baby book shattered all that. “You mean I wasn’t ten pounds?”
“I don’t care what it says,” my husband told her. “You’ll always be a ten pounder to me.” He glanced in my direction. “And don’t worry, Babe. Your secret’s safe.”
So, the legend will live on, but somehow I don’t feel right about keeping that gold star.
Forgive Us Our Sins
SHORTLY AFTER MY HUSBAND’S EMPLOYER MOVED OUR FAMILY TO a small Texas town, we decided our eighteen-month old daughter needed saving, as in baptism. We visited several congregations and settled on a quaint Episcopal church. After a respectable period of near-weekly attendance, we asked the rector to christen our youngest. He agreed, but not without a price: Father Bob wanted to talk to us—at our house.
If letting kids overdose on TV was the original sin of parenting, DVDs have pushed us to a new level of depravity. Despite my strict limits on video games, sugary cereal and television, when I needed to buy time for a worthy task—like chatting up the priest—I relied on kid-friendly movies. So on a frosty December evening my husband popped in Shrek and joined me in the living room with Father Bob.
“Eggnog?” I offered. Father Bob hesitated. “I’d better not.” Bob was a forty-something ex-computer guy from Silicon Valley with a lawyer wife and three long-haired sons. I expected him to be cool like the martini-sipping-tai-chi-doing priest who’d baptized our son in Seattle. I also expected small talk. I was wrong on both counts.
“Baptism is permanent,” Father Bob began. “It symbolizes our union with Christ.”
From the next room the soundtrack roared: “Look at me! I’m a flyin’ donkey!”
Giggles exploded, but Father Bob ignored the interruption. “In baptism your daughter will be washed clean of sin.”
My husband said we should wait until after college. Father Bob shifted in his seat. He then spoke of water and oil for what seemed like eternity. “She will be sealed in the mystical Body of Christ.”
I emptied my eggnog. “We were hoping for sometime in January?”
“Spring perhaps,” said Father Bob.
While he continued to speak of holy things, I counted to ten inside. It’s not like we hadn’t done this before. We knew the drill: pray-sprinkle-pray-eat-done. Pencil in a date already! After another twenty minutes of reverence I was about to reach for his calendar myself. I heard Shrek’s blaring guidance:
“Relax, Donkey!” Nothing fazed Father Bob. He resumed the deep thoughts, but my husband and I had no more energy to mm-hmm and ahha. At this rate my daughter would never join the community of the church—or whatever he said. We tried to listen respectfully until an especially ill-timed moment of silence sealed her fate. In Dolby Stereo, our hero, Shrek, proclaimed his noble intention to rescue Donkey:
“I’ve got to save my ASS!” Tight, closed-mouth smiles circled the room. Our daughter’s mortal soul was clearly in danger and only Father Bob could help.
“Next Sunday?” he asked.
And just like that, the gates of paradise opened, despite our many, many sins. With happy, occupied children, I refilled my eggnog and said goodbye to Father Bob, who had our name on his calendar—in ink.
But Why?
SHE BELLIED UP TO THE BAR IN STARCHED WHITE COTTON.
“Why are private parts private?” my daughter asked.
This is how it began, over cornflakes and before coffee.
“Yeah, Mom,” my son joined in. “Why are private parts private?” He stared me down.
I pride myself on reasonably articulate responses:
Where do babies come from?
Love.
How does the baby get into the Mommy?
Daddy-seed-Mommy-God.
How? Is there a hole?
Who wants to go to Krispy Krème?
This particular morning my children had me trapped like a barkeeper in an old western—two rugged cowpokes getting to the bottom of things, and little old me pouring milk and making sandwiches. I stalled, waffled, and willed my brain to lasso an answer. I repeated the question, mumbled slowly, and thought aloud.
Why are private parts private?
“Well... they’re private… they… they’re… um, special… they’re private because they’re special….”
I heard whistling and I swear I saw a tumbleweed roll by outside. Lacking a real answer I fell back on my litany about looking, touching and keeping your private parts private. I reminded them to scream and run.
“Even a piano teacher could be a bad man,” my son said. Ouch. I am so, so sorry Mr. Wonderful Music Teacher. I’m sure you are a good man, but you sit close to my son on that bench and I am obligated to teach him about scary things because I am a Mother. It’s in the job description.
“Yeah, Mom, we know all that,” my daughter persisted, “but why are private parts private?”
I sighed.
“They have Very Special Purposes.”
“Like going to the bathroom?” my son said.
“Exactly.”
“And wiping, that’s important,” my daughter added.
“Very.”
Then my boy said it: vagina.
I can almost say vulva with a straight face and I’m glad my children know the proper words for their anatomy, but I believe the V-Word is reserved for girls to say. Girls—and boy doctors.
When my son clarified that he didn’t have one, my daughter countered: “Well, if you cut off that long thingy, you would.”
Insert the big sigh.
I stood alone on the great divide, matching ham and turkey sandwiches to cracker-cheese-peanut-butter-snack-packs. Part of me was proud my children felt free to ask anything, but another part wanted to crawl into the set of Leave It To Beaver, to answer simply with “because”, and take my June Cleaver ass to the club to throw back a double martini.
It would have been nice to be preparing these answers all along. I wished that when I’d left the hospital with my first flannel bundle, they’d handed me a big book of questions my kids would one day ask so I could’ve gotten a head start. Like those health books they give you. I can’t count the number of nights I’ve searched, bleary-eyed, matching symptoms to illnesses, living for those flow charts. Is the child feverish? No – proceed with home treatment. Yes – call your doctor, NOW!
I wasn’t asking for answers, just questions to ponder:
Why does the grass grow up?
Where does the Tooth Fairy live?
Who made God?
Just a little help to navigate the wide-open spaces of parenthood.
My children’s question haunted me for a week until, finally, I gave up. I don’t have all the answers, and that’s okay. I’m sure they’ll learn plenty more out on the prairie. I only hope my children always come home, stare me down until I fess up— best as I’m able, and never stop asking why.
Play Dating
I’M NOT A FAN OF PLAY DATES. I’VE TRAINED MYSELF TO CALL OTHER mothers and schedule time for their children to
eat my food and mess up my house, but if it were up to me I’d send my kids into the street to find a friend. As my kids get older, though, I’m faced with a new kind of play date: coed. It started when my son came home from school excited about a certain girl he’d been partnered with on a field trip. Sitting together and giggling, they became more than friends. “It’s a very exciting relationship,” my son said. Before I could process this information he added a juicy tidbit. “We’re either going to Hawaii or the Bahamas for our honeymoon—so she can wear those coconuts on her nipples.”
I was speechless.
“Sorry, breasts,” he said. Like that was better.
I pushed the honeymoon thing out of my mind until later that night when my little boy asked for my engagement ring. Yeah, right—as soon as your dad upgrades me to the two carat.
Things were moving fast, but I appreciated the upside. The same hormones causing my son to smell like a hamper were now making him like girls enough to want to lose that stink. When he showered, the intoxicating aroma of AXE body wash and spray filled the house. In terms of grooming, we’re working on “less is more.” But if I wanted information, and the more the better, I had to play it cool.
“What do you call it when you like someone and they like you back?” I asked when I tucked him in that night.
“The other kids call it being a couple,” he said. “But I don’t like that.”
Oh, good.
“Because we’re still just getting into each other.”
He had a point.
“Can we have a play date?”
I wondered about the protocol. Do I call the mom? Does he call the girl? Can I send them to the playroom like I do with the rest of the neighborhood rugrats or do I have to chaperone?
The next day I called the mother and invited the girl over to play. I even invited the little brother to come along to make it less of a date, only that didn’t quite worked out like I planned. Now he and my daughter are engaged too.
“We’re getting married,” she said, flashing me the Ring Pop she received as a promise. I’ll have to get used to it, this passage from play dates to dating, from dating to rings. And when the big moments come, I hope I’ll be able to let go gracefully. I hope, too, that my daughter will hold out for the two carat. On second thought, a candy ring isn’t so bad. It’s big, it’s showy, and when you break up, you can eat it.
Let Them Eat Cake
APPARENTLY MARIE ANTOINETTE NEVER EVEN SAID IT, BUT I WILL. I’m talking birthday parties. Forego the fancy and just let them eat cake.
When my daughter was three, she went to a party at a gymnastics studio—one of those event parties that serve the dual purposes of placating the spoiled rottens for two hours and showing off the family resources.
Hooray. Forty kids balanced, jumped, and flew through the air. When the time came for opening gifts, the birthday girl sat on a throne—yes, a throne—while her mother ripped open packages and shoved them into the girl’s lap. The father digitally captured his princess’s indifferent dismissal of dolls, puzzles, and games while the mother screamed out names to be recorded by yet another of the child’s staff.
A gift without a card wreaked havoc:
“DORA?” the mother screamed out to the crowd. “WHO GAVE THE DORA?” She huffed and rolled her eyes when no one answered, but the show had to go on.
Birthday parties are out of control. The kid lived another year. Get over it. If you don’t stop now, by the time she’s fifteen your royal one will need an international audience in Times Square to feel appreciated.
For both of my children’s first birthdays we invited hordes of friends, family, and neighbors for BBQs. There were special baby cakes for smashing and kegs next to the helium machine. I made invitations and food from scratch. The first birthday is all about the parents—as it should be. You deserve to show off the fact that you, a mere mortal, have managed to keep an infant alive for an entire twelve months. Go ahead; celebrate like it’s 1999!
After Year One, tone it down. Don’t worry about the kids. They’re not as interested in being popular and impressing their friends as you are. They just want to eat cake.
Mellowing out your own kids’ parties is a good start, but it’s not enough. Sadly, some people won’t comply with my simple request to the excise the excess. That’s why there’s another side to this plan. In addition to toning down your child’s parties, you’ll also need to transform him into an unwanted guest to cut down on the number of adorable invites littering his inbox—I mean cubby. It’s as easy when you coach your kids to say the right things.
Instead of:
Happy birthday, Johnny. Thank you for having me.
Teach this:
I hope you like your water gun. The kids who made it are about our age. I’m glad we don’t live in China.
Instead of:
Thank you, Mrs. Smith, for inviting me to the party.
Try this:
Wow, look at all this wrapping paper—good thing we’ve got so many landfills.
Or this:
Don’t feel bad about throwing out all that food. I don’t think kids in Africa even like pizza.
You get the idea. In no time your kid will be blacklisted from every birthday party in town. Double bonus—no gifts to buy and no reciprocal invitations! Think of how good it’ll feel to reclaim your Friday nights and Saturday afternoons.
When it’s your turn to host you can blindfold the little brats, put something sharp in their hands, and spin them around until they’re dizzy. That’s what our parents did. Kids don’t mind, so long as you feed them cake afterward.
Health Nut
RECENTLY I HAD ONE OF THOSE AFTERNOONS. TOO MUCH homework, multiple sports practices, deadlines, and a child so stricken with allergies that he could neither breathe nor see. I dreaded adding, “make dinner,” to my responsibilities, so I did what people do.
“Let’s order pizza,” I said to my daughter, the one without eyes the size of boiled eggs. She tilted her badly-in-need-ofwashing head. You see, because I am such a Good Mommy, because I cook meals almost every night with multiple food groups in pretty colors, and because we rarely eat out, my daughter had no idea what I was talking about.
“You can order a pizza?”
Seriously? What kind of six-year-old freak had I raised who didn’t know that pizza comes from a zit-faced teenager who shows up at your house in a run down Hyundai without insurance? I pride myself on being honest with my kids, teaching them about the real world. Clearly, I had failed because in the real world people order pizza.
In my desire to keep my kids from becoming gluttons for junk food, I’d become a glutton for my own kitchen punishment. Worse, I’d sheltered them from an important reality: sometimes we dial up a meal. There’s no shame in that. I wondered if my health consciousness—while instilling great habits for the future—was also sucking the life out of their childhood. This wasn’t the first time I’d overshot the nutrition target.
When my kids were about four and two we went to a Halloween party where they were offered Kool-Aid.
“What’s that?” my son asked.
In her best Texas drawl, my friend consoled, “Y’all don’t know what Kool-Aid is?” She gave me the slit eye before turning her charm on my babies. “Let’s go get you some.”
It wasn’t my fault. I’m actually quite moderate considering mossy Pacific Northwest origins. On the West Coast it is not uncommon for children to exist on soymilk, tofurkey, and fresh pressed carrot juice. Sesame nuggets and carob-covered raisins are indulgent snacks for kids up and down Interstate 5. Even the baked corn chips in my pantry would have been shunned by my earthier contemporaries.
Being the healthy mom isn’t all sunshine and sprouts. Sometimes I’d like to dole out donuts and Hot Pockets, to say yes to shakes and fries. I’m sad when neighbor kids run from my sugar free popsicles and won’t eat my ham and green bean enhanced macaroni and cheese.
My husband found me cooking dinner the other
day.
“Oh you really hate those kids, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked as I breaded a tilapia fillet.
“Fish and Brussels sprouts?”
I wanted to silence him with a broccoli spear, but my fingers were crusted with breading. “Watch it,” I warned. “I still have time to cook brown rice.”
He jokes, but my kids love veggies, especially the cruciferous one. Or maybe they’ve learned that they can’t beat me, so they may as well join me. I have trained them well. My children keep Halloween candy for months; we throw out ice cream because we forget to eat it; they choose water over juice boxes, love cauliflower, and they have never, to my knowledge, consumed a fruit roll up.
Freaks?
Maybe.
Perfect little eaters?
I’d like to think so.
However, my belief that we’re creating lifelong habits here in my healthy kitchen was dashed when I caught one of the children eating a booger the other day. Apparently my snacks are so bad they’ve turned to the salty satisfaction of nasal discharge. At least boogers are all natural.
On second thought, maybe pizza and PopTarts aren’t so bad after all.
Sex, Drugs, and Jesus
I RECENTLY TOLD MY SON HOW THE BABY GETS INTO THE MOMMY. It may have been early, but I figure at nine he’s halfway to college and I’m pretty sure he’ll find out there. Plus he’d been asking, a lot. I made a date with him to throw down the facts. Then I got cold feet and wondered if his dad shouldn’t be the one to do the honors. But my husband isn’t good with gory details. Besides, he was out of the country and the cell tower gods wouldn’t cooperate. To prevent myself from chickening out, on the drive to the coffee shop I told my son I was finally going to tell him about where babies come from. When he started asking questions I whipped out the old answer-with-a-question technique.
Blacklisted from the PTA Page 2