Confessions of a Scary Mommy

by Smokler, Jill

  With all the vomiting I did, you’d think that I would have gained a modest twenty pounds or so, right? I mean, I was basically an unintentional bulimic. Unfortunately, that was not the case and I gained a whopping sixty-five pounds. Once, while I was shopping for baby clothes around my seventh month, the Korean woman at the dry cleaner fought with me over my due date. “No way you have two more months,” she informed me, waving her pointy finger in my face. “You ready to pop now!” A salesperson at a clothing store actually had the audacity to ask me whether I was carrying an elephant. (I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t.)

  When Lily was born, I naively packed my semiskinny jeans for the return from the hospital, thinking that once the baby was out, my stomach would shrink right back up. Between the seven-plus pounds she weighed and all of the shit that poured out of me, surely I’d lose at least thirty pounds, right? The other thirty-five would melt off quickly and I’d be back to my prebaby self in no time. Ha.

  Sadly, baby weight is just like any other weight, and it’s a bitch to lose.

  I’ve seen countless celebrities boasting about how once they delivered the baby, their weight simply melted off like butter. Their bellies are flat again and their thighs, tight and cottage cheese free. The only remnants of a baby are the porn-star boobs pouring out of their red-carpet dresses. Worst of all, they claim that they’re so busy running around that they just forget to eat and poof! Baby weight gone and they’ve never looked better.

  Bullshit.

  First of all, there is no running around after a newborn. Maybe you’ll dash over to them if you hear a loud thud, but certainly not often enough to break a sweat. No matter how large your house, I highly doubt that normal life with a newborn constitutes an aerobic workout. Even in Hollywood.

  And how does one forget how to eat? Like, ever? The only time I ever came remotely close to not eating three square meals plus snacks daily was when I was working in an office for ten hours a day, in a cubicle all alone. But babies eat regularly. Toddlers are constantly asking for snacks and meals and treats. Never mind that their plates constantly need to be “cleaned.” As a mother you are surrounded by food—how on earth is it forgettable?! Unfortunately, losing weight is the simple math of taking in fewer calories than you burn. So, either you’re munching on baby carrots all day, working out constantly, or you’ve become a milk machine and simply aren’t eating. Period.

  Unless you are that freak of nature whose weight just evaporates, at some point after giving birth, you will catch a glimpse of yourself and barely recognize the reflection. I remember staring in the mirror for almost an hour, feeling a mix of repulsion, fascination, and awe. And then I took a look at the side view and bawled. My stomach was understandable—it had housed a baby, after all, of course it would look like a half-deflated tire. But my ass? There was no excuse for that.

  Getting serious after that nine-month-long binge was tragic. I was grumpy and short-tempered and in a constant bitter mood. Mostly, I just missed the seven-hundred-calorie breakfast sandwich I’d become so accustomed to. I’m pretty sure the Corner Bakery missed me, too. But I slaved away at the gym and pretended garbanzo beans and roasted cauliflower were delicious, and I eventually wore those skinny jeans again.

  Until the following spring, when I craved that bacon-and-egg sandwich on a fresh croissant. I practically cried tears of joy while eating it and suddenly realized I was at a crossroads. Practically speaking, now was as good a time as any to start trying for another baby, and I was really hungry. Plus, my college roommate was getting married that fall and it was either continue starving to fit into the tight dress alongside her miniature high school friends, or be the one waddling down the aisle in a specially altered bridesmaid dress. As I licked grease off of my fingers, the decision was made. Two weeks later I was pregnant and the local pizza shop was once again on my phone’s speed dial.

  Even though I knew from past experience just how hard that weight eventually would be to take off, I ate my way through nine delicious months all over again. Sixty-five pounds, right on the button. I can’t say I have any regrets, though. My Ben was worth every last calorie, just like his brother was less than two years later.

  Even if I’m still carrying those croissants around on my ass.

  Chapter 6

  THE NAME GAME

  Mommy Confessions

  • I had no idea when I was dreaming up all of my cute baby names growing up that someday I would marry a man who would shoot them all down.

  • I wouldn’t date a man because his name was Norman. I’ve often wondered whether he was the perfect man for me and got away for that ridiculous reason.

  • I changed my daughter’s name at the last minute and totally regret it.

  • I refuse to allow my son to be a “junior” in this family . . . the last thing we need is to have a miniature version of his father running around.

  • My husband is determined to name our baby girl after his mother. Her name was Ruth. Shoot me now.

  • I named my son after a boy I had a crush on in high school . . . my husband has no idea he has a namesake.

  • People who choose a baby name but keep it secret from friends and family until the baby is born are just annoying. News flash, Walter Cronkite . . . none of us give a shit.

  • My best friend named her son Frederick. I fear he’s going to grow up to be just as nerdy as she is . . . but hopefully equally as sweet.

  • I let my husband name my daughter and I spend every day regretting that decision. Able Luna. What the hell kind of name is that?

  • I secretly love it when people name their children ridiculous names. It gives me something to laugh at.

  • I’m dying to tell my sister that the name she picked out is UGLY.

  • I want to have another baby just so I can use the girl name I’ve loved since I was seven.

  • Naming a child is way too stressful . . . I’m tempted to have an online vote and be done with it already.

  • My best friend just named her son Storm. Is that even a name?

  • If I meet one more parent who named their child something that 90 percent of the country can’t pronounce, I just might punch them in the face. What happened to Sarah and Jane?

  When you are one half of a couple for any decent amount of time, the inevitable questions commence. The distant relatives you run into at reunions, the old English teacher you see at the grocery store, your sorority sisters—they all want to know one single thing: when are you two tying the knot? It’s none of their business and it doesn’t impact them in the least, but they just have to know. And then, once you are married, the question moves on to procreating. Have you thought about it? How many children do you want? You never know how long it will take, you know, so you really ought to get started. Go . . . now! Quite an aphrodisiac, those conversations.

  And then you get pregnant. Congratulations! You waffle about exactly how and when to share the exciting news with friends, family, and strangers alike. Matching T-shirts? Holiday newsletter? Pregnancy test Halloween costumes? An actual bun in the oven? Whatever the announcement, finally, the peanut gallery will be satisfied. You can just sit back and bake that baby of yours and they’ll shut the hell up. Thank goodness. Except they’ll inevitably have one burning question they’re just dying to know: what are you naming the baby?

  Before I had children, I always found it annoying when people would mysteriously answer that question with “We know the baby’s name, but we’re not sharing. You’ll have to wait.” It seemed like such a pompous attitude—the grown-up version of singing “nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.” You know the answer to what you are being asked but are refusing to share? When would that not be considered rude?

  But then I got pregnant and totally understood. Once you are with child, unsolicited baby-name feedback can surface a hidden rage deep inside of you. When pregnancy hormones abound, hearing a mere stranger tell you that your baby name is a poor choice serves as a completely valid reason to lose i
t on them. Cross your fingers for a female judge, because only she would appreciate that this is clearly justifiable homicide. Please, people: if you ask what parents-to-be plan on naming their child, be prepared to respond with “Wonderful choice!” no matter how awful the name. Or be prepared to be butchered. Really, you asked for it.

  The day I found out I was having a girl, I made the most important purchase of my entire pregnancy: The Baby Name Bible. Aside from a few particular pages in Judy Blume’s Forever the summer of my eighth-grade year, The Baby Name Bible saw more action than any other piece of literature in my entire life, probably more than all the others combined. Jeff and I took it out on dinner dates and thumbed through it while watching TV. I took it to work to devour over my lunch break and it accompanied us on vacations, weekends away, and trips to the bathroom. Countless hours were spent studying it and obsessing over it.

  Like most females I know, years and years before I was ready to start a family, I’d picked out the names I would give my future children. Of course, I was young and naive and thought that all that went into a baby name was my own personal taste. Silly me. Once the time actually came, there was so much more that played a role in the decision: the Jewish tradition of naming after a deceased family member, the way names sounded with my married last name, what initials the names formed, what relatives had chosen . . . never mind Jeff’s opinion (not that his mattered all that much).

  For me, a girl’s name needed to be beautiful, but not common. Unique and original, but not unheard of. We highlighted the names that we liked in the Bible and they were endless. Juliet, Ella, Isla, Mia, Amelia—feminine names were just so . . . feminine and we agreed on so many. We could easily name triplets! Octuplets, even. Narrowing them down was agonizing, but once we saw the name Lily, our decision was made. It went perfectly with the middle name we had chosen to honor my grandmother and it was sweet, pretty, and timeless. Unless she grew up to be some sort of butch motorcycle racer, it was highly unlikely that she’d resent us for the choice. What could you hate about Lily? When she was born, the name seemed perfectly fitting and there wasn’t a moment of regret. It was the way a baby naming was meant to be.

  The experience of naming the boys was an entirely different one. I read The Baby Name Bible constantly but found a problem (albeit maybe not the most rational problem) with each and every name in the book. One afternoon, seven months pregnant, I cried to a neighbor about the lack of unflawed boys’ names. We’re never going to settle on one, I moaned. “How about Benjamin?” she suggested. Benjamin. It wasn’t an awful name, I thought. The initials didn’t combine to create anything laughable or offensive and there were a couple of decent nicknames to choose from. It was totally respectable and classic and I couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it. So, two months later, Benjamin it was. A fine name.

  Everything was peachy until he started preschool a few years later. My heart fell to the floor the first day of class when I skimmed the student list. There, along with my Ben, was not one, not two, but three other children by the same name in his class alone. So much for originality. From that day forward, my boy became Ben S. and I became just another mother who chose the twenty-fifth-most common name for my son. Dammit.

  I had learned my lesson. Whatever I did, for my next child I was staying away from the top twenty-five list, which, to my horror, now included my daughter’s name. We’d picked out a handful of names for Evan before he was born: Julian, Nathaniel, Caleb, Adrian. But when he was born, he just didn’t look like any of those names. I threw the Bible at Jeff. “Start looking,” I barked, and he obliged.

  “Jack?”

  “No. Remember Jack and Jill? Are we a freaking nursery rhyme?”

  “William?”

  “Jesus, Jeff. Jill and Will? C’mon.”

  “Zachary? Noah? Aiden?”

  “No. No. No.”

  “How about Evan?” Jeff sighed, exasperated.

  “Evan?”

  It wasn’t terrible. I didn’t hate it.

  “All right. Evan. I can live with that. I guess.”

  And so, Evan it was, and Evan it is.

  Lily, Ben, and Evan. I think they are nice, solid names, don’t you?

  Wait.

  Forget I asked.

  Chapter 7

  THE FUR BABY

  Mommy Confessions

  • I’m terrified that I won’t love the baby I’m carrying as much as my five-year-old.

  • My first baby signed at ten months old and made every animal sound I asked for . . . my third just turned two and he can’t even say “Mommy” yet.

  • I had six kids so they’d all be close and take care of one another. Only two are speaking, one lives abroad, and the others have no contact with us.

  • I didn’t breast-feed my second baby because I didn’t want my toddler goggling my boobs.

  • I’m pregnant with my second baby and the last thing I’m worried about is whether or not I’ll love him as much as his brother. HOW AM I GOING TO LOSE THIS WEIGHT AGAIN?!

  • I used to stress out if my first child fell asleep for the night before eating dinner. I’d wake her up just to eat. With this kid, I barely remember to feed her.

  • My middle child gets away with everything just because I always kind of forget about him.

  Lily may be our first child, but she can’t claim the title of being our first baby. That goes to the one and only Penelope, that puppy we brought home upon returning from our honeymoon.

  For the four years before the kids came into our lives, every single thing revolved around Penelope. We cut short vacations to be able to come home early to her and got up at the crack of dawn to take her outside. I spent every lunch hour battling traffic just to get home to walk her, because the thought of her being caged up for eight hours was simply too much for me to bear. Her days started out with an hour-long romp at the dog park and they ended with an hour-long walk along the gorgeous streets of Georgetown. In between was filled with games of catch, treats, and doggie cupcakes. Seriously, if I’m ever reincarnated, I hope to come back as the dog of a childless couple in their twenties. That was the freaking life.

  Weeks before I delivered Lily, when my hormones were at an all-time high, I remember spooning Penelope on the floor, taking in the freshly bathed scent of her fur. “You’ll always be my baby,” I sniffed. “I promise, nothing will ever change that.”

  That was, perhaps, the biggest lie of my life. Since then, everything for Penelope has changed.

  Now Penelope is still a very well-loved dog, but the pecking order in the family has altered with every baby that enters the household. Her once soft and shiny fur now boasts an odd scent of popcorn and dirt, and I can’t remember the last time I actually brushed her. We now take her on walks out of necessity rather than joy, and she hasn’t actually played in years. Her leash is coming apart at the seams, and she’s lucky if I remember to fill her bowl without being reminded. If I’m ever reincarnated, the last thing I want to come back as is the family dog in a household of three young children.

  I recall feeling similarly when I was pregnant with Ben. Despite my immediate feelings of ambivalence toward Lily, I had fallen deeply in love with her and she was the center of my universe. Like any first-time mother, I kept track of each and every one of her milestones, celebrating even the most minor events and agonizing over any slight delays. I frequently called the pediatrician’s office just to make sure things were normal, and her baby book was updated weekly. During the day, we played and shopped and took classes and had full-blown photo sessions, the results of which I sent to Jeff at work, daily. She was, like any other only child, spoiled rotten with love and affection.

  The last month of my pregnancy with baby number two was spent overcompensating for the fact that Lily’s days as she knew them were numbered. I wondered how on earth I would possibly love another child like I loved the one I had. I knew, of course, that I was capable of loving another one, but exactly how much? Lily was always going to
be more than a thousand days older than her brother—wasn’t it, logically speaking, inevitable that I would love her a thousand times more? I simply couldn’t grasp that it wouldn’t work like that.

  Upon Ben’s birth, I realized that there is no shortage of the love a mother has to offer her children. There is a never-ending supply of love, pride, and affection, and each child will no doubt receive his equal share. Thankfully, it’s just the way we are built. There is, however, something that each child doesn’t get the same amount of, and that is called attention.

  Considering I now had two children, it made logical sense that Ben would get half as much attention as Lily. But, of course, as I was learning, motherhood knows no logic. The allocation of attention seemed more like 75 percent for Lily and 25 percent for Ben. But he never seemed to mind. He was happy as could be and totally content to just go along for the ride, another spectator in the Great Lily Show. I didn’t worry about his milestones like I did with his sister. I knew he would walk and talk when he was ready, and eventually, I was proven right. Instead of a baby book, I got him a monogrammed box where I tossed every keepsake, vowing someday to do more with them. Being as relaxed as I was, I could really enjoy the early days with him, savoring his tiny little feet and intoxicating new-baby smell. I relished the peaceful moments of his tiny body sleeping contentedly and studied his little toes and skin folds, knowing they’d soon not be so very clean and delicious. I inhaled the smell of his neck and tried to memorize his fingers. I loved every minute I stole from his sister.

  When Evan was born, I took a little attention from both Lily and Ben, providing him with approximately 10 percent of what his siblings got. He exclusively wore hand-me-downs and his stroller and infant carrier had never really been cleaned up from Ben’s use, two years prior. I would have been appalled had someone suggested used equipment for Lily, but this round, far more appalling was the thought of buying new merchandise. He had no baby book and I couldn’t tell you what his first foods were or when he took his first steps. With Lily, I didn’t leave the house with her for weeks, afraid of the germs and the dirt the general public would share with her. Evan made his debut after a matter of days. I just couldn’t wait to get out of the house, and he joined me. Guess what? He lived.