The children immediately breathed their foreign breath way too close to my healthy bundle of new joy. I visualized the germs flying over to our infant seat in slow motion, traveling across time and space to where my well baby was innocently sitting, her healthy days now clearly numbered. Did the pediatrician’s office really think a single wall was enough to separate the sick kids from the well babies? Had they not heard of airborne diseases? What kind of doctor was this, anyway?
The strange children played with the decade-old waiting room toys and mouthed grungy hardback books and talked gibberish way too loudly. They had dirt under their fingernails and snot dripping down their faces and dried, crusty food circling their mouths. It was like these little scumbags had made it their sole mission in life to sicken my poor child.
But what could I do, build a bubble for my sweet baby? Never venture out into a world filled with creatures whose mission was to destroy her? Live an existence void of stomach bugs, eye infections, and mysterious rashes? Yes, that’s exactly what I could do! I would build a bubble. A bubble with cozy bedding and sweet-smelling candles and the best pizza delivery. It would be perfect. Did Lily really need to interact with other children? Early socializing was so overrated—we did have a dog, after all. It’d be like a social survival experiment!
Alas, a bubble we could not live in, especially once I discovered the joys of preschool. I quickly became pregnant with another baby and my need for help with Lily trumped my desire to keep her away from those mutts. The fact that I could ditch my kid for a few hours and shower in peace? Alone? Pluck my eyebrows without an audience? I could take a nap and eat lunch while flipping through a magazine, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet? I was in. And my poor child suffered the injustices of being surrounded for three hours a day by other children.
There was the punk who gave Lily pinkeye the day before her much-awaited first ballet recital. There was the little shit who passed on rotavirus as we prepared for a move from Washington, DC, to Chattanooga, Tennessee. We proceeded to leave soiled onesies at every rest stop for the ten-hour-long ride. And then there was the “friend” who unloaded the little bugs living in her long, blond hair, resulting in a weeklong effort to rid our heads and house of lice.
Unfortunately, the list doesn’t end with an itchy head and explosive diarrhea. Last year, a neighborhood kid who was having dinner at our house proclaimed red sauce to be “gross.” “It looks like blood,” he whined as all three of my children’s eyes widened. The obnoxious observation resulted in my children not eating Italian food for months. Italian food, a staple in our diet and one of the few ways I was able to sneak in things like spinach and cauliflower. I swear, every time I saw the kid walking up and down the block, I wanted to dump a jar of Ragu on his head. I’ll show you gross, kid. Open wide.
And then there’s the “stuff.” The older the kids get, the more stuff they need. And where do they learn about this stuff? The other kids, of course. The other kids are the ones who taught my daughter that princesses were dumb and Hannah Montana was where it’s at. She heard about High School Musical while she was still content watching Arthur, and overnight, the Kidz Bop CDs were declared babyish. Taylor Swift replaced the Broadway classics and hundred-dollar UGG boots topped her must-have list for the first day of school.
See? Other people’s kids are just useless, bad influences who play no necessary role in our lives.
My children, on the other hand, are never the ones to teach the bad habits or pass on germs or do anything the least bit offensive. They are as perfect as they could possibly be.
Well, close to it.
There may have been that one time a few years ago, when Lily learned the phrase “Fuck it!” She picked it up from yours truly as a bowl of freshly made fruit salad shattered on the floor. For a few weeks, it was all that came out of her mouth. Honestly, I don’t know why those other parents were so worked up when she started using it at preschool. I can see no better reason for the phrase than a spilled paint tray or flyaway paper. She used it in the perfect context and the age of three is as good a time as any to be introduced to the word. It’s a great word! Personally, I find it bizarre that the kids had never heard it before. Do they live under rocks? I mean, really.
And then there was that time Evan took off his diaper and ran around a furniture store peeing on the floor as other children gawked and giggled. Surely, they learned nothing from the experience. I can’t imagine any of them pulled similar stunts later that afternoon.
My kids might have started a trend of mooning one another and it may have spread across school, but what’s a little good, naked fun? It’s cute, right? A classic!
And when Evan passed on the stomach bug, he’d clearly picked it up from somebody else’s kid. And really, with all the crap those punks eat, a cleanse may have been just what the doctor ordered. I bet the class came out of the whole experience feeling lighter, refreshed, and having gained great mental clarity!
Or not.
So, maybe my kids aren’t that perfect after all. I can kind of see how some other parents might find them the slightest bit offensive. They do yell a tad bit too loudly and they really aren’t all that great at listening. They have been known to spit on a child or two, and Evan did once mistake a child for a sandwich. They may have even passed on a bad trait or two. But they’re mine. And I believe that they are as close to perfect as three kids can possibly get.
I guess all that really matters is that we love our own children and are able to tolerate the rest, for their sakes.
Knowing deep down that ours are far superior, of course.
Chapter 16
THIS “VACATION” SURE IS A LOT OF WORK
Mommy Confessions
• My middle is two and a half and I’m still not paying for her seat on a plane.
• If I could afford it, I would just pay someone to go on vacation with my kids.
• There are times when driving our car into a tree in order to get my kids to stop arguing in the backseat seems like a good idea.
• I’ve put potty-trained kids in a Pamper just to avoid the stop and promised candy to them if they agree to actually pee in it.
• Our best friends invited us to their beach house for a week. The idea of being around their kids 24/7 is actually worse than being home alone with mine.
• Laundry from our vacation has been giving me dirty looks all weekend. I think I will just move it into the garage.
• If Disneyland is the happiest place on earth, why am I dying to go home already?
• I have no interest in taking my kids on vacation with me. They stay home with Grandma while my husband and I finally have alone time. So much more fun.
• I intentionally forget toys on road trips so that my husband will agree to a toy store stop to buy a couple of things to keep them busy for the rest of the ride.
• I stop at McDonald’s just to use the toilets and the play gym but then feed the kids Uncrustables I brought from home.
• If my son asks “Are we there yet?” one more time, I swear I’m going to knock him out.
• My best friend chastised me when we bought an SUV with a DVD player. She just took her first trip without one with her family and I sang “I told you so” for the whole week after.
• Just got back from a weeklong vacation away with my family to realize I’m not in a single picture. Was I even freaking there?!
• We can’t afford to take the kids on vacation. Okay, so we can afford it, we just don’t want to.
• I drug my kids with Benadryl on long flights. It’s the only way I’ll ever travel with them.
• Dear TSA: I know your limit on liquids is three and a half ounces, but for the love of fucking God, do you really think my kid’s four-ounce container of apple juice is really a threat to national security?
There are a million things I wish I’d done before I had children. I wish I’d slept in until noon on the weekends, lazily eating breakfast in bed and relishing the
fact that I had nowhere to be all day. I wish I’d taken adult classes that really interested me, not just the ones I had to take in order to graduate years before. I wish I’d seen more midday movies, had more spontaneous sex, and read more books, back when I actually had the spare time to do all of that stuff. And I wish I’d appreciated the little things, like the ability to grocery shop or shower when I felt like it.
But perhaps my biggest wish is that I’d vacationed more. Jetted off to Paris last-minute on a dirt-cheap flight. Hopped into the car with Jeff and driven to some bed-and-breakfast in a little town I’d never heard of. Taken the train to New York City for dinner and a show when no local weekend plans materialized. It was just so easy back then to do that, something that became abundantly clear when it wasn’t just the two of us anymore.
Once my children entered the picture, traveling went from being a fun adventure complete with tropical drinks and poolside dining to a more exhausting version of being at home. Sure, vacations still provide a change of scenery, but they also are as physically draining as giving blood, and sometimes just as fun. Family vacations leave me needing a break from my break once I arrive back home. Call it a family trip or family getaway or family bonding time; there is really no such thing as a “family vacation.” The last thing I’ve ever felt while traveling with my family is relaxed or rejuvenated.
Gone are the days of simply throwing a few changes of clothes and makeup into an overnight bag and hitting the road. In fact, I am the last person I think about when packing. The kids need clothes for each day and backup clothes for each day and layers so they don’t complain about being too hot or too cold and is that all I brought because OMG suddenly they hate that shirt and why didn’t I know that?
They need their toys and their games and their toothbrushes and their pillows and their books and whatever else they simply can’t live without while being away from home. My toothbrush and face wash, however, inevitably remain left on the sink so I can end up using hotel bar soap and the kids’ watermelon toothpaste.
Because of the abundance of crap that accompanies my children, I find driving to our vacation destination to be far easier than flying. Sure, I’m stuck in the car with stir-crazy children for hours at a time, but at least in a car, we have the ability to pull over for a rest break or an extra dose of Xanax. The kids watch endless movies on the built-in DVD player and we chuck candy back at them to buy moments of peace. In the car, only Jeff and I are impacted by the “Are we there yet?”s and the “She’s repeating me!”s. At least the torture is contained.
When we fly, however, we are exposing countless unsuspecting men and women to the hell known as traveling with my family. If you’ve ever flown with small kids, you know the look of fear in the eyes of fellow passengers at the airport. “Are they on my plane? Please, God, don’t let them be on my plane.” You can almost see the little speech bubbles hovering over their heads. It’s as if they think that if they don’t acknowledge you, you won’t share a row with them once aboard.
That’s if you ever even get on the plane. First comes TSA security—otherwise known as God’s “Fuck you” to mothers. Getting my kids through security is a cruel joke, and if you’ve ever tried to fold up a stroller at the security checkpoint, you know what it feels like to be THE MOST ANNOYING PERSON IN THE SECURITY LINE EVER. The people huffing and puffing in line behind you act as if you’re enjoying yourself.
Actually being on the plane, though, is by far the worst part of traveling. I’m held hostage by my kids in flight, knowing that at any moment they could snap and turn every passenger and flight attendant against me. My kids are hard enough to stomach on the ground, never mind at thirty-five thousand feet in the sky. Drugs, junk food, iPhone—I don’t care. I just want them quiet and contained. At least until landing.
Finally, assuming nobody’s suitcase is missing or we haven’t been detained for unruly behavior, it’s on to the actual “vacation.” Time for a melody of “I’m bored” and “Why are we here” and “He’s touching/pinching/yelling/crowding/repeating me” all to the tune of a few thousand dollars. Sure, there are some wonderful moments thrown in there, too, but I always wonder whether they’d have just as much fun at home.
My choice vacation spot before children was the most relaxing place on earth: the beach. A book, a bottle of suntan lotion, a blanket, and I was set—it was the most low-maintenance way I could possibly spend a day. With kids, though, a day at the beach requires more preparation than the SATs. My beach bag is overflowing with snacks and lunch and drinks and toys and cover-ups and sunscreen and towels and blankets just to ensure an hour or two of fun in the sun. Sadly, our definitions of fun differ greatly. I mean, really, is there anything less worthwhile than digging a freaking hole? Try as they might, they’re never really going to reach China. What’s the point? I don’t get it. But at least a hole keeps them occupied, which is far more preferable to when they insist on dragging me into ice-cold water along with them. The water is meant to be enjoyed from afar, kids. Duh. As if the beach itself isn’t rough enough, it seems to haunt us for days after. I’m still not quite sure exactly how sand ends up in every last orifice, but my children’s ear canals are always well exfoliated after spending a day on the sand.
The good news is that a family vacation always brings me a renewed appreciation for my boring home life. When I walk back into my own house, the previously annoying broken hall light seems almost charming, the still dirty dishes in the sink just seem familiar, and the unmade beds beckon us. Home sweet home; it’s where we belong and I’m so glad to be there. Until I unpack all of the dirty laundry and cry for another vacation.
This time, one without the kids.
Chapter 17
FREEDOM OF SPEECH
Mommy Confessions
• My son taught the term “motherfucker” to his whole preschool class. He learned it from hearing me refer to my brother-in-law as such. Whoops.
• My kids know all the words to every Eminem CD.
• I’m a good Christian girl, but I can outcuss the best of ’em.
• I told my daughter to shut up yesterday. I can’t believe I did that.
• My eighteen-month-old still can’t say “Mommy,” but used the word “shit” in perfect context today.
• When my mother-in-law criticized my parenting for the umpteenth time, I lost it and told her to shut the fuck up in front of the entire family. I know I shouldn’t have but, damn, it felt good.
• My kid was imitating me today. “Slap my ass,” she yelled, and I suddenly realized I didn’t imagine the figure in the doorway last night as my husband and I did the deed. OMG.
• I think it’s hysterical when my four-year-old swears. I know it’s horrible, but I just can’t help myself.
• “Dammit” sounds really cute when coming out of my two-year-old’s mouth. Don’t ask me how I know that, I just do.
• I swear at my kids in German and they have no idea what I’m saying. It’s awesome.
• My husband taught my son to say “hot, sexy mama” to every woman he sees. It’s mortifying and completely unamusing.
• My kids repeat 95 percent of what I say. Especially the bad stuff.
I swore quite a bit before I had kids. I’m not sure why, exactly, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a great affinity for those nice four-letter words. They’re just so expressive and instinctual and, frankly, quite fun to use. I naively thought that when I had kids, my language would somehow clean up, but instead, I found that parenthood gave me much more of a reason to curse. I mean, really, what was I swearing about before, anyway? Traffic? A zit? A broken nail? Spilled milk? Puh-lease.
Once I became a parent, only then did I really have something to swear about.
Is there anything more curse-worthy than a peed-on top bunk on the night of the day you actually washed the sheets? Or a toddler thinking it’s fun to pour a full bottle of my expensive Moroccan hair oil down the sink? Or an attack of the black Sharpie ma
rker on our brand-new couch? I think not.
“Oops!” just isn’t adequate for a middle-of-the-night step on a tiny Lego left on the bathroom floor. “Cripes!” doesn’t roll off the tongue when a child dumps his entire uneaten plate of dinner on the kitchen floor, and “Gosh darn it!” doesn’t quite cut it when the weather forecaster calls for a sixth snow day in a row. “Fuck! Goddammit! Shit!”
They’re all just so much more fitting. And so much more fun to say.
With children, I also have something to swear at. Though I would never dream of cussing my children out audibly to their faces, I find swearing in my head to be a highly effective parenting tool. When Lily is screaming that I ruined her life by taking away the hot-pink hair dye that came with her Moxie doll, which was staining the entire first floor of my house, I may just see the words “Shut the fuck up” float over her head in my imaginary commentary of the scene. When Evan is thrashing on the floor because I didn’t let him have a third bag of Goldfish before lunch, singing a little ditty in my head that goes “Shut the fuck up, you pain in my ass; shut the fuck up, my dear” somehow makes the moment more bearable. And Ben’s incessant whining can be blocked out by my silently asking, “Are you ever going to shut your little fucking mouth, you annoying child?” Logically, I know the answer is “not likely,” but just asking in my head always makes me feel better. It also makes me a hell of a lot less likely to lose it on them. I like to think of it as a parental coping mechanism. Truly, it works.
I’ve heard some parents say some pretty awful things to their kids under the guise of constructive criticism. “Don’t you think that shirt makes you look fat?” one parent asked her seven-year-old daughter on the playground. Then there was the time I heard a mother tell her son that he was “just like your father,” which wouldn’t have been a problem had she not kicked Daddy out of the house one month earlier. I even once heard a mother refer to her daughter as “not that bright,” while the kid played right in front of her. Personally, I find language like that far more harmful than an occasional “fuck” flown around my house. There are simply no circumstances when words like “fat” and “dumb” and “ugly” are acceptable when directed toward a child. A word like “shit,” on the other hand, is just another word for poop. Really, what’s the emotional harm in that?
Confessions of a Scary Mommy Page 8