Dirty Little Secret

So Hot Guy has taken Ironflower and Lovebug to Kansas to stay with their grandparents. For a week. Initially, I had a lot of anxiety about this. I’ve never been so far away from them, never been without them for so many nights. And yet, now that they are safely there, I feel at peace.

Because taking care of one toddler? It’s cake.

An endless supply of snacks and occasional trips in the car (his favorite phrase these days is “Go car!”, which can be amended to screams of “Car go!” if you don’t respond quickly enough) and he’s pretty happy. Plus, he doesn’t care what shows we watch when the TV is on.

So yeah, parents of only children? You have it easy.

Not that there’s anything in the world that would make me give up any of my 3 in 4 years, but still. This is just so much easier.

Of course, I didn’t think so when I (briefly) had only 1 kid. Then I thought having a kid was so much work.  And it was, compared to my life of having no kids.

So I think what I need to do when the big kids come back is borrow a few more kids. So that I’ll have 5 or 6 to manage. Then I’ll send the extras back to their (well-rested) parents and having 3 will seem easy.

In fact, I think that’s what all of us who feel overwhelmed should do – borrow some extra kids. Your kid is tiring you out? Handle 3 for a week. Three kids driving you crazy? Try 5. Five kids stressing you out? Have 7. And those of you that have more than 5 kids? Send them to whiners like me and have some time off. Because you? You don’t need to be reminded of how much more difficult things can be.

Sure, “time off” isn’t quite the same when you have kids. You spend your time cleaning their closets and rearranging their rooms while they’re gone, like I have (amazingly, though, I still haven’t gotten around to cleaning their bathroom.). You worry about what they’re doing and how they’re feeling and whether their father is remembering to put sun block on them. You miss their hugs and their commentary, though maybe not their love of the Disney Channel.

So it’s not the “time off” of yesteryear, which involved lots of booze, trashy television and complete relaxation. (That wasn’t just me, right?) But it’s still time where you don’t have to do a lot of the more annoying parenting tasks like settling arguments, cooking (ChunkyMonkey prefers meals of fruit, milk, peanut butter and crackers and who am I to argue?) and listening to Phineas and Ferb.

At least that’s how I’m looking at it.

I survived taking the kids to the pool again today. On the bright side, no one pooped. Though Lovebug let out a few screams (overtired+overexcited=Lovebug screams in response to any negative stimuli) that were loud enough to make me think someone had pooped.

But I suppose I’m the one who misbehaved today. Because today, folks, I read a magazine while my kids were in the pool. That’s right, not only did I let them go in by themselves, I dared to look away while they were in there.

Of course, they are 4 and 5 and they were in about 3 feet of water. Fenced into 3 feet of water, I should say. And there were like 6 other kids in the whole area.  While neither swims quite successfully, they do understand not breathing water. Oh, and they are very loud.

So, when I was not playing with them, feeding them or finding out why Lovebug was screaming (bumped his elbow on the fence, for example), I read. Not a novel, because I could get so engrossed in a novel I could miss them taking my wallet and handing it to the guy who sells ice cream and/or smacking that kid who was splashing everybody. Anyway, you should have seen the looks I got from the other moms.

Not all of them, but enough. Especially the one that I was NOT going to make fun of on this blog because she always seemed perfectly nice. I am trying to be a kinder, gentler me. But she glared at me, so clearly she started it and I can make fun of her freely.

Now let me say that a lot of moms around here still wear bikinis. Because they still look good in bikinis. And another percentage, while maybe not rocking the bikini, still looks cute at the pool. This mom is clearly trying to be in that category, because she doesn’t try the pregnant bikini thing, but her suit is very cute and she always does her hair.

And by does her hair, I mean that she invariable ties a grosgain ribbon around her ponytail. It’s always a different color, too.

What woman over 18. . .hell, what girl over 10 wears a ribbon in her hair? And who thinks, yeah, a ribbon is the perfect accessory for swimming?

And it’s in this loopy, lop-sided bow with long strings hanging down her neck. I mean, it would not have been a great style in 1986.

Ahem. So, yeah, ribbon lady and her friend glared at me today, as I sat with my magazine. I started to feel self-conscious. Because, you know, maybe I was being irresponsible by not watching them (along with the 2 lifeguards) in the 3 feet of water. And then I thought, maybe they’re just jealous because they had toddlers to follow around(this is why I avoid taking ChunkyMonkey to the pool. Also, he gets bored. And if I’m hauling a ton of gear and making a picnic, we are staying at the pool for more than an hour, dammit.) and I did not.

So then I thought, I’ll ask the internets. Well, the 4 of you not at BlogHer, anyway. Was I being irresponsible? Should ribbon lady have glared at me? Or would you have done the same thing?

I don’t make fun of Sarah Palin much on this blog because Tina Fey does it so much better. To be honest, the whole blog would be better if Tina Fey wrote it, but I believe she’s busy writing Emmy winning television shows and doesn’t blog much. When I grow up, I want to be Tina Fey.

Oh right, this post isn’t actually about Tina Fey and my massive girl crush.

It’s not really about Sarah Palin either, though. It’s about her fans. Her fellow “Mama Grizzlies”.

Do we really want our parenting skills and feelings to be likened to those of the grizzly bear?

Assuming that losing at least a hundred IQ points doesn’t bother you (it does me. I’m pro smart people. Especially government people. But I digress.), I want you to imagine spending 2 years alone with your kids.

No mate. No family. No friends. Because that’s how grizzlies do it.

They hibernate every winter.

Also, there’s inbreeding.

And finally, there’s the part that I believe Palin likes. Grizzlies, of course, attack when their cubs are threatened. Threatened can mean that humans are too close to the cubs, even if said people are minding their own business. Threatened can mean that anything is close to their cubs, even if said things have no interest in the cubs.

Because grizzlies bears are not smart enough to tell what is an actual threat and what is some idiot hiker wandering off the trail. Which, I believe, describes Palin and her ilk perfectly.

Gay marriage is not going to hurt their children. Health care for poor kids is not going to hurt their children. Whether or not there is a mosque at Ground Zero is not going to even affect their children because none of them live in lower Manhattan.

Yes, I believe in protecting my children. I’ll fight to the death for them.

Just don’t call me a “Mama Grizzly”.

Every time I hear a kid crying or screaming in public, I think, “Thank God that’s not one of mine.” Except, of course, when it is.

There was a time when I was absolutely mortified when one of my kids had a tantrum . . .or even cried. . .in public. Ironflower didn’t have a lot of public tantrums, or even private ones, so when she did I always felt completely at a loss. Lovebug had more, but all that did was make me humiliated more often.

And along came ChunkyMonkey. ChunkyMonkey has had more public tantrums than I can count. Usually when I had no option but to deal with them, as he’s much more likely to do it when I’m alone. And when the big kids are having fun somewhere.

I talk calmly to ChunkyMonkey. I say “No bite!” in a strict voice. I carry him facing away from me so he can’t bite or scratch, sideways so he can’t kick and go on about my business because I am no longer mortified.

Or humiliated.

Or even embarrassed.

When one of my kids starts screaming in public now (Lovebug has not completely given up the tantrums, he’s more like a heroin addict weaning himself slowly with the methadone of whining), I find myself slightly annoyed. In fact, it’s quite similar to my reaction when they whine. Or poke each other for no good reason. Or talk incessantly at the top of their lungs.

I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten much better at dealing with tantrums (although, thanks to ChunkyMonkey, my ability to dodge head butts and kicks has gotten a lot better) in my 5 and a half years of motherhood. I certainly wouldn’t say that my children have gotten mellower.

I would say that my attitude towards other people has changed, though. I no longer give a shit what they think. You want to glare at me as I carry my screaming 20 month old out of the 7-11 because I wouldn’t let him carry my precious Big Gulp? Fine. You give him your Big Gulp then.

How do you feel when your kid throws a tantrum in public? Mortified? Humiliated? Embarrassed? Annoyed? Sad? And how do you handle it?

I might need some ideas if ChunkyMonkey gets any stronger.

You can catch up by reading TCT: Special 2 Part Episode, TCT: Relationship and TCT: The Sheep.

The party was on a very hot Saturday night in July. It was meant to be a simple backyard barbecue, but between the alcohol and the huge crowd it had a bit more in common with a frat party.  I felt it somehow appropriate that I was acting like a college kid on my 30th birthday.

Martin was the first of “my boys” (as Mimi and my other girlfriends took to calling them) to arrive. And even though I had specified no gifts, he brought me a mix CD he had made. Which was sweet, because the whole time we were dating he always seemed to be making CDs, but never for me. Pleased, I read the friendly message inside and glanced over the songs. Most of them were songs he knew I liked (Abba, the Sopranos theme). Some seemed odd, but I was quickly distracted by the bright, shiny beer bottle someone handed me.

As the other boys arrived (MG the most recent ex, Foster the almost, John the new potential, Scott’s friends the flirts), I began to find the whole situation incredibly amusing (okay, a few more bright, shiny bottles may have helped. Also, vodka.). The guys nodded to each other and then gravitated toward whichever one of my friends they had liked best. MG had an advantage because some of his own female friends were at the party too. I cheerfully circulated, when not doing birthday shots.

I mostly ignored the boys, dancing around the patio and cheering on the volleyball players.

MG and I spent a lot of time staring at each other, though. The night before he had taken me out to dinner and declared his feelings and regrets over breaking up. He had said things like, “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known,” and “I’ll never hurt you again.” I had said I needed to think about it. I had just turned 30, but I think romantically I was more like 19. So while I drank and laughed and danced, I assessed my romantic options.

At one point I wound up sitting next to John. We made small talk. Martin drifted to a seat nearby. Then Foster did. Finally, MG sat in the chair on my other side. We were all basically in a circle. Two of my friends walked by, glanced around the circle and then walked away giggling. No help from that front. The five of us had an awkward conversation. Foster thought the situation was hysterical, so he kept saying semi-inappropriate things to me just to watch the others react. John thought he was simply hitting on the birthday girl and couldn’t seem to understand why these other guys were cock-blocking. Martin made snide comments that could have been construed as insults but weren’t obviously rude. MG was quiet but attentive – getting me more beer without being asked, etc.

John soon moved on to greener pastures (which was good, as his obsession with his pet snake had begun to disturb me). Then Foster spotted a young blond and moved on as well. Martin left the party right after that, claiming that he was tired. He hugged me good-bye and reminded me to enjoy the CD. I paused and looked at him, giving him a chance to mention the significance of the songs. He didn’t.

So I was left with MG. He was so sincere and sweet. I was weak (and drunk). We got back together.

That time it lasted for three months.

This post was supposed to be about the quote, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” I heard it somewhere the other day and I thought, no wonder parents always feel like they’re going crazy! I mean, every day I serve my kids some “new” (“new” meaning they don’t currently like it, not that they’ve never had it before or even liked it before) fruit or vegetable. And every day, they tell me they don’t like the fruit or vegetable. But I keep hoping.

I was prepared to lament about how many times I’ve told them to use words when they’re angry, or to flush the toilet, or to ask politely for what they want instead of whining. And how many times they have totally ignored me.

I was going to say that, “Parenting is the definition of insanity.”

But then I looked up the quote. It’s not a Chinese proverb. It’s not by Mark Twain, Albert Einstein or Benjamin Franklin. It does not resonate with years of gravitas.

It’s something that Rita Mae Brown said in a novel in the ’80′s. Probably.

And THEN I realized that my children don’t bite anymore. They have all bitten each other (and me, their father and grandmothers) in the past, usually somewhere around the age of 14 months. And after each bite, I would say “NO!” and remove them from the situation. And lo and behold,  after of a month or doing the same routine 20 times a day, they would actually STOP BITING.

So really the definition of parenting is doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over  and FINALLY (after years of gray hairs and martinis and blogs posts about public humiliations and candy bars and tears) you get different results.

This is a repost. Because I’m sick. And it’s still true.

I cannot cut Ironflower’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich properly. No matter what knife I use, no matter where I place the sandwich, no matter how thinly I spread the jelly, the jelly always leaks out by the time I’m done cutting it into totally unequal triangles. Often said triangles also have mangled edges.

When I ask my children what they want for dinner, they usually say McDonald’s.

I have yelled the words “Shut up!” more than once. Once a day, I mean.

I am convinced that there is a bedtime routine that will cause my children to go bed peacefully and remain like that all night. I have tweaked the routine so many times I can’t even remember what it was at this time last year.

I can’t sew. Or cook more than a few things like hot dogs. Or iron. Or remember to actually bring my coupons to the store. And I loathe cleaning.

I don’t know how to dress myself. The demands of this whole mom thing would seem to make yoga pants and t-shirts a sensible uniform, but I get depressed when that’s all I ever wear. But I also get depressed when all of my cute clothes get stains on them.

I don’t really like playing.

It takes me forever to strap and unstrap kids from the minivan. And sometimes they have to remind me to strap them in at all.

I am CLEARLY not keeping up with the rest of the class around here.

Was there a class I missed? Was modern parenthood the real topic of that abnormal psychology class I never went to? Do I simply need some remedial tutoring? WHY did I spend all those hours lugging around a weighted Cabbage Patch doll senior year of high school, if not to help my future parenting skills? Of course, I spent a lot more hours in Trigonometry . . . .which I have never, ever, ever used once since.

Or is the problem deeper? Do I have a processing disorder? A delay in mothering skills? And if so, where the heck is my Individual Education Plan? (Should that be Parenting Education Plan?) Why don’t I have an aide? How come I never get pulled out of class to work in a quieter room with fewer distractions?

Yesterday the kids’ preschool had a free movie day at a local movie theater. We are on winter vacation this week (around here there are 2 post-Christmas vacations, 1 in February and 1 in April; it’s great if you can afford to go to the Caribbean, not so great if you are trapped in 2 feet of snow with 3 small children) and as I am recovering from the flu from hell (why yes, that is the medical term for it) I thought it would be suitably mellow.

Boy, am I dumb.

The first problem was that Hot Guy was not going to be able to hang with ChunkMonkey as I had hoped. But I figured that if he fussed, I would just take him to the hallway because surely the older two would be settled with their friends.

Ha.

Lovebug started crying as soon as we entered the theater. He hated the curtains. He hated the seats (he has amazing recall. Once a theater chair sort of folded with him in it and he’s never forgotten it. I don’t know why he hates curtains.) He hated the dark – which hadn’t even happened yet. He wanted to sit on my lap before I’d even gotten ChunkyMonkey settled and the stroller out of the way.

Oh, how Lovebug cried. I wanted to just leave, but that set Ironflower off. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but with really low stakes.

Moms around me gave me sympathetic glances, but there wasn’t much they could do. Eventually I moved us farther away from the curtains to a spot behind Lovebug’s best friends.

Still there was wailing.

I believe I asked my son the horrible questions that I swore I would never utter: “Why can’t you be normal and have fun like the other kids?”

This, you can imagine, did not immediately calm the boy. So I hugged him. I let him stand in front of me. And I prayed that Toy Story would do its magic.

God Bless Pixar.

The movie entranced Lovebug. . .hell, it entranced ChunkyMonkey.

Which is when I started coughing. Not throat-clearing little spasms, either. Great big hacking-oh-my-god-is-she-going-to-die coughs. I drank the baby’s juice. I tried to take deep breaths. But I just couldn’t stop until I basically coughed up the human equivalent of a fur ball. Luckily I had tissues. Not-so-luckily, my aim sucks and I had to use some of those tissues to clean off my poor sons’ shirts.

Ironflower glanced at me in concern, but averted her gaze when she saw the crisis.

Again I was tempted to leave, but they were all so into the movie.

A little mucus never hurt anybody, right?

I do not have the heart of a champion. When I watch the Olympics and the announcers talk about various athletes being disappointed about getting the bronze or coming in 10th or whatever, I want to call those athletes and say, “Oh my gosh, you’re the 12th best skier in the world today – congratulations! You’re better than billions and billions of people!”

I’m a “good enough” sort of person. Partially because I’d rather be curled up on the couch with a book than, you know, actually working and partially because I think perfectionism can drive you insane. I tried to be perfect once – to excel at grad school and to keep a perfect house and to be a perfect wife and to look perfect – and it triggered my first flare of ulcerative colitis. And my subsequent divorce.

My “good enough” lifestyle has some benefits in parenting. My kids are really good at entertaining themselves, for example, because I’m don’t feel the need to be supermom and entertain them 24/7. They’re also good at doing things for themselves because I don’t feel like I have to do everything for them.

The problem is that I feel terribly guilty about this.

When I was teaching – another job you can pretty much do all the time and never reach perfection with – I didn’t feel bad when I happy-stamped instead of corrected homework or helped the kids earn extra recess so I could have a few more minutes to finish lesson plans.

But with motherhood, it’s different.

My not-quite 4 year old does not know how to write his name. I’ve tried to teach him, but he LOATHES it with a deep passion that I thought he only reserved for shots. The “good enough” person in me says that it’s no big deal and that he’ll learn eventually and to just let it go. The mother in me feels like a failure.

And when they’re all perfectly happy and I’m doing something like writing or cleaning or updating my Facebook status, I feel kind of bad about that too. Like I should be doing something creative with them, or at least talking to them. But in “good enough” world there’s no earthly reason to disturb happy children.

Is there a drug out there to ease the guilt? Or to make me perfect without going crazy?

So I painted Lovebug’s nails the other night.

Why?

Because my almost 4 year son asked me to, that’s why. He asked without whining, with just the sweetest expression on his face. I had just painted Ironflower’s nails a lovely pink. I started painting her nails a few years ago to get her to stop sucking her thumb. Totally worked, but now she wants me to keep doing it.

Plus we may have watched RuPaul’s Drag Race together. (Look Hot Guy’s been gone a lot lately and sometimes I need adult TV that isn’t going to scare the kids. Plus, hello? Drag Queens? I totally wish I could be one.)

Anyway, the point is that I pointed my son’s nails. I used clear, which I explained as the appropriate color for boys (unless they are drag queens, but I didn’t want to remind him of that, because what if he’d then asked for red? I’m sure our family already gives the staff of their preschool enough laughs.)

I like to think of myself as a feminist. I raise my children to think that they can be anything, that toilet cleaning knows no gender and that drag queens are cool. But my boys are obsessed with trains and cars and my daughter loves princess Barbies. . . . . .and I’m really comfortable with that.

I felt sheepish when Hot Guy asked me why Lovebug’s nails were so shiny. He just shook his head at me while refraining from comment.

So I’m curious to hear from other adults, would you paint your son’s nails? And if so, would you force clear on him? Or let him go his own creative way?

(I want to state for the record that if he wants to paint his own nails when he’s a teenager or an adult, I’m fine with it. It’s the fact that’s he so little and that someday he may call me from his therapist’s office and talk about how I feminized him as a preschooler that freaks me out.)