Dirty Little Secret

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.)

I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.

Darling ChunkyMonkey,

Today you are 1. The nurses christened you ChunkyMonkey when you were born, with your 9 pounds of cuteness and great skill in nursing. You are not really chunky, but solid and definitely a good eater. The monkey part, however, is apt. You remind me of Curious George.

You love to know what’s inside of everything and you want to touch it all yourself. You are the only child of mine to take an interest in the water in the toilet and to try to eat dirt. If there’s an open door, you want to go through it. If there’s something new to see, you want to see it up close.

And how your face lights up when something makes you happy. It’s worth it to let you crawl in the dirt to see you smile. You have the most amazing smile, kiddo. You are learning about language; right now you can give 5, wave and gesture up and down on command. Your favorite speech sound is “Da”, but it’s many inflections can indicate your father (Dada), what’s this (Da Da?) or anything else you are trying to tell us. When you’re unhappy, you moan (Daaaa,Daaaa,Daaaa) and then progress to full on screaming.

You are very sure of your wants and preferences, even if I don’t always understand them. You love fruit and fruit juice, pretzels and french fries. You love to try new foods, but you’ll yell if you want something that isn’t offered. You are wonderful at playing by yourself, but more than anything you want to do what Lovebug is doing. You have just recently begun to enjoy books, and you favorites are the “Touch and Feel” series.

You are my surprise baby in so many ways, little one. And I look forward to all the rest of the surprises you have in store for me as you grow. I love you more and more each day,

Mommy

PS If you could stop biting and pulling hair, I’d appreciate it. And maybe get over the tantrums. Just a thought. XOXO

I am a yeller.

I didn’t think I would be. I never yelled (okay, except for that one time, but that class totally deserved it and it’s just wrong that my principal happened to be giving a school board member a tour that day) as a teacher. I am much more likely to mutter obnoxious comments under my breath, or write them during meetings to the amusement of my colleagues.

But then my kids started to, you know, bite each other. And I discovered yelling was effective.

I realized recently that I may have been doing a little too much of it, as I’ve had to get really loud for them to notice. Though that may be because once unleashed, my yelling voice has also appeared in traffic and around customer service representatives. So I decided to quit yelling. No matter how naughty the kids were, no matter how frustrated I was, I would not yell.

Today was Day 1.

I awoke at  5am to hear the boys talking to each other. Not that ChunkyMonkey talks, but he sure makes noise. I tried to ignore them, because I’ve discovered that I can’t force them to sleep and that when I talk to them at 5am I am tempted to yell.

By 7am, I had discovered that Lovebug had clogged the toilet with too much toilet paper . . .and pooped on top of it.

At 7:45am, a huge, full, glass jar of salsa fell onto the tile floor of kitchen. While I tried to clean up, Lovebug and Ironflower got into a wrestling match and knocked ChunkyMonkey over.

At 9:05am, a man began tailgating me and flashing his lights at me after I dropped Ironflower off at school. I was doing 36 mph in a 35 zone and he was in a hurry, I guess.

We avoided problems in the grocery store because I bribed the boys with toys and food. My grocery bill was $20 more than it should have been. (Does this mean my children would be well-behaved if we were rich?)

10;45 saw us driving home from the grocery store, with Lovebug yelling, ” I have to pee right now!”. We were 10 minutes from home and I did not want to clean up pee in addition to the poop and salsa, so I pulled over on a side street. This caused ChunkyMonkey to wail loudly as he wanted out too. I brought Lovebug over to a tree. I reviewed how to pee standing up because he generally likes to sit down. I don’t know why. Because of that, he kept trying to squat and I kept trying to make him stand up straight. Eventually he peed .. . . .correctly. . .onto my shoe.

12:00pm Ironflower, in her frustration over having to leave school, threw a rock in her brother’s general direction.

It’s now 2 and I am proud to say that I have not yet bitten though my tongue.

What do you do about your frustration?

PS If you happen to be a person who links to me – all three of you – could you please, please change your link to jerseygirl89.com? Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Sometimes people compliment me for breastfeeding, impressed with my commitment and devotion. I smile modestly. Because if I say anything I’m afraid I’ll laugh.

I embraced breastfeeding not because it’s supposedly better for children (turns out some of the research has been dubious at best, or so one article I read recently claimed) and not because it is SO MUCH cheaper than formula.

I started breastfeeding for those reasons, sure. But I’ve also started doing yoga because it was good for me. . .  . . . . several times. Follow through is not my strong suit, especially when you’re talking about something as time-consuming, alcohol-denying and occasionally painful as breastfeeding.

I lasted ten months with Ironflower. She weaned herself. Lovebug was fifteen months. And ChunkyMonkey is coming up on eleven months. That would be good for someone who’s only made it a month or so with yoga, except for one thing:

I’m a dedicated breastfeeder because I am LAZY. Newborn cried in the middle of the night? I didn’t have to get my ass out of bed, let alone go down to the kitchen. I never had to spend hours washing bottles – in fact, with the last two, I didn’t spend any time washing bottles. And when the kid was fussy and no one knew what to do with him? (I say “him” because, honestly, Ironflower was a super easy baby) All I had to do was whip out a boob.

And then, Friday night, it didn’t work. ChunkyMonkey DID NOT WANT TO NURSE. He fussed and screamed and yelled and I was lost. I tried each boob multiple times. I walked and bounced. I swayed. I paced. He kept screaming.

Eventually I realized that his stuffy nose meant he couldn’t breathe with the boob or the pacifier in and that I was screwed. ChunkyMonkey nurses, then goes to sleep with his pacifier. This is our routine. It works. Except for Friday. And all I could think was, oh my God, what do people who don’t nurse DO?

Let me say something to those who look down on bottle feeders: Shut up. You have no idea what those people go through to calm their children (such as pushing the stroller all night long, like I did on Friday) down.

And let me say something to all the women who have told me that they didn’t breastfeed because it seemed “too hard”: Pushing a stroller all night is a lot harder than breastfeeding, even after they have teeth.

What do you guys think?

Today my daughter told me that she doesn’t want to have kids because she doesn’t want to work that hard. In case you didn’t know, my daughter is four.

I feel like such an asshole.

I mean, she’s not supposed to know how much work kids are yet, right?

And though I hope she remembers this fact when she starts having sex in fifteen years, I somehow doubt it. Clearly the bigger problem is that my four year old thinks knows she and her brothers are a lot of work.

I feel like I should fix it, but I don’t know how.

I do feel overworked right now. We’re broke, so I’m constantly trying to write articles from home while managing three kids under five, the youngest of whom screams whenever I’m not next to him and the two oldest of whom are extremely hyper. My dishwasher is dead, my toaster oven is dead and my fridge has stopped making ice. I can’t find a place to put everything so the house never looks clean, even when it is. Which it usually isn’t, but that’s beside the point.

Right here is where I usually check myself, remind myself that I’m blessed to have three beautiful children, a husband who puts up with me, my home, running water, a fridge that keeps food cold, enough stuff to be overwhelmed by it, civil rights, access to healthcare, a president I actually like . . .

But clearly this grateful attitude is not being conveyed to my children.

Also, I am little concerned that my four year old already has an aversion to working hard.

Any suggestions?

I never had sympathy for those parents who blamed “the school” or “the other kids” for their children’s behavior. Surely parents had more control over their children than their peers did, at least until adolescence began. And when a parent would assert that little Johnny had never kicked anyone before entering my first grade classroom, I would grind my teeth together, secretly blaming Johnny’s kicking on his father’s rumored drug use. Sure my classroom was purely a force for good, I was thrilled to find a preschool with a similar philosophy.

And then Ironflower actually went to preschool.

It’s not that she became aggressive. If anything, her behavior got better. But my smugness lessened when she began talking about the Disney princesses. Up until then, she had played princess like she had played other imaginary games. “Princess” was a character like “doctor” or “paleontologist”. Then she learned about Cinderella. And Ariel. And Sleeping Beauty. And Belle. And. . . . .now it’s become an obsession. Just like it is for every other girl in her class. A not very imaginative obsession, at that.

And it’s not like the Princesses send out a great message. In fact, I despise the whole idea of The Little Mermaid (think about it, she gives up her VOICE for a cute boy. If that ain’t a metaphor for a tragic female adolescence. . .). But they’re all over my house anyway. Because I didn’t want her to be an outcast.

At least Lovebug discovered Thomas before he discovered school. At least I know it’s his passion. Because I’m not so sure about Ironflower and her princesses sometimes. Of course, that could be wishful thinking.

(During this writing, ChunkyMonkey managed to army crawl all the way across the family room to get to his brother’s Lego train. I see more Thomas crap in my future.)

Anyway, I feel like such a sell out. I never intended to purchase all this character crap. Of course, we also weren’t going to watch TV and we were only going to eat organic.

Note to self: Stop making parenting pledges ahead of time.

Is it bad to think about slipping your children Benadryl so that they’ll sleep at night? Is it bad to actually do it? Or is it worse to tell your three old that he’s ruining the family’s well-being because he won’t go to sleep until 10pm, he wakes up at 2am to play with his trains and then wakes again at 5am, each time waking his baby brother and mother in the process?

Uh, this is all hypothetical, of course.

Two boys have been sharing a room for a while now. The three year old used to at least go to sleep on time. Now he stays up. . .disturbing his six month old brother. He gets up all the time. . .disturbing his brother. He plays with his trains .. .waking his brother. Then his brother wakes up close enough to three year old’s version of morning that they’re both up by 6am.

And, uh, the mother is starting to lose her shit become concerned. She knows their horrible behavior is coming from lack of sleep. She keeps the room dark. She has a bedtime routine with relaxation techniques. She’s been reluctant to take away the trains, as they are security for the three year old. But he also has a stuffed animal that he loves and doesn’t play with. And he thrives on any kind of attention, being three. So when his mother yells in frustration discusses the situation, he doesn’t care. He also doesn’t seem to relate consequences from behavior the night before to punishments the next day.

Does anyone PLEASE have suggestions for this poor woman? She is actually losing short term memory skills from lack of sleep. Really. Between this and her red eyes from crying in frustration, people are starting to think she’s a stoner.