Dirty Little Secret

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.

When I quit working full time, one of the first things I did was rush my kids to story time. Ironflower was 18 months old, Lovebug 3 months. Lovebug mostly hung out in his stroller. I drove to the main branch of the KC library because they had all sorts of neat kids’ stuff and a craft room and what have you. I was sure that Ironflower would love it because she loved (and still loves) listening to stories.

It was hell.

Ironflower did nothing but mortify me. She walked around instead of sitting in my lap. She talked during the stories. Sometimes she got up and did a little dance in front of whoever was reading, waving at the audience of parents and nannies.

The only reason I kept putting myself through the humiliation (because, even though this was a story time for young children, I got very few sympathetic looks from the staff when Ironflower acted up. Mostly they were annoyed) was because it was also my chance to check out grown up books. It takes a lot more than humiliation to keep me from getting new reading material.

At around 2 1/2 Ironflower suddenly became the pillar of story time. But that was after we moved here, so I never got to show off her excellent  behavior to the people who spent 10 months glaring at me. When Lovebug got mobile, he was always an angel at storytime. I figured it was because he’d been going practically since birth.

Anyway, today ChunkyMonkey and I went to storytime at our local, small library. ChunkyMonkey has also been going to storytime since birth. He does not get up in front of our librarian when she is reading or singing songs. But he doesn’t sit in my lap either.

He explores the room, stopping by to hug me frequently. He is usually quiet, but I don’t think he’s ever sat still for a story or a song. And I feel like apologizing to Ironflower, because ChunkyMonkey and I have a much better time at storytime than she and I ever did. I’m not embarrassed by his behavior or that he doesn’t act like all the sweet, docile children (at least, not in this particular instance). Consequently he does his thing and scribbles a bit on the craft and it’s all good.

Except when he inspires another child to rebel. Today 2 little girls – normally lap-sitters – noticed what a fine time ChunkyMonkey was having while walking around one of the craft tables. So they too decided to explore. And their mothers tried to corral them. Which made them run faster. And shriek. And pull on the table cloths.

It crossed my mind to make ChunkyMonkey sit down with me. That probably would have helped the other moms settle their girls down. But it also would have meant incurring the wrath of the pissed off ChunkyMonkey. This kind of wrath includes kicking, screaming, biting and throwing things.  I looked at him as he toddled toward me. He wasn’t shrieking or pulling the tablecloth or disrupting anything. He hugged me and gave me an angelic, then continued toddling around the table.

I totally let him. I believe the librarian cut short her book reading as the 2 girls ran around the craft tables. But that wasn’t my fault, was it?

On Saturday, I tried to take my kids swimming. It sounds so simple. But, much like keeping a clean house or resisting bagels, things that are simple for other people are kind of challenging for me.

My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.

Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don’t get to go swimming.

Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It’s not cheap and I don’t know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which – spoiler alert! – is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.

Not, apparently, anymore.

We could not swim in our town’s pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town’s pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn’t possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.

By the time we got settled at my parents’ town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.

We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn’t demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.

I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can’t be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.

And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn’t have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn’t eat the crackers he’d thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world’s longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I’d collapsed.

Not exactly the fun family day I’d had in mind.

I think have crossed the line from “imperfect parent” to “maybe-someone-should-call-social-services”.

This morning something happened to ChunkyMonkey. This something gave him a bump and a cut on his forehead. But I have no idea what the something was.

We were getting ready to take Ironflower to school. Putting on shoes and jackets, finding Ironflower’s school bag, grabbing my sunglasses and whatnot. ChunkyMonkey wandered into the bathroom. Since I could still see most of him and I just wanted 30 seconds to put on my own freaking shoes, I let him stay in there. Just as leaned in to get him, he dropped and began crying. I assumed I’d bumped his behind with the door, because I’m kind of uncoordinated like that.

I scooped him up, hugged him and deposited him on the step. I put on his shoes and jacket. I ran to get Ironflower’s lunch bag and told the big kids to stand still for just one freaking second so I could make sure I had everything.

Then Ironflower noticed that ChunkyMonkey’s head was bleeding.

That’s right. SHE noticed. I, who had put on his shoes and coat (and was annoyed that he was STILL crying), had not noticed.

What kind of mother doesn’t notice a bleeding head wound? With a bump to match? What kind of mother did not see this happen when she was 3 feet away?

I swear that he was facing away from the door when I opened it wider. I swear there were no sharp objects in his hands or anywhere in the bathroom. I may be lax about cabinet locks and the like, but we don’t have spikes sticking out of the walls, either.

I’m not sure what’s worse; that I don’t know what hurt him or that I didn’t notice it for a good 3 minutes.

Ironflower once did the same thing to her head on the side corner of the coffee table (under where we had the bumpers, of course), but at least I noticed it immediately. I saw it happen. Lovebug never cut his head open, but he bruised it plenty of times. And I noticed it immediately, every time (especially during the 2 year phase where his response to frustration was to bang his head on the nearest hard material).

My poor ChunkyMonkey. He’s got such an inattentive mom.

How do people handle having more than 3 children? Is there a higher accident rate for children who are third or fourth in the birth order? And what dangerous object is skulking around my bathroom?

I swear to the Goddess that this post was going to be happy. I was going to list things I like. Or something. I really wanted to write a post that didn’t involve bitching. Possibly that’s too much to ask when I’m on the rag, the kids have spring break and my allergies are trying to kill me, I don’t know.

I do know that I was a shitty mother this morning and I feel the need to confess. I had this plan in my head. I would take my kids to the indoor play area and grab some fast food lunch (sorry Jamie Oliver, I really am trying to do better {more on that later} but I’ve got 48 hours of solo time, killer cramps AND a headache). It would be fun. They would be happy. And cramps like french fries.

There were a few other people there, one family with two boys and a pair of women with their 2 girls. Lovebug and Ironflower rushed to make friends. The older boy didn’t want to befriend Lovebug at first, which Lovebug took on the chin and moved on. Eventually, the boy changed his mind. Ironflower seemed fine with the younger girls. I spent my time chasing ChunkyMonkey and preventing him from getting trapped in the play area.

Until I saw the 2 girls, but no Ironflower. The place isn’t very big, so I found this surprising. Eventually I found her crying in the corner. The girls didn’t want to play with her anymore. Now, I try to be reasonable. I know my daughter can be bossy. The girls were younger and already knew each other. I said as much (well, I substituted “decisive” for “bossy”). She kept crying. I asked if they said anything mean. She shook her head. She rejected playing with her brother. And me.

And then. . .well, I got mad.

I told my daughter that she needed to get over it and not let those girls ruin our good time. Or we would have to leave. She got up and climbed slowly around. She bit my head off when I checked on her and then she cried some more.

Even after the girls left, she didn’t want to play. She was too sad about them not wanting to be friends with her. I hugged her and held her on my lap. And then I sort of went off about the whole situation.

It’s not that I wasn’t sad for her. But if this kind of thing is going to devastate her so much. . .how will she ever handle elementary school? How will I?

I pointed out that she was ruining our family fun time over 2 little girls that we would never see again and obviously weren’t very nice. I pointed out that she loves to play with Lovebug. I pointed out that I had gotten dressed  and paid money and dealt with 85 ChunkyMonkey tantrums so they could have fun, dammit, and why couldn’t she just have fun for the love of God??????????????? (I left out the dammit, but I’m not sure about the “for the love of God)

I am not a nice person.

The mood lifted as we left. We got McDonald’s. We read stories. We had quiet time. Now they are watching a DVD. Under calm questioning, Ironflower still cannot articulate (and if you know Ironflower, you know that’s very very strange. . . . Ironflower is nothing if not articulate) why she was so upset.

But I’m so afraid of the next time someone doesn’t want to play with her. We’ve always encouraged our kids to be friendly and to include all kids in their games. But maybe that’s not the best thing for Ironflower emotionally. I just don’t know.

Advice, internets? Also, feel free to tell me how to handle this without turning into an evil cow.

It has to be some sort of cosmic joke that my children don’t eat of one of the four things I can cook. Actually, “cook” isn’t really the right word. . .it’s more like “manage to put on the table without the risk of poisoning anyone or going insane in the process.” I mean, I’m not an idiot. At least, not when I’m sober (which is pretty much all the time now, unlike my twenties). I can read. So theoretically, I should be able to follow a recipe.

But whenever I try to follow a recipe, something goes wrong. I accidentally spill too much salt into the bowl. I forget to stir. I neglect the oven until I notice a burning smell. I injure myself. Or the children start screaming.

So, when Hot Guy – aka the Family Cook – is away from home at dinner time, I have 4 choices. Hot dogs, grilled cheese, soup or pasta. (I can also make chicken and rice, but I never seem to remember to buy or defrost the chicken in time and there is no way I’m dragging 3 kids to the grocery store and THEN coming home and trying to cook. I know my limits.) But my darling children do not eat soup or pasta.

I know, what kids don’t eat pasta?

Mine.

But I signed up for the Ronzoni Smart Taste pasta tour anyway, because Hot Guy and I like pasta. We just make meat sauce, and then put plain meat aside for the weirdos we call spawn. This pasta has extra fiber and calcium, so it’s one of  those great products that tastes good and is good for you. Better than regular pasta, at least.

I would like to report that my children ate it. But I don’t lie (on the blog, anyway). ChunkyMonkey liked it, but he has yet to enter what I call the Dark Ages of culinary preferences, so it’s not a miracle anything. The important part is that Hot Guy and I liked it. It doesn’t taste like they’ve added healthy stuff to it, it just tastes like good pasta.

Ronzoni even made a very funny video about a Supermom who actually can cook and whose children like pasta. It didn’t inspire my older children to eat pasta either, but my kids did like the video.

I wrote this review while participating in a blog tour campaign by Mom Central on behalf of Ronzoni Pasta and received a sample of Ronzoni Smart Taste Pasta to facilitate my review and a $20 thank-you gift certificate.

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

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?

You know how when you’re home alone with your first baby, you find yourself talking to him/her about everything? It’s like you finally have a legitimate excuse to talk to yourself out loud. I also used to talk to my cats, but talking to a baby Ironflower somehow felt more appropriate. I mean, all the baby books said to do it. So I did. But I didn’t just say things about her cute little toes or how yummy the cereal was. Oh no, I talked to her about everything. Same thing with Lovebug, although there was more child appropriate talk that included toddler Ironflower.

This might be why my children are extraordinarily verbal. Of course, their verbosity could also come from whatever gene drove me to discuss my emotional well-being with my eight month olds. Anyway. . .

ChunkyMonkey has mostly been spared my rambling. His siblings talk too much to allow me my monologues and when I am alone with the poor kid I generally just want silence. However, since the big kids started camp last week I’ve actually had hours alone with the baby.

Mostly, we’ve been walking. It seems to distract him from teething pain and I find it preferable to cleaning my house. Anyway, on our walks through deserted neighborhoods I’ve taken to talking to him. About stuff that has nothing to do with his chubby cheeks and kissable toes. Usually he just falls asleep.

Naturally he was asleep this morning as I ranted about some things that were annoying me. Which would have been fine, if a horrified woman had not popped up from her flower beds as I was passing by. Even though I’d been talking in a low voice, she’d heard every bitchy word I’d said. To my innocent baby. The look she gave me would have been more appropriate if she’d seen me sticking needles into him. Then she . . . . BACKED AWAY from me, clutching her gardening implements. Like I was a crazy person.

So then I started wondering, AM I a crazy person? Or does everyone talk to their babies about their problems?

When I picked Ironflower up from preschool this morning, another mother noted that she had her shoes on the wrong feet.

I can only hope her teachers didn’t notice either.

I’d be more embarrassed, but let me discuss last night first:

7:23pm – Discover that Ironflower has used bath paints all over the bath – not while she was actually bathing. Hot Guy discovers that bath paints are definitely meant to be used while the bath is on. We now have some pink grout.

10:45pm – Go up to bed and realize that I have dumped laundry all over the bed so that I will fold it before bed. Should have come up earlier, especially since I only got five hours of sleep the night before.

11:32pm – Ah, sleep.

11:53pm – Massive coughing fit.

12:48am – ChunkyMonkey crying. Go feed him in room he shares with Lovebug.

12:58am – Lovebug whines when I leave.

1:03 am – Snore.

1:20am – Lovebug whining loudly.

1:33am – Lovebug wakes ChunkyMonkey.

1:34am – Go to boys’ room. Ascertain that Lovebug wants to go to the bathroom. Wonder why he had to wake me up for this. Comfort baby.

1:36am – Try to tuck Lovebug back in. He tells me no and kicks the covers off. I leave.

1:37am – Lovebug begins whining.

1:41am – Ah, sleep.

1:47am – Lovebug crying hysterically. Baby crying.

1:48am – Lovebug upset that he hadn’t been tucked in. Baby upset about loud Lovebug.

1:50am – Go in to comfort baby. Lovebug throws bigger fit.

1:53am – Fall asleep while holding baby, despite Lovebug’s tantrum.

1:54am – Tell Lovebug to be quiet, for the of God and all that is holy including the opportunity to watch TV tomorrow.

1:58am – Back to my room. Can’t sleep. When did Ironflower get so sneaky? What’s up with Lovebug STILL having all these temper tantrums?

2:34am – Why am I STILL AWAKE??????????????

2:49am – Ahhh, sleep.

3:37am – Why am I – COUGH. COUGH. COUGH. COUGH. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until . . .

4:18am – Ah, sleep.

5:50am – ChunkyMonkey crying. Lovebug awake. Feed baby. Convince Lovebug to sleep more.

7:01am – Alarm. But everyone else is quiet. Hit snooze.

7:09am – Wow, everyone is still asleep and it’s a school day. Dammit.

So I’m pretty thrilled with the fact that I got her to school in the first place. Besides, she puts on her own shoes. If she was unhappy, she could have fixed them – right?