Dirty Little Secret

I was a picky eater as a child. My cousins like to remind of the phase I went through when I wouldn’t eat green food because it was my favorite color. (Just for the record, that wasn’t really it. It was because I hated most green foods. Especially lima beans. And broccoli.)

Naturally, I assumed that my own children would not have to rebel in this way. I wouldn’t demand that they eat their vegetables, I would simply present them with healthy choices and eventually they would find fruits and vegetables that they liked.

Karma is such a bitch, isn’t she?

My children are worse than I ever was. They don’t even eat pasta or cold cuts, let alone vegetables. The only fruit Ironflower eats willingly is apples.

So we decided to try a more forceful strategy. Now they can’t be excused without trying  everything on their plates. We figured that if they tried enough new things, they’d learn to like some of them. According to the parenting magazines, it can take 20 tries. We knew we’d have to be consistent and persistent. We were prepared for that.

We were not prepared for Ironflower, however. At 5, Ironflower has the will of an Olympian. An Olympian who refuses to eat any vegetables. Recently we’ve been working on baby carrots. (Do not tell me about dipping. The child won’t use any dip but ketchup, and then only on some kinds of french fries.)

Is one bite of carrot really such an unreasonable request?

The child has refused the carrot 4 times now. Each time she has not been excused from the table. She has stayed there until bedtime. FOUR TIMES.

I mean, she’s KNOWS we’re serious. She KNOWS that we’re not going to give in. And yet. . .

She won’t take ONE FREAKING BITE OF CARROT.

We’ve had the same issue with peas. And green beans. And pears.

But carrots, dude. Even I liked them as a child.

Anyone got advice they can pass on before dinner this evening? Because I’m getting kind of desperate.

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.

Dear Ironflower,

Today you are 5. In some ways it seems like if I blinked, you’d go back to being my happy, sleepy newborn again. In other ways, since I can’t imagine life without you, it feels like you should be at least 20. What I am sure of, though, is that I love you more each day.

You are so friendly and outgoing, so quick to make friends. I think that’s so cool. And you figure things out so quickly, you are a good thinker. And a good talker. You are the most verbal child I’ve ever met; I love listening to you talk about your day or have imaginary discussions with your animals. You like to be independent and self-sufficient, except when it’s just “too hard”. And that’s okay, because I always want to be able to help you when it’s “too hard”. You are very reasonable for a 5 year old and handle having to wait for things you want exceptional well.

Right now, you like princesses, dinosaurs, outer space and Project Runway. You like to have your own fashion shows with your dress up clothes and today you’ve dressed yourself in black leggings, a pink tulle skirt and a pink princess t-shirt. Later you will play with your princess dolls and/or dinosaurs, telling stories with Lovebug and entertaining yourself for hours.

You are also an avid artist, drawing, coloring and painting for hours. You add details to all of your drawings – even the ones your teacher asks you to make to illustrate your math skills! You are into drawing princesses right now, but you also like to make abstracts. I am amazed at your ability and patience.

Your favorite stories right include non-fiction about space, Arthur, Fancy Nancy and Olivia. You like to watch Arthur and Olivia too, but I think your favorite kid’s show is Dinosaur Train. Besides Project Runway, you like to watch Supernanny with me. You love the Barbie movies, especially the 12 Dancing Princesses. You love to go to shows like Shrek and Disney on Ice – you already know what’s expected of a good audience member.

I love you, kiddo, more than I ever thought possible.

Mommy

I don’t think my family is good at fun.

Last night was the “Family Fun” night at the kids’ preschool. Hot Guy had to work, so I decided that ChunkyMonkey should stay at home with my mom, 2 kids being enough for one tired woman to keep track of at a gathering filled with sugar and small children.

Of course Ironflower was drawn to the painting activity like moth to flame. . .which meant that I spent a lot of the evening cleaning blue paint off of her costume.

And Lovebug hated the noise. He ran into classmates, but they were all shy with each other (as opposed to how they’d been at the hay ride the day before) and overwhelmed by the crowd. So he pretty much wanted to leave from the moment we got there.

I spent most of my night dragging Lovebug around in search of Ironflower. Until the reptile show. Which my kids had enjoyed at a small play date last year, but this year it freaked Lovebug out. And Ironflower claimed not to like it, but I think what she didn’t like was the large number of kids between her and the animals. Meanwhile I stood with some other preschool moms, having nothing to say while I fretted over my children’s unhappiness.

Somehow I’m reminded of some of  last events I attended in school gyms – junior high dances. Before every dance, I’d have this image in my head of how it would go – the boy I liked would ask me to dance, I’d look impossibly cool while dancing, my friends would all tell me how great I looked – and it NEVER went that way.

These family events seem to go the same way for me. Before we go, I have this image in my head of the fun we’re going to have – the kids will laugh and smile, I will chat amiably with acquaintances, the kids will behave – and it never works that way. Lovebug hates something about the event and clings, they both grab food and drink like mannerless heathens, I have brief conversations that I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to and at the end,  Ironflower says it wasn’t good enough anyway.

I guess I’m just not destined to live up to the images in my head. Maybe I should stop trying.

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?

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?

One of the things I love about traveling is that you can learn so many things. I mean, sure I loved being in a warmer part of the country (have I mentioned that it actually got down to freezing while we were there? It did.) and having my parents to share so many child-rearing duties, but the best part was going somewhere new. Okay, all the alone time Hot Guy and I got was pretty cool too, but still, I loved exploring. Seeing new things and new for the kids things was fabulous too. But nothing beats the learning.

I learned things about my family:

Hot Guy has an odd affinity for Kool and the Gang.

Feeding Ironflower donut holes and lemonade is a very BAD idea, especially when she’s going to be riding in a car that day.

Lovebug has traindar – he can find a train no matter where he is and no matter what he is doing.

ChunkyMonkey must go to sleep at 9pm if he is to sleep through the night – any other time and he wakes up.

My Dad has amazing putting baby to sleep powers.

My mom has mastered her iPhone but is freaked out by the ATM.

I learned things about life south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of Alabama:

Apparently no one there has ever seen a triple stroller. Seriously, people stared at us wherever we went – I now have so much sympathy for those families that are “different” for some reason.

Everyone seems to have missed the highway driving section on the driving test. Also lacking: the parking skills section.

Warm Saturdays are not the day to try to park anywhere near any Smithsonian museums.

All the straight men sound like Larry the Cable Guy.

No one in Florida got the memo about tanning being bad for you.

You can find good NPR and decent country music everywhere except the New York area.

ALL senior citizens want to know “What aisle did you find that baby in?” whenever and wherever you take your infant shopping.

I learned even more about traveling with small children:

Never try it without at least one electronic entertainment device.

Museums are fine, but beaches and playgrounds are better.

And nothing beats having a TV in your vacation bedroom.

Nothing can drown out the sound of a four year old girl’s voice or a two year old boy’s tantrum, no matter how big the minivan or how loud the radio.

Construction vehicles stop being exciting after ten minutes of construction zone traffic.

Parents should have access to alcohol and/or chocolate at all times.

I’ve hardly ever had a job that didn’t involve kids. Babysitter, nanny, teacher, tutor. . .MOM. I like kids. I do.

But, um, I don’t really like playing with them.

I love watching them play while I also watch TV or check my email. I love teaching them new things. I love reading to them. I love cuddle time. I’ll play active games, or sing songs willingly. I like going to the park and story time and other outings.

But playing princess dolls and trains? Not so much.

I feel like I just came out or admitted an addiction. “Hi, my name is Jerseygirl and I don’t like playing.”

“Hi Jerseygirl!”

It’s not so much that I DISlike playing with my kids. It’s that I get bored. I’m the kind of person who likes to read and watch TV at the same time. I like to check my email when I’m on the phone. I also like to read and/or watch TV and/or check Facebook while I play princess dolls. Because making the appropriate responses during Ironflower’s stories? Not so interesting. While she’s very creative artistically and when she’s telling a story, the princesses tend to do the same thing. Over and over. And over and over again.

Once Hot Guy asked me who had taught Lovebug to crash his trains and cars. Because we don’t let him see violent stuff and because this was before he’d started preschool, Hot Guy wondered how his little boy had learned to stage crashes.

I hated telling him that I had taught our innocent little boy to crash things because I got bored pushing them around and around. Strangely enough, Lovebug no longer wants me to play trains with him. It’s almost like he doesn’t trust me with all of his expensive Thomas toys.

Sometimes I imagine Ironflower on the therapist’s couch lamenting, “And every time my mom played with me, she had to watch Ugly Betty or Top Chef too. Now I think I’m boring and that’s why I have 87 piercings.” But then I think about how much therapy she’ll need if I starting banging my head against a wall while we’re playing, so I’m reasonably sure that I’m doing the lesser of the two evils.

What do you think?

Oh no, it’s not enough that I had to be in the hospital, have another surgery and spend hours of my life cleaning out a huge wound. It’s not even enough that the stitches my doctor kindly put in yesterday to speed the healing hurt like a motherfucker. Nope.

I’ve apparently warped my daughter into the bargain.

Today at lunch Ironflower mentioned that she would never get married. Not that I’m in any rush for four year old to elope, but I was a little concerned that she was writing the whole process off at such a young age. I asked her why. She told me that it hurts. I was confused, until Hot Guy was able to explain.

She’s told him that she doesn’t want to have babies and “hurt like Mommy.”

I feel like such an asshole. A whiny, cranky, horrible asshole. Clearly I’ve complained too much. I’ve warped my kid. She’s going to wind up in therapy and it really will be all my fault.

How do I fix this?

And I really have to fix this, because Ironflower has enough issues on her own. Last night she was very curious about whether you go to the bathroom after you die.

(This should have been posted yesterday. I suck.)

My big girl, I can’t believe you are four today. I can’t remember life without you – and yet it seems like just yesterday we were waiting anxiously for your first cry (Ironflower got a dose of meds during the c-section because it took SO long for them to get her out, thus her first cry was delayed long enough to terrify us). You are such an amazing kid. It seems as though you’ve been making up for that delayed first cry ever since, with your precocious talking abilities.

I love that you can talk to anyone about anything. . .without stopping. I am so proud of how hard you are trying in dance class, even though it hasn’t come easily for you. And you are such an amazing big sister, often willing to share and always willing to hug. Your memory always astounds me, as does your imagination.

Right now you love princesses so much that I’ve even purchased Barbie products for you, something I never thought I’d do. Though I confess that it’s probably my fault you also love make-up these days. What makes you especially cool though is that you also love dinosaurs and your knowledge of them is already encyclopedic. And your favorite TV show is 64 Zoo Lane, about a little girl and her animal friends. You recently saw Into the Woods – and impressed all those seated around you with your ability to pay attention – and I think as of right now that is your favorite musical.

You have handled the arrival of a new baby brother with total aplomb. You love to sing him lullabies and nursery rhymes and you imitate the way I talk to him perfectly.

We love you so much, honey. And we are so proud to be your parents.