Dirty Little Secret

Dear Stop and Shop,

I don’t have a lot of willpower. I cope with stress through vices and since  I don’t find hangovers and smoker’s cough compatible with motherhood, I’ve turned to chocolate. (Also french fries. But not from your store. Because frozen french fries don’t do it for me. What was I talking about?)

Anyway, recently I’ve been trying to cut back on the chocolate. Because constantly having to buy new (larger) jeans for myself? Also not compatible with motherhood.

And speaking of compatibility, do you really have to put your bakery-made chocolate chip cookies on a special table right in front of the milk? Seriously? Let me tell you, those chocolate cookies you guys make are GOOD. Not quite as good as my mom’s, but very, very yummy. They have an addictive quality, I think. I mean, I’d avoided the bakery area on the other side of the damn store so I wouldn’t be tempted. But there they were. . . . . .right in front of the one place I can never avoid.

Are you evil, Stop and Shop?

I mean, I know you want to move as much product as possible. . .but you seriously cannot get to the milk  without being in cookie grabbing distance. That’s not product placement, that’s torture.

In conclusion, let me just stay this:

Move the damn  cookies or I’m sending you my clothing bills.

Thank you for your time,

Jerseygirl89

PS

Please do not send me a form letter about eating more vegetables or the benefits of meditation. If you would really like to prevent me from going on a cookie rampage, add a martini bar (and a daycare) to your facility.

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.

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.

They tell you that motherhood profoundly changes you. They tell you that you’ve never imagined love that deep. They tell you that you will become more selfless than you’d ever imagined. They tell you that your life will never be the same.

And you realize it quickly, as you stare into that little face. As you function on two hours of sleep. As you read the same story for the 1,000th time. As you try to give your friend advice on what to wear to a formal event and realize you haven’t been to one yourself since 2002. As you physically miss your children when they spend the night at grandma’s.

What they don’t tell you is how your capacity for grossness will change. Sure, they mention dirty diapers. But I was a nanny. I baby-sat. Dirty diapers hadn’t fazed me in the first place. But it wasn’t until I was a parent until I realized that dirty diapers are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Ironflower had gastric reflux for the first 8 months of her life. She threw up everywhere, all the time. We told each friend she threw up on that could call themselves aunt or uncle. And I, I whose stomach had retched so easily at just the thought of vomit, was totally calm. In fact, I became rather scientific as I cleaned up each round of vomit – what color would it be this time? Hot Guy was even more impressive, though. Once, as he held her over his head, she threw up. Into his open mouth. The fact that he didn’t run screaming out the front door then has always made me a bit complacent about our family.

Next came Lovebug. He seemed so clean, comparatively speaking. Rarely threw up. Had lots of little poops instead of big explosive ones. Wouldn’t eat baby food, so he didn’t really eat solid food until he was old enough to keep it in his mouth. I should have known that he’d get back at me eventually. He STILL won’t poop on the potty, you know. He waits until bedtime when he’s wearing his training pants and then goes for it (Although the other day he went up to his room in the afternoon, changed into training pants, pooped, then changed back into his underwear. Quite a kid, my Lovebug.). Then takes off the training pants and drops them on the floor. The carpeted floor of his room. So now I’ve been an expert at scrubbing shit.

Now the bodily functions of my children don’t bother me at all. I don’t even have a moment of nausea, or repulsion. Which is why – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, except that I’m kinda hoping that someone else will admit to doing the same thing – I watched as ChunkyMonkey pooped this morning. He’s just started having solid ones. Thinking he was done, I started to change him. But he had more and I watched it come out. I was kinda fascinated. I have never seen that much poop come out of a baby. Seriously, it was impressive.

If anyone had told me five years ago that I would just sit there and watch my baby’s poop come out, I would have thrown a drink at them.

So yeah, there’s deep love and fierce protectiveness that comes along with motherhood. And, apparently, also an ability to appreciate a big poop.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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.

You know that feeling after you’ve just ended a bad relationship, that mix of elation and dread? One minute you’re happily belting out the Soupdragon’s “I’m Free” and the next you’re furtively throwing popcorn at the couple making out in front of you at the movie theater? (Um, that wasn’t me. I’m just imagining here. You know, creative license.)

Last night I ended a bad relationship. Or rather, a bad part of a relationship. As this is really one of those relationships that never ends, just evolves. . .

ChunkyMonkey slept in another room last night.

A couple of months ago, ChunkyMonkey slept through the night, or only woke up once. But as he’s gotten older, he’s actually become a worse sleeper. I think he was bothered when Hot Guy and I came to bed, often at separate times. And I think I was so bothered by any noises he made in the night that I may have been a little too attentive. Suffice to say, this past week he’s been waking every hour and a half.

So I have ended the first stage of our relationship. We’re now sleeping in separate rooms.

When I went to bed last night, I felt a moment of freedom and joy as I flipped on the overhead light and the TV. And I think ChunkyMonkey felt it was right as well, since he slept from 8pm until 4:45am, and then went back to sleep until 7am. I haven’t been so well-rested since. . .since that brief period when he was sleeping through the night.

But waking up this morning, well, I felt a little bit of the dread. A little bit of the “my last baby sleeps better without me and doesn’t need me quite so much anymore” feeling. And thus I am tempted to throw popcorn at passing moms with newborns.

I won’t, of course.

At least, not until ChunkyMonkey stops nursing and I’m really, really free. And sad.

So Ironflower is taking a dance class this year. Yesterday was parent observation day, which I forgot about completely. Forgetting meant that I brought the baby with me, even though the rules said “No Siblings”. If this had been the only issue, I would not be blogging about it – I’m so used to forgetting things these days.

But because it was observation day, there was another bit of humiliation. You see, I have these clogs. I love them, but I can only wear trouser socks with them. And my trouser socks keep getting holes in them. But because my clothing needs are low on my priority list, I keep wearing said socks. Or sometimes I pair two socks that don’t exactly match to maximize their lack of holes. Yesterday I happened to be wearing such a pair because I assumed no one would see them. One sock was black and one sock was navy. And the black one had developed a hole by the time of dance class. . . where I had to remove my clogs to enter the studio.

So in I walked with my mismatched holey socks and my uninvited baby, trying to hold my head up and slide the hole to the bottom of my sock. And take pictures of hyper Ironflower. Finally the class started and I sat down so as to hide my socks. I even managed to quiet the baby. I was started to feel better about myself when one of the school’s owners walked in. And headed straight for me.

Apparently I am the only parent who has not purchased recital tickets yet.

They went on sale on Saturday.

I saw all the moms – who are all normally quite sweet – look at me oddly as I promised that I would purchase tickets ASAP.

The recital, by the way, is in May.

I can’t believe I’m THAT mom, with the holey socks and bad hair. With the slacking on buying tickets. With the forgetting about observation day. I wonder how long before my issues scar my children?

So I thought I’d share a story from the years I taught “in the ‘hood”. Partly because it’s kind of funny, but mostly because I can’t bring myself to write a whole post about how ALL 12 of Lovebug’s trains disappeared yesterday (Hubby, Ironflower and I looked everywhere) and this morning he magically found them without his sister or I noticing. My almost two-year-old already has a secret hiding space – you have to admit it’s weird. But I have to stop talking about it now, because I’m pretty sure I even bored my parents with it last night. We searched EVERYWHERE for those trains. . . . . . .

I was teaching second grade. My class that year was the toughest I’d ever had. I had many kids with “D’issues”. I had many parents who were very challenging. T., however, always seemed friendly, if a little distracted. I didn’t talk to her that often, as her little boy was above grade level and very well-behaved and his grandmother usually picked him from school. But after the first month of school, T. began dropping by the school a fair amount. Sometimes it was at lunch, when she brought her kids McDonald’s or Sonic. Sometimes it was in the afternoon, when she’d bring cookies or cupcakes. For the whole class. For no reason.

In a school where parents didn’t even usually pack lunches for the kids and only about a third of them had treats at school for their birthdays, it was weird. The whole random treats for the whole class thing was a little odd even by suburban standards, I thought. One day, after my students went to music class, I brought the extra cookies up to the front office to share with the principal and secretary. As we chatted and added to our waistlines, I casually said, “I wonder why T. does that so often.”

My principal, a woman so conservative that we had to beg her to let us wear skirts without stockings, looked at me in shock. “Haven’t you smelled her?” she asked. I shook my head mutely. “She gets the munchies and likes to share with her kids,” my boss explained. I stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“She’s HIGH!” exclaimed our young, hip secretary.

My principal nodded. “You mean you couldn’t tell? I didn’t think you were the innocent type, Jerseygirl.”

My hipness had just been insulted by someone my mother’s age, AND I had to accept that one of my sweetest, smartest, cleanest, best-dressed students was being raised by a mom who smoked pot ALL DAY. Talk about changing one’s perceptions.

I had T.’s youngest child a few years later. Baby sister was a more talkative replica of her brother. But mom didn’t bring any extra treats or lunches that year. She wasn’t half as friendly.

And she didn’t smell like pot any more, either.

No, you really don’t. I shouldn’t think very many people would want to see them. Yet, the post with that title remains my most popular.

And it’s not like it was a great post. Yes, it was an impassioned pro-breastfeeding post – but there are TONS of those on the internet these days (which is great, really). But the post is nothing special. Except that it has “boobs” in the title. Maybe I should put “boobs” in all of my titles? I bet I’d get a lot more clicks.

Though I really did start this intending to say a few words about my boobs. Before I had children, I had been quite satisfied with them. After nursing two kids, I do admit to fantasies about boob lifts (no implants, I’d just like them hiked up to where they used to be). But then I watched “Tribal Life” the other night. They were filming some tribe in Africa, I think. One of those tribes where no one wears a top. And where no woman has ever seen a bra.

And I began to feel a lot better about myself. Sure, they’re not the way they were ten years ago, but they still look like boobs. They don’t come close to touching my belly. I mean, one young woman in this tribe nursed a baby while the baby was lying on the ground and the young woman was sitting straight up. Straight up, I tell you. It made me cringe a bit.

So it made me think that maybe someone would actually want to see my boobs. That maybe the title wasn’t as sarcastic as I’d thought.

Though it doesn’t really matter. I’m not showing my boobs on the internet, unless it’s in a breastfeeding picture. But it’s nice to know I still could show them off, if I wanted.