Slump

I'm terrified, I'm in the mother of all slumps.  Summer is finally showing itself, the kids are done school, no more lunches, no more tight schedules, no more homework or backpacks.  I always look forward to this time of year.  When I can finally shut down, slow down and unwind from the year's tightening grip.  But this year it feels different.

The big kids are older, they aren't around too much, the little kid, well, she's still little, and me, well, I sit and wait.  I wait for some kind of epiphany, some kind sign that will point me in the direction I need to go, but nothing.  I think I've spent the better part of the last 13 years running on auto pilot, just doing what needs to be done.  I've run around like a crazy person year after year, without any kind of a break, and now I am staring face to face at one (well kind of), and I don't know what the hell to do with it.  The longer I sit and wait the more difficult it becomes to dig myself back out of this pit.

My creativity is in the toilet at the moment and I'm not sure how to get it back.  I still do the day to day stuff of most mothers do, tidy, complain, clean, complain, cook, complain and finally do it all over again.  It just seems like it's missing something, chaos maybe, I don't know.  It seems the more I used to have on the go and on my plate the easier it was to get through the days.  My heart raced, I had more purpose than emptying the dishwasher or changing the beds.  

Now the days somehow don't feel long enough, but at the same time feel sort of endless.  How the hell can that be, I ask myself?  But there it is.  I want to sit quietly and read, I want to be in a room full of exciting people, I want to draw, I want to sing, to dance, to feel more alive, and for some reason I want it all at once.  I know that 's impossible, I know it's slightly irrational (well more than slightly), but it doesn't make me want any of it any less.

I want purpose, and I already know that people will be thinking, "well you already have purpose, and a very important fulfilling purpose, in being a mother".  Well that's all well and good, but sometimes, hearing that, or thinking that yourself, just doesn't cut it.  I am a mother, and there are many pieces of it that I enjoy and dare I say love, but then there are other parts, parts that leave you feeling a little disillusioned, for lack of a better description.  One can only do and redo certain things so many times without feeling like they've somehow lost it.

Somedays, it's all one can do just to get up, put one foot in front of the other, go through the motions of the day, go to bed that night with the knowledge that tomorrow you'll get up and do all of it again, and probably in the same order.

So slumped I am.  I'm sure I'll get out of it one day, hopefully anyway.  Until then I'm glad I can say it, feel it and do what I can to fight it, or maybe I'll learn to embrace it.  God that's a scary thought.

The New Life of a Former Sexpot

Sounds riveting doesn't it? Well not so much.

There once was a girl who was fun, exciting, and sexy. She liked to stay up late at night (well she used to be able to anyway), she loved adventure, traveling, eating exotic foods, doing things at the spur of the moment. She loved having wild, crazy passionate sex, and felt sexy doing so.

Well, what ever happened to that girl? She grew up, got married, had a few kids and lost her power. No it wasn't the super hero kind of power, but it was the kind of power that made her feel alive, and vibrant. And no it's not all about sex and the loss of what it used to be and mean to her. It's the loss of feeling desired, of feeling sexy and youthful. More frightening than that it's the realization that she is slowly becoming less visible to the rest of the world.

She sits back and watches. As women age, something happens, people start to perceive them differently. It seems like we lose something vital not only when we age, but when we become mothers. The perception of ourselves is forever altered, and it changes how others see us. And this doesn't seem to affect men/fathers in the same way.

Instead as men grow older they become more interesting, more attractive and therefore more appealing. Men gain, and women lose. I don't know how this occurs, but I've watched it happen time and again.

There is an interesting dynamic that takes place. When women are younger, they have all of the power, whereas, younger men do not. Very young women have this vibrancy about them, a kind of super charged sexuality that young men are drawn into and ultimately controlled (to some degree) by. And as women get older, have children, this power often shifts to their male mate.

Often after becoming a mother, we see a very large change in our sexual drives. Our energy is obviously focused elsewhere, like trying to maintain sanity, take care of everyone else around us and if there is any time left, we try to get some much needed sleep. The way we see, or imagine our bodies changes significantly, and that sexpot we used to be has faded into oblivion.

I personally miss feeling like a hot, sexy, desired woman. I am also thoroughly sick of feeling haggard, exhausted and unattractive, like I am just going through the motions much of the time when it comes to sex. I want more than a "quick after all the kids go to bed" romp in the sack, because we're just too damn tired to do anything else.

I want the passion back! I want to stomp my feet and demand that old feeling back! I want to have my husband walk trough the door and want nothing more than to rip my clothes off. I want to go to a movie and not be able to keep our hands off of each other. I want to be a super charged sexpot again, but how?

It's hard to come to terms with a new life, a new you, and let me tell you this isn't all that new. It's been a number of years, but only now is it really starting to hit home. It's the fact that age, and motherhood has changed me, the sexpot, for good. Too bad really, because I used to be way more fun.

Run Patty, Run

So my friends, here's the skinny. I have to come clean. I have to share with you in the honest hope that my personal trials, frustration, and anguish can help you understand yourself, and thus, my dear, dear compatriots, save yourself! 

This weekend,  I lay in bed, with tears of laughter leaking down my face, as my four-year old stood at the foot of the bed, half-naked, with her curly head stuck through the arm hole of her t-shirt, I had a shocking and terrifying realization--I'm not myself. Something in me has changed. That core, fundamental thing that made me, me, it's, well, not gone, exactly. More just, bent. 

But what? What had caused this shift in my consciousness? When did it start? Could it be reversed? Would I reverse it, if I could? This, clearly, was going to take some brain power. The kind of brain power that can only be fueled by coffee. So up I got, put on a housecoat that looks only moderately less ragged than Osama Bin Laden's beard, untangled the t-shirt on a now furious, hysterical pre-schooler, and afixed my thinking cap. This was a question that was burning to be answered. I would get to the bottom of this issue. I mean, I was at stake!

After several cups of brain-builder (which, roughly, translates to 6 cups of coffee) I had a revelation, a breakthrough, an epiphany (and, honestly, some intense caffeine shakes)--I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Yes! Stockholm Syndrome!! The amazing disorder in which normal, healthy, intelligent, and moderately attractive people, when taken captive, begin to identify with, and grow sympathetic to, their captors. I'm the Patty Hearst of parenthood!

I see the pattern now: we are quietly, happily, and freely going about our lives, planning to do things, and actually having the time to get them done. Eating in restaurants, going to the theatre, peeing in complete privacy, and, well, simply put, enjoying our lives. Then suddenly, there they are! These small, sleepless, loud, aggravating people. They burst in to our lives and homes surrounded by mess, and they make themselves at home. It's all so clear now. 

We instantly become captive to these demanding, squalling, insistent little fungi. They may as well be holding a gun to our heads. We're trapped in the house, held hostage by these tiny tyrants. So what do we do? What can we do? We fall prey to Stockholm Syndrome. We start to relate to them, to empathize with them, to understand them, and I dare say, to love them. They recreate us in their image, and we're lost! We used to wake when our bodies told us too (when we'd had enough sleep--remember?!! Remember having enough sleep?! Sweet Jesus, what a dreamy notion), now, we wake to their military-like precision--6:30 a.m. on the dot! We used to watch intense, dark, and sometimes sexy foreign films, now, the only exposure we get to world culture is through Dora the Explorer (Hola!), and that girl is about as sexy as potato (though the monkey's not bad). We used to feel a sense of control over our future, now, we can't even get control of our hair!

So when, after 20 years of parenting, as I'm lying in bed, watching my youngest, naked from the nipples down, struggle with a piece of clothing, in a scene so comic as to be sitcom worthy, the blindfold is pulled from my eyes and I can see what's happened--I really have been kidnapped, and I've learned to live with it. I've learned to think and feel and relate to my knee-high captors. In fact, some days, (once, a couple of weeks ago, and maybe tomorrow) I've learned to love it. 

Who knew that these grilled-cheese-eating-dirt-behind-the-ears-nose-picking terrorists were such masters of psychology! 

I've been inculcated, my friends, but you don't have to be (well, actually, at this point, there's probably nothing you can do. If you're reading this and understanding even a third of what I'm saying, you're in too deep). You could try to fight the Stockholm Syndrome. You could be difficult, and fight the take-over. You could hold out for the cavalry to come and liberate you. But really, resistance is futile. Once you've invited them in, it's all over. Just roll with it baby. I mean, yeah, we've lost ourselves, our personalities, and, mostly, our will to live (with out Thai food), but maybe, just maybe, if I could get one of those cute hats and jumpsuits like Patty, it wouldn't be so bad! 

These Kids

This will probably make me sound a little ancient, but what the hell.

Lately I've been looking around at kids, wondering what the heck is going on. I see such a lack of respect, a lack of drive and disregard for themselves, community, family and everything else in general. Last night my husband and I sat up talking about this well past midnight. He's always the one that is more reasonable, the one that definitely sees all sides to an issue, so it was best for me to discuss this with someone who isn't as opinionated about things as I usually am.

What sort of sparked this was talking with friends of ours and hearing about a law that was recently passed, either in Canada or in Alberta, making it illegal to spank your own child. Sorry I am this ill informed, I rarely listen to radio or watch the news, terrible I know, but it's often just too disturbing and depressing. Not that I am an advocate of spanking or not spanking, really I just feel that should be left to the parent's discretion, and definitely shouldn't be up for public debate. Protecting children from certain harm is one thing, but when it over steps the boundaries into everyday people's lives I think it's too much.

Well this got us to talking last night about how we feel things are going in our own home and community. I'm seeing a huge upsurge of kids around our community, hanging around in large groups, getting into all kinds of trouble, wrecking personal property, drinking openly in public, and doing this without much regard for consequences. We live in a beautiful community, one where you would come into and think, not a lot of shit would go on here. Well it does, and no I don't live in a glass bubble, I do realize that bad things happen in all sorts of places, but it is still a bit surprising. Believe me I grew up in the hood, and stuff like this would have been surprising even there.

On Saturday afternoon we stood outside, on our front lawn as two young guys, probably no older than 17, wandered down a path, not far from our yard. They each had a beer in their hand and were hooting a hollering, waving at us, acting like jackasses (talk about sounding like I'm a hundred). Well as they were carrying on, an older couple walked past and the older man's demeanor was surprising, he seemed a little afraid. This kind of took me aback, as I remember how I felt as a teen and how I would never have been that blatant and disrespectful without being scared shitless of the consequences. These guys seemed like they could care less what anyone thought. In fact, they seemed to challenge the notion that anyone had a right to expect anything more from them.

I'm disturbed, I'm worried. Where does this leave our children in a few years? This generation just seems so disconnected, so unconcerned and unmotivated. I struggle with trying to understand where they are coming from, the ways in which they communicate with one another. They seem to spend more time talking with each other electronically rather than verbally, person to person, and through this something gets lost along the way. The human element of communicating changes, the climate of relationships has shifted and we are starting to see the runoff in other areas.

We are the generation of parents who have learned to give our children a voice, to let them have an opinion about what happens in their lives, their family's lives, and this has somehow backfired on us. We've tried to include our children in decision making. Giving them the feeling that their opinions are very valuable, they are, but to what end? We are now left with kids that feel they are entitled in every way. Entitled, because we've spent endless amounts of time instilling in them that they are unique, and important in every way. I am as guilty of this as anyone. And this, sadly was probably more magnified when I was a single parent.

I've wanted to give my kids a voice in their lives, because I never had one. I've wanted to give them opportunities that I didn't have, things that I didn't have, and now I'm left with kids that want, and expect, without regard. They really are good and respectful kids, but they have this underlying expectation that things they want or need should be provided, without question. And I have done this. Now I sit and try to figure out how do undo at least some of it.

Have we gone too far, and can we ever get back? I ask myself if past generations of parents, and grandparents felt like this. Did they fear that we to were going to be the lost generation, unable to cope or do things for ourselves? I don't think it could ever have been as bad as I've seen it get in recent past. Now we seem to be in some kind of a crisis, with kids video taping beatings of each other. Where will this go, how much further into chaos can we travel.

I'm curious about what other people are feeling, thinking and experiencing in respect to this issue. I hope we as a society can get a handle on these things, start to makes some serious changes and expect more of our children, communities and ourselves.

I just want to change your freakin' diaper!!

Jesus Murphy, you'd think after literally 10,000 diaper changes over the course of 20 months, the kid would bloody well put two and two together. You come when you're called, lay down, lay still and just get the damn diaper change over with. But noooo. The little shit, full of shit, likes to take off running as soon as she gets a whiff that I am aiming to change her stinky ass. Who wants to sit in that stench anyway? Gross.

Then when I get her down on the floor, it's like trying to hold Linda Blair in place. Head thrashing, teeth bared, Jesus, her head practically spins completely around. For once I would like to get through a diaper change without sweating like a big fat man, wrestling a hog. It's like a WWE match, and I'm usually the big loser.

I guess it beats cleaning shit up off the floor, hey, there's always an up side. What would be even better, is if she'd just get potty trained already, yeah right!!

Belly Fat

I know, we're all sick of hearing about each other's fat bums, saggy boobs, and all that shit, but let me back up here and explain. First of all let me scream, I am sick to death of having belly fat. I may have always had chunky thighs and ham arms, but I could always pride myself on having a nice flat tummy, yes, even after having a couple of kids.

Well my pride is now awash. After having a third child, and doing this after 35, I find my body is in revolt (and revolting for that matter). I don't know what the hell is going on, and it seems it is not only me...there are others out there suffering this same peculiar affliction. I've spoken to them, I've met them, I've even had the opportunity to see their belly dough from time to time. I might not watch everything I put into my face, but I work pretty hard physically, and it should count for something I would think. But no. No matter how hard I work, how much I sweat, this stuff stays put.

Now, why suddenly do you ask, am I shocked by this? Well it has kind of crept up on me, found a nice waist to cling to and has made itself at home. And I hate it, I want it gone. Short of having it sucked out, I am baffled at what to do. And yes I've heard you can dramatically alter what you carry around your middle by eating clean. Well let me tell you my friends, I am a dirty girl from way back, and there is no way I am cleaning up everything I eat, or drink. I've got to have a little joy in my life, and sometimes that just means a good bottle of wine and a pizza . So I guess it might just be here to stay.

Not only does this belly fat alter how you look, it can really change the way you feel. Now more than ever I feel a bit dumpy, a bit bumpy and frankly a little old momish. Well, I am aware that I am and old mom, but fuck, do I have to see it in every mirror or window I pass by?

Today I felt this more than ever. I took my daughter to have to top of her ear pierced and we had to go to a piercing, tattoo place to have it done. Well, we walk in and I kind of get a look from the young girl behind the counter, that says, "yeah, what do you want?". Then it hit me, I look like a middle aged mom, who's lost and wandering in for directions. I wanted to roll up my pant leg and say, "look I do belong here, I've had my fair share of visits to a tattoo parlor, probably had my first one when you were still in pre-fucking-school!!". But I couldn't of course, since I was standing there with my child. So, I explained why we were there, and we got on with our business.

This exchange just makes me realize how much I have changed, how much my body has changed, and in the end how it's made people see me. I don't wish to be twenty again, with a rock hard body (okay I am lying here, I do, I do), but I do wish I could feel that kind of confidence that came with strutting around when I was that age. Now I have to be conscious of sucking in my belly fat, being called ma'am and looking like a mom nearing forty. It sucks man.

I used to think I was pretty cool. Like I rode the back of the bus, flew by the seat of my pants. Now, not so much I guess. Instead, I sit closer to the front of the bus just in case I miss my stop and the seat of my pants, well, they're much larger than they used to be, and I've realized I'm a little afraid of flying. What can you do??

Despair

Today I just want to give up. I want to slink home to my bedroom, turn off the lights and close the drapes and crawl under the covers. Maybe I will never come out again. I can't do this. I can't be a great mom and a brilliant employee and a loving, sexy partner all at once. I can't seem to get even one of them right, because when I try the other plates all drop. I am like the lame, creepy juggler at the carnival that everyone is embarrassed to watch because they know he is going to drop everything. I am tired and heart-wrenchingly sad and so desperate to just quit.

My Beautifuls

I'm worn to a frazzle. Perhaps it's my own fault (well, no perhaps about it. Blame can be placed squarely in my corner, for first, having 5 kids--the last two when I was over 34, and second, for working full time--out of the home).

No matter how much I want to look polished and glamorous, walking briskly in to work in my red patent leather heels, swinging my perfectly worn brief case, I end up looking like a haggard, harried shell of a woman with a fragile hold on reality. 

But I do have beauty in my life. And some days, for that, at least, I'm grateful. 

My beautifuls.

My babies.

Of course, I'm not home from work yet. They're always more gorgeous from afar!

Exhaustion

Exhaustion comes in all shapes and sizes. My source of exhaustion, I mean bone tired, can't move another muscle exhaustion, just happens to come disguised as a sweet little girl, all twenty five pounds of her. Oh my God, I don't know how I could ever have had two small children under two years old, and actually have managed.

Maybe my memory isn't that great, but truly, honestly, cross-my-heart, I never, ever, remember feeling this exhausted. By the time my first child was 20 months old, my second was five months old...I know, insanity. But for some reason, it worked, rather smoothly, and with relative order, most of the time. Now I have only one small person to contend with and I can't even seem to spend 10 consecutive minutes sitting for a meal.

It has to be something to do with age, and being too tired to really give a crap most of the time. Not like when I was in my twenties, and keeping things in control seemed to be so much more important, plus I guess I had the energy. I could hold out longer, put up with a hell of a lot more than I can now. Surprisingly, I think my patience may have been better (and really I'm not the most patient person in the world). I wanted to win then, be a really good mom, who did most things on some kind of a schedule. Now, I'm too tired to even think about planning a schedule, let alone carrying one out.

A number of my friends have had children after 35 and they all seem to concur, that the child or children they have after 35 seem to be a little more difficult to deal with. I guess if it's one's first child they don't really have anything to measure it by. It's not that I remember everything as being perfect, running smoothly all of the time. On the contrary, I was close to berserk those first three years or so, but man did I rule with an iron will, and fist.

Now my iron fist, has gotten a little fluffy and my will is waning. Mostly I'm too tired to argue too long, and frankly I can't stand the noise of it anymore. So, more often than not, I cave, I just give up. I feed my crazy child, spoonfuls of food as she zings by my chair. I don't often ensure that she has all of the food groups each day, I do my best but, mostly I am just freakin' happy that she has something in her tummy by bedtime.

Oh, my poor old body is getting tired. My arms feel like lead, my eyes are heavy by 8pm and the thought of picking up one more little disaster she has left behind makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

I don't know what I was thinking. Did I really believe that running around after another small child so many years after the first would be easy? I actually, do believe I was delusional enough to think, "come on, I've done it before, how much harder could it be now?" Well it is harder, much, much harder. Now my recovery isn't as quick, a couple of sleepless nights or in my case sleepless years really does a number on you.

Everyday I look in the mirror hoping things are going to start to look up, they don't. Instead I know another day is just around the corner, and by this time again tomorrow, I'll still be as exhausted as I am today.

Being a Mom

You know, I never wanted to be known only as a mom. I promised myself when I had children that I would still be me, stay true to who I thought I was, and not turn into one of those pinched faced women who gossip over back fences. No, not me. I was going to stay cool, stay hip, stay young and with it...well as long as my hips stayed young that is. I never wanted the first thing that sprung to mind when people asked about me, was my children, but my children are always the first thing that comes into my head when someone asks about me.

It's funny really. I honestly fought the notion that being a mom would define me, but it has. It permeates my life, my artwork, my friendships, it is who I am, who I've become. Of course I still fight it sometimes, struggle against giving in to it, yet at the same time I can be nothing else if I am not a mom. Being a mother has made me who I am, which is not always good, and never ever perfect. It has left me feeling more human than I think anything else could.

I was a student once, a thinking, struggling student, who was hungry to learn. And at this same time I was still a mother. I remember the feeling I got when I was in University, and the students whom I was surrounded by were at least 10 yrs younger. I felt nearly invisible most of the time, unimportant, like my motherhood gave them license to feel my thoughts were no longer as valuable. I think that is when I probably clung most desperately to being a mother, when I realized what being a mother meant to my life.

I still don't want to be the kind of mom who has stopped her own life in lieu of her children's. I still want to feel like a woman, but I guess that it can no longer mean feeling like a woman without children. This can be terrifying some days. It's been so long I can't remember what I felt like when it was just me. When all I had to think about was what I needed or wanted. There are days when I long to really, truly remember those moments, and to have them again. But of course this would mean I was not a mother, and I can't picture that. For, I am a mother.

Being a mother, is nothing like I could ever have imagined. It is much harder, more joyous, way scarier than I could ever have been prepared for. Soon I will have spent more than half my life being a mother, more of my memories will be of my children, than of my youth.

Those early memories will fade, new ones will come, and in the end what I think about most is what it means for me, to be a mom. My youthful thoughts have been replaced. Now I think about how age, and experience has changed my vision of motherhood. How motherhood envelopes one's life, whether you want it to, or expect it to. I think about what little thought I had given to being a mother before I became one, and now being a mom I finally realize how it changes your life forever. For me, it has become who I am, rather than what I am.

Happy Father's Day, Mom

So I don't have a father. I mean, strictly speaking, I have a father. But honestly, sperm donor is a much more adequate description, though cliched. He physically left when I was about 3 years old, but from what I can tell, he'd really left a long time before then. 

I saw him once, again, when I was 18. And I called him to tell him I was pregnant, with my third child. After that, nothing. He has said, in no uncertain terms, that he doesn't give a rat's ass if I'm alive or dead, something along the lines of, "You're not my child." 

So I don't have a father. Instead, I have a mother. She was it. She was my all in all. And, while she may have wobbled in some of the elements, she stuck the landing. 

So this post is to say Happy Father's Day to all the moms doing it alone. Happy Father's Day to all the single moms struggling to raise their kids, make ends meet, and have a life. Happy Father's Day to those amazing women who find a way to be both parents to their kids. 

But most of all, Happy Father's Day to my mom. You done good girl.

Where are Max and Ruby's parents?

This isn't a new question, but having been subjected to several episodes of Max and Ruby over the last week, the answer is clear. They ran. They couldn't stand one more minute of their daughter's pedantic simpering and saccharine self-righteousness. The little bitch just doesn't shut up. And frankly, no parent should have to be constantly reminded of how wrong they may be doing things. They are the parents for fuck sakes! They have every right to be grumpy, hell, even screw up once in a while. But no, they have to have the high-pitched running parental commentary of a seven year old dremmelling into their brain. And really, when you have an over-functioning type-A little princess running things and constantly trying to parent her dim-witted and verbally challenged 3 year old brother, why stick around?

So, where are Max and Ruby's parents?
In Vegas, getting hammered and laid and trying to forget they have children at all.

Father's Day Shmother's Day

Okay, okay, okay, I know I already sound like a bitch, but I guess we have to be open to equality here when it comes to acknowledging, made-up, useless, forced holidays like Father's Day and Mother's Day. It's just another opportunity to make us face our parenting ups and downs, measured of course by the kinds of cards and gifts we receive, if in fact we receive any at all.

Well, I'm glad to say that we have a fantastic dad in our house, I mean a fabulous, committed father. Made only more wonderful by the fact that he is a step dad to my children, but treats them as though they are his own. He doesn't differentiate, he makes good on any promise he makes to any of them, his biological children or non-biological children. He's a good man.

My children are lucky enough to have two father's in their lives. Their dad is also a big part of their lives, the fun parts only of course. He doesn't have to worry about whether one of them needs to get to the doctor, the dentist, the orthodontist, a guitar lesson or anything else that requires him not having fun. Instead he usually holds off and sees them when it's a weekend preferably a long weekend, and he will pick them up at a lesson, if I get them there, barring there is no rush hour traffic for him to fight. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's a gem!

So now I get to the real point. What constitutes a father? Is it simple biology, or is it measured by the same sort of investment mother's make to their children? It just really pisses me off that the man who stood their while I pushed his gigantic headed children out of my body, now barely knows them. And honestly doesn't even seem to give a shit that he is losing them, that they are slowing sliding out of his grip. They'll soon stand before him virtual strangers, and it will be too late.

He stopped over today and gave me this long winded description of how disappointed he is in our son. Apparently he has a bad attitude. God, that's hard to say, our son. Sometimes it feels as though the kids have only always been mine, where he's concerned, and now suddenly, he's fucking disappointed. Give me a break.

What does he expect, that he has been able to slip in and out of the kids lives like a dream and now he should be the centre of their universe? I highly doubt that will be the outcome.

We as mother's spend our days, our lives as parents, being parents. Yes, there are also plenty of father's out there who give and do as much as any mother, my husband honestly being one who is very, very committed. I guess I am just furious that their biological dad is given the title, and gets to share in much of the great stuff when he falls short in so many other areas.

Now my son, our son, gets to spend part of Father's Day with his dad. It's great, I'm glad they get to do this. But now this young boy is being put in a position that I was put in with my mother as a child so many times. He'll be expected to hand over a card, say the right things, and feel the right things, because this holiday says so. Does he feel them? I don't really know, I do know he loves his dad, but is growing increasingly further from him everyday. I just think it is unfair that we are made to feel things about these made-up holidays, that more often than not point out that we are just not cutting the mustard as parents, or kids.

Anyway, in light of my own bitterness...I do hope everyone is with someone they love this weekend, father or not.

It is so fucking unfair

There are so many tragedies of divorce. It was the single most difficult thing I have had to do in my life to decide to end our nuclear family, knowing that I would not see my children all of the time. I spend those days without them aching for them, missing them so deeply and completely that I feel physical pain. But here is the true tragedy; regardless of how much I missed them, how much they missed me, as soon as we are together we step right back into the function and dysfunction of a 'regular' family. It can be literally within minutes of seeing them again that we have fallen into the patterns of sibling fights and parental frustration, of not listening and consequences, of "but its not my mess' and 'because I said so'. And I am so sad and so angry. Shouldn't we all be on our best behaviour? Shouldn't we recognize how precious and tenuous our time is? And I feel that it is all of us. I know that I can set the expectation and the mood and influence much of the interaction, but I can't do it all. And mostly I fuck it up. They are girls and they at the age where they are needing to challenge and they are aware and yet unaware of the role they play in the family. I am so desperately sad that this is what our time has become and I can't help believing it would be different somehow if we were in a nuclear family.

Blowing the Lid Off This Thing!

I'm a mother, so naturally I believe in conspiracy theories. I mean, come on....there's no possible way there was a single shooter in that library annex. And, find me someone in the western world who didn't think that those first American moon landing photos looked like they were taken on a Hollywood back lot? I dare you to try to convince me that Kentucky Fried Chicken doesn't add some kind of ingredient that makes it irresistible? And really, the world is round? I wanna know who perpetuated that doozy? 

But easily, the most shocking, yet under reported and least discussed conspiracy of them all is, "The Motherhood Mood." Some one, some where (I don't want to point fingers or name names, but my investigations have led me to believe that this destructive dialog was started by someone with a penis) created a myth that really pisses me off: mothers are all deliriously happy to, first, be pregnant, then to give birth, and finally, to have our lives, our thoughts, our hopes, dreams, needs, and desires eternally altered. In short, we aren't allowed to say we're angry, disappointed, lonely, frustrated, sad, or just plain pissed. We've been robbed of our right to the honest expression of our feelings. We've been made into the Stepford Moms. 

So I'm going to shatter the conspiracy, at great personal risk (in fact, as I sit here typing, I expect the CIA or CSIS to break down the door, unplug my keyboard, and slap my hand.)

This myth is so deeply entrenched in our psyches that our greatest oppressors are ourselves, and each other. Woman against woman (and not in the porn mud wrestling pit way, either. This is worse). We find little ways to diminish each other--we judge each other by our children's progress. Come on, you've been there. When one of your sisters, or friends, or even your mother says, "Frankie's not potty trained?! Oh. Too bad! I'm so lucky! Jocelyn was completely trained  by the time she was 19 months. Oh yeah...even night-trained. She was so easy! Are you giving him stickers? Oh, well, I'm sure he'll do it someday." 

Or, we judge each other's decision to stay home or work. This can be cruel and particularly vicious. Some how, if I decide to work, I must be making the statement that my needs are more important than my kids, and that being at home isn't good enough for me, and that I think I'm more enlightened than a stay-at-home mom, thus it threatens women who decide to stay at home. Alternately, if you decide to stay at home, you must be making some comment on my commitment to my children, and how much of a better mother you are for sacrificing everything you need for your kids (and you never complain because that would undermine your position). It also must suggest that my working somehow threatens you and makes you less valuable to society. 

Or, what about, when we get together and we rake our eyes over each other to assess hairstyles, fashion, manicures, and tan lines--and that's just after we've checked out each others kids. My critical eye hasn't fallen on the mom yet! What kind of stroller do you push? What's your opinion on cloth or disposable? Do you have them in soccer, guitar, gymnastics, painting? And are you coaching or teaching any of these activities?

What's happened to us? Why do we do this to ourselves and each other? Who robbed us of our voices and why aren't we fighting to get them back? Every one else, every one else, on the planet whines, snivels, and cries about their jobs and their responsibilities--from my kindergartener to the President of the United States. But not us moms. Any expression that things aren't just 100% super-peachy-keen-super-awesome-fantastic and we're letting the world down. It's a conspiracy I tell you!

When I express my dissatisfaction with being a mother, a working mother, a working mother and wife, people are shocked and horrified. I once told my mother-in-law that while I loved my family deeply, they just weren't enough. They simply didn't complete me. She just sat there in horror looking at me as if I'd just grown a third boob. 

I want to say, without fear of reprisal (from other moms or some secret CIA agency): 

• Why don't men hear a sick child during the night? 
  
• Why does the responsibility for dentist appointments fall to me? 
  
• If I have to tell him that he needs to pick up diapers on the way home from work, I might as well just do it myself! 
  
• I'm angry that my husband can walk away from the house and our family, and not worry that things will get done and people will be taken care of. 
  
• I want to weep and pummel my husband (not necessarily in that order) when, at 3:00 AM I have to (again) tell him that no, he can't actually put the pillow cases and sheets full of  vomit straight in the washing machine, while I'm sitting with a 4 year old who's puking in a bucket (and all over me). 
• Why does gender define the household chores? It makes me crazy that vagina=cooking and cleaning toilets and penis=snow shoveling and washing the car. 
• I'm lonely and tired, and I hate that I have nothing of my own!! Nothing! 
• I can't bear being responsible for everything! The weight is too much. Sometimes I feel so heavy from everyone's expectations that I can barely move my limbs.
• I just wanna take a pee all by myself--no company, no interruptions, no fingers under the door, and no frantic knocking shouting about how bad they gotta go. Just me, my bladder, and a People magazine!

So every mom, every where, throw off the shackles of this conspiracy! It doesn't make you a BAD MOMMY to say, "Today, I was a bad mommy, and, yah know, it wasn't too bad!" Or, "Oh, just screw it! If I have to go to one more f#*&ing PTA meeting I'm going to hurt somebody." Or, "You work out, I work in, what the hell, we both work--let's get drunk!" Or better yet, "Honey, if you have kids and can manage to brush your teeth in the morning and get the little beggars to school less that 15 minutes late, you are the Martha Stewart of parenthood! Good on ya! Now go congratulate yourself with a scotch!"  

Wipe that frozen, icy Jesus-I-love-every-single-little-thing-about-my-life smile (that doesn't reach any where near your wild trapped-in-this-life eyes) off your face and let's overthrow this conspiracy. The Stepford Moms may have great hair, but girls, nice hair won't give you a tenth of the satisfaction you'll get when you tell your husband that you hate cleaning the goddamn toilets, so for the rest of your parenthood together, every Saturday he can clean those greasy receptacles and make sure the kids get lunch, 'cause you'll be at the car wash for two hours (because, that's just how long  it takes!). 

Where the hell is IT?

And no I am not talking about my groove thing...frankly I'm too damn tired from looking for my family's shit to even thing about any kind of a groove thing!! Not only am I constantly looking for other people's crap, I am losing almost anything I put down and walk away from. I am starting to think there is an evil conspiracy in my house...someone trying to make me look crazy enough to have me committed? Maybe. Wouldn't blame them of course.

Anything from, books, shoes, underwear, coats...the list is truly endless. Sometimes my loving family even has the audacity to call me when I've had the opportunity to escape briefly, to ask me if I've seen their shit!! And if I have, could I please, please, please let them know where it is and then remember that too. I am sort of pointing fingers here, mostly at my husband. Apparently the man can remember just about anything, except for where he puts stuff. Meaningless stuff mostly, but somehow he thinks I have this Rain man sort of thing going on when it comes to remembering asinine things, like where people put their gloves. Well at least I'm good for something, I guess.

On the other hand I can't remember where I've put anything myself, at any given moment. Be it, my now, ice cold cup of coffee, or my keys, which I only use about three thousand times a day. I misplace them...every sickening time I walk away. I am almost always completely unable to remember why I've entered a room, or why I've gone upstairs or downstairs. I am beginning to get a little worried, so you must understand my thoughts on a conspiracy here, right?

I think on average I spend at least 60% of my day looking for stuff, and I mean really earnestly looking. No wonder I can barely get anything else done around here. Well losing shit, trying to find it, and blogging are probably equal contributors to my issue. It's just that one is so much more enjoyable than the others.

Some days I just picture myself sitting cross legged in the middle of the living room. Waiting for someone, anyone, to help me find the stuff I am in search of, maybe at the same time they could help me find my sanity?

It's Been a Dry Coupla Seasons

How I miss my husband. Back in the day, way, way, back in the day, we used to be good friends, and man, did we have fun together. We'd go hiking, camping, climbing. We'd do crosswords together stretched across the living room floor, read the paper together on Saturday mornings, mix each other dirty martinis, with 7 olives each, go dancing at least once a week and drink jugs and jugs of sweet, tangy Sangria, and have crazy foreign film festivals in the bedroom, eating Chinese, Vietnamese, or German take-out on top of the blankets.  

And we had sex. Did we have sex! Mad, delicious, breathtaking sex. On the covers, under the covers, standing up, sitting down, in the shower, in the bath, the kitchen, the basement, the living room floor with the curtains open. Once, twice, and during the film festivals, sometimes five times a day. Just watching him walk, seeing his legs or back or stomach made my heart (and parts somewhat lower) clench and ache. I wanted to touch him all the time. Even doing the dishes together was sexy. The promise of wet hands and soft soapy bubbles.......

Now? Yeah. Now. Not so much. 

Now? It's been a dry coupla seasons. The closest I get to spending any of the precious time we used to have together is watching him hike a screaming preschooler to her room for a time-out, or seeing him cornered at the kitchen table doing math homework, or when he's downing a cup of scalding coffee before running the next kid to the next lesson. And film festivals? At best, it's Finding Nemo with take-out pizza, and 5 twitchy kids. I only catch a glimpse of my still sexy husband as he's carrying a load of laundry downstairs, or reading a bedtime story, or drying off some little, chubby body, that's not his own (damn, damn, double-damn! Toweling off was always one of my favorite spectator sports!) 

And as far as sex, were lucky if we get to do the silent, three-minute bump-and-grind once a month. Under the covers. In the dark. And way, way past bedtime. Now, I know what you're thinking! It's pretty shocking. I can hardly believe it myself....we're SILENT! 

Absolutely silent sex. No heaving, heavy breathing. No gasping, panting, swearing, imploring, or grunting. Just tight-lipped silence. In fact, I think we might both hold our breath the entire time (we may not get a lot of exercise, but these monthly trysts are certainly increasing my lung capacity). We bonk in fear that, 1. the kids will hear, and 2. the kids will hear and subsequently wake up and ruin what might be an adequate nights sleep! And as any sane mother knows, sleep before sex, sleep before sex!!

I just wanna throw off the shackles of motherhood (and throw the shackles on my husbands wrists). The damn kids not only took my body, took my time, and took my money, they took my groove thing!!

So, I'm going to employ a tactic I've noticed has worked very effectively for my children. When in a particularly sensitive location, like, a parent-teacher interview or the Christmas concert or a birthday party at McDonald's, for instance, I'm going to have a world-class, eardrum-shattering tantrum:

I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!!!! EVERYBODY AT WORK HAS A GROOVE THING!!! I WANT ONE TOO!!! I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! I WANT IT BACK!!!! YOU SAID!!!

I'll let you know how it works for me. And if you happen to find yourself in the same locale as me when I am implementing my plan, please, for my sake, and the sake of all of us, and your future ability to get jiggy with it, join in. Our future sex lives depend upon it!

Girls to Women

Lately I've been doing a fair bit of reading on mothering. Not the kind of reading that is instructional, I can barely follow a bloody recipe, so I can't imagine the pressure of trying to follow rules on how to be a better mother. Plus I am reasonably lazy and I think, having had three children, all of whom have survived so far, I must be doing something right. They may need years of therapy, but hey, no one's perfect.

The reading I have been doing is mostly on how women view motherhood, relationships with their children, and how women are viewed from the general public, once they become mothers. I have been focusing in on mother/child relationships, probably because I no longer have a relationship with my own mother. I am, to say the least, worried, worried about how my relationship, or lack there of with my own mother, will affect my relationship with my children, my daughters in particular. I know, I know, there is always so much of a focus placed on mother/daughter relationships and mother/son relationships tend to seem as though they are overlooked.

This is definitely not the case. I have spend equal amounts of time dissecting my mothering and my relationship with both my son and daughters...it's just that I find it curious that most women who have daughters have the same fears I do. Will we have a good, decent relationship when they are grown? How will our later relationship play out? With my son, I don't seem to have these concerns, at least not yet. We are close, he seems strong, confident and sure of who he is and where he belongs in the world, although he is just a mere twelve years old.

My eldest daughter is the opposite unfortunately, and for this I am concerned. She seems to be much less self-assured, afraid to be who she wants to be. I am not sure whether this is simply a product of culture, home environment or in born personality. I have always thought we have given the two older kids anyway, a chance to be who they are, regardless of what anyone else thinks. I have as strong a relationship with her as well. I guess my biggest fear is that somehow along the way it is going to become frayed, tarnished somehow. I understand that of course I am a much different parent than my own mother was able to be, but the fear still draws me in.

As women raising daughters we are often made to feel like we have to force some kind of separation, push them to be strong, at the same time we push them away from us. Why is it that we want strong , confident young women to emerge, but the only way we seem to know how to do this is by severing the attachment to mother somehow? I shouldn't generalize I guess. It's just in asking a number of other moms who are raising girls if they have ever felt this way, the answer is often yes. This has caused much confusion for me, where I am not sure how or why I need my daughter to feel this kind of separation. I read this passage recently and it sums things up quite nicely.

Separation and autonomy are not equivalent: a person need not separate from mothers emotionally to be autonomous. Under the dominion of experts, mothers are urged to create a separation and disconnection from daughters that their daughters do not want. Early childhood and adolescence are the two stages of life where separation has been decreed as imperative to the independence and autonomy of children. To mother "right", women disconnect from their daughters and begin to see them as society will. Rather than strengthen girls this breach of trust leaves girls weakened and adrift.

-Elizabeth Debold, Marie Wilson, and Idelisse Malave

I guess what I want most for her, for all of them really, is to be able to know and understand who they are, and why they make the choices they do. I have been a good mother, a good female role model to all of them, I think. Probably what stumps me the most is that I have not been shown how to do it, how to let my children follow my lead, and feel confident about what I offer them. It is enough, will it prepare them for what they will need as they become adults? And in this will our relationships stay strong, or will I continue to try to separate in the name of independence? I hope I do not. Though I do hope more than anything, that they will want for themselves all that I want for them. To know that they are worthy of the kind of happiness that fills their lives up.

I want to be able to balance these lessons as their mother, to stay connected and not feel this pull do force them away from me. Sometimes I wish I could be guided, that there were clear rights and wrongs. That when mistakes are made they don't come back to haunt you years later, which of course they do.

All I hope for is that my girls, and my boy, will know I did the best I could, and that I was always interested in doing better. I wanted to learn more about how to make things different for them than they were for me. And that above all, I've loved them, every agonizing step of the way.

Attack of the Killer Muskrats

Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!!!

I know. I know! Stay-at-home parenting is the hardest, most thankless job on the planet, and stay-at-home mom's deserve the $130,000 odd dollars a year for everything they do. I know. I know! 

I have a solid 12 years of the job myself! I did it all, and often all alone.

So when I went back to work, about 8 months ago, it was purely because if I had to volunteer one more time at pre-school, go on one more play date with a mom I could barely tolerate, exchange brownie recipes one more time, or be scorned by some group of anal, twittering woman at the Mommy and Me Club, while their precious little gnats terrorized one of my kids, one more goddamn time, I was going to commit a highly dangerous and likely illegal act (I had fantasies of running around pell mell punching every single well-groomed, pasty-smiled mom right in the nose and relishing the veritable blood fountain I'd created). In other words, I went back to work to save my sanity, and prevent future jail-time.

But, here I am, at work, with crushing deadlines, a psychotic boss, and more hours of overtime than I'll be able to fit into one day, and I know that when I get home I'll still have to do the "housekeeping, cooking, laundry, driving kids around, and managing the household."

My life's a mess (Literally. I mean, you should see my dust bunnies. No. Not bunnies. These babies have graduated from dust bunnies to dust muskrats. In fact, if I don't vacuum, I sure that one of these days, one of these monsters is going to consume my 4 year old.)

Now, the obvious question is, "What about your husband? Doesn't he help?" Well, yeeeessss. Kinda. He's a good man, and I love him, but he can't even fold a dishtowel. He burns or spills nearly everything he cooks. And it takes him roughly three hours to sweep and wash the kitchen floor, during which time, if anyone, anyone makes a move toward the kitchen he gets agitated, then he and the mop start twitching and the speckles of moisture start to fly (some from the mop, but most from his heaving jaws! Which, needless to say, creates more of a mess for me to clean up--plus it takes the rest of the day to help the kids recover from their post-traumatic mop disorder.) 

I know the debate is hot and heavy--working moms versus stay-at-home moms. Each group staunchly in their corners, defending their right to do the job they think serves them and their family best (It's the one's that try to tell me what's best for me and my family that really get my blood boiling. Not that I'm cowed! When your kids wake up Saturday morning and cry because it's not a daycare day, you feel pretty comfortable that the preachy-holier-than-thou-stay-at-home-mom-moms, or vice versa--I've been on both sides of the debate--don't have a sturdy leg to stand on). However, I don't want to wade into those waters right now (I'm too damn busy!), but sister, let me tell you. It ain't easy being a working mom either. 

Even though my brain is fried, and dinner is fried, and the vacuum will be fried (when I finally try to tackle those muskrats lurking under the furniture and behind doors), I value my ability to forge a life for myself. And really, with me as their mother, one way or another, whether I stay home with them, or work, their going to need therapy, at least this way, I'll be able to pay for it.

Just Eat and Jiggle

God, my body is so not like it used to be... before I had kids. And to think I used to bitch and complain about a dimple here and ripple there. What I would give now to have a third of the muscle tone, and the semi-smooth skin that once covered my ever growing thighs.

I used to turn around and around in the mirror just to find imperfections. Now all I have to do is quickly swing my head to look, and gravity takes over. I am suddenly able to see my back-half without even turning around.

I truly had no idea skin could hold so much loose matter together, without it dropping completely to my ankles. The little bit of muscle tone I once had is a distant memory, and believe me I never had that much. Now I can hold up the loose skin that holds my chub together and it kinda looks smooth and somewhat taut....well it's just an illusion, but whatever it takes to get me through the day.

The other morning, I got out of the shower and just for fun I thought I would see how all of my hard work is paying off, bad idea. Don't try this at home, anyone, ever. I stood there, full length image of my own naked body staring back at me, stood, feet planted, and jiggled, and jiggled...and jiggled. Holy shit, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It is kind of like taking a mirror and looking at your freshly, just gave birth vagina, terrifying to say the least.

What do I have to do to get this stuff to firm up, or at least slow down in fleshy-jello department?

So I've decided the only thing left for me to do is , accept this, yes accept it. In the meantime I am going to keep on eating, enjoying wine...and above all keep jiggling!!

I Was a Young Mom Once, Honest!!

Hard to believe, when I look in the mirror at the end of a long day, that I was once a young fresh-faced mom, with energy abound. Now thirteen-some-odd years later, I am a somewhat new mom again, to a third child (my lovely twenty month old daughter). Only now I have more wrinkles, more grey hair and more stretch marks than you can shake a stick at. And yes, I have less energy, less patience and I am quickly losing ground on all I thought I knew as a young mom.

I'm not sure whether it was pure naivety or just youth that got me through, virtually unscathed with my first two. Now, many years later, everything I thought I knew, I have to relearn. And I am tired, really tired.

There are days when I sit and observe new , young moms, obviously with their first child. Both well dressed, hair neatly coiffed, with their sweet sing-song voices, trailing after their lovely rosy-cheeked children. You rarely, if ever, hear them snarling at their sweet angels, to "please, bloody-well behave themselves". Instead they ask, repeat, and then go through all of , by the book steps, in order to get their child to comply with their loving request.

Then, spot the experienced moms, they are recognized from a mile away. Usually frazzled, with hair half hanging out of their onion elastic pony-tail holder. Which of course is all they could find since their wonderful babes took what was left of their good elastics, for science projects, themselves or to use as weapons against each other. The sing-song voice has turned into a hoarse shriek that could paralyze the deaf. And finally, their wardrobe consists mostly of clothes which their children are most definitely mortified by. The last, only because they have not a spare moment to replace what they have been hanging onto for years, and the thought of shopping with a small child could break even the most seasoned shoppers.

Well I am no longer a young mom, I think they now refer to us as mature mothers. Women who have been crazy enough to have a child after 35. Whether it is a first child, a third, fourth or fifth, that you have after this golden age, it is much different than parenting in your twenties.

When you are in your late thirties or in your forties, you now know what life is about, you've become slightly more selfish about your time ( what little you have). You, in other words, know what you are missing. Quiet afternoons enjoying a good book, uninterrupted. A long bath, without an audience. All of those things we took for granted before we had kids, or at least when our first batch of kids were independent enough to know when to leave us the hell alone, and before we'd decided to try this new-parent thing all over again.

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled to be experiencing parenting from a whole new perspective, it's just that I kinda miss being that young fabulous mom, I think I was??

The Price of a Mother

"The services of the average stay-at-home mom- including housekeeping, cooking, doing laundry, driving kids around, and managing the household- would amount to an annual income of $138,095."— Salary.com

Sent in by Edie, Thanks.

Say What?!

So, wanna hear a regular conversation I continue to have with people? All people. People I know but haven't seen for a while, people who are complete strangers to me, people I'm related to and have known me since before I had pubic hair? 

This isn't a topic I choose to discuss, and honestly, would rather not hear people's deeply held convictions about, but telling the cashier at Safeway or the preschool teacher or my aunt to shut the f@#* up, and mind their own damn business tends to create difficulties in my daily life--like bad service or having the dogs set on me. So I do what other good, polite Canadian girls do. I smile, nod my head, and at the soonest possible moment, I change the subject. 

So, what, you ask, is this mystery topic? Well, for anyone who has more than 2.5 kids, this is going to sound familiar, but for the rest of you, listen up, and listen good: 

"Oh. Are these all you children?! All of them. I mean, your actual children?" Now, as a point of fact they are my biological children--meaning I did squeeze them out of my body, every single one of the little termites, and I have the saggy vagina to show for it--but does it never occur to these vapid dunces that even if I'd adopted every single one of them they'd still be my actual children!

I nod my head as my eyes glaze, "Yes, they're my children. Mmmhmmm, all 5 of them." Then, it comes. The real kicker (and there's always a good chance that the next person who says this to me is going to be the kickee!), "You do know what causes it, don't you?! Tee hee hee!" 

Now, how do I adequately answer this inane question? 

• "Yes. Yes I do know what causes it. Thanks for inquiring."
  
• "Ummm, actually, just between you and me, I've never figured it out. Why? Can you tell me? Why does it happen? Why do I have so many, and is there a way to stop having more?!"
  
• "Yes I do. Would you like me to explain it to you?"
  
• "Well, what happens is this: when sexually aroused, a man's penis engorges with blood causing an erection. When erect, a penis can enter a woman's vagina, preferably lubricated. Then through a series of thrusts and parries, often accompanied by grunting, the man ejaculates semen, a viscose liquid, which carries sperm, into his female partner. At which point....." 
  

I'm tired of this. I'm really tired of it. Whether they were all planned or all accidents, whether they have five different fathers or one father is nobodies business. I don't want to hear the political argument that it's someone's business because they pay school tax or medical premiums which support my kids, or the social argument that the world is overpopulated and I'm being reckless. Really? Really? What can you say to that? Detail the list of things that we all pay taxes for? Point out who'll be the tax payers when these nosy bastard are decrepit? Ask for a detailed account of what they own, what they drive, what they smoke, where they go and how they get there? Honestly, hypocrisy is not only sad, it's rather funny. Poor little meddling pea-brains. 

What is it about becoming a mother that makes you public property? It starts when we're pregnant. As soon as a woman is showing, everyone, Everyone, starts to touch. Poking and prodding and patting, like your a bloody loaf of bread. With the touching, comes a sense of ownership that gives these interlopers the self-proclaimed permission to counsel, advise, and just plain boss.

Now, I can grasp that in this day and age, 5 kids seems outrageous, maybe selfish, or maybe selfless, but unless we give each other the permission to invade each other's personal lives and space about everything--"Oh, are you going to eat both those cheeseburgers? or "Gee, you have tiny little breasts," pat, pat, pat or "Oh my God, you stink of B.O. do you know what deodorant is?" or "You do know you're stupid, don't you? Tee hee hee!"--people should just tuck their lower lips around their tiny little heads, and leave me, my kids, and my uncontrollable libido alone!

Or, they could be honest, and say what they're really thinking, "What are you, crazy?" At least, then, we'd agree on something!

Things I've Learned

Boy, there's a whole lot of things I've learned, somethings useful, others, not-so-much.

I've learned from some wise old women (namely our mothers), never to test for a shitty bum by sticking your index finger into the side of a squirmy child's diaper. You're liable to come out with a finger full of the good stuff. Sniff instead. It might look bad, but hey would rather have a finger covered in shit?

Never, ever brag or appear to brag about how well your sweet little muffin sleeps through the night. This will only a guarantee that they will not sleep through the night again until they are in grade 6.

Never let your children think you are too flexible, no matter the age (this includes newborns). If they even get a whiff of flexibility, they are going to make you bend. Forwards, backwards, even inside-out, and they'll get all sorts of pleasure out of it.

Try not to, for even a second, think your child is incapable of certain questionable things. They are swift, cunning little creatures, who delight in our inability to believe they are anything but perfect (come on, we've all been there, with little Tommy's mom, who says her child couldn't possibly do something like that).

Finally and most importantly (at least to my sanity these days), never test a 20 month old. Walk on egg shells if you must in order to get through the day (this is one thing that overrides the flexibility rule). Give in, feed them lollipops, Popsicles, do whatever it takes to keep the little beggar from putting you into a straight jacket before your time.

I hope this helps! If anyone has any other wonderful words of encouragement, please share. And if it is only to tell us how fabulous and stress free it is raising your children, keep it to yourself (haha).

Darlene and Gloria

"Helllou....Oh, hiya Honey. How you doin' today? Mmmm, he did? He said that? What's wrong with men? Does all that play fighting when they're young knock their damn brains around 'til they just loose inside their skull? Sometimes, they're just as thick as fence-posts! I know just how you feel. Why just yesterday, after I got back from having my nails done, Harvey said to me....Oh, my, just hang on a minute...what's that Georgie? Oh My God. I gotta go Gloria. Georgie just had a big number 2, it's kinda leaking out his diaper....oooooo, I really gotta run. He's making little poo tracks down the hall. STOP! GEORGIE!! STOP MOVING!! GEORGIE! YOU STOP RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!! I'll call you back, sweetie."

"Hi Gloria, it's just me again. Do you have a few minutes? I've got to tell you the craziest story. Yeah. Good. Grab a coffee because this may take a little bit. Mmmm, yah real cream in coffee is soooo gooood. What kind do you use? Oooooooo, Honey, I like the sound of that! Whaddya call it again? Yeah, save me the tin so I can see the label. Oh. Yeah. The poo. 

Well, anyway, after I hung up, I chased Georgie down the hall. He'd made it to our room and was trying to pull himself up on our bed. I'm going to have to wash all the sheets now, and I just did them 2 days ago, oh and our drier's on the fritz so I have to line dry 'em, and it's suppose to rain today. Goddamn! And why my side of the bed anyway? It's the farthest away from the door? 

So anyway, Honey, I dragged him off to the bathroom to change him, and he's kicking and screaming. He just hates to be changed now. Ever since he started walking he's a fiend. He twists and arches and kicks. It's awful, and when I'm frustrated it's even worse. I just want to let the little bugger sit in it, you know? Or conk him on the noggin to get him to shut up and lay still long enough for me to get the job done.

So, like I said, I drag him off to change him, and I just get him laid down and I got a clean diaper and those nice smelling Johnson's wipes....mmmhhmmm, them flushable ones. Makes it so much easier just to flush them than to think about poopy wipes sitting in the kitchen garbage. Pardon Honey? Oh yeah, me and Harvey got one of those diaper pails, but Harvey hates all that twisting, and he thinks it's just stupid to have to buy special little bags for the damn thing, so it's sitting outside the backdoor with the snow shovel, rake, and the old handle and float from the upstairs toilet we had to replace in June. That man never cleans up anything. 

Anyway, I've just got Georgie down, and I had to lay him on a towel! There was no way I wanted poo on the bathroom carpet. We just had that replaced. So, like I said, I was just undoing the pull-tabs when he kicks me real hard, right between the boobs. Well I'm just trying to catch my breath and hold him down, 'cause he's squirming like a demon now and the diaper is half off. All this wet poo is dripping and little bits are flying everywhere. Well, I just yell at him to lay still and grab him, but he wiggles and I get a handful of the diaper. So now I have poo all over my hand, and Gloria, Honey, it was under my fingernails. Now that's just horrible. Isn't it? So I'm gagging as I get a good hold of him and lay him flat, I think I kinda scared the little bugger, 'cause he started crying. And the doorbell rings. 

Well, I hate not to answer the door, and I was expecting an Avon delivery, yeah, Honey, that Peachy Keen lipstick that Joyce has, mmmmhhmmm. I do love that color. So I quickly wipe up Georgie and run my hands under the tap. 'Course he's not completely wiped. You know that little spot right under their scrotum, where you have to move the little sack back and forth to get it real clean? It's still not clean, and I can smell that he's still kinda foul, so I put him in his crib for a bit and run to answer the door.

Well, it's not the Avon lady. It's the Jehovah's. Sweet Jesus those people show up at the worst times. Anyway, I am standing there trying to nicely get the old broad to go away, smiling and nodding. Well she's going on and on about, 'Aren't things different than when we were kids? Things are so much harder for kids nowadays. Don't you agree? Well, you know what the problem is? Do you know the culprit?' And I'm just nodding and shaking my head, sorta leaning on the door so it's closing ever-so-slowly, and she says, 'The very thing that's exposing our kids to the dangers of Satan is the.......SINternet. They call it the information super-highway. But it's only the super-highway to HELL!!!!'

And all this time, I can smell poop. I look down at my blouse and there's none there, then I look at my hands, but I got most of it off when I washed, only the stuff under my fingernails was still there. So I sniffed my hands, kinda secretly so the Jehovah lady didn't suspect anything, you know, I sorta pretended my nose was itchy, and well, they smelled more like my rose-scented soap than poop, but I figured where else could the smell be coming from. Well, the Jehovah lady is trying to get me to take that Watch Tower magazine-thingy so I can read about the evils of the Sinternet and how if I come to a church meeting on Wednesday night I can learn how to stop Satan's network.

So Georgie starts screaming now, so I tell the lady that I really gotta go get my kid, and thanks for the magazine-thingy, and I was busy Wednesday night, but thanks for the offer anyway, and I shut the door. I guess I closed it kinda quick, because it created quite a breeze and I got a strong smell of poo again. So I smelled my hands again, and they seemed okay, though I had to scrub under my nails. And I just had them done the other day! Plus, I'll have to bleach the nail brush, and who knows how many of them little bristles will fall out. I'll probably have to buy another one. Oh, yeah?....They come in lavender? Where? Where did you find a nail brush in lavender? That would go so nice with my bathroom. I can only ever find them wooden handled ones. Where? Mmmhmmmm, I shoulda known Wal-Mart would have something smart like that. I'm not even gonna bleach the old one. I'm just gonna run out and get a new lavender one.

Anyway, so I go get Georgie out of his crib, and he's good and mad. So I give him a cookie, just to hush him up and run him a bath. No way I was tryin' to wipe him anymore. I'm not risking getting kicked again, that little spot right between my boobs still hurts. Anyway, I get him undressed and in the tub, and I dump in his toys. Finally, he's quiet. But, Lord have mercy, I can still smell poo. I grab the nail brush and start scrubbing. When I'm all clean, no more poop under my nails, I take a nice long smell of my hands. Lovely. But just after my big last whiff, I catch a smell of poo again. It's starting to really make me mad now.

I'm getting to it, Gloria. Hold your panties on. 

Well, I look in the mirror to fix my hair, and whaddya know. There, right on the end of my nose, is a big old spot of dried poop. Yup. Right on the end. About the size of a pea. Stop giggling Gloria, you're getting me started. Well, I start to laugh until I remember that I musta stood there for 5 minutes listening to that Jehovah lady go on about the information super-hellway with Georgie's poop right on the end of my nose. She musta thought I was crazy. 

Well, you're right there Honey! At least it wasn't the Avon lady!