I Want My Epidural Back (6 page)

YOU KNOW THOSE TOTALLY KICKASS MOMS WHO
homeschool (no F'ing idea if that's one word or two) their kiddos and love being with them 25 hours a day? Yeah, I'm basically the opposite of that. Like right now while I'm writing this, my rugrats are at home because school was canceled after a blizzard last night and while they're shouting, “YAYYYYYYY, SCHOOL IS CANCELED!!!!!,” I'm shouting a bunch of four-letter words into my pillow. Why? Because yes, I love being a mom, but I also lovvvvve being a mom who gets away from her kids sometimes. And by sometimes I mean for many hours every day when the kids are at school or camp or with their grandparents, a babysitter, or some random stranger who looks nice enough. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And makes me not want to pop a little yellow pill or down a whole bottle of pills and check myself into the loony bin.

Dear Mr. or Ms. Badass,

Yeah, I know that's not really your name, but I'm calling you that. Because you, my friend, are amazing. Wait, that doesn't do your amazingness justice. You are SOOO F'ING AMAAAAAZINGGGGGG!!!!!!

Yeah, I know I probably shouldn't curse to my kids' teachers, so give me a detention or suspend me or whatever you want to do about it, but I'm done pussyfooting around. I mean I run into you at school or in the carpool line and I'm all tongue-tied like a lovestruck pubescent boy and you probably think I don't have vocal cords or something, but I actually do. I'm just a mom who is speechless with gratitude.

I mean let's just talk about what you do for a minute. You watch other people's crotchfruit allllllll day long. Yeah, like WE had sex, WE got knocked up, and WE brought some little a-holes into this world, but YOU take care of them for more hours in the day than WE do. Seriously, I just did the math. Unless you're Michelle Duggar, taking care of TWENTY little kids all day is pretty much akin to Chinese water torture, only instead of drops
of water dripping on your face over and over again until your forehead looks like a donut, you're bombarded with snot and boogers and lice and drool and annoying questions, and if their fingers aren't up their nose to the second knuckle, then their hands are up their shorts doing God knows what to some other orifice. And even after all that, you still love the little boogersnots and take care of them better than their own parents do half the time.

Like when Zoey comes down the stairs in the morning wearing polka-dot pants with striped legwarmers with a furry vest over a red silk kimono, here's what goes through my head: WTF are you wearing? But here's what you say: “Wow, look at that kid's fierce independence.” And either you truly believe it or you're such a good actor YOU should be giving Jack Nicholson acting lessons.

And speaking of the arts, you tell me all about this amazing picture Holden drew at the art table and how it's so awesome and how I should definitely frame it and you are so full of praise you clearly think my kiddo is a future Picasso. And then he takes it out of his folder to show me and it's a piece of paper with a line on it—like it looks like he accidentally hit a piece of paper with a crayon. Like you could give a starfish a crayon and he would do the same thing. But you really, truly, genuinely think it's awesome.

And then Holden has to put the drawing back into his folder and the folder back into his backpack and you stand there
watching and watching and watching like you have allllllll afternoon and he can take as much time as he needs to get it in there, while in my head I'm screaming, “Oh, for the love of Gawdddd, just shove the F'ing folder into the F'ing backpack so we can leave already!!!!” And then when he finally finishes, you're like, “Good job, buddy. See you tomorrow.” And I'm like, “It is tomorrow. That's how long we've been standing here waiting for him.” Anyways, you . . . . . . are . . . . . . so . . . . . . patient . . . . . . it . . . . . . never . . . . . . ceases . . . . . . to . . . . . . amaze . . . . . . me.

But I guess you have to be when you're constantly waiting for twenty kids to go to the potty and wash their hands and eat their snacks and put their jackets on and put their backpacks away, etc., etc., etc. It's a miracle you have time to teach them anything. And yet, every day they come home and they've learned something new about math or reading or Modigliani or
ovapurous oviporus
oviparous animals (I still don't know WTF that is).

So thank you. Thank you for loving my children. Thank you for thinking they're awesome. Thank you for dealing with the shit that comes out of their orifices, literally and figuratively. Thank you for doing it all for way too little compensation. Thank you for making them smarter. Thank you for making them smarter than me. (Than I? Shit, I don't know which one's right.) Thank you for knowing shit like that so you can teach it to them because if it were up to me, they'd be screwed.

                                       
Love and kisses,

                                       
A mom who worships the ground you walk on

ME:
What'd you do at school today?

ZOEY:
Nothing.

ME:
Who'd you play with?

ZOEY:
No one.

ME:
Did you read any books?

ZOEY:
I can't remember.

ME:
Are you F'ing kidding me?

ZOEY:
I don't know.

ME:
Who's excited for school?!!

HOLDEN:
Me!!

ME:
Who's a big boy and going to school just like his sister?!

HOLDEN:
Me!!

ME:
We're almost there. Who can't wait?!!!

HOLDEN:
Meeeee!!!!

(three minutes later)

HOLDEN:
Nooooooo!!!!!! Wahhhhhh!!! Don't leave me!!!! You're the worst mommy everrrrr!!!!!

I desperately try to lower my screaming child to the ground, but it's pretty much impossible because his hands are superglued around my neck and every time I try, his legs wrap around me in a vise grip and he won't stand up and we're basically in a mosh pit of lululemon-wearing stick figures who are smothering their kiddos with air kisses and judging me for being the shittiest mom ever.

Finally, the teacher comes out of the classroom to “help.”

TEACHER:
Awwww, who's this little guy?

ME:
This is the devil's spawn.

I don't really say that out loud because it's the beginning of the school year so I'm still trying to make the teachers think that I'm a nice, normal person.

ME:
This is Holden.

TEACHER:
Awwwww, hi Holden. Wanna come with me, sweetie?

You're so observant. He definitely wants to come with you. NOT. Yo lady, pry his F'ing nails out of my humerus bone and drag him into your classroom because that is the only way this is gonna happen.

TEACHER:
(whispers)
If we need to, we can always put a chair in the room and you can transition out of there more slowly.

I've got three little words for you:

F that shit.

There is no way I am sitting in a chair in the classroom. Because (a) that's like ripping the Band-Aid off slowwwwwwwwly over weeks of excruciating pain. And (b) whenever I sit in one of
those little preschool chairs, my ass spills over the sides and looks extra gigantic.

ME:
Holden, stop crying and listen to me. Mommy will come back to get you in two hours. I promise.

HOLDEN:
I
(air suck)
don't
(air suck)
want
(air suck)
you
(air suck)
to leave
(air suck)
meeee.

TEACHER:
What if Mommy stays in the building? Would that be better?

Ugghh, seriously? I totally wanted to go shopping.

HOLDEN:
I
(air suck)
want
(air suck)
her
(air suck)
to
(air suck)
stayyy
(air suck)
.

TEACHER:
Mommy . . .

Okay, let's just pause for a moment here because I have a question for the teacher. Here's what I want to know. Did you come out of my vagina? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I would remember a squat redheaded lady with purple glasses coming out of my hooha, and that doesn't ring a bell. Which means that I am not
Mommy
. You can call me Mrs. Alpert. You can call me Karen. You can call me Holden's Mommy. You can call me pretty much anything you want, but unless you came out of my vagina, you may not call me
Mommy
. But of course I don't say this out loud.

TEACHER:
Mommy, there is a teachers' lounge down the hall where
some of the other mommies are waiting. How does that sound?

Shitty.

ME:
Fine.

By this point Holden is so tired that I'm able to peel his fingers off my skin and lower him to the ground. Of course, he's still trying to fight gravity and his legs are up, so I place him on his tush.

ME:
(trying to be chipper)
You're gonna have so much fun, buddy! I'll be back in a little while!!

Whatever you do, do NOT turn around and look at him. Seriously, don't do it. Do not look. But of course, I can't help it and I turn my head and our eyes meet and he breaks into hysterical cries. Awww shit. Just keep walking. I walk down the hall looking for the teachers' lounge, and after opening like four wrong doors, I finally find it. It's filled with all those lululemon ladies who look at me with “pity eyes” the moment I walk in.

ONE OF THEM:
Did he stop crying?

ANOTHER ONE:
Is he okay?

AND ANOTHER:
We felt sooooo bad for you.

Because my kid is crying or because my pants have a boring old Champion logo on them?

ME:
Thanks. He'll be fine.

ONE OF THEM:
Oh, I couldn't have left. You're so brave
(translation: mean)
.

ANOTHER ONE OF THEM:
I totally thought
mine
would be the one to cry today. I was so nervous, I could barely sleep last night until I popped an Ambien.

Oh yeah, I couldn't sleep last night either. Because I was SOOOOOO F'ing excited!!!! You GET to drop your kid off at a place two times a week where trained professionals will take care of your rugrat while you GET to go off all alone and get shit done. Why on earth would you be nervous? And that's when the lightbulb goes off over my head. Ohhh, these are FIRST-TIME moms!! That explains it. This was
me
three years ago. Minus the fancy yoga pants. Plus some really bad nervous poops.

ME:
It's not a big deal. He's my second child.

IN UNISON:
Ahhhhhhhh.

And that's when some random lady from the school pops her head into the doorway.

RANDOM LADY:
Just here to give a little update to you ladies. All of the kids are doing great!

They all sigh with relief.

RANDOM LADY:
Except for Holden. He's still adjusting.

ME:
Okay.

RANDOM LADY:
But you don't have to worry, he's going to do just fine.

ME:
I know.

RANDOM LADY:
Please don't worry.

ME:
I'm not. Really.

And all the first-time preschool moms look at me with pity to see if I'm upset and I'm like, “Seriously guys, I am fiiiiine. This is my second child!!”

(Insert lots of boring talk about exercise classes and where do people know each other from and other shit I stop listening to until Mrs. Random Update Lady pops in again.)

RANDOM LADY:
They're all doing art right now and loving it!!

Oh good!

RANDOM LADY:
Except for Holden. He's still getting used to the classroom.

Go figure. The woman next to me puts her hand on my knee.

WOMAN:
It's okay.

Uhhh, yeah, I know it's okay because a little crying never hurt a child. Do I feel bad for him? Sure. Do I feel bad for myself? A little. But I've done this before. I mean not
exactly
this because the first time I took Zoey to school she was pretty much shooting me the bird with both hands over her head as she marched away, but it's not like she hasn't cried about other shit. So yeah, been there, done that.

Anyways, this went on for the rest of the two hours and then it was time to go pick them up. Actually, it was still five minutes early but one eager beaver jumped up to go be first in the pickup line so everyone followed. And guess who was the first kid to come out of the classroom with a giant, humongous smile across his face? Someone else's kid. Mine came out second with a giant frown and was like, thank F'ing God my mom is here.

ME:
Good job today, buddy!

TEACHER:
I think he got a
little
better.

No, he didn't.

TEACHER:
And he used the potty after snack.

ME:
Great.

ONE OF THE OTHER MOMS:
He's potty trained?

ME:
Yes.

ANOTHER ONE:
Does he wear Pull-Ups?

ME:
No.

AND ANOTHER:
Really?

ME:
Really.

AND ANOTHER:
That's
amazing
.

And there you go. Win.

Oh, wait, what's that I smell? Did one of your little buttmunches make a poopie in his diaper? I wonder which mom I should look at with pity?

A.
The mom in the tennis skirt

B.
The mom with the Mercedes baseball cap

C.
None of them

FYI, the correct answer is “C.” Your kid still poops in his pants and my kid cries at drop-off. They'll both get over it. One day you'll be dropping your kid off at college and he won't be wearing diapers and I'll be dropping my kid off at college and he won't be freaking out and clinging to me. Actually, quite the opposite.

ME:
Wahhhhhhhh!!! Nooooooo!! Don't leave meeeeee!!!!!

HOLDEN:
Mom, please let go of me. This is so embarrassing.

ME:
Zoey, what'd you do in school today?

ZOEY:
We talked about Martin Loser King.

ME:
Who?

ZOEY:
Martin Loser King.

ME:
LUTHER. Martin LUTHER King.

I'm really glad I turned off the radio so we could have this little chat.