Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (11 page)

My experience with my subsequent children's early days was an entirely different story. After reacquainting myself with adult interaction, I'd decided it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Dealing with school parents and playdates with painfully awkward conversation, and getting my decisions critiqued by people I barely knew? Being home alone with a sweet baby during rounds two and three didn't seem so bad at all. What had my problem been, exactly?

Once my first baby grew up a bit, I also gained an appreciation for just how easy those early days truly are. They were undoubtedly draining, but there was nothing
challenging
about them. In most cases, a newborn can be soothed with one of three things: a clean diaper, a bottle, or a boob. Boring? Sure. But hard? No. Not even a little. Rocking a baby the second and third time around seemed like a pleasure cruise compared to the temper tantrums and potty training I was dealing with from my older child.

Instead of staring too long at the hot barista who serves me coffee or the UPS man who used to turn me on, I stare longingly at infants, frequently causing their mothers to uncomfortably relocate far outside my gaze. Now, as I'm helping with homework I have no idea how to do or engaging in an epic battle over “all my friends wear bikinis and have cell phones, why can't I,” I fantasize about stealing a baby, inventing a time-freeze machine, and never looking back.

So, I'm sorry, new moms. As much as you are suffering, it's only going to get worse. I am quite certain that no matter how tired and overwhelmed you are, someday you will look back at this fleeting period in your life and laugh at your stressed-out and oblivious self. Welcome to the club.

I hate rodents more than anything, but got a gerbil for my daughter because it was all she wanted for her birthday. Gerbil got sick and guess who feeds the damn rat her meds through a little baby syringe and sings lullabies the whole time? My daughter? HA.

—Scary Mommy Confession #258866

O
ur beloved twelve-year-old golden retriever, Penelope, passed away last spring. Her health had been declining for several months, and one day she woke up simply unable to stand. We brought her to the vet and heard the devastating news we had known was coming for a while: the time had come to put her out of her pain. And, so, we did. We said our tearful goodbyes as she peacefully took her last breaths. We kissed her head and patted her tummy as we lay with her, thanking her for being such a wonderful pet to us.

For weeks, Jeff and I walked around in a complete daze. We had brought Penelope home a few weeks after we were married and could barely remember a life together that didn't include her. I would sporadically cry, countless times throughout the day, and unexpectedly finding a tuft of her hair reduced me to a sobbing mess for hours one afternoon. The void she left in the house was palpable, so much more so than I ever could have imagined. But the kids seemed relatively unfazed. Sure, they were sad, but life went on. They bickered and played and antagonized and didn't seem interested in wallowing the way I did.

Lying in bed one night, I asked Jeff why he thought the kids weren't more of a mess. Didn't they miss her red tail wagging? Greeting her upon entering the house? Feeding her their unwanted chicken fingers? Apparently Jeff wasn't all that surprised. They're kids, was his simple answer. They bounce back quickly; I doubt they'll even remember her when they're grown.

WHAT??! OF COURSE
they will, I cried. They loved her!! They grew up with her! They rode her like a horse! They chased her around the house! They fed her their food! They played in the snow! Of course, they'll remember those things . . . Forever! Won't they?!!?

I'm not sure they will, he insisted. They're so little now—do you remember much from when you were five or six? Penelope was
our
dog, before kids. They knew her for a while, but she wasn't our
family
dog. She wasn't the dog who slept in their rooms and whom they could actually walk themselves. She wasn't the dog they really helped with. By the time they were born, she was old. They missed out on all of that.

And then he uttered the words that started it all: they really do need a dog of their own.

For the next several months, Jeff began a campaign that could rival any billion-dollar run for office. You see, as much as I adored my Penny, I had also become quite accustomed to the perks of
not
having a dog. The fact that I didn't have to vacuum every day. That I hadn't picked up a lint brush in weeks. Not walking a dog in the rain. Not scheduling my day around being home for walks and remembering to dole out flea medication. Turns out, there are lots of nice things about that palpable void in the house.

But Jeff didn't agree. To him, having our children grow up without a dog (like the two of us did, I might note) was unfathomable. His list of reasons included unconditional love, added exercise, and, of course, the teaching of responsibility. The most loving and responsible adults had dogs when they were children, he pulled out of his ass like he had spent years hypothesizing it. We went around in circles for weeks, me gleefully wearing all the black I could without it being covered in dog hair, and him pointing out any time one of the children did something the least bit irresponsible. Having a pet of their own will make the kids more responsible, he insisted. As he does about most things, he wore me down, and in the fall, we brought home a new puppy.

A sweet golden retriever, just like Penelope, Maisy will be the dog who is prominently featured in childhood pictures, greets the kids after school, and hopefully, will even be around to see Lily off to college. She will be our family dog, and they will infinitely benefit from having her. And most of all, this dog will
be the one to teach my children about responsibility and whip them the hell into shape.

Or, not.

Back when Jeff was busy convincing me that getting a pet would make our kids more responsible (what a fucking liar), I made a list in my head of all the ways this prediction would come true.

They'll be more responsible about putting their stuff away, I told myself. Now, five months into the Maisy Era, I can say that's not exactly how it has turned out. The minute my kids come in the door, they kick (Kick! They don't even have the courtesy to toss) their shoes on the floor. Next come their coats, and their backpacks follow. I have warned them a million times that Maisy will chew their shoes and their homework. And, of course, they haven't heeded my warning. Lily's new Uggs are discolored due to excess dog saliva. And on more than one occasion, Maisy has
literally
eaten Ben's homework.

Well, I told myself, at least having a dog will help make the kids more responsible when it comes to being gentle with pets. Yeah, not really sure how that is working out, either. I am totally convinced that Maisy thinks Evan is a puppy, and she plays with him as if he were her littermate. And he loves it. He puts his face in her mouth, and her face in his mouth. He rides her like a pony, and I once saw him trying to put her in a chokehold. While I had hoped that having a puppy would make my kids veterinarian-like in their care and concern for animals, I worry that they're actually becoming more like Michael Vick instead.

I had high hopes for all the other ways in which bringing Maisy into the family would make my kids more responsible.
Additional dog duties will help them balance their daily tasks, I thought. They'll be more careful not to drop food on the floor or leave it out on the counters. And guess what? Some mornings the dog eats three times, as all of the kids feed her without checking if the other already did, and on other mornings she isn't fed at all. And as far as kitchen cleanliness goes, my kitchen has never been filthier. Rather than complain to me about finishing their food, now the kids just slyly throw everything they don't want onto the floor, assuming Maisy will finish it.

As you might guess, poor Maisy has diarrhea. All the time.

In the long list of times I should have known better than to listen to my husband, this is near the top. I'm already plotting my revenge, though. I'm trying to convince him that getting a vasectomy will make me want to have sex with him more.

Fool!