Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (16 page)

Sometimes, I want to act just like my toddler twins. That's mine! Give it back! Not fair! Stop taking my things! And then I remember I'm the mother and nothing actually belongs to me anymore.

—Scary Mommy Confession #257102

T
here are few things in life that make me as happy as Thai food. If my husband needs to apologize for something, there's no better way to say it than with some satay. When I find myself traveling alone to a new city, the first thing I do is look up Thai restaurants on Yelp to plan my lunches and dinners. On the rare occasion when I choose where we eat as a family, rather than the children dictating, there is no doubt where I will choose. My kids groan and pick on nothing but plain white rice and the maraschino cherries that decorate the plates, but I don't care; they'll make up for it at the next meal and . . . leftovers! Thai is the only food I never tire of and always crave. Life is just too
short not to enjoy good food, and to me, there is simply nothing better than Thai.

For years, I'd been the only one in my family to enjoy deliciousness like Pad Thai and Pad See Ew and Massaman Curry and Tom Kha Gai. It would be so nice to enjoy my favorite food as a family, I'd think again and again. And so I dragged them to restaurant after restaurant, trying to find one that satisfied their picky taste buds. I tried bribing them and reasoning with them and tricking them into trying new dishes, but no tactic was successful. I finally accepted that I was the sole Thai eater in the house and began ordering accordingly. One appetizer and one main course, since I was the only one eating.

Until the day last year when everything changed.

“This is yummy,” Lily announced as she tentatively tasted some of my chicken satay. “Does it always taste like this?” I watched as she wolfed it down, bogarting the peanut sauce for her chicken and leaving me with the random piece of toast I never know what I'm supposed to do with. “I know it's yummy, Lily. It's the best.” I smiled at her, gritting my teeth as she eyed the Pad Thai, steaming under the plastic lid. “Think I'll like that, too?”

Had I not been alone in the house with my three kids and dog, I would have grabbed the box and run for dear life. Even
with
the kids and the dog, the thought crossed my mind. “I'm not sure, Lily. There are shrimp in there. You know, from the bottom of the ocean. You might not like it.” Much to my dismay, not only did she like it, but she loved it. It was one of those parenting moments where you can see your child blossoming right before your very eyes. Her horizons were broadening. She was
moving out of the grilled cheese phase and into one of trying new things and not only accepting them, but enjoying them. She was growing up. But most of all? Bitch was eating
my
dinner, and I wasn't happy about it.

I should have known that day was only the beginning. Ever since Lily got her ears pierced last spring, my earrings have mysteriously migrated from my jewelry box into hers. She's outgrown her princess dress-up costumes, instead opting to trudge around in my high heels and wrap herself up in my scarves. She sneaks into my bathroom when I'm downstairs and tries on my makeup, thinking I won't notice the telltale signs of glittery lips and black powder around her eyes. What's mine is hers, she seems to think, regardless of how many times I tell her otherwise.

Sharing has always struck me as an odd concept. We tell our children to share everything—their books, their toys, their food . . . It's the nice thing to do, we tell them starting in preschool, and certainly the way to solve most issues at home or at school. The trouble is, sharing sucks—as a kid, and even more so as a grown-up.

Like all mothers, the list of things I've given up for my children is a mile long, and all I really ask for are a few basic things of my own. A comfortable place to sleep, for instance. But, noooo. Despite having their own beds to sleep in, at least two of my children will make their way into mine at some point during the night. I end up hanging off the bed, kneed in the face and sleeping in one of their plastic-mattress-pad-covered twin beds, just to escape them.

Or, water. In a world that is three-quarters water, is it too
much to ask that I get one measly glass to myself? Apparently, it is. Without fail, every time I pour myself a nice glass of ice water and sit down to drink it, there appears a line of children asking for a sip. Were they not thirsty three seconds prior, when I was in the kitchen getting the ice, positioning the glass and pouring the water? Is there some otherworldly connection between their thirst level and my level of contentment? Between the backwash, the germs, and the fact that World War III will break out over who gets the biggest sip, I usually won't let them have any of my water. And I don't feel guilty about it. No, I will not share the water of which we have a never-ending supply. Why, you ask? Because it's mine.

The list of things I must share goes on: my bathroom sink where the kids spit their nasty toothpaste, despite having their own perfectly working sink; my iPhone, without which they make waiting for an appointment for any amount of time insufferable; even my socks, which I keep finding in Lily's drawers when I put away the laundry (and by “put away,” I mean dump in a pile in her drawers). The fact that mothers begin sharing with their children in utero—maybe that's where Lily developed her fondness for Thai food, because I sure ate my fair share while pregnant with her—should be a warning flare for all of the sacrifices to come.

But I suppose this all comes with the territory. If motherhood were an ice-cream cone, it would always be one scoop short. And so I will take extra pleasure in reinforcing to my children the importance of sharing. I figure that if I have to suffer, they do, too. Besides, it will prepare them well for parenthood.

Momma knows best—HA! Hardly! I have no idea what I'm doing. So long as you don't end up dead, maimed, in prison, or spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in intensive therapy, I'm going to call it a win.

—Scary Mommy Confession #199795

“M
ommy, what happens when you die?”

“Mommy, what color are God's eyes?”

“Mommy, is the world ever going to end?”

Questions like these are what keep me feeling like a game show contestant every morning during the car ride to school. I don't know what it is about the morning car ride that makes my children so inquisitive and introspective, but that fifteen-minute ride has become far too heavy for a mother who hasn't yet downed her first cup of coffee. Whatever happened to “Mommy, why is the top of your hair a different color than the
longer pieces?” Not particularly polite, but at least there's a pretty straightforward answer.