Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (17 page)

When faced with tough questions like this, I find myself stuck between the rock and a hard place of (a) making something up or (b) admitting to my children that I don't actually know everything after all. I can see the argument for each. Intellectually, I know of course that it's far better to simply say, “I don't know, honey”—teaching my children a valuable lesson while forcing them to seek out their own answers. But there is something so tempting about carrying on the myth of maternal omniscience as long as I possibly can. In the shallow toolbox of parenthood, it's one of our most powerful, yet fleeting, weapons.

The minute your kids realize that you, in fact, do not know everything is the minute when your household equilibrium shifts forever. Suddenly you're not all that authoritative anymore. Not that impressive. And once the seal is broken, it all comes undone. Not only do your kids stop asking you questions, but they actually start
challenging
what you say. From there, it's all downhill.

I remember when it first occurred to me that my own parents were fallible. It was at summer camp, on a rare rainy day. We spent those dreary days indoors, watching movies and playing games. In between braiding hair and licking orange cheese puff dust off our fingers, we listened to the
Free to Be You and Me
soundtrack to pass the time. There, on the floor of the community room listening to Marlo Thomas belt out “Parents Are People
,
” my life forever changed. “Parents are people,” she sang. “People with children. When parents were little they used to be small, like some of you. And then they grew.”

It was an epiphany of earth-shattering proportions. My life was now divided between the time before the realization, when everything was simple and made sense, to after. The after was the beginning of the end.

Whatever it takes, I'm going to maintain the façade of knowing everything with my own children for as long as possible. I know the stakes are high, and I'm not throwing in the towel without a fight. As far as God's eyes, the answer is blue.

I'm sure of it.

I've heard, on many occasions, that if women knew exactly what motherhood would entail, none of us would ever become mothers. That's the reason for all the lies, right? If we were honest with one another about how hard it truly is, would anyone in their right minds sign up for the job?

It's irrelevant, though, because nobody—not even me and my book of lies—can prepare you for what to expect once you have children. It's more challenging and frustrating and exhausting and demanding than you can possibly imagine. It will bring you to the brink of insanity repeatedly. Endlessly. To infinity.

But is it worth it? Is there a reason that people keep popping out babies and civilization hasn't yet come to a screeching halt? Do the positives
really
outweigh the negatives? That's the real question, isn't it? And the answer is an unequivocal yes. Yes, you bet your ass they do.

At the end of the day, that's the only truth you really need to know.

My husband is higher maintenance than my children. He is more emotionally draining, demanding, and prone to temper tantrums than my preschooler.

I had every intention of buying a movie for the family tonight. Instead, I bought myself Fifty Shades of Grey.

I've been a mom for six years and still don't turn my head when I hear the word mommy. Even when it's my kid who's said it.

My children think that the Disney Store at the mall is DISNEY WORLD. They tell their friends they have been to Disney a hundred times.

I arranged a bulk pickup for a broken table as the kids screamed and bickered in the background. As I hung up, the rep asked if I wanted them picked up as well. I actually considered it.

Our baby monitor picks up the signal from our neighbors' monitor. I find myself sitting with my ear pressed against the receiver so I can listen in on them more than I'd like to admit. Being a SAHM has made me so bored and nosey.

I walk into the kitchen, open all the cabinets, and have no idea why I'm there.

With tears glistening in my eyes, I make sure to say those three wonderful words to my precious child every single day: “It's bedtime, son.”

Julia Roberts says her kids wake “smelling of promise.” My kids wake smelling of urine.

I feel like I got sold a bill of goods with all the talk about how much fun parenting is. Um, compared to what, a root canal?

My five-year-old daughter just took a shit in the middle of the backyard. I don't know if I should laugh or cry.

I lie to my kids daily. The park is closed; we can't go. Ice cream costs two hundred dollars; we can't afford any. Puppies eat little girls; we can't have one. Grandma has a boogeyman in her closet; tell Daddy you don't want to go.

I keep waiting for motherhood to click with me. My kids are seven and nine.

I have turned into one of the women I used to pity. The ragged, flustered, frustrated mother who struggles to control her rambunctious children while attempting to run errands.

I told my son we don't allow sleepovers at other people's houses, but the truth is, I just can't stand his best friend.

Today I left work twenty-five minutes early. I didn't go straight
home. I went to a bar, where I sat and drank a beer and played with my phone. No one talked to me. It was lovely.

I fear that in contrast to overinvolved, hyperanxious helicopter moms, I am a submarine mom. Half the time I'm like, “Has anyone seen my son?”

I tell my kids everything will “make them die.” It's easier. Go in the street, you're dead. Fall out of a tree, you're dead. Ask Mommy to get up and put cartoons on at 6 a.m. on Saturday, you're dead.

Sometimes my kids' voices are like nails on a chalkboard. I miss the days before they could talk.

I make mean faces at my friend's annoying two-year-old when she's not looking. She just thinks he's going through a crying-for-no-reason phase.

No idea why, but my son is PETRIFIED of a carrot nose that came in a snowman kit. It's terrible, but sometimes I take it down from the closet and say “Oh, what's this?” just to scare him. He runs screaming. I die laughing.

The intention was to sneeze gracefully with my face covered. The execution? Right as I sneezed I had to grab my crotch to keep from peeing myself. These are not the mom decisions I envisioned.

I wish parenting came with an instruction manual. That's why I sometimes would rather be at work, because I already know what's expected of me.

My daughter skipped class and instead of confronting her about it I posted on her Facebook page, “Where were you during third period today? Inquiring minds would like to know, young lady!” Hopefully the teasing from her classmates will keep her from doing THAT again.

My eight-month-old is like a dog. When you ask if she wants a bath she runs to the closet for the towel and washcloths, then runs to the tub. Good girl, now sit.

My son said to me recently, “Mommy, move your big butt. I can't see the TV.” Our TV is sixty inches wide.

I bought a bottle of vodka last week at the store. This week I bought three. The clerk remembered me. I shrugged and said, “One for each kid.”

Nothing like a family vacation to make you regret the decision to have children. All the stresses of home, plus all the delightful stresses of unfamiliar places and routines.

My kids frequently ask to play with my stomach flap. For FUN.

I turn the music up so I can't hear the kids. I'm pretty sure that if one of them gets hurt the other one will come tell me about it.