Dirty Little Secret

In case you are fortunate enough to not be addicted to basic cable, “WE” is the “Women’s Entertainment” channel. A large part of me is offended by the crap that is broadcast on ‘television for women’ - Lifetime women in peril movies and WE series like Bridezillas. Not that I haven’t watched that crap, of course.

But last night when I was watching “WE” I had the worst experience yet. I was watching a new show called ‘Party Mamas’, which basically shows women who go to EXTREME lengths to host the perfect parties for their children. The episode I saw was about this woman planning her son’s bar mitzvah. I was expecting the excessive costs involved. I was expecting the parents to be a little psycho in the planning. I wasn’t surprised that the boy was having urban dance lessons so he could perform at the bar mitzvah.

What horrified me was the mother’s reaction to the boy’s dance skills. Instead of being proud of her talented son, she was dismayed to discover that SHE might not be the center of attention (Guess every bar and bat mitzvah I’ve attended had it wrong, since they all seemed to be about celebrating THE CHILD). So this mother took dance and singing lessons so that she could upstage her son. She kept going on and on about how she had to be the center of attention. When the son’s dance routine went well, she was worried that SHE wasn’t the best performer there.

Didn’t this woman get the mommy memo? The one you get when you bring your baby home and suddenly it takes people an hour to notice that you are the one holding the baby? When you become a mom, your time at center stage is over. You can look fabulous, you can run a company, you can write a book but YOU can’t be more important than your children. Why do you think celebrity babies are such a big deal? Even the paparazzi considers getting shots of them more important than getting photos of their famous parents.

And to think “WE” gave this woman a forum to share her bordering-on-psychopathology level of narcissism. I’m not watching that channel any more. No matter how many polygamists they interview on ‘Secret Lives of Women.’

Almost two weeks ago, my friend Tammy gave birth to a baby boy. One of my favorite things about Tammy is that she reads my blog, unlike a number of my other real life friends. *stifles a sob and sniffs pitifully.* Anyway, I’ve been trying to think of what I could do for her other than send more baby clothes and good thoughts, since I’m 1200 miles away and can’t bring potato chips. So here is a post for Tammy, as well as any other new mothers out there.

Some Thoughts

1. You are a FABULOUS mother.
2. Sometimes even fabulous mothers get frustrated and/or ticked off.
3. It’s okay to let the baby cry for a few minutes. Especially if this is one of those frustrated moments.
4. Trust your instincts.
5. If you don’t have any instincts, that’s okay too. Call someone or go to Kellymom.com or Mayasmom.com.
6. Smile and nod at all advice you are given, then trust your instincts.
7. Take all advice with a grain of salt.
8.. Everyone judges mothers. Other mothers most of all. Don’t fall into the trap of comparing yourself and/or your baby to other people.
9. A dirty house will not hurt the baby.
10. You are a FABULOUS mother.

Some Advice (pass the salt)

1. When the baby wakes up, wait a few minutes before picking him up. It’s good training for sleeping on his own later on.
2. They say it’s bad, but I think falling asleep on the couch with my babies - no matter what time of day it was - saved my sanity. And the babies loved it.
3. You do not need to supplement your milk with formula, breastfed babies are just skinnier. And they eat all the time because they like to nurse, not because you’re not making enough milk. That said, if you want to introduce formula, that’s your business - just don’t let anyone bully you into it.
4. You can have a glass of wine now. And you should.
5. Find people with babies the same age as yours.
6. Go ahead and breastfeed in public. Be proud.
7. Tinted moisturizer is your friend.
8. The only way to make your libido come back is to spend some . . .um. . quality time on your own. But don’t worry about that for another few months.
9. Babies don’t actually need to eat baby food. After six months old, mushy table food has more nutritional impact and is cheaper (I was told that one by a pediatric dietitian)
10. No one has it all together, not even that celebrity mommy with four nannies and a personal trainer. Well, okay, besides her.

Congratulations on starting the most amazing and challenging ride of your life.

new mothers

newborn

motherhood

new baby

We enrolled Ironflower in preschool yesterday. I did not even tear up. She has been telling random strangers that she’s going to school soon and her joy is infectious. I may feel differently when I actually have to leave her there, of course, but for right now I can’t wait for her to go. She will thrive and I will only have to manage Lovebug at the park on those days. It’s fun for everybody.

The paperwork involved was not as much fun. I did not mind writing our address, phone numbers and emergency contacts over and over again. Goddess knows I made enough parents do it when I was a teacher. But the personal questionnaire was harder. Having been a teacher, I was terribly afraid of writing anything that could prejudice the teachers in any way.

When it asked if I had any concerns, I did not mention that I worry that Ironflower will throw temper tantrums that shake the school. When it asked how much TV she watches, I did not mention the days she watches 3 shows, I only mentioned the days she watches 1. When it asked if she would need help in the bathroom, I did not explain how she will first have to be convinced that she needs help.

In short, I lied. On her preschool forms. I keep telling myself that this does not mean I will become one of those parents who fakes the reading logs or does the homework, but I’m not convinced. This is a slippery slope and I’m not wearing hiking boots.

parenting

I love being a mother. I love my children more than I thought it was possible to love anything. Every day I get to see them and talk to them and hug them is a day that I am very lucky. When Zoe says, “I love you, Mommy” or Zach gives me a hug I am filled with a happiness that I only thought possible with the benefit of prescription painkillers.

But when I hear a mother say something like, “Every moment is a joy,” I want to smack her. Not only does that statement indicate that the doctor did a lobotomy during her c-section, it’s a nasty thing to say around pre-mothers. You hear enough statements like that and you feel like there’s something wrong with you when, as a new mother, you wind up crying at 3 am along with the inconsolable baby.

Every moment is worth it. Every moment means you are lucky. But some moments still suck. My children are real, fallible little human beings, not perfect little dolls dropped from heaven, and when they throw up on me I don’t feel joy. (In fact, no children are actually dropped in from heaven, they all make mistakes and have flaws and it’s better to accept it now then when the school is calling about your child’s bratty, bullying behavior for the second time that day) I suspect that no mother actually feels joy when her child is sick because even if s/he is not actually throwing up on you, the kid is SICK. There’s no joy when something is wrong and you can’t fix it, let me tell you.

So, new and future mommies, take heart: not every moment will be a joy. And anyone who tells you otherwise is lying, or on prescription painkillers. No child is perfect, except in that s/he is a perfectly flawed, complex little creature. Sometimes you will wish you believed in spanking. Sometimes you will wish you could just have quiet for one minute. Sometimes you will imagine torturing The Wonder Pets. But that’s all NORMAL.

And stay away from the competitive Stepford Mommies. As they expound on their joy in reading Hop on Pop for the ten thousandth time after they pick little Aidan after his French class where the teacher says he has such an affinity for languages never before seen in a two year old, know this: Aidan will be in reform school before his eighteenth birthday.

parenthood
motherhood

I used to stereotype stay-at-home moms. I assumed they had spotless houses, beautiful scrapbooks, rich husbands and the ability to cook well. I envisioned women who were dressed immaculately and who talked on their cell phones while driving their mini-vans.

Now I am a stay-at-home mom, regardless of how much writing I do on the side. My house IS cleaner than it used to be, but that’s not difficult. I still don’t cook or scrapbook and hubby is not rich. I have never been dressed immaculately. Instead of making me realize that my stereotypes were stupid, my life as a stay-at-home mom makes me feel like an impostor.

Sometimes I think that those women at the local playground don’t talk to me because they know I’m a fake. I mean, I don’t cook. What kind of stay-at-home mom doesn’t cook? When other people talk about recipes, my eyes glaze over. I can make enough food to nourish my children for a week when hubby is out of town, but don’t ask me to enjoy it or make it complicated.
And then there’s scrapbooking. I’m lucky if I manage to print pictures off of my computer, let alone stick them in an album and decorate them. I did manage to finish my kids’ baby books (mostly), and well, at least I did them. They’re not pretty but they do describe the kids’ milestones - isn’t that the point? As for having a spotless house, I just strive for a hygienic one.

And I hate mini-vans.

I should just grab a work-away-from-home job right now before they kick me out of the park altogether.

motherhood

parenting

So we went for a walk this evening. Then hubby and the rugrats sat down at the table for pudding. About ten minutes after the walk, I walked into the kitchen and noticed brown goo under Zach’s highchair. I was momentarily confused since he was eating vanilla pudding. He was grinning, spooning the vanilla pudding onto his bib and into his ear. I wondered where the brown goo came from. I asked hubby.

“What brown goo? Oh. . .SHIT!” he exclaimed just as I glanced at my baby’s back. Which was also covered in brown goo (aka shit!).

I’ve seen some explosive poops before but nothing prepared me for this. The poop went not only up his back and all over his shorts, it had piled behind him on the seat and in a somewhat larger pile on the floor. And there sat boy wonder himself, cheerfully eating his pudding and completely oblivious to the filth around him. Attempts to clean resulted in loud, piercing wails until we finally let him out of the bathtub. Goddess bless Clorox Wipes and Mr.Bubble.

Also this evening: The beautiful Zoe announced that her name is Diego, that she IS a boy and will be growing a penis at a later date.