Kids, Sports, and Hypocrisy: Flipping the Switch

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Part of being a parent is the hypocrisy that goes hand-in-hand with child rearing. I’ve heard from lots of parents the basics: they smoke, but they don’t want their children to smoke, they drink (and drank underage as a teen) but they don’t want their kids to drink. Let’s not even get started on the whole topic of pre-marital sex. None of my children are in the double-digits yet, so I’m just going to bleach my mind of that thought for the next 6 years.

When you’re a parent of young kids, you find yourself saying, “Don’t pick your nose” but then you go in the bathroom and pick your own nose… fine, you don’t pick your nose (yeah, right). Or the whole, “stop touching your privates” but we all know what adults do with their privates, when they are in private. (don’t lie) It’s hypocritical, it’s a daily occurrence, it’s parenting.

I’ve gotten used to the hypocrisy I know I possess as a parent. It’s become a necessary evil. I am a normal, albeit flawed human, and “do as I say, not as I do” is always in the back of my mind. We are trying to raise children into competent adults, and with that, comes this amazing grey area of what is acceptable behavior in public. While I, as your mommy, will attempt to deal with your ridiculous, violent temper tantrum at age 3, your boss, when you are 23, might not want to have that around the other employees. If they figure this shit out then I’ve done my job right. {Fingers crossed}

When you get pregnant anytime after your first child, it’s like your brain resets itself, or maybe you take all the awful shit and repress that into a dark corner of your mind as a defense mechanism, or maybe it’s just preggo brain and you can’t remember if you put underwear on that morning or not… either way, I have 3 kids and I seemed to forget the biggest hypocrisy of my childbearing history, until this morning.

This morning my middle child, my 3-year-old, had his first soccer game. A real soccer game, with a real coach, and real uniforms, and real teammates. Mind you, my oldest, has been playing competitive soccer since he was 3. I’ve spent the last 7 years on soccer fields with children, so today was an exciting rite-of-passage for Middle Monkey. To him, it meant he was, really “a big boy”, to me, it meant, oh shit, another place to remember to bring another kid, but I was, of course, excited for him. While watching and assisting in the shit-show that is 3-year-old soccer, one of those hypocrite memories from the days of yore flooded my brain.

The biggest hypocrite parenting moment starts when our children play competitive sports. From the moment they interact with others we tell them: Share, don’t hit, don’t take things, don’t take things that aren’t yours, don’t scare other people, be nice, be kind, be respectful, be compassionate… and then they start playing “real” sports and the most demure, the most reserved, the quietest parent on the planet, becomes the biggest psycho in the universe when she screams, “GET THE F*CKING BALL!” Okay, maybe she didn’t say that out-loud. but she wanted too, she was close.

If it takes place on the field, every modicum of truth has gone out the window. We now tell our kids the complete opposite of all the things we’ve been saying for 3 years about being a good kid, a good person, and a good friend.

“Get the ball!”

“Go get it back!”

“Steal it from her/him!”

“Don’t let her/him take that from you.”

“Get up! GET UP! What are you doing?”

“Check her/him back. That’s your ball!”

“Run!!! Don’t stop!”

Even at 9AM on a Saturday, even without alcoholic drinks in our hands, and cheerleaders on the sideline, parents lose all self-control and forget about the normal everyday messages we’ve been teaching our kids since birth. We expect these little people to flip a switch between gamer and good person on a dime, and then are surprised when it takes time for them to come back to what is expected.

Thankfully I wasn’t that mom today (although I’ve been that mom before). Monkey is a gamer all the time. His post-game-tantrum was because the game was over and he wanted to keep playing. Other kids, not so much. I’ll be surprised if they show up next weekend.

At least one thing is the same on and off the field… Don’t bite.

The Difference Between Feminism and Good Manners

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I identify myself as a feminist. Feminism has gotten a bad rap over the last 30 years and now the mental image connected with that word is somewhere around a man-hating-militant-beast. I can assure you I am none of those things. I don’t have penis envy, I have wallet envy. In my world, feminism is the thought that women and men should be treated equal on all levels. I married a man with whom I am equal. If we have established gender roles, such as, he works while I take care of the children that is not because I am less of a person in our relationship, it is because it makes financial sense.

This morning I needed to go grocery shopping. Of course it was raining because, you know, Mother Nature is a feminist too. Obviously… no one gets a free ride around here. I was walking from my car holding an umbrella, my 20 pound baby (in his car carrier), and the hand of my 3-year-old. As I approached the store entrance there was a man, around the age of 60, standing by the door, staring at me. My assumption, as a member of the human-fucking-race was that this other member of the human race would open the door for me… note-to-self: don’t ever assume anything. He did not. He just stood there. As I went to place my baby carrier on the ground, in the rain, I muttered something along the lines of, “Thanks for grabbing the door.” to which this Archie Bunker impersonator replied, “I thought y’all ladies didn’t want doors opened for ya anymore.”

Touché Archie. Touché. I don’t want you to open a door for me because I’m a lady. You would offer to open the door because I was struggling, and having good-manners isn’t about what you are packing in your pants, it’s about common decency.

When women decided to ask for the same rights as men, sadly, some men took that as if we didn’t want them to have good manners at all anymore. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Now I’m raising 3 sons, and teaching them there is a difference between rescuing the princess and just being kind to your fellow-man, is the most important lesson they will ever need to know. Human decency didn’t have to go out the window with the suffrage movement and I don’t care if it’s an old lady or a big strapping guy, if you get to the damn-door first you hold that sucker open, because that’s just good manners.

My kids might be assclowns… they might fart on each other’s heads, never put the toilet seat down, always forget their lunch bags at school, play too much Minecraft, sing Gangnam Style at the drop of a hat, have a full glossary of words that they shouldn’t have, and fight me tooth-and-nail over meals, but they will be assclowns that know to offer help to someone who needs it.

My kind of assclowns.

Aging, Sisterhood, and Clarity

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Getting older can be a real buzzkill. One minute you’re 18 and the world is laid out in front of you like one of those naked chicks acting as a human plate in a European sushi place, and the next minute you’re attempting to do 8 minutes of abs on the floor of your baby’s room but all you hear is your hip cracking with every reverse curl.

It can bring you down. Okay, I’m being nice, it can get you down and make you stay down.

But today I had this epiphany about aging. Although my body and gravity are far from BFF’s now, aging has given me something I never had before… a bit of clarity. Clarity about our place in the universe, and mostly about the feelings I have towards my friendships with other women.

We all know at least one woman that we look at and say, “Damn, girlfriend has got her shit together. I wish I had my shit together like that” and contrarily we also know many who we look at and say, “Bitch needs to get her shit together. I’m so glad I’ve got my shit more together than that.” I think I’ve fallen into both of these categories at some stage of my life. Some more than others. What freaked me out about having these types of attitudes and opinions about other women, was the fact that I’d pegged it as jealously, and the idea that I was jealous of someone else’s success made me feel pretty sick about myself. In hindsight, I wasn’t jealous. Not in the slightest, but I didn’t know better then.

Recently though, I’ve started to realize that being enamored of someone didn’t make me a jealous person. I didn’t want what they had, I didn’t want to take their mojo away from them. Well, maybe I wanted a little bit of their good stuff to rub off on me, but I’m not a mojo sucking vampire. That’s when the truth jumped up and bit me, some people just have that “it” factor. That little thing that makes them a true shining star in your day. Even when their life isn’t going according to plan, even when things are really screwed up, you won’t know because they shine bright in your You-niverse and that’s all you see.

Ironically it took someone, telling me, that I had that “it” factor in their eyes, which brought me to this mind-blowing-moment. Me? Who-the-hell would look at me like that? My first thought? A crazy person, but this is actually someone I love and respect. I was just so floored with this revelation that I needed to take a step back and see myself the way she saw me. Sure I’m old and tired, sarcastic and silly… but maybe, just maybe, on a good day, I can be the center of her You-niverse, that little thing that makes her say, “Hahaha, Yes!”

Women are usually their own worst critic and rarely give ourselves the props we deserve. I’m that type of woman, normally… but I’m gonna bottle up that good feeling from today, take her amazing compliment, keep it in the kitchen, and whip it out when I’m feeling down.

So I guess this is growing up.

Aunt Flo Gone Wild

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So this is what it’s come to…

Pitiful.

It’s almost as if my body has decided to revolt against me.

Menstruation after motherhood is straight up cruel.

I’m wearing a pair of leopard print, full bottom, granny panties to bed. Sayonara thong back. Why you ask? Oh the reason is ridiculous. After giving birth to 3 beautiful boys, I had a tubal ligation. A procedure I would do again in a heartbeat, because I know we are done having children. But I definitely would have thought twice about this decision if someone had warned me about what having my tubes tied would mean to my body, my menstrual cycle and my energy level.

The baby is 4 months and 3 weeks old. This is now the 6th time I’ve had my period since his birth. Crazy right? And this time, Aunt Flo decided to get here a week before she was scheduled. There is nothing worse than an unwanted and unexpected house guest when you have a family to think about.

Many family members act differently after you have another child. You can have jealous brothers and sisters, wishing that they too where adding children to their mix. Your own parents can either be supportive or think you have lost your damn mind, and usually, your other children are either pleased or disappointed by having a new sibling… but Aunt Flo? Aunt Flo had handled it the worst.

She never just walks in through the front door at lunchtime anymore… Nope, now her flight comes in at midnight or 2 am. You’re groggy and tired and well… bleeding like you’re dying. Aunt Flo can do that to you. Because you’ve known her a long damn time. You’re used to her bullshit. But after kids? Her bullshit has been magnified 10 times over. I really wouldn’t mind the old Aunt Flo, with her old ways. But the fact that she’s waking me up every 2 hours for clean underwear is incorrigible. I mean, the bitch has been in my life for 24 years. I should already know what’s up. Now she is no longer comfortable with the bedding I have, the towels I have, the tampons I have… now, after 24 years of “sisterhood” Aunt Flo needs pads again. Really?  What in the sweet fuck is that? Pads? I’m not 12.

Nope, not 12. The 3 children in front of me asking for fruit snacks and Slurpees are a daily reminder of my age. Sadly, Aunt Flo hasn’t gotten the memo. That bitch never checks her inbox. EVER! Honestly, after that last 5 months of the new Aunt Flo, I’m really starting to miss the first time Aunt Flo showed up unannounced.

It was a track meet in the 8th grade and I was 13. I was wearing green short shorts with gold trim (think 80’s) and my stomach hurt horribly. Of course I thought it was nerves. I had just finished a 100 yard dash and I was warming up for my long jumps. I was young. I was gangly. I was boobless. I thought I had years to go until I met Flo. That’s when Aunt Flo decided to sashay into the track meet. Decked out in a flowing red dress, red hat as if she was about to watch the Kentucky Derby, 6 inch stiletto heels and all. I left the track meet in pain and shame, dreading to tell my mother that we’d have to set up a room for my “unannounced visitor”.

I begged Mom not to tell my father. Although we were close I just didn’t think that “my” Aunt Flo was any of “his” business. Of course, he brought me home a dozen white roses and I cried. I didn’t want to have to hang out with Aunt Flo every 28 days. I didn’t want to be a “woman”. I was still just a girl.

Aunt Flo and I have never been besties. I mean, how could we be? Always wondering if she was coming… or going because Hubby had already come. Pregnancies were a lovely and wanted distraction from her monthly visits. But then our final son was born. And I guess Aunt Flo really missed me. Or she is now working with Tampax and the pad companies as a lobbyist… either way, she’s obviously teamed up with Lady Macbeth and they are, at present, playing a high stakes game of Texas Hold-em in my uterus.

Lady Macbeth just took the pot with a straight flush. I need to go lay down.

19 kids and counting? That Duggar woman is starting to seem like the smartest chick on earth.

 

My Toddler, Chuck Norris

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I cook almost every night.

Sometimes it’s an escape.  I day-dream that I”m a world-class chef about to serve my love on a plate to some A-list celebs.  They rant and rave about the party in their mouth.

Sometimes it’s a freaking chore and a half because in actuality I’m cooking for a bunch of little boys who would prefer frozen chicken nuggets and Velveeta shells and cheese to any of my homemade delicacies.

Back in our heyday… BC (Before Children), the Hubby and I would dine out quite a bit.  At least 5 nights a week.  It was a complete and total waste of money but in BC world, money didn’t matter.  We worked, we ate, we drank.  I vividly remember leaving my job (where I got to wear pencil skits, fitted button down shirts and heels) and going to a bar… ALONE… and indulging in many dirty martinis.  BC was the shit.

Fast forward to now… AD (After Delivery), and dining out is a novelty.  And with 3 kids you have to be prepared that their behavior will quickly go to shit and you won’t even get to eat.  That’s happened on numerous occasions.  One kid will act up right after we order and we will run from the restaurant, to-go boxes in hand.

Saturday night we went out for dinner with the children.  We had a fantastic time, the food was excellent and they were really well-behaved.  It was bliss and completely out of the norm.

We had leftovers from that dinner which our waiter kindly sent us home with.  I’ve been dreaming about this doggie bag for two damn days!  I couldn’t wait to be able to quietly and without interruption enjoy them for lunch today.

But the best laid plans can always go to shit.

The big kids were at camp, the baby was taking a nap and it was just mommy time.  That in itself should have had me on high alert but I was just so excited for my food.  The microwave beep made my mouth water!  I was super hungry.  I hunkered down with a huge plate of food on the coffee table while I sat down to eat on the couch (a big no-no in front of the kids).  I was watching some amazingly mindless daytime television and had just popped the second bite of food in my mouth when the phone rang.  I absent-mindedly answered it expecting to hear a solicitor on the other end.

It was not a solicitor.

It was camp.

My 3-year-old had been running, slipped, and fell (headfirst) into a metal bleacher.  He was fine, but bleeding and they thought he needed to see a doctor.

I put down my fork, packed up the baby, and rushed off to Middle Monkey with speed and focus that I had forgotten I possessed back in BC.

The fifteen minute drive to camp felt like hours.  It was raining and there was a cop behind me.  Sometimes having a wonderful imagination is a bad, bad thing.  This was one of those times. Visions of my beautiful but precocious child bleeding and crying blurred my vision.  When I finally arrived at camp I didn’t even turn off the car or move the baby, I just threw my car in park, left it running and went to assess the damage.

As I met the camp director at the curb she filled me in…

“He’s doing great.  He’s such a trooper.  The cut looks deep.  We have it under control.  He might need stitches.  He didn’t even CRY.”

Wait? What?

“Yeah, he didn’t even cry.  Not at all. He’s unbelievable.”

{Unbelievable is an understatement}

As I walked into the nurse’s office I found my little man, sipping on a juice box with a big gauze pad taped to his forehead.

“Hi Mom.  I fell.”

I heard buddy.  You okay.

“Yeah, I okay.”

Does your head hurt?

“A little.”

Holy shit.

My kid is Chuck Norris.

This little boy, who cries when he can’t have two packs of fruit snacks… This little shit, who annoys his brother to the ends of the earth, where he is finally forced to use physical violence to subdue him (barely) and then he cries like a hungry infant… This MONSTER, who weeps when I ask him to pick up a book/a toy/a sock, or worse, put down the toilet seat… This terror who sobs when he has to finish his dinner to get desert… doesn’t cry when it’s the real-time for tears?

The time when he could really be hurt and everything should be super scary is the time he has decided to be cool, calm, and collected.

Fuckin’ Chuck Norris.

And he really didn’t cry.

Through 3 hours at the emergency room, through 5 stitches in his forehead (right above his eyebrow) he was the biggest 3-year-old badass I’ve ever seen in my life.

When we arrived back home he ate an ice cream sandwich and fell asleep watching The Lego Movie.

I’m just sitting here watching him sleep and counting my blessings that this was our first trip to the ER with 3 boys and it was only for stitches.

My leftovers can wait until tomorrow.

 

Incessant Questions: Motherhood is the Longest Job Interview Ever

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Johnny 5’s got nothing on my kids when it comes to questions.

I almost cracked this morning.

Legit, straight jacket, get thee to a nunnery Ophelia, cracked.

I was depositing a check into the ATM at the bank, an action I have done countless times.  An action that, is so simple, a trained chimp can do it.  Shit, my 3-year-old can most definitely do it.

But there I was.

Depositing a check.

And the machine had so many questions. Pin number? Language choice? Deposit? Withdrawal?

Questions that should have been easy to answer. Answers that I use every day, but this morning, I sat there, dumbfounded. Shocked at the slow reaction time of my brain.

Then it happened.

I started to laugh. And not just a giggle, a full-on, no-holds-barred, belly laugh. I sat in my car laughing for at least 6 minutes. I laughed too long and so hard, I scared the baby.

After 3 consecutive days with all of my children, I am questioned out.

These kids are like little sponges, small but powerful and mighty super computers. They all are little Johnny 5’s yelling at me, “Input! Need more input! Input!!! INPUT!”

I am their Encyclopedia Britannica. The source of the start of all knowledge. And I am tapped out. I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of answering. I’m tired of questions.

Because there is a 5 year age difference between my oldest 2, I’m slowing discovering that the questions asked of me are on 2 different levels of my consciousness. The 3-year-old asks questions of evolution and general ideas about life and science…

“Where do lollipops grow?”

“Will I be big like Daddy one day?”

“Is Daddy your brother?”

“How your ‘gina (short for vagina) work?”

“Where did I grow?”

While the 9-year-old asks questions of fact…

“Do I have soccer tonight?”

“What did you pack me for lunch?”

“Do I have to read every day this week?”

“When does so-and-so get back from sleep away camp”

“Can I play with my cousin on Wednesday?”

This huge age difference forces me to recesses of my brain I didn’t know existed. If the average human only uses 10% of their brain, I’m pretty sure the average mom is forced to use more. Where the hell is Alex Trebek when you need him?

Of course, like every mom, I want my kids to be well-rounded, inquisitive and knowledgeable. I answer all their copious questions with as much of a straight face as I can keep and to the best of my knowledge based upon their level of understanding. But, MY GOD… I feel like I am on the longest job interview EVER!! And I don’t see the end in sight.

No one likes interviewing for a job. Personally, I’d rather have a root canal, it is quicker and less painful. If you are interviewing for a job that means one of two things… either you are out of work (in that case the job interview is really high pressure because you need a job) or you hate your current job and are looking for something else (in that case the dream job just seems to be right there. You can almost touch it… also very high stress).

But here’s the thing about the job interview that is Motherhood,

I ALREADY HAVE THIS JOB!

It’s mine.

My resume has been checked and is on file. Background check?  Done. You little animals have my DNA. References? Ask your father. And your grandma. Ask your other grandma. But the incessant questions will continue, no matter what.

They will always have questions for me.

Maybe about quantum physics or my past, or their future, or what color is made when you mix red and white? And no matter how much I’d like to hide in the closet with my headphones on listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album in its entirety, on repeat… I can’t.

At least not today.

Because they asked for Chicken and Dumplings for dinner and I’m gonna make it.

I just need to ask my mom for her recipe.