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We’ve all heard it a million times, “Motherhood is a thankless job.” Well, I’m here to tell you, that’s some straight up bullshit. Yes, motherhood is the most thankless situation in the history of time; you do everything for everybody and they only realize this awesome feat when you fuck something up, but… It’s not a job. Prime example, today was spirit day at the 4-year-old’s school which means he’s supposed to wear a specific shirt. I vividly remember, washing this shirt, folding this shirt and putting it in his drawer. Of course we couldn’t find it today. Of course, it’s misplacement was a disaster of epic proportions and of course, my middle child went off to school, in the wrong damn shirt, thinking that I sit on the couch and eat Cowboy Bark from Trader Joe’s all day (which I really should start doing if shirts are gonna grow fucking legs and walk away).

The point of all this is that motherhood isn’t a job. By definition, a job is a situation where you work… and earn money. Shit, unemployment in this country is more of a job than motherhood. And with a job you get vacation time (I can’t remember the last time I had a vacation from motherhood) and sick days (SICK DAYS!!?? I currently have a sinus infection and a double ear infection, still doin’ the mom thang) and mental health days (Don’t even get me started on how bad I need one of these).

Nope, I am not working at being a mom. There is no severance package. There is no 5 o’clock whistle. There is no lunch break. Some days, when my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and recall some adorable moment shared with my children: a funny little nuance, a real belly laugh, a “thanks mama,” or a sincere, “I love you,” and my heart is full with payment. But most days… most days I don’t remember getting into bed; body heavy with the physical and mental labor I’ve shelled out with every fiber of my being. This isn’t a job because it never ends. My life could be equated with being the janitor at the mall. You mop the mall floor, over and over and over again, just to watch a heard of people walk over the spot you just mopped, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in their wake. Never able to rest the mop against the wall and examine your completed handiwork. Except even that guy GETS PAID!

I really wish I could listen to that sage advice of the old lady at the supermarket. The one who grabs the baby’s cheeks as he gives her a megawatt smile and she touches my arm and whispers, “Enjoy it darling, it goes by so fast,” because I know she’s right. It is going by at a rapid pace, but I can’t even savor that fact because it’s all I do. Motherhood has swallowed me whole and while sometimes I wish it were a job, just so I could throw a basket of laundry on the damn floor and scream, “I QUIT. TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT!” I can’t. I don’t. Because it’s not a job, it’s my life.

A mental health day would be nice though.

The little people are everywhere. They surround me. I spend 20 hours a day making sure they are alive to see tomorrow. Some days are easier than others: school days, the day my husband put the baby gates on the stairs, the day the baby and the 4-year-old napped at the same time. Some days… not so good: the day the baby discovered the toilet bowl, the day the 9-year-old forgot his homework at school, the day all I wanted was a shower (and I didn’t get it).

My patience wanes as the sun sets. I go from Mary Poppins to Cruella De Vil in an instant. All of a sudden the questions asked of me get more ridiculous, and I throw out the No’s like a major league pitcher on opening day. “But WHHYYY MOOMMMYYY?”

Because I said so.

It really is the most ridiculous phrase around. Because I said so? What kind of stupid shit is that? All this time I spend with my children, reading to them, playing with them, building things with them… what I want is to create thinkers; little people with brains who will grow up to be men with brains. And then I lose my patience because the day is long, their requests are limitless and all that work goes right out the window.

Because I said so.

As if, instantly, all of them have become little Veruca Salts… “I want an Oompa Loompa NOW!” and instead of using my mind, “Honey, you can’t have an Oompa Loompa, because they are mythical beings that only exist in the movies and literature, and where would he sleep?” I give them a whole lot of, “No. Because I said so.”

Because I’m tired. Because I’m over having to explain every decision I make to someone who’s 4 foot tall. Because I’m too lazy to too busy or too over all of this to make/assist/adhere to whatever you want, the moment you want it.

So, right now? The answer is no.

Because I said so.

You’ll have better luck asking for the same ridiculous thing in the morning.

Unless you keep me up all night…

I love my children. I love them in a way I never knew love existed. A mad, crazy, I’d-catch-a grenade-for-ya love. But love like that is exhausting. Motherhood is exhausting. Just because I love my children doesn’t mean I always have to like what needs to be done. You could find more mental stimulus working in the County mail room then in the day-to-day of a Stay-At-Home-Mom. And there are times and situations where I have to mentally check-out just to cope.

1. On weekends, at lunchtime:

One of the many jobs I held during my teenage years was waiting tables in a diner. I was an awful waitress. The soup was always brought to the table cold, I never got the salad dressings correct, entrées were often staggered throughout the meal, and split checks? Yikes. Now, motherhood has put me right back in the throes of the diner once again. Except now, I’m the chef, the waitress, the busboy, and the cleanup crew all balled up into one frazzled package. And I can’t even flirt with the cute dishwasher. Oh shit, I am the dishwasher. How could I forget about that? At least during the week I can make lunches while they sleep for the next day, not having to listen to them complain about how they have too much (or not enough) ice in their cup.

2. Before nap time:

Without Curious George the 4-year-old won’t nap, without Netflix there is no Curious George, without Comcast there is not Netflix. So, as you can imagine, there is often no nap. HE NEEDS A NAP.

3. When I’m trying to complete a project:

I’ve been trying to clean the garage fridge for 3 weeks. Whenever I get everything emptied out, something else needs my immediate attention. The 9-year-old needs a specific book off the top shelf, the 4-year-old wants my undivided attention to show me the cool trick he’s just realized he can do (this time it was farting on command) and the baby? Well he’s mobile now and attempting to climb the stairs every chance he gets, so… projects? Not so much.

4. When they have to complete a project:

The 4-year-old had to color a project from preschool at home. Normally, he loves to color but once I was involved it became the biggest case of oppositional defiant disorder I’d ever seen. I was eventually able to persuade him with the promise of chocolate and 25 rounds of Candy Land. I can’t wait until he’s in Middle School. {eye roll}

5. During homework time:

The 9-year-old is pretty good about getting his homework done. Unfortunately, that’s usually the exact time his younger brother decides to pelt him with Nerf bullets, or sing Frosty the Snowman at the top of his lungs. This place is a zoo, and not in a cute, Matt Damon, We Bought a Zoo, way.

6. The last days of winter/spring/summer break:

3 weeks off in a row has been mind numbing. Any parent who says different is a teacher.

7. When I’m on the phone:

If I ever want my kids to pay attention to me, all I need to do is make a phone call. Come to find out, all kids are like this, and since most of my friends are parents too, we end up in a 30 minute conversation where we haven’t been able to say anything to each other but can recall, precisely, the infractions of each others’ children.

8. When they are fighting:

This is ALL. THE. TIME. The sweetest brotherly moment can erupt into World War 3 out of no where. Once, I watched them fight over who was playing with the baby and how the other was stealing the baby’s attention. “There’s enough baby to go around,” was the incorrect way to settle this argument.

9. When I catch them in a lie:

As my oldest quickly becomes a tween I’m catching him in lots of fibs. It’s annoying, it’s depressing. Doesn’t he know he can tell me anything? I’m not always going to like the truth, but I’m always going to love him. Hopefully he learns that lesson. And quick.

10. When they’re not around:

I know it sounds completely silly, there are so many times I think, “I wish I had a minute to breathe/think/not have to talk/pee/not have to hold someone” but when my kids aren’t in this house I miss them like crazy, and I worry. Even when they are in situations with people I unequivocally trust. That’s the thing about being a mom, I have 3 little people who are carrying around a piece of my heart, and it’s only entirely complete when we all are together.

After three kids, I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked out the myriad of stupid situations and random disasters that come with raising sons. Because, if I were to have a crystal- clear recollection of it all, I’d be occupying a padded room somewhere. My brain has done me a solid with the repression of those memories. Unfortunately this repression has landed me in uncharted waters and I’ve come to the conclusion that my baby has a death wish — he puts absolutely anything and everything into his mouth.

Now, back to my faded memories of my other children at the same age. I’m sure they must have attempted to eat things that weren’t meant to be eaten, but it was a lot easier to regulate then. I could contain mess because I didn’t have many children. That is the furthest situation from the truth today. There is always a wayward Lego, a small slice of wrapping paper, or a large chunk of plastic wrapper lurking about. And the baby has become an expert at discovering these things and quickly squirreling them into his mouth before I can run my fat-ass over to retrieve it. I once found a foam exclamation point nestled inside his cheek and when I wrestled that shit from his clenched jaw, he was ridiculously angry.

It’s not that he doesn’t have a million-fucking toys that are age appropriate to jam in his mouth. He does! But those things don’t have the appeal, that say, a paper clip does, so now I’m spending all my time either yelling at the older kids to pick up their shit, or souring the floor on my hands and knees for things that could kill my child if he consumes them. Which he will, because plastic is damn delicious.

Jealous?

So there it is. The glamorous life I lead. It would be easier to tango backwards in 6-inch stilettos.

This problem has become more urgent in the last 2 weeks. The kids are on winter break, the baby has finally gotten into a crawling groove and I can’t pick the shit up fast enough that they leave everywhere like exhaust fumes in their wake. The stress and the fear of this kid getting into something he shouldn’t, while I’m dealing with all the other lives in this house, has me at my breaking point. Scratch that, my broken point. I’m a frazzled, frantic, mess. It’s not a good look.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Eating a little Lego never killed anyone.

At least according to Google.

 

 

24/7 365.

That’s just about how much time I’ve spent with my kids since each of their births.

All the time… give or take an hour here and there.

So, you’d imagine my surprise when my first-born started making words and the first noise out of his mouth was… yup, you guessed it, “Dada.” Thinking back on it now I wasn’t even surprised. Disappointed? Oh yes. A bit heartbroken? Undeniably. For months, I’d been waiting to hear this baby’s sweet little voice call for me, “Mama…” I could hear it echoing in my head, magical words, as he validated the time I’d spent doting on him with 2 little syllables. But no, Mama was not to be… not for a long while.

I shoved my insult and disappointment aside, “After all, he’s just a baby. He’s not doing this on purpose,” I thought.

Of course, my husband was elated. “That’s right buddy, I’m Dada.” I let him revel in his babble victory. Watching his face beam with pride, knowing that eventually, when the Mama finally came from my infants lips it would be so worth the wait.

As days passed, I started noticing that Dada didn’t mean, “I love you, Daddy.” Quite the opposite, Dada meant everything and anything.

Reasons my baby is yelling Dada:

The bag boy at the supermarket talked to him while bagging our groceries.

The sun hit his eyes in that special way that he could still see.

I gave him mashed banana.

He spotted me, his Mama, after waking up from his nap.

He’s about to get a bottle.

Someone picks him up.

He’s found the tag on a toy.

He’s about to eat dirt, a hairball, or plastic.

So this got me wondering. Which came first the Dada? Or the Dad?

I could just imagine a Neanderthal family: sitting in their cave, the fire toasting some dead animal and their caveman baby opens his mouth to let the first sign of verbal communication fly… “Dada,” he exclaims! And that’s when the patriarch of the family stands over the fire, bangs his fist on his chest and declares, “Me, Dada!”

Sounds about right.

As I had a second child, and then I third, I watched them all babble the same words first… everything started with Dada. My caveman theory left me feeling less empty. That, and the fact that the Dada babble seemed to mean everything and nothing all at the same time. But when each child finally looked at me with their chubby little faces, light dancing in their eyes, an out stretched hand as they shrieked, “Mama!!!” I knew they meant it. I knew they meant me.

Now? I’d currently pay good money to go 20 seconds without hearing someone yell, “Mom, Mom, MOM!”