You know your life has been taken over by children when...

I know lists are unoriginal and lame, but I can't help keeping a tab in my head of the ways in which I have become different from people who aren't parents of young children. Sometimes I feel really weird, so it helps to pretend that these are things other people can relate to. I hope.

You know your life has been taken over by children when...

When dining with friends you shovel food in your mouth as fast as possible, and then sit back and wonder how everyone else can be so calm about taking their time to eat.

You and several friendly acquaintances know each other only as So-and-So's Mom. For years.

You know who the hot celebs are because they were on 'word of the day' with Elmo.

The anticipation of waiting for Bob the Builder to confess his love for Wendy has become unbearable.

Making chicken fingers from scratch makes you feel like a foodie.

You've made a shortcut for PB&J crusts on your food diary app.

You're driving alone and get halfway to your destination before realizing you can listen to something other than the Wiggles.

Every other word that goes through your head is 'fuck', but you frown when anyone says 'stupid.'

You've made up songs about diaper changes.

You hear a sniffle and automatically offer your sleeve as a tissue. To another adult.

Raising a Quitter

Peanut has played hooky from swim practice for three days now. On Monday I was willing to believe he was under the weather, as was I. On Tuesday I was skeptical, but my own body was urging me to keep playing sick, so I let it slide. This morning I called him out and told him that he could skip practice (and the evening's meet) but that it would cost him the tv and computer. Suddenly his eyes were itchy, his head hurt, and his body ached. I know the feeling - wishful sickening.

I gave him ten minutes to make his choice, which gave me ten minutes to decide how I wanted to handle the situation. Playing hooky comes as naturally to Peanut as it did to me when I was a kid. The combination of unhappiness at school and a strong desire to follow one's own pursuits can make a person want to weasel out of any responsibility. That's where firm parents come in, and later bills that need paying. And yet, to this day I am a total flake about showing up where I'm supposed to be. No doubt Peanut is riding my wave of fickle commitment. It's not a trait I would have wished he inherited from me, but the truth is that my willpower to set a different example is evenly matched with my own desire to eschew schedules. Peanut flakes, I get to flake. It's a win-win! In the short term, at least, until we get notes from school about unexcused absences (I totally meant to write an excuse but forgot) and I have to deal with the fact that my kid is a total stranger to things like team spirit and sacrifice. He is, in short, just like me in one of the worst possible ways.

Even so, I found myself unwilling to lecture him about commitments. When it comes to children there's a tacit belief that quitting is bad. You don't want to be a quitter. Quitters are horrible people, weak and selfish. And yet, how often do we, as adults, struggle with finding the confidence to commit less and say no without guilt? Eventually the willpower to quit is just as essential as the willpower to stick with it. To quit with one's head held high, confident that it's the right choice, takes guts. People will think less of us. But we will have rid ourselves us an unnecessary source of stress. Yet, when it comes to kids, we still seem to think that they need to learn the lesson of hanging in there no matter what.

I am a champion quitter. I have quit good jobs, graduate school ambitions, and every diet and exercise plan I've ever adopted. I have changed my career goals so many times no one takes me seriously anymore when I say I want to do such-and-such with my life. I have fantasized being a professional knitter, a martial artist, art school student, trial attorney, writer, competitive rower, cartoonist, mother of twelve, carpenter and at one, very brief time of life, a nun. Yet today I do nothing with my life, except to dabble in a dizzying array of hobbies and skills. I have quit just as many things as I have tried, but I have tried everything without fear or hesitation. Quitting might be one of my worst traits, but my willingness to attempt and succeed at anything is one of my best. So I won't apologize for quitting, not any more. I may never settle on any one thing long enough to become a professional, but I will never lack for interests.

I can't say that Peanut has my zeal for variety. He's fairly single minded about video games, but it's clear to me that forcing him to finish something that gives him nothing but anxiety is pointless. It's better to allow him to dabble and try new things, and drop them as he wishes, than to forever instill in him the idea that any commitment once made can't be unbroken without shame. There's a fine line between showing up for the team and showing up for oneself and, unfortunately, we are too inclined to honor the former and neglect the latter. Especially in today's culture, where parents wring their hands in nervous anticipation of college admissions, it's all too easy to push our kids into sticking with commitments long after they've stopped getting anything out of it.

So Peanut hates being on the swim team; at least he loves swimming. Maybe, in the short amount of time he'll save by skipping practice, he'll master chess or start studying biology. Probably not, but at least he's free to think about how to enjoy his day instead of dreading how he must spend it.

Super Friends

These are the Super Friends, according to Tank. As a two-year-old his cultural reference is fairly limited, so he has to fill in the gaps with his own imagination. I enjoy listening in, but am kind of tired of always being under Robin's thumb. Someday I'm going to snap and tell the kid that Robin is the lamest sidekick ever.

This is Thatman, an obsequious underling to the much cooler Robin. He's sometimes confused with Batman, who is some kind of local real estate mogul - what with castles and lairs and cars named after him. But don't get confused: Thatman is a total poser. If Robin jumps off a cliff, Thatman jumps off the cliff and dies even harder. Fist is extended in a permanent fistbump. Still waiting for Robin to reciprocate.

Joker is the friendliest, happiest guy around. He owns a funhouse where everyone goes to party and get stuck in jail, which is like the best joke ever. Has his own car that he uses to commute to an office like Daddy (note the suit). The car has a hammer he can use to crush people - also an excellent joke. Wears Mommy's make up. Loves hugging. Has clearly never been to the beach.

Wonder Woman is stronger than the boys but spends all her time searching for her lost horse, hence the lasso. She was an Olympic shot putter and now wears a flag all the time because she just has to shove it in everyone's face. Loves riding cats, picking on Joker, and getting lost in a good bookcase.

This is... some kind of photographer, maybe? Really likes the color green. Needs to learn how to accessorize. Irritates everyone by always calling shotgun in the Batmobile. Never gets it.








Superman, the lamest super hero ever. I mean, look at him - he's not even wearing a mask. And his outfit? Obviously copying off of Robin, but not nearly so snazzy. And why is there a 'j' on his forehead? What is that? A middle initial? He's constantly trying to high five the other heroes, which just seems desperate after a while. Disappeared a few months back. Mommy says he's probably behind the radiator, but no one is in a hurry to form a search party.

Bow down to your leader, Robin! He has the coolest costume, the coolest name, the coolest hair cut, the coolest utility belt. He's so awesome Batman lets him use the Batmobile AND the Batbike whenever he wants. Which is often. Usually in the company of his obedient sidekick, Thatman. He's so awesome his fist is raised in a "hell, yeah!" to himself. Still living down the Flinstones vitmain rumor from Joker's last party. He doesn't care what people say, his eyes were red from all his awesomeness.

Presumably "behind the radiator" with Superman, Batgirl is really shirking on her duties as heir of the Batcastle and Batcave. Rumor says Robin is edging her out in Batman's good graces, but the unexplained connection between the Batpeople will probably hold strong. She occasionally hangs with Wonder Woman, but is much too sophisticated to join in the hijinks of the rest of the crew. Currently working on a plan to buy out Joker's playhouse and reopen it as a gastropub.

Not Even Trying

One of the reasons I have so much trouble blogging regularly is that I feel a need to write from a particular perspective. The insightful mother, perhaps, or the crafty mom - maybe even the irresponsible, slacker mom. But the truth is that on the best of days I have no control over how I filter my response to the children. I never ponder the deeper meaning of events until I sit down to write - and most of the time I'm so embroiled with frustration my deeper thoughts look like I've smashed my face repeatedly into the keyboard. If Yosemite Sam was a mom - that's me. That's not to say our days are always wrought with frustration (though they are) or that I hate parenting (I kinda do). It's just that the kids hit me with demands and needs like rapid fire - by the end of the day I'm riddled with holes of frustration and confusion, any one of which could have done me in.

Case in point, in the time it took me to write the preceding paragraph I had to deal with exploding yogurt, a sudden demand for handmade hula skirts, and a lengthy explanation of why we can't fly to Brazil today. I lack either the humor or the patience to smile bemusedly and let the wonder wash over me. In fact, most of the time my face looks like this:

I love this meme face. It's my face 99% of the time. It's the perfect combination of "you're kidding me", "I am just about done with this shit", and "happy place? fuck that, I want a margarita."

It's not just my kids who invoke this face, however. As a mom I'm always getting helpful advice and comments from people. Like, "don't forget to take time for yourself" and "you should get more rest." That's great - thanks - but I got through a whole week of flossing regularly and I can only find time for so much. Or, "cherish every minute!" Like the time Tank sat on my head when I was taking one of my much needed naps and his diaper leaked on my face? Cherished, totally. In fact, it was the family's Christmas photo that year.

I don't mean to sound bitter. Though maybe I am. The truth is that I would be able to weather the irritating, banal, and downright stupid moments of parenting so much better if I didn't feel so much pressure to enjoy it. Isn't it possible that I can feel totally irritated with my daily life and still be a good parent? Maybe my "me" time is taking a shower with the bathroom door locked, and maybe I underestimate how often the tv is on by 80%, and maybe everything we eat comes out of a wrapper - in fact, our lives are pretty mediocre. But feeling bad about that has not changed anything. In ten years of being a mom the guilt and frustration of not being better at it has only made it harder for me to feel good about what we do get right.

I started off this summer with grand plans - a firm schedule, fun outings, bonding time. Well, I had planned to make plans to have plans. And in the first week I established a routine of tossing them nutrigrain bars and the television remote while I rolled over on the couch and went back to sleep. Right now moms across the country are circling petitions and writing their congressmen to protest pizza in schools, and I'm like "pizza five days a week? Is that a bad thing?"

It's not that I don't know better, and it's not that I don't care. It's that a person must pick her battles and I'm not a fighter. I'd rather let the kids run amok than spend every waking hour fighting their natures and mine. I would rather steal time to write, or think, or - hey - shower for the first time in days, than add 'create a perfect world' to the list of things I won't get around to doing. And maybe - just maybe - if I stop feeling bad about the things I'm not doing, and embrace feeling ambivalent about the things I do, I won't make that face so much.

But I probably will, because kids do some stupid, crazy shit.

Honest Parenting Books

A few years ago, shortly after Beaner crashed into our world, I had a bit of a meltdown. Parenting had always been a daunting task for me, but with two kids I was drowning. I'm not saying I had it worse than most, but I wasn't good at it to begin with, and now I sucked twice as much. I was referred to a local group of... psychologists and therapists. Like, a whole room of them. Six total, all there to listen to what I had to say and to help me see that what was happening in my life is part of a larger dynamic of family life that has burdened moms and dads alike since the dawn of time. I wasn't alone, and I wasn't crazy. Though it did take a panel of experts to convince me.
While I sat there, Beaner bouncing happily on my lap as I cried, pouring out all my frustrations on the table, an older woman who had once been the head ObGyn at our local hospital reached to me and took my hand. "You're a good mom," she said. This seemed out of place, since I'd been complaining about how our vacuum was always on the fritz, but she seemed to know what was really bothering me. "I can tell that you're a good mom. Do you know how?" I shook my head. "Look at your baby," she told me.
Beaner was smiling at everyone, chewing on an award-winning, multi-sensory soft toy, dressed in an adorable ensemble from Gymboree with matching Robeez on his feet. He was bald where I had rubbed off some cradle cap, but otherwise he was the vision of a well-cared for baby. "He..." I began. I had no idea what I was supposed to see.
"He's smiling," the retired doctor coaxed me. "Why is he smiling?"
I sputtered - I'd read this somewhere - let me see. "He's... it's the thing.. babies smile to get their parent's attention... it's a survival instinct..."
"He's smiling because he's happy," the doctor said, losing patience. "That's how I know you're a good mom - your baby is happy."
"Oh." Of course. But I had nothing to do with that. I'm pretty sure I hadn't smiled in weeks. I feebly muttered something about what the parenting books say.
"The problem with today's parents," the doc interrupted, slapping her hand on the table. "Is that they read too many damn parenting books."

She was too right. I can't claim that things turned around for me on that day, but life has - slowly but surely - gotten easier. And that is due in part to letting go of caring so much about getting it right. Parenting books promise too much, and the expectations we put on ourselves to fulfill their prophecies can be crippling. I could have used more practical warnings and fewer instructions on how to be perfect. For instance:

Everything You Love Will Get Peed On
Seriously, it will. And you can't Scotch Guard your life because that shit is not organic. Best get used to living in a home that would fail a visit from the Department of Health.

How to Live a Full Life While Stuck in a Car: from desperately hoping the baby doesn't wake to waiting for the damn game to end
I spend as much time in my car each day as I do in my living room. Yes, it's got a high safety rating, but more importantly - it has four cup holders per passenger.

Batteries are a Mom's Best Friend (Not in that way, you perve. And anyways, I'm too tired)
If you know someone who is having a new baby the best gift you can give them is batteries and an odd-sized screwdriver set. I'm not kidding.

1,001 Excuses for Shirking PTA Duty
I'm pretty sure PTA presidents are coached in making people feel guilty. There is just no appeasing them. Sure, I've got a babe dangling from a nipple and a toddler pouring sand in my boots - but that shouldn't stop me from chaperoning the school's Silent Auction Dance Off Bake Sale End-of-Year Awards Talent Show.

MILF is a Compliment (and other weird middle age changes)
I don't actually want to be the hot mom the teen boys day dream about and the neighbor wives hate.
But I do, because my sexuality is now a matter of hoping my boobs don't sag below my belly button. And that stings.

I Used to Do Stuff: a memior
We had non-child burdened friends for dinner a while back and they were discussing a new singer-songwriter they like. I had been silent all evening but suddenly piped up: "Oh! I know that person! He was on Elmo!"
Well, he was.

When You Gotta Go: Tips & tricks for using public restrooms with young children
Sometimes, when I see those signs that say "We take pride in our appearance! Please alert the staff if you are unsatisfied with the condition of this restroom" I am tempted to throttle someone whilst screaming "You lie! LIE!"

When You Gotta Go: Tips & Tricks for using public restrooms with young children, part II
If the kids don't push the door wide open for everyone to see you, they will at least tell everyone in the store what you did.

Gak

I got this idea from Lil' Luna's blog.

Gak. It's like Play Doh, but slimy and stretchy. I made a batch a couple weeks ago while the kids were watching tv, and to my amazement it worked. In under ten minutes I had a homemade batch of gak in a horrible shade of purple (my doing). I carried it triumphantly into the living room and declared, "I've made gak! Come play with it!"

The kids wrinkled their noses at me. And at it. They were highly suspicious of the gak.

When Jolly came home I tried again. "Look! Gak! Want to play with it?"

"Ew," he said.

So much for the gak.

Damn it, I made that stuff and I couldn't help being proud of it. More to the point, I made an effort to be cool and craftsy. I wanted some acknowledgment. I wanted someone to play with it. I kept it in a tupperware container on the kitchen counter, and whenever I found myself standing idly by I'd pull it out and squish it around. I became very fond of my gak... in a totally stubborn way that makes me think I should get out more, but fond nonetheless.

I've been trying, since then, to tempt the rest of the family with the gak. "Here, try the gak!" "Are you bored? Do you want some gak?" "Look at the gak! See what it can do?" Finally, Peanut gave in out of a combination of boredom and, I believe, exasperation. He played with the gak for all of five minutes before returning it to me with a sour expression on his face. "Did you have fun?" I asked eagerly. I swear I saw pity in his eyes as he contemplated my face. "I suppose..." he replied slowly, before backing away.

 Last night, I made one last ditch effort to engage the kids with the gak. As they ate their bedtime snack while listening to their father read Harry Potter, I enthusiastically plopped the gak onto the center of the coffee table. "Look, kids! Gak!" Everyone in the room, except me, stared with disgust at the purple blob that started spreading across the table.

"What's it doing?" Jolly asked disconcertedly.

"Being gak!" I replied cheerfully.

Jolly kept reading and the kids continued munching on their Froot Loops. The ignored gak oozed it's way to the edge of the table and strung over the edge like warm taffy - stretching and glopping to the floor, making little, gooey stalagmites next to the rug. Peanut suddenly sat straight and said in a warning voice, "Mom - look at the gak."

Insisting, once again, that the gak was just being gak, I watched the kids creep curiously to where it was spawning smaller, oozing blobs on the floor. They were timid of touching it at first. It's cold and slimy and squishes disturbingly when touched. But the boys were fascinated with how it dripped off the coffee table in long strands, and after a while they had organized the Great Blob Races of Summer, 2013. "Let's see who wins!" Peanut said excitedly to Beaner.

Over and over, the boys scooped their gak off the floor and molded it into piles along the edge of the coffee table, where it once again oozed to the floor. Each of the kids cheered for his blob to be the first to touch.

"Come on, Harry!" shouted Peanut.

"Come on, Hermione!" shouted Beaner.

Thus christened, the blobs now known as Harry and Hermione raced for the title of Fastest Ooze. The game kept the boys entertained for quite some time, and entertained me and Jolly even more. Perhaps I'll make more gak in other, lurid colors and we can have Harry duke it out with Voldemort in slimy style. As far as crossovers go, gak and Harry Potter seem an unlikely pairing, but that sort of thinking outside the box is what makes children's play so interesting.

Overall, I give the gak a thumbs up. It was easy to make, is easy to clean up, and kept the kids entertained for more than 30 minutes - which is as good as it gets around here. I don't know if they'll ever touch the stuff again, but the effort was worth it to hear Beaner struggling to pronounce 'Hermione.'

My Summer Vacation

I pretty much suck at summer. I never enforce summer reading and we don't do enriching activities. Generally, I'm not really awake before 10am, by which time the kids have been watching tv for four hours (I can't be held responsible for permissions I give while still asleep). By the time everyone is fed and if I bother to get them dressed it's already high noon - by which time I feel it's dangerously hot outside and we had best stay indoors huddled next to the AC vent. And since we're stuck indoors I might as well let them watch more tv, because doing anything else not only takes effort, but will be met with screechy protest. And I'm lazy.

I know this is a horrible pattern, but there's always an easy rationalization within reach and the kids aren't complaining. Still, I am inexplicably drawn to the SuperMom Blogs, which inevitably make me feel like the slackiest slacker mom who ever did slack. So I get these crazy ideas that I will clean up my act and become a totally different kind of parent - one who leads her children in educational, fun, relationship-building, self-esteem boosting, community-minded activities each and every day. But by evening I've had to settle for keeping them alive, which is all I ever really accomplish.

I am in awe of these SuperMoms. But it's a bitchy kind of awe, as in - I don't know how they do it and I suspect the devil must be involved. I've been posting to this blog regularly for just one week and I have yet to figure out how one manages to write about parenting while actually doing it. I also would like to know how the hell they manage to keep their kids occupied while they assemble the amazing activities that are supposed to keep our kids entertained for hours (like a dinosaur bones dig in the backyard. Ladies, if I had time to dig, I'd have a garden). And then, I'd like to know how they're measuring those hours - is that cumulative? Because I can't keep my kids engaged with anything for longer than 30 minutes. Less, if I happen to be trying to do something they can't take part in, like brush my teeth - then, no amount of crafty, enriching goodness will distract them. Last, I'd like to know who is taking those photos of the perfectly coiffed children playing calmly with colorful activities, while a perfectly coiffed mom looks on in proud, loving bliss. Who the hell are these people?

But I keep reading the SuperMom blogs. I'm obsessed with these women who are balancing successful internet careers with mothering. Do I aspire to be among them? Not necessarily, but for now mommying is what I do, so it's what I have to write about. Yet, I don't feel like I have much more insight now than I did when I first held Peanut nine years ago. It seems that merely keeping the kids fed and clean leaves little time for reflection. Maybe my brain simply doesn't work that hard. Maybe I take children too much at face value and focus too much on the daily irritations of parenthood. Whatever the case is, I don't feel like I can relate to the SuperMoms.

Summertime is one of the worst times to be a slacker mom among SuperMoms (the other worst times being every other season). It seems everyone has a long list of things to do with their kids this summer, ranging from cloud watching to high tech studio animations. Me? I'm taking my kids to the pool and making sure they don't drown, in between letting them watch more than the 3-hour average of screen time and then letting them do it again. This is the reality. My ambition is to be slightly, well, more ambitious.

So I'm dubbing this week 110% Week. I'm going to see if I can step up my game and give my kids things to do that don't involve a glowing screen. I will probably spend much of the week trying to quell sobs, screams, and tantrums. I will most likely spend an equal amount of time inwardly cursing the SuperMom blogger who swore her kids loved whatever activity I'm forcing down my kids' throats. But maybe I will also dub this week Have Another Cookie Week, and everyone will feel much better.