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.