Motherhood Uncensored

The Magical Mystery Tour of Motherhood: Second Stop - Talking Town

We have reached the exciting world of full-term toddlerdom at the MU household. Temper tantrums, a new found independence, and dissention abound. While I’m glad to not be bouncing a cranky 8-month old on one shoulder while singing “My Bonnie” at 3am, the world of the toddler is a force with which to be reckoned.

Of particular enjoyment is the new chatty Kathy that has moved in. As you might have guessed, I love me some talking. I can talk a dress off a church lady. And it seems that my daughter has taken up this same passion. But, unfortunately, about 82.6% of time, I have absolutely no idea what she is saying, and it’s getting a bit taxing on my brain.

At 20-months, I think my daughter has a decent vocabulary. She’ll copy whatever we say *ahem* and then use it at appropriate times. And while I’m excited that she masterfully uses the words “moneys” “bad babies” and “hopper” (grasshopper) quite well, I’m thinking that perhaps a simple “poopies mama” or even “I’m sitting in a big honking crap” would be a better use of her language skills.

I get green with envy when I visit Lucinda’s place – as her nearly 2-year daughter is practically reciting the Gettysburg address (okay, her actual birthdate and twinkle twinkle, but that’s pretty damn good) – and mine? She is repeating the word “ICKIES” about 25 times until we figure out that she wants her STICKERS and all is well again with the world.

Granted my daughter can do a 25-piece puzzle with her eyes closed, but sometimes it gets really frustrating. Take for example the escalating cries for a dance.

Ance? Ance? ANCE? ANCE? ANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNCCCCCCCCCCCEEE?

Look. No matter how loud and emphatic you try to say “dance” - if it’s in French, German, or Toddlerspeak for that matter, it won’t help me get it any better. We even do the "I-have-no-idea-what-you-are-saying-but-I'll-pretend-like-I-do-anyway" nod. Also "Good job, that's right" works pretty well.

Then we do the guilty parents charade game where we try to get them to say it (like that ever helps).

Babytoy. One word. Two syllables. Sounds like?

Or maybe just a good game of 20 questions.

Can you show me what it is? Is it big or small? Is it something to eat? Does it talk? Walk? Sing? Is it in this house? Is it even real?

On the really, really bad days, it’s like playing Mad Gabs. Ever heard of that game? It’s one of those adult party games that either you have to play very sober or very drunk – and either way, by the end of the it, you want to eat your own arm off.

Basically, you get a bunch of unrelated words that when said actually sound like another word or phrase. You read it to your team until they guess it. Simply put, it’s HELL IN A BOX.

Ask Rude Arrive Her. Ask Rude Arrive Her. Ask Rude Arrive Her (repeat about 40 times with various voice inflections).

By the time you figure out it’s "A SCREWDRIVER", you want to beat the person with the game box.

Our version is slightly less fun. Even the most competitive annoying drunk idiot is more entertaining than a screaming toddler.

Neekus. NEEKUS? Nnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeekus. neeKUS. NEEkus. OH SNEAKERS? Right right sneakers. Of course. Who doesn't want to kiss their sneakers goodnight before bed. Totally logical. Thanks for that.

So, that is our daily routine in a nutshell. And I’m better at it than my husband. You can hear the poor guy in the other room trying to appease the savage toddler talker.

At? Do you mean Hat? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Do you mean Pat? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Do you mean Cat? UH-HUH. Sounds like a really fucked up Dr. Suess book.

I know this is very typical and I’m trying very hard to suppress my need to consult a speech therapist. And while it is pretty damn frustrating, it is kind of funny. Let’s face it. For all we know, she could be cursing us out right in front of our faces, and all we think is that she really really wants her [d]"uck."

*The first stop on the Tour was teething. Read it here.

**For a spin off on the False Advertising of Motherhood, click here. Awesome.

The False Advertising of Motherhood

You didn’t think that I could let this one slide by me did you? This whole notion of being  someone you are not and then it all coming out (or flopping out if you’ve had a child) to bite you in the ass is fascinating. This idea that physical attraction is so important to our sexual livelihood that we need to make sure our spousal units and the like are informed of any drastic changes to our person is captivating.

But other than Trim-spa helping Anna Nicole lose 400lbs, and the bowflex making that I-refuse-to-believe-you’re-50-years-old woman look like Heidi Klum, the only false advertising I’m concerned these days is this business of motherhood.

Did anyone really tell you how hard this shit is? – because I distinctly remember talking to a lot of moms in my lifetime, and no one told me how incredibly exhausting, frustrating, and stressful it would be. All the moms I knew walked around in their matching socks, showed off their recently showered selves, and made us all think it wasn’t that bad. Now THAT is false advertising.

On most days, particularly during the first year of my daughter’s life, I felt like at any given moment, I was going to lose it. Granted, I never had diagnosed PPD, and as a therapist, I was quite aware of the signs and symptoms, but I often felt like the mothers of the world had done me wrong.

I spent 2 hours every Saturday for the last 3 months of my pregnancy learning about cervical dilation and perineal support, yet I had no clue how to get my baby to sleep on a non-moving horizontal surface. I could say “no episotomy please” in 5 different languages, but I couldn’t figure out why my daughter was shitting green goo and refusing to lay on her stomach for more than ONE second.

By the time I got out of the house for the first time, all I wanted to do was burn all my baby books, and toilet paper all the houses of those mothers who made it look so easy. But let’s face it. You’re stuck with what you got. There’s no money back guarantee for motherhood. There’s no comment box for disgruntled customers.

So now, I proudly stroll in 10 minutes late to mommy and me wearing the same jeans I’ve worn all week. I scoff at the moms who spend 15 minutes on their make-up; lipstick is all anyone really needs. And I happily share my struggles with anyone who asks, knowing that while I might scare the shit out of them, at least they’ll know what to expect.

And when they’re changing a rancid poopy at 2am or suctioning nose snot with all the gusto they can muster, I bet they’ll be somewhat comforted that at least someone (be it ONE person) never said it was going to be easy.

That Mom

It’s official.

I am now a card carrying member of the That Mom club.

You know, the club that all single people and sans-kids folks roll their eyes at and secretly bitch about at their fun no-parents-allowed parties.

I realized it the other day when I was on the phone with a former student. As I was trying to help her with her new private practice, my daughter decided to have a caniption.

“Here’s what I sugwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaagest. Find a goodbbbbbbbbabbyyyyy accountant and wwwwwwwwwwwahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Q, one second mommy’s on the phone *said while poorly holding hand over the mouthpiece*”

“Is everything okay?” [read: Um, that’s really loud. Is she dying?]

“I’m so sorry. She’s just really wants to watch her baby. So anyway, where was I? Oh, accountant, right. Talk to someonewhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa… Q, please, just give me one minute here… *said with no hand over the mouthpiece*”

“It’s okay if you have to go” [read: Please, let me go….]

And then it hit me. I am the that mom. The one I hate talking to on the phone because it’s clear that I don’t have her full attention for any part of our conversation. I even admitted it.

“Oh my god. I’m so the mom I hate talking to on the phone. I’m so sorry. I have to go now.”

Even worse was when I had to call her back about 15 minutes later and cancel our lunch meeting because my babysitter didn’t show up. All the times I rolled my eyes when my friends-with-kids were late or had to cancel because of their babysitter just came back to haunt me.

“Um, hi Kara. I’m really sorry about this, but it seems I forgot my sitter is still in Texas and won’t be here. I hate to have to cancel, but is there anyway we can reschedule?”

Shit. I could feel her eye roll through the phone. Hell – even my eyes were rolling. How did triple-A personality, perfectionist college professor turn into a total flake?

Then just the other day I was organizing my closet shelves and instead of having a the various shirt piles like bed shirts, gym shirts, daylight shirts, and good-boob shirts, all I had was ONE BIG PILE. I’m so embarrassed to admit that I have worn the same shirts to the gym, to the store, and to bed. And on really bad days, I’ve done the bed-store, bed-gym, or the store-gym combos.

WTF? That is just not right.

But my membership deal sealer was hearing my voice on the home video tape that my daughter watches at least 3 times a day. Let’s just say I will never be a phone sex operator – unless you want a really loud, exquisitely enunciating cross between Julie Andrews, Ethel Merman, and Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.

Look. I know I’m loud. Of course, my husband is the only one who likes to remind me of this and he thinks that the tv on mute is loud. So really, I never listen to him. Obviously, it’s because I must have huge amounts of wax in my ears that block the resonance of my hugely annoying mom-voice.

And there it was. Loud, clear, and very enunciated.

“Whatttt does the trainah sayee? Whatttt does the trainah sayee? WOOOOOOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOO. Is thatttt whatah the trainah sayzzzz?WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

Oh. my. god. turn. it. off.

Granted I’m not Fran ala The Nanny or Janice ala Friends, but seriously, I’m on my way there, just in a more valley-girl-gone-bad sort of way.

And with that, I fulfill all the that mom membership requirements. I'm just wondering what’s next. The applique sweater and high-waisted jean uniform? A skirted bathing suit? An accordion coupon book?

Somebody save me.

The 'MY' Factor

Alternate Title: The Blogging Mommy Wars

Do you write a mom blog or a mommy blog? Apparently there’s a difference. I was informed of this the other day during my boredom-induced massive blog-reading fest. I thought that I was aware of all the appropriate cultural terminology. Obviously, I was incorrect.

I guess I hadn’t really thought of it that much since I’m somewhat focused on, um, childrearing. Let’s face it. I’m lucky if I can make it out of the house with make-up, clean underwear, and matching socks.

But, after reading the posts I have given the idea a bit more thought. And really, I’m not sure I get it. Is being a mommy blogger that more offensive than being a mom blogger? And just for the record, I’m actually a 'mama' blogger, so I’m not sure if my opinion really counts.

I’ve always associated the mother moniker with age. Young moms always seemed to be called mommy by their littles ones; as they got older, they dropped the my. But, leave it to humans (particularly women) to use a word to marginalize a particular group of people. That is what we do, isn’t it?

I gather that mommy blogger represents some apron wearing, rubber-stamping freak, who blogs about her cute perfect children without coming up for air. She wears high-waisted jeans with a sweatshirt and turtleneck, and her hair is something right out of an 80’s magazine. She drives a *gulp* minivan, participates in every school bake sale, and leaves little love notes in her kids’ lunches. She reads McCalls, Redbook, and romance-suspence novels. Her life is her kids and her husband, and so is her blog.

And she pisses us off.

What is it, though, that we really loathe? Is it that she denies her womanhood for her family – that she perpetuates a “false” image of motherhood that puts pressure on us? I mean, I agree that high-waisted jeans and turtlenecks are inexcusable, but I’m not sure it’s enough for me to say “No, I’m a MOM blogger, thank you very much.” And while I’m not necessarily inclined to read blogs that are of the dear diary/daily event-of-my-life kind, I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with them.

If you look at my blog explosion profile, my selling point is that I’m revolutionizing the mommy blog. I have high hopes. Hell, my alternate tag line is “No More Mrs. Nice Mom.” And, I’m listed in the Just for Women category NOT the kid/mom blog section. So, it’s obvious that I do know the difference between those blogs and what I’m trying to write. However, my point was never to separate myself from the massive number of mother-type blogs out there, but rather to find my own little niche within the generally very inclusive group – or so I thought.

While I don’t feel that women should have to give up their womanhood when they become a mother, and should seriously consider stepping into 2006 with slightly lower-waisted bootcut jeans, a nice layered haircut, and a v-neck t-shirt, I’m not going to separate myself from those that choose not to do so.

So why are we starting another mini Mommy War (or should I say bake-off, Mrs. Fortune?)? All this fucking in-fighting does nothing for us as women. I’m not going to get into a huge socio-cultural discussion about the whole thing. Quite simply, it makes sense for folks of a similar cultural membership (aka woman and motherhood) to identify with a more specific group of folks, but, the whole disdain for the other group, like it’s annoying or even insulting to be associated with them just doesn’t make sense.

However, it doesn’t surprise me.

Haven’t you thought that maybe the mom'my's wouldn’t mind a little help finding their old self? – and maybe us not-so-moms or slash/moms could benefit from just a little shot of sentimentality and applique sweaters every now and then?

Simply put, there’s a bigger battle out there to be fought. There’s nothing that can bring a group of people together like childbirth. We all have something in common – something great that is shared. So, call me mom, mommy, or bitch with a baby. We’re way stronger as a unified group. 

Save the caddy shit for real life.

Miss Misery

There’s nothing like a broken leg to turn a happy and sweet toddler into a very bitter girl. Don’t get me wrong. We enjoy a few fleeting moments of that which was our lovely daughter, but for the most part, she’s more like 69-year-old bitchy spinster who thinks we’re all to blame for her temporary grounding. Yes, it’s true. Miss Misery has come to stay and I fear she won’t be leaving for a very long time.

You know things are pretty bad when even your most famous pick-me-uppers don’t even get a call back.

Do you want to watch the baby? Wah.

How about the pig? Waaah.

Perhaps some *gulp* JoJo? Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.

Do you want to take a walk outside? Evil look. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Even my highly entertaining reenactment of the 1969 original broadway cast version of A Chorus Line gets a resounding – you guessed it – WAH.

I imagine that at some point in her life, a broken leg wouldn’t have been that bad. I remember when my friend Julie broke her leg in 10^th grade. She hit gold. All the guys would help her carry all her shit around. Sure, she missed a few track practices and had to be rolled around at the homecoming dance, but seriously, life had to be way better for her than my little gimpy toddler. There’s only so much ground you can cover as a 20-month old with a broken leg – and no kids will be stopping to help her out. Just when you’ve mastered the art of speed walking, rocking, and robotic dancing circa 1982, you’re stuck in a stroller with your mom pushing you around. It.really.sucks.

I’m sure she’ll figure out her own little way to maneuver around, and who knows, maybe she’ll get really good at hopping on one foot – a skill I consider quite advanced for a soon to be 2-something toddler. And statistically speaking, there’s only a very small chance she’ll even remember all of this. So, I might as well accept the fact that Miss Misery is here to stay, and if I’ve got to high kick and jazz hand my way through every morning, and smother her in the Muppets and chocolate cake just to get a little smile, then so be it. Because god knows she may forget about all this, but my bruised mommy ego is going to smart for a little while longer.

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Update: 4 weeks in full leg cast - no walking. 2 weeks in short leg cast - walking allowed. And it seems Miss Misery has cheered up a little. Even after 2 hours of waiting in dr. office HELL. She's my trooper.