Motherhood Uncensored

Liar Liar

While my son has been making new teeth and new words, my daughter has reached new strides in her development as well.

She has acquired the lifelong skill of lying.

Aw, mommy's little girl is growing up.

It started out quite innocently enough and quite frankly, still hasn't left the early stages of deception. It seems to be a mix of laziness and avoidance of reprimand. Of course, that's sort of why big people lie too, so maybe she's not as much of a beginner as I thought.

Growing up with an alcoholic father, I became the consummate liar as a means coping and surviving -- mostly to avoid the harsh words and swift hands. Spilled milk was met with fire, so I learned pretty quickly that it was better to just slide by the truth and save myself a whole lot of pain.

As a parent, I've become intimately aware of how I react towards her when accidents happen, or worse, when things are purposely done that require intervention. I find myself walking the fine line of teaching my daughter consequences and honestly sharing my frustration when something happens, even if it is an accident, but also helping her understand that she can come us and disclose anything without being afraid; it's her choices and behavior that might cause problems.

She doesn't get put in time out for dropping water on the floor, or peeing in her bed. Admittedly, I do offer a bit of a grumble, on some days it's louder than others, but then I encourage her to help us clean it up, and then remind her that she needs to come get us when it happens and that we love her no matter what and that she can feel comfortable coming to us with anything.

I know. I sound like a freaking after school special.

But based on the lies, I'm guessing she doesn't really get it.

A few days ago she told me several times, even after I explained to her that if she was lying she would lose privileges, that she had made her bed. Surprise! She hadn't.

And then just yesterday I found a huge puddle of water on the floor in the bathroom a few hours after she had "washed the dishes;" apparently it was all Drew's doing. (Good use of the younger brother blame, however!).

I know it's part of growing up. I know it's how kids are.

But that itty bitty part of me feels like I have done something wrong. That I sighed too heavily the last time she broke a glass and spilled her juice on the floor. That she hears her father and I fighting more often than I care to admit and she thinks it's her fault. That I have become the cliche' parent that believes her kid is just how she is and that her parenting didn't have anything to do with it when really all her fault.

All.

Truth? I fear that her not telling me about the pee in the bed and the water on the floor is going to lead to the lies that could really affect her life. I fear that she won't feel that she can come to me when she really needs to come to me and when I really want to be able to be there for her.

And I fear that the one thing, the only thing, that I really want to do well in this lifetime -- being a good parent to my children -- is slowly slipping from my grasp.

Tighty Whities

I've been trying to convince my husband to switch to tighty whities. Not a permanent switch, mind you, but in sort of a "hey, I'm happy to wear some uncomfortable thong for three-minutes before you pull it off with your teeth [I wish] so oblige my request for a little underwear switcheroo" way.

The huz happens to have a tight stomach and a round little white ass.

Ah the benefits of not being the childbearing adult in the household.

And for some reason, I have this idea in my head that the underpants, when coupled with a few smooth moves, might be kind of hot. The only problem is that he thinks I'm nuts.

Which I kind of giggle at, but then kind of offends me, considering all the lacy bullshit we women endure. I know, I know, it's just as much for us too.

Blah. Whatever.

So, any suggestions? Am I just plain nuts?

And who's up for "Rock of Love" finale live thread tomorrow?

The Real Story Behind Johnson & Johnson's Camp Baby

Okay, so here's what really happened, Mominatrix Style.

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It Certainly Doesn't Get Easier. Just Crazier.

I get why parents with kids older than mine do the whole *eye-roll, chuckle, fake head nod* anytime we newbies with the wee babes complain about how hard teething is or how terrible that tantrum was. You know exactly what they're saying to themselves, right?

Oh please. Wait until you can't pick up that crying teething sleep fighting little baby who's now bigger than you in the fucking 2nd grade and proceeds to tell you where to shove it which is soon to be followed by him zooming away in his car with some ho-bag named Tyffanye who just got your son's name tattooed on her ass.

That's not to say that what you're experiencing right now, in this very moment, isn't sucky, complicated, or incredibly challenging. When you're living in the baby-toddler vacuum that seems to be repeating itself day in and day out, even if it is just for a few short days, months, hell, even a year of you and your child's long life, it is truly the hardest thing you've ever done. And let's face it. Being neck deep in total overwhelm doesn't leave much breathing room for perspective.

And sometimes it makes it worse to hear that it's only going to get harder. I mean, the whole "consider yourself lucky because you can still throw them in a crib" speech doesn't really do much for the bedraggled sleep-deprived mother who on any given night would much rather pick her son up from jail because then she wouldn't have had to listen to him scream all night long.

But on the off chance that you've enjoyed four days of uninterrupted sleep, completely devoid of poopy diapers and nagging preschoolers, you will be able to appreciate the 15-year-old (or thereabouts) girl in the seat across the aisle from you on the trip home tell her parents quite matter-of-factly that she's going to go to bartending school instead of her first year of college because "it's a great job and it pays really well and they don't actually drink the alcohol they just give it out."

And suddenly, my naughty little three-year-old girl who decided to do "laundry" in her humidifier with half her pajamas and then proceeded to hang them over her wooden now water stained headboard seems incredibly easy. Refreshing, actually. And handling my teething high energy 14-month-old who refuses to go to sleep without extensive rocking is a piece of cake.

Besides, since I'm probably never ever going to get sleep anyway, I might as well enjoy losing it to a screaming contained child and not a daughter at her prom or a son on a road trip with his friends.

Yep. Better start the xanax stash now.

Turn on the 'ight

Drew has been babbling almost non-stop for the last few months with extremely good intentions, but he has yet to say an actual word (including an intentional "mama" or "dada"). We thought he had said "dog" a couple of months ago, but turns out that was just "da" which, as we've learned, could mean anything from television to penis.

So to compensate he's been using what I call the "22-year-old ho at a bar" technique. He bats his eyes, does a little wiggle (and sometimes a belly flash), and smiles -- all of which sucker us into giving him exactly what he wants.

And then, if we give him the wrong thing, he just stands there pointing while saying "uh" for as long as it takes for us to figure out what "uh" means. It's like one of those demented Chinese game shows that I have never actually watched or enjoyed (ahem) where some poor yet totally willing contestant traipses through some impossible gauntlet with weirdly dressed people hold a battering ram ready to beat him into a pool of mud. Except I almost feel like that might be better than standing there like a complete idiot picking every single thing up off your kitchen table hoping it will make your toddler stop saying "uh." Not to be matched, of course, by reading a book or walking through the house and having to name every single thing he points to while saying "uh" or "da" or "at."

My husband tries to make it more interesting by using the actual name for things; so for any type of bird, I just say "bird" while he'll make it sound like he's some sort of ornithologist, spouting off words like "egret," "ostrich," and "emu." Probably why the poor kid has yet to say "bird" or well, anything for that matter.

Regardless, we've tried not to worry about his lack of language, particularly since the kid has been running since 10 months old and can clearly communicate (in his own caveman-like way) what he wants and needs. Plus, he can also sign "more" after we plead with him a few 100 times and withhold bananas and bread (his two favorite foods). So he's definitely trying to communicate, just not in English.

However, when you've got a daughter who uses the words "challenging" and "particularly" in regular conversation, and has been talking quite clearly since she was just around Drew's age, it's hard not to worry, if only just a little tiny bit.

But last night as I got him ready for bed, he pointed to the light on his dresser and I said "light." And then he said "IGHT!" And after a [10,000] few times of me asking him what it was to every light in our house he said it.

Either that or he thinks our choice in lamps is alright, or "A'ight" as the kids like to say.

Only 14 months and talking in slang.

I'm doomed.

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If you want to see some pics of my trip, check them out here.