Motherhood Uncensored

I want my mommy.

I have nothing better to offer you than that.

I am feeling completely and utterly defeated.

World wins, Kristen loses. You can all move along and read about snow storms and Dooce's pregnancy because I give up.

I've been wiping noses, steaming coughs, and doing my best not to yell, scream, or drive 600 miles due North for the last month and a half. 

We figured out that Quinlan was not being indignant and four, but actually couldn't hear us. I'm on my way to the pediatrician tomorrow to hopefully figure out what's going on in those usually very healthy ears of hers. Then I read that an eye seeping with yellow mucus can actually indicate an ear infection (same bacteria for eye and ear, apparently), and so I feel like a real super champ mom for forcing milk in her eye when she probably needed that and something else in her ears.

And to top it off, my throat is now searing from the cold which is not surprising since I'm eating pecan pie for breakfast and snacking on bad chocolate and I'm tired because I'm sick but also because I'm tired and working and my husband is probably about to leave for a trip that will bring him home Christmas night and so do we have Christmas on the 26th and lie to the kids and then I've got to put all the toys together because we don't wrap them and then my in-laws are coming and they want to BUY tickets on another airline because they can't get their asses to the airport early enough to catch the free one but yet they complain about money all the time and then I have to cook Christmas dinner and Quinlan and I are going to see the Nutcracker on the 28th but the baby won't take a bottle so she'll probably scream the whole time so can I really enjoy it and I've got to find 10,000 more words for my book which I haven't heard back from the editor about and so do I keep writing or do I wait to see whether they think it's a piece of crap and then have to rewrite everything anyway and I'm sick of stuffing my floppy stomach into pants that are clearly too small just so I don't look like a total scrub every day and my husband is pissed at me because I'm controlling and bossy and have to do things my way and sure I was sort of always like that but now I've become a "just so" person and I hate "just so" people and I want to spend time with my kids and yet I sit and stare at my computer answering emails from people that want me to check out their dog contest when I should be working or doing taxes or folding 500 baby onesies that probably weren't dirty but since everyone just throws their shit in the hamper who the fuck knows anymore and my mom is having heart problems but she always tells me after she's in the hospital and I worry about her and the kids still haven't seen Santa but then my daughter asked me how come there are Santas at the mall all at the same time and I had no idea what to tell her and my fucking throat hurts and I want my mommy.

Like now. 

Mother beast

I yelled at my daughter today. A loud, terrible, mean yell that was simultaneously cathartic and guilt-inducing.

"Why won't you just let me put breastmilk in your eye (with a spoon) so that I don't have to take you to the doctor?" I asked her, as she kicked, screamed, and fought her way out of my grasp. "WHY?"

She cowered through her tearful stare, as I raged like she'd probably never seen before.

The mother beast let loose - stress, exhaustion, frustration, and fear.

Oh how easy it was, when I held up her floppy head, and rocked her in my arms. Our conversations were about what an elephant says. Her questions were about snacks.

She was the only one. There were no deadlines, no sick siblings.

It has all changed.

I am still the parent, but my control is more transparent to both of us. As it should be. I am guiding a new person through this complicated world and steering her on a path that has yet to be created.

I am afraid to let her go and make her own choices. To possibly watch her fall. Maybe hard.

If she would only let me put the milk in her eye. If she would only listen. If she would only stay little.

She brought this letter to me today, and read it to me (in case you can't read Preschooler handwriting, the translation is below).

Dear Mommy, Quinlan loves you.
I know sometimes you get frustrated with me.
But I know you still love me.
Love, Quinlan

At least there's hope that whatever message I'm trying to send is being heard.

Walk the [panty]Line[r]

I'm really not a fan of pantyliners. In fact, I sort of loathe them. I wish I could say it's because I'm incredibly eco-friendly, but in truth, I'd much rather waste tons of water washing out my poor excuse for underpants than walk around with a glorified paper napkin stuck to them.

It's not enough that we have to carry the babies, push them out of our crotch, and then go back to shoving cotton up our woo-hoos every month, but you also get to leak random fluids at the most random inconvenient times.

At first I was hoping it was just some sort of extended post partum drainage thing, but then when it didn't seem to stop, I thought maybe I was just turned on all the time - so turned on that I didn't even know it myself.

But considering I would probably turn down Michael Vartan these days, mostly for fear that I'd not be able to do my wipe, cleanse, and change routine before he tore my clothes off, I'm pretty sure I'm not leaking horny lady fluids.

And so, I'm left feeling gross and unsexy, washing baskets full of underpants, and wondering whether I am now relegated to purchasing stock in pantyliners.

I suppose there are worse things to have to wear, like Depends or a corrective back brace, but I admit that I associate pantyliners with older women, or really, my mother-in-law, who apparently wears them all the time considering how many I find (rolled up neatly in their plastic, of course) in my bathroom trashcan when she comes to visit.

Blech.

So the only feasible solution that I can come up with, other than adding underwear to my weekly grocery budget is to celebrate the inauguration early.

Good girls might have pubes, but good moms of three kids with a leak go bald.

2 Months

In two months, she's gone from a little blob to an actual smiling, googly eyed, adorable baby.

In fact, I sort of forgot that she can actually do stuff now and should probably lay her on her stomach and stimulate her with more than just my fine large nipple.

"I guess we could put her on that activity mat now, huh?"

You'd never guess I'm on my third kid.

Margery Margs (as my daughter has named her and which we all now call her) is a happy content little girl.

"Did the other ones smile this much?" the huz asked me.

No, clearly they did not.

*****

In two months, there might be huge changes to the world of toys and handmade goodies, many of which (along with my amazing partner Liz) we've searched out and shared with moms, dads, and whoever else decides to stop over at Cool Mom Picks.

Back to February of 2006, it started as "Cool Mom Shit" (seriously) as a way to find cool shit (creative, I know) and share it with my tens of readers. Thanks to Liz, our amazing group of writers, and awesome readers that care about what we have to say, it's now a place that allows me to not only support my family, but just as equally support amazing artisans, handmade designers, and moms. Lots of moms.

But thanks to the CPSIA, in two months, all of those cool gifts and gear that I love so much will be illegal.

Talk about regulation at its not-so-finest.

So please help us save handmade toys, accessories, clothes, and goodies. We've created a resource page to offer more information, related posts, and suggestions on how to get involved (like placing that button on your blog -- c'mon it's cute, right?).

With about five minutes of your time, you could really help contribute to allowing this artisans, designers, and all around cool people continue to sell their products, like the cute hat my daughter is wearing (made from recycled sweaters).

When I Can Drive

Instead of being bombarded with ridiculous requests of ear piercing, hair dying and those damn Bratz dolls, we've instituted a brilliant avoidance tactic. She can engage in what we deem as "mature activity" or really, stuff we think no four year old should have her hands on, when she can drive.

We figure, if she still wants to purchase all sorts of whore-like, leopard print bra-wearing baby dolls and dye her hair platinum blonde when she's 25 (the legal driving age we're hoping they institute by the time she becomes a teenager), then she can feel free to do so.

It's become the quick and effective solution for most dilemmas in our household, particularly when the long winded answer we probably should give her involves us explaining society's ridiculous stereotypes and oversexualization of young girls.

And it's just a way better answer to the whole "But so-and-so has one, and her mom lets her" statement than "Well, we don't care what so-and-so and her mom does. We're your parents and we care about you. And just because they're wearing Cavariccis and Outback Red doesn't make them any better."

To think I'd be begging to wear that shit.

[I digress]

What's interesting is that she's already figured out what's off limits just based on what we've already banned to driving age. In fact, she added Hannah Montana all on her very own.

And so, we'll continue on with our perfect little scheme as long as we can, which will be when she figures out that she won't be driving next year.

Basically, we've got another good month until we're busted.

[My deepest thanks for your comments on my post yesterday. I cried, I nodded, and I smiled. And most importantly, I didn't yell.]