Motherhood Uncensored

Difficult

My memory of Quinlan's infancy is saturated by how challenging she was.

In fact, on most days, I can't even really remember anything else.

It's partly because Margot, other than her revolt against my sleep training efforts as of late, is so incredibly easy.

She's the kind of baby that makes your ovaries hurt.

But it's also because those memories of Quinlan made me feel a little bit better about not being the most natural mother on the planet.

Her challenges gave me an excuse to feel like I wasn't a complete failure.

To complain about my inadequacies.

It was easier to blame a tough baby than it was to look at myself and realize that it was me that was the problem.

Last week, a friend asked me if I thought it was her or if it was me.

"But she was cranky all the time and she never slept and she only wanted me."

But then again, I never really left her with anyone else, and I never really tried to sleep train her, and I never really took her to the doctor to diagnose what I'm pretty sure was reflux.

At the time, I'd swear it was her.

My difficult baby.

Since having Quinlan five years ago, I've gone from nap nazi to nap yogi.

"If it happens, then it happens. If not, we'll live. Namaste."

Margot's bedtime routine consists of a new diaper, clothing change, and breastfeeding session. Sometimes not in that order.

And educational play is left at the hands of her two older siblings, who have schooled her in the art of dumping juice on the couch and stage diving off the fireplace.

Is it possible that my daughters are so incredibly different?

Or is it more likely that I'm the one who's changed?

If I had just given Quinlan formula, or sleep trained her, or let her nap in whatever moving surface she insisted upon, things might have been different.

If I hadn't clung so tightly to the parenting books or nosy neighbors or images in my head of exactly how a baby was supposed to be, maybe she would have been the easy one.

Turns out, maybe she wasn't as difficult as I thought.

And rather, the difficult one was me.

Under the influence

I used to imagine what I'd do if I ever got famous.

I could see myself with an Oscar in one hand and a huge donation check to a worthy charity in the other, probably because my twisted uber religious mind believed that if I vowed benevolence, He'd grant me the wish of celebrity.

I'd use my fame for you, Lord Jesus.

Yeah, me and Heidi Montag.

But the the celebrity never came.

My 2600 some odd followers on Twitter, and my combined readership at this blog, Cool Mom Picks, and the Mominatrix hardly equal fame.

But yet, the power of the internet is pretty far reaching.

The words you say are carried to the eyes of many, who have easy access to Facebook, Twitter, and Google searches, and all of a sudden, people who would have just faded away into a crowd are given a bullhorn.

The issue surrounding Heather and Linda's exchange about a faulty Maytag washer that fueled a discussion more heated than health care reform is a lesson in the power of Twitter and social media.

It was obvious that Heather was frustrated, as I would have been, when her new washer didn't work. And so she vented on Twitter, on her bullhorn to the masses, and a pile-on ensued.

Now I've done my fair share of venting on Twitter and people still amazingly buy Crocs.

I also don't have a million plus followers.

That's not to say if I did that I wouldn't be inclined to vent about my disdain for them, or any other company that really pissed me off. I can't fault her for that - new mom haze or not.

But just because we're given an instrument to reach the mob doesn't mean we're completely educated on how to use it - drunk updates or disgruntled tweets from a sleep-deprived mom with piling up dirty laundry - the influence can be difficult to wrangle. And we forget that people are listening.

They're reading what we say.

But even more importantly, they're reading it whether we have 20 or 20,000 followers.

I've been shocked by some of the nasty words and personal attacks on Twitter. I've seen people bitch about companies and products and services, sometimes with reckless abandon.

Her lesson should be our lesson.

Know the power of your written words, regardless of who you are. Because if you think that people aren't reading and you think people can't find you, then you're sorely mistaken.

Ariel - Before the 30 Day Shred and Lasik

FTW!

I'm not sure there's anything more difficult than a kid who's obsessed with winning.

I try to tell myself that "she's 5 and she's doing her job."

Oh fuck that. Who came up with that shit anyway? I don't care if it's "her job" - she's still driving me completely insane and turning me into the parent who just spouts off cliches while her 5-year-old daughter spikes a kid-sized mini golf putter at hole 11 like she's Tiger Woods having a bad first round.

"It's not about winning. It's how you play the game!"

Even my husband groaned.

Like he has room to talk Mr. "This Isn't Mini Golf, This is the US Open and So I Shall Bring my Own Putter and Tally my Score Because it Matters OH YES IT DOES."

It didn't matter anyway. She wasn't even looking at me. She was too busy stomping away to the next hole, her sweaty hair flopping on her shoulders and her princess shoes flashing like angry fireflies in the dusk light until she stopped and frantically attempted to tap her ball through the huge ceramic gorilla's legs.

We stopped counting after six shots.

WIN! I'M THE WINNER! RIGHT MOMMY? I WON!

"No, sorry dear. You can't win all the time. It's more important to do your best!"

More groans from the peanut gallery.

More tearful screams from THE ONE WHO MUST WIN!

"Look at your brother. He's just having fun climbing the large metal windmill that looks like it was built in 1934."

It's no time for life lessons or teaching moments or magnanimous parental epiphanies.

We're on our family vacation playing a friendly, fun-filled family round of mini-golf. damnit.

"Yay. You won the 5-year-old with the pink golf ball division. WOOOHOOOOO!"

So sue me.

Couples who fly together stay together

I'm reminded why people fly after attempting another road trip to the beach with my family.

It's only 5 hours! It'll be fun! We'll play car games and the kids will sleep and we won't even need the dvd player. HAHA!

Except I'm married to a pilot, who hates to drive anywhere, and I have three children crammed into the backseat of my trailblazer who are firmly against car games and car sleeping.

Even with the assistance of Benadryl.

Oh yes I did.

In the long scheme of things, the drive really wouldn't be that bad, if we could actually leave the house on our planned departure time.

Or better, my planned departure time.

You know you're in trouble when you've got the entire car packed with your stuff and the kids stuff and 4000 beach toys and your husband yells "I'll be done packing in a minute."

Sigh.

Once we're on the road, I should expect that we'll have to drive back to the house at least three times so when it's only twice (once for his wallet, once for his jeans), I'll be thankful.

Too bad he didn't remember the huge cooler of beer and milk until we got outside of Savannah, or when we were taking the long scenic route to Interstate 75 because he got that confused with 85.

I realize they do intersect at one point North of Atlanta (the brilliant road planning at work again), but seriously, he flies with these ridiculously complicated maps. You can't see that 75 and 85 are very different roads?

Thankfully, our computer being charged by our cigarette lighter lasted through one entire DVD (and one long extended tour of central Georgia) before completely crapping out.

We don't need no stinkin' DVD player!

Yeah right.

Aside from listening to my son ask for food the entire trip and my daughter proclaim her lack of intelligence because she couldn't figure out how to play the alphabet animal game, the best part is always trying to determine where to stop.

We discuss where would be the best resting point for at least an hour before it happens, and each time we decide that wouldn't be the good one, we drive to the next one and it's always worse.

In this case, it was a shitty gas station infested with flies, which we spent the next 40 miles shooing out of the car at 75 mph with the windows down.

The kicker was when we finally got to about 4 miles from the beach and my directions said go "Left to 17S" and left was marked 17N.

"It says go left but that's North!" I said.

"Well maybe you should learn how to read!" he replied, obviously frazzled from a long, awful ride, one which takes him just under 20 minutes to fly.

"Well... maybe you shouldn't be... um... an... ASS!"

Yeah, I said it. I did.

So, needless to say, I probably won't be getting laid on this trip.

But on the bright side, the view is practically orgasmic.

Thank you Jekyll Island Authority for sending us on this awesome trip. Although if I lose my sanity... Eh well, it's already half gone.