Motherhood Uncensored

Curses

No matter how hard I try not to curse in front of the kids, inevitably a naughty word pops out at least once or twice a week. Granted I'm not calling anyone in the carpool lane a motherfucker. Yet.

I find that it's usually when I smack my head on the car door for the 400th time or forget to put the stopper thingy in Margot's sippy cup and she dumps all her water out on the table.

"Damnit!" I'll say, obviously annoyed with myself more than anyone around me.

It's nothing major, really, compared to what I heard fly out of my dad's mouth growing up. But it's also nothing to be really proud of either, I suppose.

And while I'm generally pretty careful, since the kids have never called each other or worse, a friend or grandparent-like figure a "sunuvabitch," I figured that maybe I was flying under the radar- that apparently they were keying into all the very important things I was teaching them, like how to make underarm farting noises, and all the "shits" and "Jesus's" were going completely unnoticed.

Until a few days ago at dinner, Drew said "You're an asshole!"

I couldn't help but laugh. My husband hid it better than I could.

"What's an asshole?" Quinlan asked inquisitively.

They repeated it back and forth a few times, in a sort of weird, inappropriate version of "Who's on First?"

We finally explained to them that "asshole" along with a few other choice words that we shall apparently not be saying anymore are "mommy and daddy" words and aren't things that children should say.

That seemed to be enough to send Drew back to shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with his hands, and for us to consider the words we use a bit more carefully.

Well that and investing in some ear plugs for the car.

Flawed and fabulous.

I'm learning that I tossed out any hope of co-parenting when I married a pilot.

I know, I know, I chose it, even though when I met him, he was flying a few times a day and working a desk job for the rest. There were no deployments, no trips longer than a short weekend away.

And since he left active duty, I feel like I've been standing in front of a firing squad, dodging shots to my head - the year with the in-laws, the six months in Little Rock, the rest of the time where I fend for myself while he's away.

I spend half of my time when he's gone feeling terrible about feeling terrible. And when he's here, I feel like it's still unfair. Sure, it's easier when I can just put one kid to bed rather than three. Or I can cook and not have to do the dishes. But it's still a kid that I'm nursing to sleep. And it's still a dinner I have to make.

There's never a point in time where I've felt, at least in the last few months, where I've gotten a break. A few hours where I'm completely alone doing nothing that has to do with my house or my family.

Even with the help of a babysitter, and outings that have happened and are soon to be scheduled with a bunch of really awesome Atlanta mom bloggers, I still feel bogged down. Like I carry a heavy weight on my shoulders that I'm still not strong enough to carry.

It's the challenge of working from home and being a part of a family where one spouse travels. But it's also the challenge of being someone who wants to be able to do it all - who wants to be the mom who is patient, kind, and understanding, and who takes those challenges in stride.

Realizing that you can't do it all, and that you're not the kind of mom you thought or hoped you would be is a big, hard pill to swallow, particularly when you breakdown in front of your husband and your kids and they keep asking you why you don't want to be with them today.

I want to be that mom.

And maybe that's the problem.

These extended solo parenting stints are the kryptonite to my usual super human powers that I tap into with everything else. I feel weak and broken and completely incompetent. I feel like a fucking wimp.

I feel like my kids deserve better.

And I worry most that I'm turning into the tired, frustrated mom that I never ever wanted to be.

But considering the parenting situation at my house isn't about to change any time soon, I think it's high time I got over my own lofty ideals and just enjoyed being the mom that I am.

Flawed and fabulous.

Anuleaf - A breath of fresh air for your asshole

I never received the fancypants Saks-worthy hemorrhoids treatment I mentioned awhile back, but a few days ago, I was asked if I'd like to check out Anuleaf.

Apparently my asshole is sending SOS signals across the interwebs and those savvy PR folks are picking up on it.

Upon checking out the website, and even better, the application directions, I figured that perhaps all my butt needed was some fresh air and a little lift and separate.

And maybe, if I applied the two large pieces of sticky gauze (seen left) that I have no idea how exactly help your actual bleeding, searing, burning butthole, perhaps I'd get ass relief and an ass lift.

A two-fer!

So, I attempted to apply it to my ass.

But it just felt like I was walking around with my ass cheeks spread apart by two big pieces of tape, so I decided to get crafty.

Look! It's a birthday crown!

No straps or elastic required. It's genius!

Hmmm, well now I know why they tell you to shave before you put it on.

Don't cry over spilled jelly beans

I opened my daughter's lunchbox after school yesterday to find almost all the contents, save the Babybel cheese and the tiny container of jelly beans completely untouched.

What followed was a completely horrible display of parental frustration that I hope she will quickly forget.

I suppose I should have known better, since she warned me the night before that because she didn't have time to finish her jelly beans on the first day, she was going to be sure to eat them first. 

And apparently she's a woman of her word.

Unfortunately, as a kid who is pretty damn underweight for her age, the whole dairy and candy lunch combo is not going to cut it.

I realize that it's not the school's job to make her eat her food. And I'm betting (as was later confirmed by her teacher) that she was chatting it up with her new friends and taking her dandy old time unwrapping her cheese and savoring each bite of her jelly beans.

So really, I'm to blame.

For not preparing her better. For packing a ridiculously large lunch. For having to use every single container of the Laptop Lunchbox that I bought for her because otherwise wtf would I do with the extra container???

Anal retentive much?

And then for acting like a complete smacked ass over a piece of cheese and a few jelly beans.

Yeah, well I cried enough for both of us.

So, today I packed her a smaller lunch - a small piece of fruit, half a sandwich, and no jelly beans. I figure I had better save those for when I fuck up again, which should be, oh, tomorrow at the rate I'm going.

A little slow on the mommy uptake

I'm not just a late adopter when it comes to tech. Sure, I've got the Gen-1 iPhone and I used Facebook way back before everyone, their babysitter, and their weird sexy email stalkers were on it.

But other than that, I'm pretty damn clueless. I probably use 3 of the 4000 Gmail features. And I finally relented and googled "FTW" because I could not, for the life of me, figure out what the hell it meant.

Needless to say, I was extremely disappointed. (For the win! Huh?)

But as it turns out, I'm also a behind the curve when it comes to this motherhood thing.

It's not necessarily because being a mom doesn't appeal to me, or because I lack any sort of motivation to do things smarter not harder.

And my kids are happy, polite, and fairly well-adjusted - so far, at least - so I can't be that off track.

But considering I only recently learned about the power of different sized Ziploc bags and I have no idea what the real difference is between aluminum foil and saran wrap (other than the obvious "plastic melts, don't microwave tin foil"), it's obvious that when it comes to the other duties that seem to be lumped in with being a "good mother," I'm about two fries short of a Happy Meal.

(Or two apple dippers - ahem).

I've figured out that because I don't have any in-real-life-in-driving-distance friends, other than a running buddy, a fellow blogger, and a beautiful, gorgeous neighbor (and her lovely daughter), I don't have anyone to look to for advice. And I'm not talking about what to do with a baby who doesn't sleep or a toddler who laughs when you put him in time out.

I'm talking about what sort of supplies I need to pack a lunch for my daughter and what to do with all the extra legoes lying around my family room floor and where I should store the 4000 water bottles that keep accumulating in my house.

I just bought a toaster oven two months ago, people.

So instead, I twitter and google. "Sandwiches other than peanut butter and jelly for lunch" and "I have no idea what fabric softener is for."

"How often am I supposed to wash my kid's sheets?"

I always feel as though I'm the last to know - that I'm the mom who is often flying by the seat of her pants, scrounging around for rubber bands and checking her jewelry box for safety pins and trying to figure out how it's possible that she lost an entire school uniform somewhere in her daughter's bedroom.

And while I'm definitely ahead of the curve when it comes to sex toys, that's not exactly the reputation I'm looking to flaunt at the PTA meetings.

I realize I will never be known as the "organized mom," or the "Martha Stewart mom." I won't be known for my amazing homemade brownies or my beautiful flower garden or my evenly labeled storage bins.

I'm okay with that.

And I'm coming to accept that just being "Quinlan's mom" (and Drew's and Margot's too) is the only label I need.

FTW!