Motherhood Uncensored

Daddy phone home

When my husband called me late Saturday afternoon to tell me he was leaving in a few hours, I did what every wife who's been without her husband would do.

I called a maid and I got an appointment to get my carpets taken care of this week.

Ahem.

Actually, I'd love to say that my husband would care about the shape of my personal carpet, but honestly, when you've been away from a vagina for a couple of months, you don't care so much how it's decorated.

But my living room rug? Damn straight he'd be worried about the state of that poor thing.

And so when I heard a knock on my door on Monday afternoon, the thought that perhaps it was my husband, the guy who looooooves to scare the shit out of me by coming home early from trips was at the door passed through my head.

Alas, it was a Hartford Life Insurance sales woman.

I was hoping that wasn't a sign of something.

But then a few minutes later, I heard the lock being rattled and in he walked. 

It didn't matter that the house was a mess, or that the carpets (yes, both of them) were untreated, or that there was no welcome home banner or meal or thong.

Just my extra made-up CNN face. And a few ridiculously excited children.

He's still getting over jet lag and "holy shit Margot's a toddler now" lag.

But when he commented how dirty the toilets were after being home for only a few hours, I knew everything was going to be just fine.

Oh honey, how we missed you. Welcome home.

Man, eater

[As far as I know, I'm still scheduled to be on CNN today at 10:30am EST.]

My son eats all day long.

At first, I thought it was just because he was bored. As good as Quinlan is at occupying herself, with books, blocks, heck, even a puny little scrap of paper or a pine cone, he cannot do anything except draw a tiger face on himself with a marker or cover the bathroom floor in baby soap.

And that usually only takes him about two minutes and he's begging for food.

"I need a snack," he yells, sometimes even after just finishing a meal.

It doesn't matter if he finishes his breakfast, or drinks more water, or does whatever everyone has tried to tell me to do.

He's still hungry.

I admit that it was becoming the bane of my existence, the constant fetching of snacks and packing of food for even just short trips to pick up Quinlan from school.

His devouring of two 6-packs of yogurt in four days has completely thrown off my grocery shopping, and I find myself having to go back more than once a week, which is a pain anyway, but with three kids, is like torture.

Even worse, in my attempt to start buying in bulk, I was feeling proud of the fact that I had bought the 12 packs of yogurt.

Don't even talk to me about the amount of "squeezy" applesauces and fresh fruit this child can eat.

But then last week we were invited over for dinner to a neighbor's house - a neighbor who just so happens to have three boys.

And when I saw them devour foot long subs, organic potato chips, and two pieces of apple spice cake, and then beg their mom for more food, something clicked.

I had found my son's people.

The man people.

Or testosterone charged little boys who burn more calories in five minutes then I probably did running that damn half marathon last weekend.

Don't get me wrong. Like my BFF's husband once said, "Kristen can eat me under the table any day."

Heh.

But really, I can put the food away.

On second thought, now I know why my mom used to lock the fridge.

Or why people worship at the church of Costco.

We turned out just fine

Quinlan insisted on being "Barbie Thumbelina" since August. I suppose I should be glad that her streak of Disney Princess costumes has officially been broken.

Except she broke it with Barbie.

I'm not quite sure how she landed upon Barbie Thumbelina and her cheap pink dress, purple wings and bouffant wig, but she did. 

Perhaps it's because she knows that I'm not that fond of Barbie - her big blonde hair, her ridiculously skinny waist, and her perky boobs.

Bitch.

But Quinlan could not be swayed.

I realize that generations of girls have played with Barbies. Even I did. And I know that for the most part, we've all turned out fine.

But what does that really mean? And is that the best that we want for our kids?

Just because we all turned out fine doesn't mean that I can try to do better for my own kids.

I've watched parents explain away some of their questionable choices with that excuse - from spanking to yelling to bimbo dolls.

"We turned out just fine, so what's the big deal?"

There are bigger fish to fry, bigger battles to fight, bla bla blagity bla.

And it's true. For the most part, we're all pretty much okay regardless of our parents' debatable disciplinary choices and dolls that promote unreasonable female body images.

But what we often forget about these discussions of princesses and barbie dolls are the boys - our sons who see these damn dolls and these images that are perpetuated everywhere we go. We spend lots of time worrying about our daughters and their body perceptions. Quite frankly, I'm more concerned about how my son will grow up viewing women based on these toys (and yes, a whole slew of other images that he'll be exposed to even as early as a 2 year old).

I welcomed a slightly modified, Marie Antoinette-inspired Barbie Thumbelina costume this Halloween. In fact, the only real "Barbie" thing about her was the label on the dress.

And I haven't banned Barbie from my home, but I won't be purchasing her either. Luckily, my in-laws have taken care of that for me. And if Quinlan wants to purchase one with her own money, then she may.

I've been parenting long enough to realize that there are battles I will not win.

But I also know that I don't need to just get suckered into something without offering my long-winded opinions about it.

I pushed these kids out of my vagina; they can listen to me pontificate about Barbie dolls, damnit.

So, I will continue to have discussions about why I don't like these dolls with my daughter and my son. You know, just as soon as he stops covering my bathroom in toilet paper and baby soap.