Motherhood Uncensored

Son

"You sure do dote on him a lot," my husband told me, as I clutched Drew in my arms on his third pre-bedtime request for kisses.

I suppose he's right - second born, middle child, only son. They're excuses that therapists probably hear all too frequently.

Birth order, gender, or whatever you want to call it aside, I love him like I love my girls.

And while he has the ability to bring out the scary parent in me that I thought had died with my father, he also challenges me to be a better parent.

A parent I would have never been without him.

The one with a construction vehicle addiction, wherein I almost involuntarily point out the diggers and front loaders to random strangers.

The one who knows that there are, in fact, different types of fire trucks, and can identify them by sight and sound.

And the one who endures daily rounds of "Variations on a Theme of Boy in the Corner" without even raising her voice.

Okay, so I'm still working in that part.

But without him, there would have been none of that.

So when he creeps out of his room on an almost nightly basis, asking for kisses with a coy look on his face, I oblige him. 

Call me a sucker. It's okay.

I've come to learn that 3 will soon be 13. And 13 will soon be 23. 

And those tiny moments, particularly when many parts of the day seem to be made up of moments I'd sooner forget, are very, very rare.

"When I'm taller than you Mommy, I'll be able to pick you up," he said, grapping me firmly around my legs and audibly straining.

Little does he know that he already does that.

Even though he's just as tall as my leg.

Happy 3rd Birthday, son.

Grumpy

"Mom, you're being grumpy and you told me to tell you when you're being grumpy and so I'm telling you you're being GRUMPY!"

Her voice escalated as she gasped for air in between sobs.

I'd lost my temper with her, a mostly innocent bystander to my attempt at making it through a phone call without being interrupted by shrieking matches and no less than 12 requests for snacks by her brother who had just eaten his entire lunch only minutes prior.

It wasn't her fault. It rarely ever is.

But she was laying there, still sock and shoeless after my numerous requests, and caught the tail end of my wrath.

After an embarrassing temper tantrum brought on by attempting to put mittens on my son a few weeks ago, I told her that she had my permission to put me in my place - not necessarily making her responsible for her behavior, but encouraging her to stand up for herself, and call the "bullshit" when she sees it.

Even on her own mother.

Though my husband is an active, involved parent when he is here, he's often gone, and I remain the constant for the kids, my feet dug deep into the trenches of teaching them the small intricacies, nuances, and gray areas of growing up.

There are days that I envy his position, a parental visitor of sorts, the fun one who comes home with presents and lets them stay up late and play Beatles Rock Band way past their bedtime.

On others, when I can step away from the work and laundry piles and enjoy their essence, I enjoy our little foursome, our merry band of two girls, a boy, and their moody leader.

But it weighs on me - this responsibility of ensuring that they are open and able to express how they feel, to sometimes deal with the consequences ("Tell me you're sorry for yelling at me, Mommy" my son says), and yes, to be comfortable to tell her mommy when she's "being grumpy."

Apparently I've also taught her how to sugarcoat things.

All American Girl

This was the first Christmas that Quinlan's Christmas list was pretty non-negotiable. Even up until last year, she'd ask for a series of random toys which turned out to be whatever was advertised on Nick Jr between 3 and 4pm.

Bastards!

Even so, we were able to sway her with a super cool recycled plastic jump rope, a handmade princess crown, and a cardboard playhouse.

Sound familiar?

But this year she could write. And as the saying goes, "so let it be written, so let Santa Claus put that damn toy under the tree."

And even worse, there were only three items on her list - a Dora Snow Princess costume (which thank you sweet Jesus does not exist anywhere), a Playmobil Castle (and all it's 4000 pieces seriously wtf?), and a Baby Alive Doll.

Now we expected there to be some wavering with the list since she wrote it on September 1, but wouldn't you know that every week she'd mention how the cool it was that "there's a doll that you can feed and then it poops and then you can change it's diaper!"

Yes, for only $100 (or something like that), you can purchase a baby who eats and poops.

I kindly reminded her that we already have a baby that does that, and she's welcome to feed her and wipe her butt whenever duty calls.

In fact, I'd pay her $100 to do it.

But even up to mid-December, she was still talking about that damn doll and so I decided I'd have to "go rogue."

No no, not a Sarah Palin doll.

But close enough.

American Girl.

Damn those ridiculously expensive dolls that I believe were created to suck our pockets dry in the guise of teaching our girls about history.

Fuck that.

I've rolled my eyes at those damn things for years now, my mouth agape at how much they cost and even worse how many parents are willing to plop down $100 for A DOLL.

In our previous discussions about these damn things, I told Quinlan that I would NEVER be purchasing her an American Girl doll, but would give her half the money for one, and she could earn the money for the rest.

But even then, I was hoping that her desire for one would be pushed off for at least another year, mostly so that I'd have time to institute an adequate chore schedule, thus hopefully making it a fair trade.

Clean toilets for your expensive doll. Sounds about fair to me.

However, with the Baby Alive Doll getting ready to shit all over our house, I had to take the situation into my own very reluctant hands, and so we bought her a gift card for half an American Doll.

And wouldn't you know, it worked.

She clung to that gift card like it was pure gold, and never once mentioned Baby Alive again.

And thanks to her over indulgent grandparents and aunt, she was able to return a bunch of scary looking clothes and purchase a doll, an outfit, and the ever important doll ear-piercing, that she really truly loves.

Well, this month, anyway.

And miraculously, I was able to make it through an afternoon at the American Girl store (that's complete with doll hair salon and restaurant - um, of course it is) and watch my daughter plop down $150 without rolling my eyes.

Okay, maybe just once.

Victory

I was Quinlan's age when the relationship with my dad started taking a turn for the worse. It was just after  my 5th birthday when he held me in a choke hold up against a brick wall at a train station for talking too much.

Thus continued years of drinking and yelling. Hitting sometimes. Fearing always. And enough to make me quite certain that I did not want to have kids.

I did not want to risk carrying on that legacy.

So when I got pregnant with Quinlan, I vowed it would never be like it was for me.

It could never be like it was for me.

There are days when I yell. I've had a few mother beast moments that I still find it hard to forget.

And lately, with what's been a combination of weird hormones, a month long withdrawl from sugar and booze, and my husband's travel schedule, I've been scraping by, shoveling dried fruit and black tea down my gullet and trying not to scare my kids with a mix of irritable snaps and crying spells.

Hell, I was even crying on the treadmill after catching the tail end of "The Express," in particular when he wins the Heisman Trophy.

There is something so powerful about the idea of beating the odds and winning. The standing ovation, that public experience of victory, is something that few of us, and certainly not me, experience.

I admit that I was envious of that feeling, now realizing that I'll probably never be winning that Academy Award I used to dream about as a kid.

But then I realized that we all have those moments in our lives. Granted they don't involve amazing performances on a football field or in a blockbuster movie, but we all have victories to celebrate.

And so when he accepted his trophy, I accepted mine.

A victory in breaking the cycle. And starting a new legacy for my kids.

I may not be perfect. But I'm aware. And that's more than half the battle.

I'm really gonna miss this

Over the last five years, I awaited each developmental milestone with giddy anticipation, and I just as excitedly retired them, without even one smudge in the baby book.

Longwinded bedtime routine.

See ya!

Asking for everything with variations of the sound "uh."

Don't let the door hit you in the ass.

Yeah, it's so adorable, when it's not your kid. In your ear. All the time.

It seems as though by the time you're actually able to sit back and appreciate the now adorable memories of their squash covered faces and marker wall drawings, they've adopted more skills, usually ten times more dangerous, that require all of your attention. Well, at least if you want them to make it through toddlerdom with all their appendages in tact.

But when my little Margot started to walk on a regular basis last week, I found myself stopping to watch her few last crawls across the floor.

And much to my surprise, without even thinking about, I said it.

And I meant it.