Motherhood Uncensored

We're renaming our basement Jersey Shore

Between the damn shirt my MIL bought me and this thing (that I thought they had forgotten about from the holidays), all we're missing is the spray tan.

(Make sure you turn it up so you can fist pump to the rockin' jams)

There's no "It was daddy's fault" in "Team"

The hardest part of being a sometimes single parent is adjusting back to being a partner in a parenting team.

The break is welcome, don't get me wrong, but when you leave certain tasks to Mr. ADD, it can sometimes be more annoying than helpful.

Like the leftovers and pans still sitting on the stove the morning after, the half made school lunch and snack, or the incorrect homework assignments after we're already in hot water for taking our kid out of school for four days.

Don't get me started on the 69 she got on her pop spelling test. Apparently if you are 5 years old and spell the word "trap" with a capital "T," you are wrong. Wrongity wrong wrong WRONG.

69. Kindergarten. Now that's what's wrong.

Considering she hadn't studied, got three words right, and was only one letter off on the other three, I proudly hung the damn test on the fridge.

Needless to say, when I discovered that my husband had helped Quinlan complete Friday's homework and not Tuesday's homework, I was annoyed, which was pretty obvious when I ripped a paper out of my old notebook to write the teacher a note.

I hesitated as I composed the quick note explaining the situation in my mind.

"Dear Teacher: Quinlan's father who can't take two seconds to READ THE DIRECTIONS EVER gave her the wrong assignments..."

But just as I was about to write those words, I realized that it really doesn't quite matter whose fault it is. My husband and I are a team - doing our best to co-parent when we can.

And so when she's late, it's our fault, no matter who forgot to set the alarm, or who was driving slow. And when she does the wrong homework, we're both to blame.

It's a hard concept to swallow, since I spend much of my time being the sole parent. I have enough on my plate that it seems completely counterintuitive to have to pick up the slack for someone else.

But no one ever said that parenting and marriage are intuitive. On the contrary, it takes work, and requires us to swallow our pride for the sake of the kids, at least in front of them anyway.

Behind closed doors? Well that's a whole other ball game.

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.

The Mominatrix does Atlanta - well, not literally

So if you happen to live in Atlanta or know someone in my sexy city (which is practically like you being here), then please come visit me at my book signing this weekend at the BeeHive Co-Op in Buckhead.

I'm quite certain there will be no five-hour waits or wrist bands, but you will find pink velvet cupcakes, booze (that I won't be drinking so more for you!), and lots of door prizes courtesy of Eden Fantasys. Plus 15% of the proceeds from book sales (and shopping at the store - awesome handmade artisan goods) will be donated to Anissa Mayhew's family fund.

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.