Motherhood Uncensored

My girl can read

Quinlan has been reading for a few months now, but it's usually the compelling story of "The Big Pig," the always rhyming adventures of "Tim and Sam," or one of those "Read it Yourself" books that have absolutely no story line but are comprised of three-letter words and damnit they can read it themselves.

So last night when she read her brother an entire Dora book that he had just thrown at me and therefore had relinquished his rights to his mother reading it to him, I was impressed.

And weepy.

Also, I now realize that I'm screwed. But I guess already knew that.

She's also writing us awesomely sweet love notes that she silently hand delivers and then, even more importantly, reuses on the appropriate occasions. 

We couldn't be prouder of her eco-conscious efforts.

Yes, your parenting resume' is not complete without at least one nastygram, or really five, if you count the times she's handed this to me.

But even better than her letters are her books, which she spends all her free time at school and most afternoons writing.

"Princsses Girl" (Her first princess tale, surprisingly enough)
 

"The princesses groop is fun." Also, Pocohantas kills me dead every single time I see her.

But my favorite, thus far, is her first holiday book.

 

"Christmes *wrees are here for Lily" *worries

Worries? What worries could a little girl have at Christmas you ask?

"It is Christmes, I'm wree'd I'm not geting gif's."

Hmmm. On second thought, maybe this is the beginnings of a memoir - the names already changed to protect the "innocent." 

Where has all the funny gone?

Over the last few days I've noticed a startling trend on the internet that rather disturbs me. And no, it's not silly mothers letting their children fend for themselves for a few minutes so they can check their email.

It's the fact that the interwebs, for the most part, have completely lost their sense of humor.

Or humour (for the damn Canadians and their fucked up spelling).

Is it me or are the jokes gone?

Maybe it's the recession, or the high fructose corn syrup, or that people have larger than usual sticks stuck up their assholes, but it's impossible to make a funny, dare I say be "tongue in cheek" without at least someone, or group of someones, getting their big old panties in a wad.

Because I'm sorry. If you can't take a joke, you're wearing big ugly panties. And if you can take a joke and you wear big ugly panties then you will not be offended by that statement. You will think it's funny.

I noticed it back a month or so ago when I tweeted about the Newfoundland Premier getting surgery in the United States, no doubt to avoid the complimentary coochie exams Canadians are giving out during their surgeries at teaching hospitals.

I mean, dudes don't have coochies so it should be obvious right there that I was making a joke. But even then, considering the timing of it all - you know, Canadian Premier gets surgery out of the country just as news broke that Canadian women were getting non-consensual vaginal exams during surgery - I thought that it was kind of funny.

IRONIC EVEN.

*Gasp*

Remember irony?

But instead, a few people actually tweeted to me that Newfoundland is an island and a small one at that and so therefore it requires him to get his major surgery done here in the USA.

And PS @mublogger it's not a Prime Minister [as I had originally tweeted from the freaking treadmill because good jokes can't wait people], it's a Premier. No "e" because we're Canadian and we spell weird.

Um, okey dokey then. So much for my good joke erection.

And then there was Alice Bradley's recent hilarious Redbook column called "When Kids Attack!" that caused people to comment that she was raising a serial killer. I realize that perhaps some people might not be familiar with Alice's writing style or the fact that she herself is quite lovely and funny, and from what I can tell is only raising a child to be a city snob who hates Jersey and doesn't really like to eat certain foods, even cookies, which could be cause for some concern, but certainly does not make her a serial killer baby mama.

(Is that what they're called? I'm not familiar with the terminology).

And honestly, I think a disdain for Jersey could be considered well adjusted on some personality scales.

And then there's the Mominatrix, that bitch, who when taken out of context, could be seen as a hater of women. And probably men. Or even babies too. I'm sure there's something that could be twisted in there to make it sound like I hate babies.

Now look. I get that people who have been on the receiving end of non-consensual gynecological exams, violent children, and vaginal or bodily trauma that may affect their receptiveness to jokes about post partum sex may not be able to find these things funny. In fact, they may find them down right offensive - TREASONOUS!

(Dude. I made up a word).

But in my humble experience, especially when it comes to parenting and vaginas, if I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying.

And I'm sorry, but that's just not good for my stunning complexion.

Hostage

"Now you've gone and done it" she said, her screams piercing my ears. I looked around to see if glass had broken.

I had made the deadly mistake of moving her food bowl to place a table mat underneath it and for that, I paid the price.

Everyone talks about the terrible twos, and how hellish they are, and then a few moms pipe in about how "two is nothing compared to three" which I totally and completely understand.

Solidarity in the terrifying threes, mamas.

And then someone says "Well, wait until they're 16 and having sex!"

Okay, so no one has actually said that to me, but I'm thinking of doing it next time because that just makes my little baby kicking her feet on the floor over a half-eaten apple look like nothing at all.

But really, much of the months leading up to the age of two are pretty damn terrible.

It does not start right at two. And from what I can tell, it does not make her eligible for the gifted program at "Miss Mary's Nursery School."

There is no consolation for her mature tantruming skills, my friends.

Her communication skills are lacking and unfortunately adorable animal sounds don't do well in telling me that she'd prefer her cup to be turned at a 45 degree angle to her plate, that should be pink and not green because who the hell would want a green plate I ONLY WANT A GREEN PLATE ON THURSDAYS and sometimes Sundays but only in the afternoon damnit

We've done our best to institute the techniques that most experts suggest on a consistent basis.

Time outs are a regular occurrence at our house, though she tends to end up thinking it's a game and then when I actually want her to leave and go back to what she was doing she'd rather stay in the corner and so now you're fighting her to get out of time out and so what exactly do you do then put her in another time out snd by the time you figure out what to do you forget exactly why she's screaming and why you're putting her in time out and you end up apologizing and giving her a lollipop because you were a mean mommy and wait one second little girl.

Bah!

I'm usually a huge fan of diversion techniques, however the whole "Look, you little screaming child who can barely breathe, it's a birdy!" just tends to piss her off even more. And anything that will actually work to divert her attention away from the huge tragedy of a piece of toast that *gasp* has a bite out of it is actually worse than letting her carry on.

"Oh look, there's your brother over there banging the crap out of his ceramic plate with a metal fork."

Cue the ceramic plate orchestra. And then me begging her to start screaming again.

And I suppose the worst of it all, other than being the asshole who is yelling at her 17-month-old baby because that is so amazingly effective (and awesome right, I mean that is the stuff that dreams are made of right there) is that no matter how much I try to be the big, smart, "take-no-shit" parent whose house is not run by little people oh hell no, I'm embarrassed to admit that I still end up doing my fair amount of egg-shell walking.

Sometimes cleaning up the pee is way easier than forcing her to put on a diaper. And reading the same bedtime story three times in a row won't actually kill me, just the last few scraps of sanity I cling to like a dirty, half-shredded security blanket.

Besides, I try to tell myself that I need to pick my battles now so I can save my energy for the big ones later, which based on her advanced trajectory should be in about 4 years, 7 days, and 17 minutes.

Not that I'm counting or anything.

My secret

There have been days and moments when I'd just as soon give up - when the thought of taking one more breath seemed like a big fat waste of polluted air because for whatever reason I'd rather impale myself with a white flag than break through the mobs of idiots, naysayers, fuckwads, and doucheheads that stand in front of me, hands grasped firmly like in a game of Red Rover, taunting me to run so they can plant their sweaty fists into my gut as I'm thrust backwards onto my ass.

But then I think of my mother, holding my sweet dead sister in her arms. Maybe she was rocking her softly, tears dropping like a cascading waterfall on her head as she held her tightly. Or perhaps she was wailing, like someone had just pulled her heart right out of her chest as she watched helplessly.

And then suddenly I gasp and sputter, choking and coughing like I've been pulled lifeless from a pool. And I open my eyes and as my vision clears, I see what truly matters.

And I breathe again.

Weanher

Yesterday I didn't nurse Margot.

It wasn't the first day she hasn't nursed, especially now that I'm traveling a bit. But it was the first time that I've been home and not nursed.  

I figured the book tour would be a good excuse to wean her, but every time I come home, I give in.

I've been ambivalent about it for awhile now - on one hand refusing to pack my breast pump and enjoying the feeling of having my body back but on the other finding myself hand expressing due to the freaking pain and desperately missing that special moment with her.

Nursing wasn't particularly difficult for me, aside from engorgement, scabs, and TED diet I endured the first time around. But with each kid, it got easier, and as each kid got older, it actually became enjoyable, especially when they didn't necessarily rely on me as their sole food source.

And really, it's kind of nice having the little extra help in the calorie burn department.

Considering I've breastfed for a total of 53 months since Quinlan was born, it's really not surprising that it's just become second nature.

And I definitely have the nipples to show for it.

I unabashedly rejoiced when I finally weaned Quinlan, and I had no love lost for it when Drew was done.

But last night I sobbed as I rocked her and then gently placed her in the crib. Her head resting on my breast, not her mouth on it.

Considering she's been the easiest of the three, it's not shocking that I find myself desperately wishing that she would stay a baby. 

So for now, I'll just enjoy that I can still hold her comfortably in my arms.

And hey, at least I know what I can do with my extra breastmilk.