Motherhood Uncensored

On having four

I've been getting a lot of this "If this is your first?" questions, to which I smile politely and say, "No, fourth."

That in itself meanwhile sounds absolutely ridiculous to me unless someone is asking you what number drink you just had.

Or how many orgasms you had last night.

It's always followed with a lovely "Oh my goodness, you look so young" or some variation of how fabulous I look for having four children, so I really can't complain.

I'm not sure whether people are just being nice but at this point I don't give a shit.

And so, a few days ago while I was shopping for clothes, the same exact thing happened, which I relayed to my husband. And then, at the exact same time, we both burst out laughing uncontrollably, because that's what you do when it finally hits you that you're going to have four kids.

Apparently you also piss yourself.

Here, there, everywhere

This week has been insane and my only saving grace is that my husband has been off all week and we decided to keep our babysitter on her regular, though very sparse schedule. 

Margot has officially taken up residence on her mattress on our floor. And I think this heat is officially going to send me and my swollen ankles over the edge.

So, if you're going to BlogHer next week, I might be the big pregnant lady snoring in the back of the sessions. It's not you, I promise.

Here's what I've been up to:

My husband is back to the grind of the friendly skies, and now I'm scrambling to find a warm body (read: my in-laws) to watch my children while I'm rubbing scratchy elbows around BlogHer 2010.

I'm doing a new video series Alice Uncensored at Alice.com where I review and offer my uncensored opinion about household and beauty products. Since I'm pretty stuck in my ways (read: a senior citizen who refuses to get a debit card) I figured I was the perfect guinea pig, er, person for the job. 

Liz and I are now contributing weekly cool mom picks for the new, swanky Momformation blog at Babycenter.

And I've got another 4 bajillion things in the works, like a couple of new book projects, a really cool WAHM interview series coming next week, a Domestic Zero column (courtesy of my friends at Kenmore Connect), another Pregnancy Uncensored (thanks to the magic of Gap) and a baby. A brand new live baby due in October.

No wonder I'm so freaking exhausted.

Of magic erasers and tomorrows

This weekend Drew wrote all over his room in red crayon. The carpet, the bedspread, the tiny spot where the door meets the wall. 

I've seen much worse, mind you, over the last few years, but something about this made me burst into heavy, uncontrollable sobs. 

I wasn't so much disappointed in him as I was in myself.

I should have known better than to send him to his room for another offense with crayons in his hands. That was my obvious misstep.

But that wasn't why I was crying.

If I had only been a better a parent, he wouldn't do those sorts of things.

I've said that sentence several times now, and each time it sounds more ridiculous. But it's still hard to shake. 

My kid is 3 and he wrote on his wall and I'm already somehow believing that my lack of something - patience, consistency, energy, attention, love - was what caused him to commit this "heinous crime."

Also known to sane people as "a developmentally appropriate expression of anger and frustration by a challenging three-year-old boy."

Some of it is all my personal crap with my own parents, resurfacing now as I parent my own children. This feeling that my lack of something was "why my father didn't love me."

Also known to sane people as "a crazy, probably bi-polar abusive alcoholic."

It's also me being tired and frustrated and challenged by my son's very typical 3 year old behavior, and often being the only one around to deal with it.

I see the error in my thinking. And I understand that somehow believing that my son wrote all over his room because of me and my shortcomings as a parent is utterly insane.

It's hardly a parenting fail.

And I'm coming to learn that no matter how much I try to be a better parent, and I am, every single day, there may still be red crayon on the wall.

That's why they make carpet cleaner and magic erasers.

And tomorrows.

Anatomy of a Date Night

I'm well aware of the benefits that regular date nights can have on a relationship and, in theory, I support them wholeheartedly.

I also think a daily shot of wheat grass and regular colon cleanses are a great idea too.

They're also all pricey pains in the asses.

Since my husband lives in a uniform, and well so do I, except one that is not as sexy nor generally presentable in any sort of public forum, we usually end up scrambling to find something to wear.

This weekend, that meant hauling the family to the mall on a Saturday afternoon so my husband could scour the sales racks and gawk at the price of clothes - "It's Bloomingdales, dear!" - until he found four shirts and a extremely versatile pair of linen pants (WTF?) and I could make the mistake of trying regular clothes on at Banana Republic where the mirrors make you look like the size of jungle animals.

Coincidence? I think not.

So then it was racing home to meet the babysitter and orient her to our screwy nighttime routine, which only makes us sound like anal-retentive nut balls.

"Just make sure her pillow is on the left side of the bed and not the right side and the rain machine won't stay on so make sure to put the piggy bank on top of it so that it keeps the button down and you have to leave the bathroom light on but not the hall light..."

You get the idea.

Then it's showering, tossing on clothes that you hope don't have pregnant belly stains or kid snot, and putting on five-minutes worth of make-up so that you don't look like you could actually just get into bed right now and forgo the entire evening.

And then it's waiting for your husband who decided TO WASH THE CAR IN THE 15 MINUTES THAT YOU HAD BEFORE YOU NEEDED TO LEAVE to shower again.

And waiting.

And hiding outside in the 400 degree heat so your kid doesn't scream when you walk about the door.

And running in and out of the house four times after that to get your phone and to tell the sitter that "eh I'm not going to take the phone so call my husband" and then "okay, I think it's better that I take my phone" and "oh shit my phone isn't charged so I'll just leave it here."

And then sticking your head and arm pits into the car air conditioner so your extremely complicated make-up routine and four-second shower do not go to complete waste.

Of course, you're now late for your reservation, BUT AT LEAST YOUR CAR IS WASHED, and completely famished because you don't eat dinner at 8:30pm anymore, and you're about to tackle the bread man who accidentally crosses your path while you're waiting for your table.

But the fabulous meal, the $3.25 Cranberry and Club Soda (also known as "robbery of a poor, sober pregnant woman"), the quiet conversation, and the arguments in the car all the way home are all worth it.

And by worth I mean the $200 we shelled out for three hours alone.

Date night. One pricey bastard I tell you.

And completely worth every penny.

Third

There is very little that Margot can call her very own.

She's now completely in big sister hand-me-downs. Toys bought just for her are still ridden, used, and abused by her siblings - though not without shrieking protests.

And I'm pretty sure her vocabulary is based solely on what she hears the older two spout off. 

"Have an original thought there Margot!" I'll joke, as she rips off her shirt or blows bubbles in her milk, only seconds after her brother does the same exact thing.

But yet she is not a replica of her sister. Or hidden in the shadow of her big brother.

Her own presence is known. And owned.

Not to be confused.

Reminiscent, perhaps. 

Imitating, but never duplicating.

She's forging her own way. Making her own memories.

And taking up residence in her very own section of my heart.