Motherhood Uncensored

No trophy for you!

My son's first baseball season has come to an end. At least I thought it had and then there were playoffs.

For 5 & 6 year old coach-pitched teams. Seriously?

Even though the kids lost miserably, there were a couple of wins. Like only a couple of kids still cried when they were tagged out at first. And they did get a little better at fielding the ball. Though the concept of throwing it once it was in their glove was still a bit foreign. 

And really, it was more fun just yelling at them to run fast around the bases (LIKE WHEN I CHASE YOU UP THE STEPS TO YOUR ROOM WHEN YOU'RE IN TROUBLE, SON!) and watching their excitement when they hit the ball off the coach's pitch or actually stopped a ball and got a runner out.

And while there were official scorekeepers, and team records, I don't think anyone really kept track. At least I didn't anyway. I mean, when one team gets 7 hits which automatically ends the inning, it seems sort of silly to celebrate a win. Or sulk at a loss. 

Besides, I don't think my bladder could take actual competition considering I pissed myself cheering when my son finally made a stop at 3rd base.

It's all really for the parents anyway, isn't it?

So when an email went around wondering if the kids were going to get trophies since a few expected them, I was surprised. 

I'm pretty sure my son was pretty happy with the snacks. 

Nutter butters! Weird blue squeezy drinks!

And look, I'm all for a celebration. Have an "End of Your First Season of Baseball or Something That Kind of Resembles That Sport When it's Played by Kindergarteners" party. Give out some Chick-Fil-A gift cards. 

A t-shirt. 

But a trophy? I think that signifies actually winning something.

And they didn't. 

I wouldn't have even cared that much except they decided to hand out the trophies at the end-of-season party so if you didn't buy your kid one then you'd end up looking like a smacked ass if you went. 

And then fast forward 30 years and our kid is in therapy talking about how he was the only one with parents too stubborn to spend $10 on a stinking trophy.

So we skipped the trophy and the party.

And hey, I'm all for promoting participation, but I don't think that kids need to be rewarded for it. Not because I'm a big meanie, or even a cheapskate, but because I don't think it's good for them in the long run. 

They start expecting it for everything. Trophies for playing a baseball game become prizes for making their bed. And then what? Money for doing homework? Cars for going to college? 

I'm trying to teach my kids that losing is okay, and winning can be awesome, when it happens. 

But just playing the game, doing your best, and making your own freaking bed is what we do in our family. Not because you're going to get a trophy, but because it's part of life. 

Mommy laid an egg

As a parent, using the bathroom alone is a luxury.

I'm not sure why it's so surprising since you give up your right to privacy when you have kids.

What, you didn't know that was what you were signing when you left the hospital?

And if you're like me, you adapted pretty quickly, with the bathroom door suddenly lock-free and revolving. No quiet respite to catch up on emails or flip through an old catalog.

Hell, I'm lucky if I get a private wipe.

Then your kids get old enough to acknowledge their sense of smell, which miraculously sends them running but not without some sort of embarrassing comment that ends in a chorus of "Ew gross!" by small, ungrateful children who, as I remind them, used to sit in their own crap BY THE WAY.

But during that week, I tend to be a little more discreet than usual, which is easier in a house with four bathrooms than it is in a small condo with one, which was the case this past week on our family ski vacation when my son walked in after I had just done the desperate tampon search and rescue.

Don't tell me you've never done it because you, like me, had the one friend who accidentally put a tampon in with a tampon already in which then got stuck except she didn't know and it started to smell and hurt and then the doctor had to tell her that it was an old tampon that was rotting inside her vagina and now you can never change a tampon without replaying that entire story in your head even though you don't even need a string to get a tampon out anymore.

I digress.

So that is perfectly fine (or at best, relatively fine, mostly ridiculous) when you can lock a bathroom door, but when your son walks in, well, it's mildly upsetting.

"MOM, YOU'RE BLEEDING FROM YOUR HEINEY!" he screeched.

Maybe "mildly" was putting it a little lightly.

"Vagina" I corrected him, as I bumbled around, then offering to explain it to him after he shut the door, much to my husband's audible disdain, which was actually less complicated and more comfortable than I expected.

He stared at me while I gave him the Emergency Menstruation Talk: Version 5-Year Old Boy with an expression of horror and fascination which is much like how I imagine my face looks when I'm watching a UFC match when someone is getting the shit pounded out of them and you don't want to watch but yet you just can't flip the channel.

Or Hoarders.

I asked him if he had any questions and he shook his head, slowly backing out of the bathroom, watching me as if I might pull a dancing rabbit out of my armpit next.

Then he turned around and yelled "MOMMY LAID AN EGG IN THE TOILET! LIKE A CHICKEN!" which then sent all my kids running in.

Imagine their disappointment when they didn't see an actual egg in the toilet.

And my evil grin when I served them eggs for breakfast.

 

January 19, 2047

His phone went right to voice mail so I called his house and she answered.

She always answers.

"Oh hi! It's..."

She cut me off.

"Hey! Sorry, no, he's on a trip again..."

She kept talking but I got distracted by the kids screaming in the background.

The phone beeped a few times.

"Oh God! Kids! Why do they always grab it when I'm talking on it?"

I smiled.

"Anyway, he got the gift. It's amazing. And I know he meant to..."

I know, I know. Call to say "thanks," and "how much he loved it."

"Oh I know he's busy. Just glad it arrived safely," I told her, sighing.

She must have heard.

"If it's any consolation, he couldn't put it down. He had to bat the kids away from it."

I laughed.

"Oh good, well, you know, I was just cleaning out and I found it. Thought he'd get a kick out of it."

"Well, he really..."

Kids again.

"I'm sorry, I have to run, but when he's back I'll..."

I cut her off.

"Sure thing. Just tell him I love..." 

She hung up.

My phone buzzed.

"Can't believe u saved my Rockets blanket. Mayb u'll sing me a little Stars Shining, 4 old times sake? Heh."

I texted back.

"Check your voice mail, son. Happy Birthday."

He's 5 today, 35 tomorrow. Love you, Drewboo.

Kids talk the darndest ways

I remember the first time my son said "orange," his longstanding favorite color. It wasn't really anything special, until my husband pointed out that it wasn't "aujun," the way he'd said it since he could talk.

Unlike Quinlan, who we dutifully corrected like some ridiculous parenting book told us to do so she'd speak properly and not require a private tutor and years of therapy, we just let it go.

We even committed the cardinal sin and called it that ourselves.

Oh shush, you do it too.

One of my own fondest childhood memories is recalling all the crazy shit my brother would call things; I still call helicopters "hoppo poppos," although, unfortunately, he does not.

These days, the funny words are fading fast, with Margot (and soon Bridget) keeping the dream alive, doing things "mybyself" and asking to read "The Turfin Tollboth" at bedtime.

And, like Drew, she begs us for some "beef turkey" after my monthly shopping trips to Trader Joe's.

I still correct Quinlan's "brung," "getted," and "more better," but I can't help but let the kiddisms run their course, as they always seem to do, often unnoticed.

To me they are the last bastion of my babies' childhood, the reminders that my kids are still kids, like LEGO pockmarks on my ass and crushed Cheerios under my feet on the kitchen floor, oddly comforting when I know full well it will be over soon enough. 

So beef turkey it is.

And beef turkey it always shall be.

So, tell me the funny things your kids say or used to say. Then do yourself a favor and go write them down.

The Littles

This week, my husband took the older two kids on a whirlwind tour of Philly and the Jersey Shore while I stayed put with the littler two.

Since he had the help of his parents and my mom, and well, I had our sitter for a couple of days and um, just two little kids, we've both basically been on vacation.

I have to chuckle that I actually think two kids is a break, but it is. It's really one step below a week at the spa.

With the two of them, there's no fighting whatsoever. There are simultaneous naps where the house is completely quiet for two straight hours.

No cooking. Very little cleaning. And no guilt about a couple of television shows while I get a little work done.

It's magical.

I realize that having all the kids together means they do occupy each other. And in some cases, I do a little less with the older kids are around because I put them to work.

It's the first time in a long time that I actually emptied the dishwasher.

But I don't care how great it is to have all the kids together to keep the others entertained, there is something about the quiet and simplicity of the two that I've appreciated.

It's also amazing how much they miss each other, clamoring to talk to each other (and not me) when they talk on the phone.

"I want to go to the playgwound wif evweyone, Mom" Margot told me. She then listed off all the members of the family, in case I had forgotten. 

It's all she knows.

And as much as I appreciate the bit of respite this week, I feel the same exact way.

Just ask me how I feel tomorrow afternoon when the hurricane arrives.

And I'm not talking about Irene.