Motherhood Uncensored

Out of the x-rated mouths of babes

Even at a young age, my kids have all spoken quite well. Aside from the cute "Hopter Copter" for Helicopter, "Bullderazer" for Bulldozer, or "Ahjun" for Orange, all their words have been fairly easy to understand.

Then Margot came along and turned that all upside down.

I've never been good at understanding people anyway, which is a little surprising since half my family has really strong Chinese accents, and I worked with children and adults with disabilities for a very long time. Between the two, I should be a champ.

However, that's not the case.

I find myself doing the very annoying "What did she say?" to my husband, who, for some reason, knows exactly what she's talking about.

Except for "orange." She actually says orange like my Chinese grandmother. That I get!

But along with being pretty hard to understand at times, she really does say the funniest things - you know, the things that you hear people talk about and you don't completely believe actually happen.

I mean, does your kid really say "COCK" for clock? And if so, do you really need to ask them to say it over and over again and laugh like a bunch of 5 year olds who keep saying "butt" over and over?

Then Margot started saying "SHITYOU" for tissue. And yes, it's just as funny as it sounds, the 4000 times I ask her what she needs to wipe her nose with.

Yesterday, she was playing with a new lego set that has two horses.

"Look mom, I have two PUSSIES!" she exclaimed.

I did a double take. Then snorted.

Yeah, yeah. I'm a 12 year old boy.

But man, I couldn't make this stuff up if I've tried. And for all the crap we have to wipe off their butts after they poop in a freaking pull-up, I should be able to get a little satisfaction at their expense.

Alright, so let's hear the funniest way you've heard a kid say a word.

You'll always be my baby

Just over a week and already Bridget has a nickname.

Margot.

Half because I'm stumbling around in a post partum fog that seems heavier and more dense than I remember.

Half because I'm ambivalent that my littlest one is now a big sister.

Just a week ago she was my baby - her little baldish head, her deliciously chubby legs, her tiny voice squeaking out requests to be held.

Now her head seems huge, her legs sturdy, and her voice, loud and clear.

She was the third wheel of sorts - the one who the other two had to tread lightly around, excuse for lack of sharing abilities, and treat with baby gloves.

Lately, she's the one being told to take it easy, play nicely, and be gentle.

"Hi Baby!" she yells to Bridget, careening down the hill on her scooter.

"Bye Baby," I whisper back, watching her as she catches up with her brother and sister and rides away.

My girl can ride

Yep. That's Margot. On one of these. Crazy, huh?

I know it so hard that I can't even say it out loud.

  I like to think that they'll always be down the hall from me, tucked not-so-tightly into their beds, those damn nighttime monsters single-handedly raising our electric bill a solid $100 every month.

It's our job as good, responsible parents to raise them so that they get the hell out and come home every now and then with several gigantic bags of dirty laundry and an empty stomach - just long enough for me to fold their socks, stuff them with food, and send them on their merry way, feeling lucky if they actually sit down at the table long enough to suck down their meal before gallavanting off with friends.

We're supposed to arm them with survival skills so that the big bad bright world doesn't chew them up and spit them out.

And we will. Parent's oath.

But not without a gigantic lump in our throat. That knowledge that we refuse to swallow - the window into the future where our chairs are no longer occupied by booster seats and sauce stains, the toys have long been donated or passed along, and their rooms -- the bright pink-walled masterpiece that she begged and pleaded for -- now changed to a dull tan office.

The scraps of paper have long been picked up, the crayon artwork scrubbed off our walls, and the once treasured macaroni necklaces crumbled and tossed.

We all know it's coming.

We laugh about being anxious for them to haul their butts off to college. We joke about when they'll visit for holidays and we'll embarrass them in front of their significant others with their naked baby pictures.

We smile at the thought of bouncing their own kids on our knees.

And we secretly cry at the thought of having to beg, borrow, and beg some more just to get them all in one place. Together.

They will leave - maybe one by one or two at a time - and it will never be like it is right now.

Go look. Take a snapshot in your mind. File it away. Carefully.

I watch them, all my children all together, sometimes staring at the big bright screen from the couch shoving cookies not so squarely into their mouths, other times fighting and screaming over the deflated balloon and flattened box while the big, brand new, battery operated piece of crap toy sits alone in the corner.

I dance recklessly with them as the radio blasts inappropriate club music through our basement. I sit with them, all crammed in a bathtub, while they wash my feet and make me bubble tea and soup.

And I try to soak in every single second of them being together.

All my children. All in one place.

Because I know.

I know it so hard that I can't even say it out loud.

She went to bed a baby. And woke up a "me."

She used to point to her picture on the wall and say "Baby!"

Now she says "Me!," pointing to my belly instead when someone asks her where the baby is.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Her babyness pulled the wool over my eyes.

It blinded me from the reality of her growing up.

Then she walked and talked and asked for a "di-pah" to poop in.

Somtime during our countless slumber parties -- our 2am arguments over what blanket in which order like I'm pulling the arm of a slot machine hoping to hit the right combination like a jackpot -- she changed.

She went to bed a baby and woke up a "Me."

Happy Birthday, Margot. My heart. And my very swollen eyes.