Measure of a Mom

I often think about how much I suck at being a Supermom. My transition from a career-mom to a stay-at-home-mom has been anything but triumphant. In these few short months I’ve been at home, I have never been more exhausted, beaten-up, drained, and just plain ugly. Although my tenure as a SAHM is very temporary (only 2 more months), I have really learned to appreciate all the mothers and fathers out there who choose this as their permanent occupation. It has not been easy. There are many days when my husband walks through the door after a long day and all he can say is, “Are you wearing a bra?” Before you get all hot and bothered, this is not a sexy question. This is a Jesus-Christ-You-Couldn’t-Even-Put-On-A-Bra-Today kind of question. And the answer is, no. I could not put on a bra. Or brush my teeth. I’m not sure if I showered today. Or yesterday. Shaved legs? Forget about it. My matchy-matchy pink pajamas? Yep, still wearing them at 5:00pm.

So, the question is, does this make me a bad mom? Should I be up at the ass-crack of dawn, exercised, showered, and knitting a potholder before my wee-one has even opened his eyes? Should the house be spotless and the dog groomed, all while my toddler politely recites Shakespeare. Should I have six-pack abs, perky boobs, and shaved pits as I organize a food-drive for homeless orphans? Should I be cooking solely organic? Wait, should I be cooking? Oh, God.

If your answer to any of these questions is ‘yes,’ I will politely suggest you kiss my haggard ass. I have constructed my own “Measure of a Mom.” I hope the following list will help SAH moms and dads to accurately measure their success as a parent. Simply calculate the answers to the questions to evaluate your victory over the day.

Measure of a Mom (or Dad)

-Did you consider taking a shower today or yesterday?

-Did you trip over/stub your toe/step on less than 9 toys today?

-Do less than half of the rooms in the house have crayon on the wall?

-Did the dog only escape from the backyard twice today?

-Are you the only member of the household that sustained any injury today?

-Were you able to successfully stop your nosebleed?

-Did you employ self-defense skills during toddler tantrums?

-Was your child napping for at least 12 minutes today?

-Did less than 3 neighbors see you in your PJs while checking the mail?

-Did you make it through the day without succumbing to your craving for drugs, alcohol, or cookies?

-Did anyone run with scissors (including you)?

-Was the TV on for less than 12 hours?

-Did you read to your child today (even if it was the back of the soap dispenser in the bathroom while you were going pee)?

-Was “Oh shit!” uttered less than 57 times?

-Is there poop on anything or anyone? If so, did the dog lick it up?

-Is the household headcount the same at the beginning AND end of the day?

This list is not mutually exclusive. Good luck!

Battered and Beaten

Toddlers-what a special little bunch. So fun and active…so excited about life…so damn bipolar it makes me want to beat myself with a blunt object. They are moodier than a pregnant broad watching a Victoria’s Secret commercial. One minute my little angel is giving hugs and kisses while gently rubbing my hair, and the next minute I’m getting coldcocked by his mini right hook.  My poor face has taken a beating for months! Most of the time there is a fair warning- he purses his lips and angles his eyebrows downward with a sweet yet psychotic gleam in his eye. I must say I’ve become an expert at the bob-and-weave. But other times he blindsides me with a Thomas the Tank Engine to the side of my dome. I have talked to other parents about toddler aggression, and apparently it is a “boy thing.” What a crock! Are you telling me my sweet little boy is genetically wired to beat the shit out of me? The pain, suffering, and stretching my body went through to create a miniature menace is quite ironic.

But the abuse is not exclusively physical. I take quite an emotional beating from this little guy, too. Let me set the scene…I have just finished taking a 38 second shower (because that’s all the time I can afford to leave my child alone, and even that is too much time). As I open the shower door and reach for my towel, two big, brown, batting eyes greet me. I open my mouth to say ‘hello’ to him, but he quickly cuts me off and screams “Eeeeewwwwwwwwww!” while pointing and laughing at my naked body.  I know, right?! What an ass. Does he not understand how hard it is to find time to workout? Did he not see the new NutriBullet on the counter?! I’ve been making juice! I just signed up for a ½ marathon, for God’s sake! Where’s the credit for that? But, he just pointed, laughed, and then changed the subject to choo-choos, as if I would easily transition to a new topic after being humiliated in my own bathroom.  Too bad your choo-choos can’t pay my therapy bill. Sometimes we will be snuggling on the couch together and he will lift up my shirt and squeeze my gut while laughing. I GET IT. I need to lay off the cookies. Thanks for the constant reminder, Jillian friggin Michaels. 

I was so happy when my little monkey started talking. To hear him say “Love you” is priceless. That is until the day you say, “Love you” to him and he responds with, “NO!” 

Really?...No? Like you have any idea how much I love you, you sassy little thing. You will tell me you love me -and you will like it!

It seems like only yesterday I was holding my sweet, SILENT, stationary little boy. Now I have an unpredictable toddler in my midst. If you are out there suffering in silence, just know that you are not alone. I would really like to tell you that the abuse will soon cease, but sister, that ain’t gonna happen. Bear down and prepare to be lovingly abused for the next several years.  And remember to bob-and-weave.

She's Baaack!

It has been 3 long months since I've blogged. My excuse?

Relocating to a new city + The Holidays = No time to blog!

But it did give me lots of new material! So, here's to a fabulous 2013 and lots of funny blog posts!

Thanks for following!!

The Queen's Throne

Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a neurotic, Type-A nut job with an obsession for utilizing every minute of every day efficiently. At one point, I tried to decrease the time I spent in the bathroom with a pee-and-flee mentality. I despised going the bathroom. It was such a damn waste of time. With so many urgent matters to deal with, I could never understand why men liked spending so much time on the toilet. There’s too much to do! Get in and get out, right ladies?! Well, things have changed.

Let me tell you, I can't remember the last time I pissed in peace. I now long for what was once an inconvenience. I rarely get the opportunity to use the commode without two little eyes watching me, and when I am alone, my son is screaming bloody murder and the dog is trying to scratch down the door. My mom always told me that one day I would understand how exhausting motherhood could be, and that it really is a 24/7 job. Even when you pee, you are not on a break. Mom, you were right, and I’m sorry for watching you pee.

In addition to a lack of personal space, toilet paper has become an issue. My son thinks toilet paper is meant to be confetti. He rips it to shreds, and now every time nature calls, I find myself using MacGyver-like skills to weave together some semblance of a goddamn toilet paper square. I really don't think that's what Charmin had in mind.

Recently, my son barged in on me peeing (I was peeing, not him- but that would have been much funnier). Instead of standing and staring, however, he thought he could give me a hand with wiping. I could see the wheels turning in his little head, and as his hand reached up toward me, I did what any sane person would do and karate-chopped him in the throat. No, not really. Calm down. I wanted to- but I just screamed "NO!" and he fell over and cried. For the love of God, all I wanted to do was the pee-and-flee, but I had to quilt a piece of toilet paper and then console my screaming child. 10 minutes later, I was searching for answers...WTF just happened? So help me God, if my son makes a habit of trying to help people wipe their nether regions, I'm going to start doing drugs (And not your simple run-of-the-mill "gateway" drugs- I'm talking crystal meth or Robitussin). I know he's just trying to help, but I'm not prepared to teach a toddler why he can't be Mommy's helper with EVERYTHING. 

So nowadays, I find myself in deep reverie, fantasizing about alone time- just the John and me. I daydream about urinary tract infections, constipation, diarrhea, and kidney stones- really, anything that would give me an excuse to enjoy my throne for lengthy amounts of time. Who would have guessed that I'd be praying for more terlit time? I would just like to say sorry to my husband for all those times I nagged you for taking 45 minutes in the bathroom. I will respect your time of tranquility from now on.  

I hope I have not traumatized too many of you, but I don't sugarcoat things. Don't say I didn't warn you. Parenting means never being alone. I think I need to pee...

Do-gooder or Squanderer?

I’ve been in the trenches for the past few days, elbow-deep in poo and puke, so forgive me for not blogging. I know you all hang on my every word, and I apologize for leaving you in suspense/despair/panic while anticipating my next post. My poor baby was sick- AGAIN. If you refer to my post The Plot Thickens, but the Poo Doesn’t, you can familiarize yourself with my desperate quest for freedom from the Shit Shenanigans I’ve been subjected to for the past several months my son has been in daycare.

My family is currently transitioning to a new city, and calling it a cluster f&@# would be putting it mildly. Okay, so I’m a little dramatic (hence the title of the blog), but I have been going nuts trying to pack 20 pounds of shit in a 5-pound bag (or at least that’s what it seems). I am known for my extremely clutter-free lifestyle and pride myself on excessive waste and/or donating. I get rid of everything. I think TLC should create a new show called “Wasters” and air it juxtaposed to “Hoarders”. I will gladly be the star/host/director/producer.  I can’t stand junk. If my house even begins to resemble a garage sale, I will burn it down and start from scratch. I think the Goodwill should put my name on a plaque or something since I’ve given them some pretty awesome shit. I try to de-clutter every couple of months, and it works very well. Here’s the problem: I had a kid. The kid isn’t the problem, but the ten tons of useless crap that goes along with a kid is driving me to drink.

I can remember spending four agonizing hours in Babies-R-Us (the Devil’s Emporium) attempting to navigate my way through all 872 “necessities” the store recommended on their Nazi registry list. I just kept repeating the same question over and over- “Do we really need all this stuff?” Are you telling me that a crib, bassinet, pack-n-play, swing, and bouncer are all necessities for a newborn? Does a baby really need 5 different places to sleep? They spend most of their time on a boob! If you are a soon-to-be parent or new parent, take my advice- YOU DON’T NEED ALL THAT CRAP! Jesus was born in a manger- I think you will manage.

So, needless to say, we have accumulated a ridiculous amount of baby gear and nowhere to put it! I should have registered for a freakin’ storage unit! I might suggest that to Babies-R-Us. While some of the gear is storage-worthy (for future babies), I will be damned if all of this baby stuff follows us to our new house. So, the question is-What is a necessity? I really don’t think my son will lose sleep if I toss a few of his 78 stuffed animals. Or what about blankets? What is with the baby blankets? I know I didn’t register for 92 of them! I have nightmares that I will end up on Hoarders, but instead of piles of trash and animal crap, I’m covered with the entire cast of Sesame Street. I can see the headlines now- “Mother’s Home Condemned, Muppets Taken into Custody.”

So I'm extremely wasteful, I know. I like to think of it as philanthropic or altruistic. Like I said, I'm still waiting for Goodwill to recognize my charitable contributions. I’m on a mission to be more minimalistic- I’ll let you know how it goes.

No Joke!

I had an epiphany. Scary, I know. Today I realized that I am now eligible to be the punch line of a “Yo Mama” joke. As in, Yo mama is so fat, she got arrested at the car wash for impersonating a Buick!” Okay, so in no way do I resemble a Buick, or any full-size sedan for that matter, but I have my concerns. I’m aware that “Mama” jokes were in the height of their hay day in the 90’s, but I don’t doubt they are still loitering where you least expect. In the event I am in a verbal altercation with a “Yo Mama” joke-slinging imbecile, I suppose I should have an adequate response prepared. In the meantime, please entertain me with some “Yo Mama” tomfoolery so I can add them to my repertoire.

An Old Soul

So, at what point was someone going to tell me that being a parent automatically makes you old? And by old, I don’t mean my chronological age (somewhere in the late twenties). I mean out of sync with pop culture, incapable of staying awake after 10pm, and obsessively watching the Goddamn NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams, followed by a riveting 30 minutes of Jeopardy every night (If Brian or Alex are reading, I think you two are the bee’s knees).  This post is not meant to be ageist. In fact, I think American society should be paying more attention to the older and wiser, rather than worrying about what’s going in or out of Snooki’s va-jay-jay, but I digress. This post is my examination of a seemingly overnight transformation from Dakota Fanning to Diane Keaton.

Yesterday, I reminded my husband about the VP Debate, and this was his response: “Oh, yeah. Should we, like, go to a sports bar or something to watch it?” Dear, sweet hubby…WHY ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT? Is he even more out of touch with youth than me? I quickly realized that he was joking and probably wanted to watch the football game- I’m sure he is sick of Brian and Alex. Shockingly, we stayed home and watched the debate (on NBC with Brian Williams) while sitting on the couch.

A few months ago, we were asked to tag along to a party for a friend of a friend, and upon arrival, discovered it was a girl’s 21^st birthday party. I know, right? I almost had a panic attack. Thank God I didn’t bring a bottle of wine. I quickly went into survival mode, looking for ways to not look so obviously old. I debriefed my husband on the subjects to avoid discussing (401K, insurance, childbirth, mortgages, etc.). When some kid came up to us and asked, “Aren’t you a little old to be here?” it was apparent that my efforts had failed me.

More recently, I saw a kid point to me and say, “Mom, look at that lady’s dress.” AHEM…LADY????? Since when am I a lady? I thought I was a girl. You know, like, “Hey, look at that girl’s dress!” Not LADY!

Needless to say, I am making a valiant effort to be more youthful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to set the DVR to record the Nightly News.