Category Archives: WTF Moments

Being a mom is not how it looks on TV.

A Hole in His Head

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L turned 5 just two short months ago. Yesterday, he lost his first tooth. Is he a) dentally precocious? b) mature? c) advanced? or d) did he try to open a container of Play-Doh by himself?

The answer is obviously d. Unable to get the top off, he decided his teeth would provide the needed leverage. He was in for a surprise.

At first he tried to hide it. He jumped up from the table where he was playing with Play-Doh and announced, “I have to go to the bathroom!” and into the bathroom he ran. Great! He’s finally listening to his body.

“Uh, Mommy? My tooth is bleeding.”

“OK. I’ll look at it when you’re done in there.”

“No, Mommy. It’s really bleeding!”

I can hear panic creeping into his voice. I go and check it out. I react badly. This causes full-fledged panic in L. He’s now completely freaked out, bleeding, and apologizing to me. He thinks he’s done something terribly wrong, and I’m not entirely sure that he hasn’t. I try to calm him down, mostly by giving him a wad of wet paper towel to keep him quiet chew on to stop the bleeding.

The issue is that his tooth wasn’t really loose. It was sort-of-beginning-to-seem-like-it-might-one-day-soon-possibly-be-loose. This tooth was not meant to come out yesterday.

Turns out, it’s OK to rip a tooth out of your head a bit prematurely. I finally calm L down with Tooth Fairy promises. We take excited pictures of him exaggeratedly grinning despite his tear streaked face. We talk to grandma and daddy to share the “good news.” Grandma says, “I wonder if you’re even on the Tooth Fairy’s list? You’re only 5. Maybe you need to write her a letter.”

L immediately gets to work dictating the following letter:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I know that it’s not time for me to lose a tooth, but I losed [sic] a tooth today. And it surprised me. I hope you get me a toy Power Ranger. I know I’m not on the list because I’m only 5. So I’m writing to you to put me on the list. I hope you put me on the list. I love you, Tooth Fairy.

Love, L

Luckily, the Tooth Fairy found his letter where he left it on the front porch for her. She delivered him a matchbox car which changes color when plunged into water. Apparently, it’s OK that she couldn’t find a Power Ranger toy in the supermarket last night. He came running into my room this morning at 3 (3!!!) to show me his new treasure.

The new gap in his smile is a reminder that my little boy isn’t going to be little much longer. Soon he’ll probably knock out his other teeth too.

 

Self Analysis: I Come Here for Free Therapy

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I want to break a few destructive cycles I’ve got going on:

  1. The Yell/Guilt cycle
  2. The Self-Pity/Guilt cycle
  3. The Checked-Out Parent/Guilt cycle

Namely, I need to get rid of guilt. But I’m Jewish. It’s part of our genetic and cultural make-up. Then again, if I abolish guilt, I’m just left with yelling, self-pity, and checked-out parenting. Hmm. That doesn’t sound right.

I want to have a no-yelling, happy, active parenting life. I could totally accomplish this if it weren’t for the kids! Huh. That doesn’t seem right either.

Conclusions:

  1. My destructive cycles are actually good because the guilt is a break from yelling, self-pity and checking out;
  2. My children are actually the obstacle to me being a great parent. I’d be excellent were it not for them;
  3. Turns out, I don’t have to change a thing. Just wait another 16 years until S graduates from high school and moves out.

Thanks for the free therapy. I’m feeling better now.

Mother’s Day

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It’s Mother’s Day. I’m writing this while in bed at 8:50 AM. I can’t remember the last time I was still in bed at this time of day. Is it my husband who is hard at work to make this happen for me? Nope, he’s sleeping soundly beside me. This lovely morning is brought to me courtesy of my mother, who is clearly the finest mother who has ever graced this Earth.

If my mother is the standard by which I’m to be measured as a mother, well, let’s just say that it’s a good thing I firmly believe that motherhood is not a competition.

What is clear to me from my mother’s example is that motherhood does not end when one’s children have grown. It simply changes. Somehow, one day I will need to let go enough to allow my children to create their own lives and families. I’ll need to sit back and watch them flourish, make mistakes, suffer heartaches, and flounder. I’ll need to allow all of this but still be nearby enough to catch them should they fall. Thanks, Mom, for your support, the the room to grow you’ve given me, and for the safety net I know is there.

Perhaps the reward for all the hard work we put in while in the trenches of child rearing is Grandmotherhood. Here’s where a mother can become a hero while witnessing the universe provide her children with their just desserts. Is there any one of us who hasn’t wistfully thought of the day when our rotten kids have rotten kids of their own? When that day comes, we can choose to swoop in and save the day like a proper superhero. Finally, our children will recognize our endless hard work on their behalf! Finally we will have children at our disposal to spoil and lavish with love, and then give back to their parents! Thank you, Mom, for being the kind of grandmother that you are. You’re so devoted to my kids and helpful to me.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you moms out there, especially mine who has given me too may precious gifts to number, including this peaceful morning. May all of your children be happy, quiet, and oddly obedient today!

Motherhood: A Horrible Carnival Ride

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The absolute worst and hardest part of parenting is the emotional toll it takes. For me, it’s a constant roller coaster and I just want to get off; I don’t like roller coasters. I’m tired of all of the negative feelings – frustration, anger, embarrassment, self-pity, guilt, recrimination. These all center around L and I’m certain that not everyone has to go to such extremes.

If I had two kids like S, life would be good. I’d have it so easy. I’d deal with “normal” child issues like crankiness, hunger, frustration, boredom. But they’d all be low on the Richter scale. L is a huge earthquake. He is more than I bargained for. It feels unfair. Why am I the mom who constantly has to physically drag her 40 pound child up the stairs for a time-out? Why do I have to break a sweat just to get through the process of putting him to bed? I made the same choices as another mom who only has easy kids. Why did I get such a hard one? <——-This paragraph is all about self-pity.

Next comes guilt. So many people have real problems to deal with. Sick children. Children who can’t feed themselves, will never walk, will not live to see adulthood. Those parents would give anything to trade their problems with mine. I have a perfectly healthy little boy.  <——I’m very good at guilt.

Next up, recrimination: I shouldn’t feel this way. L clearly is struggling with controlling his larger-than-life emotions coupled with his ridiculously high energy. My job is to help him not resent him. If I were a softer landing-place for him, he’d probably thrive. I am not a good enough mother for him.

The truth is, L is exactly the child I deserve. I was not an easy kid. I was outspoken and hated how little control I had over my life. I longed to be an adult. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I have had a huge problem dealing with authority. I do did not like being told what to do, where to be, how to act. And, unfortunately, I felt it was perfectly within my rights to say so. This got me into more than my share of trouble.

I should be able to understand L and know what he needs because I went through such similar feelings as a kid, right? Somehow, it’s not working out that way. What thing did I need to hear from my parents or teachers to help me accept their authority and my place as a subordinate? I think the answer is probably “nothing.” Childhood was just something I had to wait out. I wouldn’t go back for anything. I do like being an adult and in control of my life. Now that I am the authority figure, I don’t think authority is so bad.

So we know where L gets his audacity and stubbornness from. But that energy? That’s not mine. That’s beyond what I can even tolerate. It’s like being on a racquetball court with balls bouncing all around everywhere. All I can do is duck, cover, and wait for it to be over while I’m pummeled all day. The energy is from T. But he didn’t have the defiance to go along with it. It’s the combo that’s a killer.

So I guess this means that I just need to duck and cover for another 20 years or so and then L will come into his own. I see right where this revelation is leading me. Straight back to self-pity as my roller coaster begins its slow ascent again.

Please let me off. I’m feeling a bit sick and dizzy.

There Ain’t No Flies on Me

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If knowing silly songs was a marketable skill, I’d be rich. Years as a camper followed by years as a camp counselor means that I know more chants, songs, skits, and team war cries than your average person. Songs with actions. Songs with ridiculous faces. Songs for quiet times.

These are not always on the tip of my tongue. They hide in the recesses of my mind. I could tell you that I don’t know any songs about beavers. And then Bam! I know a rousing song about Eager Beaver little girls. (That sounds worse than it is.)

My kids love this about me. I know that there will come a day when they won’t appreciate my breaking out into a song tangentially related to what we’re doing. But for now, they’re amazed by it. ”Can you sing me another song from camp?” 

In all my years at camp, I never imagined how it would affect my life as an adult, a parent. I was living in the moment – my nose sun-burnt, my voice hoarse, my friends all around me. And now I get to relive a bit of that during some of my more mundane tasks. S on the potty? I sing about 5 little ducks, or the frog who says “mmmm, ahhhh.” L having a hard time falling asleep? I sing about trying to get back to Pooh Corner. Rainy day with bored kids? I get them moving and laughing singing about Joe who works in a button factory.

It’s these small things that I hope my kids remember about their childhoods. When they look back, I hope they see me as The Mom Who Sang Loudly In The Car and not The Mom Who Shouted Loudly At Me. Probably they won’t though. They’ll remember all my faults and focus on them. Until they have kids of their own. Then one day they may find themselves singing to a child on the potty. Perhaps they’ll pick up the phone to call me, thank me even? When that time comes I will either: a) laugh at them because they are now the suckers stuck in the bathroom with a toddler, or b) not be home because I am finally free to travel the world.

Take THAT, Team Kids! Team Parents rule!

There ain’t no flies on us! There ain’t no flies on us! There may be flies on all of you guys, but there ain’t no flies on us!

Parental Party Time

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I have always liked to kick back with friends and have a few several drinks. I’m not talking about jello shots standing on some bar somewhere; but a few bottles of wine over an evening with friends? Now that’s my idea of a good time.

If you’re like me but have struggled to find a way to be both a functional parent and a your partying self, then read on. I’ve figured it out.

It’s all about Parental Party Time. It’s simply a change from night-time debauchery to afternoon, and occasionally morning, debauchery*. This is a whole paradigm shift. You can have your big “night” and still get to bed at a reasonable hour. Moreover, drinking makes parenting bearable fun!

I had a particularly big day Saturday. This is not typical, but it was excellent:

10:30 AM: Arrive with my family to a friend’s brunch, where a mimosa is immediately placed in my hand. Refills abound.

12:30 PM: Leave brunch. T drives. Come home, put S to bed. L goes to neighbor’s house to watch a movie. T naps. I straighten up and prep dinner.

4:00 PM: Friends arrive. All children play outside. Adults enjoy a glass of wine and some fresh guacamole on the porch.

4:30 PM: Margaritas.

5:30 PM: We sit down to an easy, previously prepared, family friendly meal. (Taco night!) We move from margaritas back to wine. (Know your limits. You may not want to try this at home.)

7:00 PM: Friends leave. Kids to bed.

It’s now only 7:15 PM! We have officially already partied. A bit of clean up and then we’re relaxing and happy in a clean house and it’s only 7:30. At this point there’s enough time for a whole evening of relaxation, and re-hydration, while still getting to bed by 10! I was up with the kids Sunday morning as my usual cheerful self. (OK, OK, I was not cheerful, but I was also not hungover.)

Moral of the story? It’s best to start drinking around 3 or 4 in the afternoon.            (And Motherhood, WTF? may not be your best resource for morality tales.)

*Disclaimer: I am not an alcoholic. I do not have a drinking problem. Nobody got frat-party-style drunk. We are all responsible adults and no drunk driving happened whatsoever. (My friends walked home.) I’m saying all of this to hopefully avoid comments lecturing me about alcohol. 

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

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We all know that kids parrot what they hear. So if you swear, be prepared for embarrassing situations with your toddler. If you say mean things about relatives, your spouse, or your boss, be ready for those things to come right out of your child’s mouth at the most inopportune times.

When you have more than one child, the younger one doesn’t just have you to learn bad things from. This is a problem. Sometimes S says things in public that I’m certain people assume I say in private. But I don’t. She’s learned them from L.

For example:

One of S’s favorite things to say to me when she’s mad is, “When we get home, I’m going to hit you!”

This totally sounds like something a parent might say to a child in a moment of teeth-clenched public rage. But I never said it! I do plenty of bad things as a mom, but I don’t hit my kids. Or threaten to hit them. (I have pinched though.)

This is something she’s learned from L. He says things like this to her all the time. Because he’s a menacing jerk. But he doesn’t usually follow through. He just likes to make her scared and cry. (See previous menacing jerk comment.)

How can I make it known that I did not say this to her? I feel like I need a t-shirt that says, “Please excuse my daughter. She has a bad big brother.”

 

An Existential Freakout

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I was up late last night, having a bit of a freakout over, well, everything. I wrote this to help me clear my thoughts. This is a raw insight into my middle-of-the-night parental anguish. 

I spend so much of my time wishing my life away – wishing it was bedtime all day; wishing it was Friday all week; wishing it was Monday all weekend. (How freaking awesome is school?)

One day I’ll wish I was 36 again with two little kids. How can I find away to relish this part of my life?

I genuinely do love so much about them while they’re so little:

I love the way they learn something new all the time. I love the way they lavish me with affection. I love their un-self-consciousnesses. I love witnessing them develop their sibling relationship, independent of their parents. (Maybe I just love that they’re finally big enough that I can send them outside together unsupervised?)

But they’re just so HARD. I forget to stop being annoyed and just enjoy it. I can’t be alone in this, right? (This is where you tell me that I’m not an asshole.)

My first reaction is stop, no, don’t.

My kids spend more of their waking hours as the object of my aggravation than they do the object of my undivided attention.

I want to love them better. But I find them terribly annoying so much of the time.

Are my daily kisses, cuddles, and I love you’s enough to balance the daily grind?

Am I fucking this all up? Surely this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

PDF: Public Display of Failure

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The Scene: the lobby of the dance school where L takes his acrobat class

The cast: me, L, approximately 20 other parents and maybe 10 other children

The situation: L doesn’t want to go into his class

The time: 4:30 PM

The scene unfolds in nightmarish fashion. The sounds are too loud, echoing off of the high ceilings and hard floors. L has made his case and now stands an the other end of a long row of seats, all of which are occupied by onlookers. His thumbs are in his ears; his fingers wiggle at me tauntingly; his tongue is out.

I step to the right. He counters with a step to the left. I move left. He moves right. This is a stand-off. This is a stand-off with an audience.

This is what I hate most.

He is loving this. He’s pushing is favorite button. He’s laughing. He’s laughing at my impotence.

“L, you come here right now, please. This is not OK.” I try my most serious tone of voice. One that tells these other parents that I DO NOT take this kind of blatant disrespect lightly. One that tells L that when we are alone I might just strangle him.

“Haha!” He taunts back in a tone that lets the other parents know that he runs the show. A tone that lets me know that he does not give a flying crap about what I think, say, or do.

I will not run after him and give him the gratification of a chase with an audience. I edge to my right, he to his left, soon we are facing each other across the depth of a chair rather than the length of the row. I growl quietly, “If you do not get into that classroom immediately, you will not get any Chinese food tonight.” Thankfully that works.

I am left mortified. At a loss. I’ve never seen anyone else’s child do something like this, which leads me to believe that some part of L is broken. Some part that makes him inherently respect and fear me. How can he be so brazen?

45 minutes into his hour-long class his teacher comes out with L in tow. “Sorry, I just can’t keep him in there anymore. He refuses to practice the routine and he’s running around and tripping the other kids.”

OMG. He’s a monster.

Again, I’m in front of this audience. “You did WHAT? Sit down right there until you’re ready to be nice.” I plan on ignoring him. I want him to sit for the next 15 minutes until he can apologize to the teacher when the class is over. He breaks down into tears. Big, sobbing tears.

“I hate myself. I always get in trouble at school and here too. I’m just so starving. Please take me home for dinner. I’m so so hungry.” He tries to wrap himself up in my arms.

Damn. He did complain about being hungry before class. I didn’t pack him the greatest lunch today. He probably is really hungry. He hates himself? A piece of my heart breaks.

“You don’t always get into trouble. Your teachers always tell me how good you are at school, and this is the first time you’ve ever gotten into trouble here. But what you did is not OK.” My arms are now around him, despite myself.

“Please, please take me home. I’m just so hungry.”

I took him home. I fed him dinner which he ate with gusto and zeal. 3 servings. He was hungry. I told him that his behavior was not acceptable, no matter how hungry he was. I relayed the whole story to T, including how disappointed I was. More tears.

What am I doing wrong? I feel like I’m not a pushover, but maybe I am? Maybe I shouldn’t have given in, made him sit there for 15 minutes? At the time I felt like punishment wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was dinner. I try to balance being tough on him with being empathetic and caring. But I must have something off for him to challenge me the way he did. Right?

I feel like I’ve tried everything. I feel like I’ve said that I’m at my wit’s end a thousand times. I am so tired of having to live out scenes like yesterday’s on the public stage.

 

My Public Service Announcements

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In case you don’t have an internet IV running through your veins 24/7 like some people I know, ahem, you may not have heard of Blinkbooks. These are short, visual brain candies covering a variety of topics from fashion to children’s stories to humor. I’ve been lucky enough to write several of these and I thought I’d share a couple I’m particularly fond of.

First up is a warning for parents of girls:

Naturally, I needed to warn parents of boys as well:

Next I was inspired by Honest Mom‘s admission that she sees cute babies and her ovaries start stabbing her better sense and judgement. I know this feeling and think it’s important to remind people everywhere what it’s really like to have a baby:

So these are what public service announcements look like when they come from Motherhood, WTF? You’re welcome.