Can We Have A Volunteer?

“…and we have a volunteer,” I announce as my teenager stands up. 

“Noooooo!” She groans and drops back onto the sofa. 

“…since your already up,” I ask, “would you please get me a nice warm fuzzy blanket? I’m a little cold.”

“First off, you and I both know that you're not really asking. And secondly, I did not volunteer!” 

“But of course you did,” I respond, “I was just about to ask if someone wanted to spoil their amazing mother and you jumped up. It’s proof that you and I are so closely connected that we are basically telepathic.” 

“Seriously?” She whines. “You do this all the time. You sit and wait, depriving yourself of whatever you think you need, until one of us gets up. Then you clap and say, ‘…and we have a volunteer.’ You're like that angler fish in Finding Nemo.” 

“Mom, what’s an angler fish?” my littlest interjects.

“She was the fish in Finding Nemo with the beautiful light that illuminates the darkness.” I smile to my little one, “Nemo and Dory were entranced by her beauty...” 

“I’m going to my room,” my girl harps. 

As she rises, I yell and clap “…and we have a volunteer. I still need that blankey.”

Scrimmage Tactics

I just discovered that my husband is an underhanded, lying cheater. 

I have been married to this brilliant man forever and I finally figured it out (albeit, a little late) this afternoon. Right as the kids started fighting about something silly, my husband quietly walked up the stairs and silently went into the bathroom. I patiently (I’m not lying!) listened to each of my children and coached their confused little hearts back to the peaceful field of sibling-hood. Sometimes, I am amazing. 

During this entire exchange of luminous parenthood (on my part) my deceitful partner in this parenthood game, hid in the bathroom. He was in there forever. Finally, as he emerged from his bathroom sanctuary, he verbally throws out a, “boy, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you…..”

Except I did. I had to. At the time I didn’t want to. But I needed to get the toy that the above mentioned children were fighting about. 

It hits me, as I am finally forced to let out the breath of air I have been holding upon entering the hidey-hole my husband calls a bathroom, it doesn’t smell! I am not kidding. It doesn’t smell at all. So, here I am, standing in my bathroom, shocked, because I have finally figured out my husband’s parenting tactics.

When there is a scrimmage between players, quietly sneak off the field, and fake a poop.

Guilt and Absolution

              Today, I am going to absolve you of your guilt. I really can do it. I am amazing like that. I am especially talented in the absolution of motherhood guilt. Buy my book and read the chapter on perfection and you will see how talented I am. You won’t feel so guilty anymore. Well, I don’t feel so guilty anyway. Maybe through osmosis, you won’t either.

            We are way too hard on ourselves as moms. We actually have the hardest job on the planet. It is way more difficult than you ever imagined it would be. When we first held our precious little person in our arms we were instantly devoted because they were so tiny and sweet. And then they grew. Within a short period of time our precious little angel turned into an egocentric, demanding, miniature demon. Everyone you know pats you on the head and tells you how lucky you are. If I am so lucky, you’re thinking, you take him home.

             Feeling guilty yet? Be honest now, haven’t you reminisced about your pre-parent years with the hunger of a crack addict in rehab. You know you shouldn’t yearn for it, but you sometimes miss it desperately. Don’t misunderstand me here, I love and adore my children immensely, but I sometimes pretend that I am stranded on a desert island with only a volleyball named Wilson.

            See, as moms, we all have those moments. It is universal. It is the reality of parenthood. But we don’t talk about it because we feel guilty. We don’t acknowledge how difficult parenthood is because we may be perceived as bad moms.  Recently, I was making conversation with a mom of toddlers and made my standard comment about how toddlers will kill you. Obviously offended, she stated that her children were gifts to be treasured and she adored them. Poor thing, I thought to myself, she has the toughest job ever, and she has to pretend to love every moment.

            They are gifts; nonetheless it’s a difficult present to have sometimes. Not every day is a party. Not every day is a cake walk. Sometimes your party dress gets a stain. Hell, sometimes you don’t even feel like wearing the party dress, plastering on the fake smile, and pretending to like all the party guests. Sometimes you desperately want to spike the punch.

            So, why can’t we say that to each other? Why can’t we universally band together and support each other. This parenthood gig is difficult. For everyone who does it. It doesn’t matter if you work or if you stay home. Some days are good, some days are bad. Some days you just want to call in sick and eat brownies all day.

            And that leads us to your penance…..eat six brownies, read this blog everyday, and all will be forgiven. See, no guilt. I told you I was amazing.

The Sheriff

My husband is the “good time” parent. He’s a big softy. He is the really fun guy every kid should have for a dad. He is patient, good-natured, fair, and to top that off, he is hilarious. Our kids adore him. I adore him.

           

It’s a good thing he has me to help co-parent our lovely brood of patty-cakers.

           

I am not the “good time” parent. I am the parent who requires our little sugar-muffins do what we ask. For example, our littlest was sitting on the arm of the couch and my big, brave husband told him to move his little body from the, “my butt doesn’t belong here spot,” to the “my butt belongs here spot.” Do you think my delicious cupcake moved an eyelash? Nope, he didn’t even blink.

           

I, who was minding my own business in the other room, gladly ignoring any misbehavior from our little people, say to my little lazy one, “Why are you still sitting there?”

           

“Hey,” my husband grumbles, “how do you know he is still sitting there? All these years of marriage and you never let on about your x-ray vision?” (I told you he's funny.) Then he asks our son, “and why do you move that cute little behind just because your mom asks? I am the sheriff around here. You have to do what I say or you’ll get in big trouble little man.”

           

My littlest, obviously the smartest of all my little people, replies, “Daddy, if you’re the sheriff, Mommy is the mayor.”

           

I think I like being the mayor.