I Want Daddy

Over the weekend I was living it up with a basket of laundry to fold and a particularly rousing episode of Jeopardy! on the tube when I heard a weird noise coming from my daughter’s room. To the casual observer it would have just been a little cough. To mom ears, it was the death knell.

please don't let it be barf, please don't let it be barf, please don't let it be barf

We had barf.

Nothing works me into a neurotic lather like vomit. I can handle pretty much any illness without batting an eye, but when vomit is involved, I immediately become Woody Allen on the inside. I’m terrified I’m going to get it, I don’t want to touch it, I don’t want to look at it long enough to clean it, I don’t want to smell it and I don’t want to interact with it.  You know that friend in college that would hold your hair back while you were puking up grape flavored Bartles and Jaymes in the front yard of that dude’s house that you guys met at the ASU game? I’m not that friend. I’m not even the friend who is pointing and laughing. I’m the friend who’s running back into the house with her fingers in her ears while going “La la la la” to block out all the noise you’re making and now all the noise I’m making with my theatrical gagging . Yes, your terrible misfortune and inability to hold down cloyingly sweet chick liquor will make me the bitchy friend. This aversion runs so deep that it led to my husband and I agreeing before we had kids that all poop related mishaps would fall squarely on my shoulders while all situations involving vomit would be left solely to him.

I'm not in this picture because I peaced right on out of there.

Of course fate is a spiteful whore and with the exception of one episode, I’ve been the sole parental unit available each and every time a kid in this house has lost their lunch.

Maybe it was born of the fact that I was the only one around and HAD to take charge or maybe there is something to the adage that things coming out of your kids seem less vile to you than if they’d come out of someone else’s cake hole but my whole reaction to barf has changed.  Don’t get me wrong, if you hork in front of me you’re still on your own, but my kids just don’t elicit that reaction. I jump into action, cleaning them up and administering Gatorade like a pro with nary a gag to be heard. As a person, I've grown.

Which brings me to the coughing sound that rang out in the night right in the middle of Double Jeopardy! last Friday. I walked into Julia’s room to see that she had in fact become sick, not just all over herself and her bed but the wall beside her bed too. I cleaned her up, changed her sheets, Lysol-ed the wall, put on Frozen and made a little nest for myself on her floor next to the trash can I’d commandeered from the bathroom. We’d get through this together, for I was Super Mom.

Oh yeah, this is me.

    

 The process was repeated again 10 minutes later when it was deemed more comfortable to toss her cookies a second time on her fresh sheets and pillow instead of the trash can. I changed everything again, all while being as comforting as I could be. The poor kid looked pathetic and I really did feel horrible for her. With a lot of “Mommy’s here” and “Mommy will take care of you”, I dragged her mattress out to the family room and plopped down on the couch (Laying on her floor for 10 minutes was enough. I’m not 21 anymore and nothing proves that more than lying on a floor for any duration of time. Even Super Mom has her joints to consider.)

Poor kid

Back rubbing, hair holding, soothing words and calming singing abounded as I held the trash can under her head and willed her to get everything up so she could feel better. By 2:30am I was bleary eyed and worried, having done everything in my power to make her feel as comfortable as possible. As the dry heaves racked her body once more and I rubbed her back, whispering softly to her that it would be alright, that mommy was here, she said:

“I <gak> want <gak> Daddy.”

Really? I mean, seriously? I’m the one who just hosed you down, rinsed your mouth out, wiped up the Kandinsky painting you tried to replicate on your wall, wrestled your mattress down the hall and into the family room and did two loads of laundry in the middle of the night, all while taking shifts holding your hair back and cooing to you while you chundered up so much that I’m pretty sure a license plate came out of you and you want daddy?

The best mothers will say that they understand, that they don’t expect recognition for all that they do. They’d say that it’s a normal reaction, that 4-year-old girls are attached to their daddy’s and it’s natural for them to want his comfort.

Well, I've never claimed to be the best mother and I’m here to tell you that shit sucked.

All I wanted to do was make her feel better, to be the soothing presence that people think of when they think about their mama. Her words made me feel like I’d failed, like if I’d been doing a good enough job taking care of her she wouldn't feel as though she needed daddy to step in. I wasn't merely not good enough, I wasn't even enough period.

The better animal, in this instance, being Daddy.

I realize, with my head, that my thinking was highly over dramatic and that her desire to have daddy near was in no way intended as a rejection of me, but I still sat sullenly on the couch as she finally fell into a fitful sleep, my eyes burning with exhaustion and my hair stinking of hospital grade disinfectant. Why was I chopped liver? Was my position as the primary care giver causing a case of overexposure? Was a feeling of ambivalence, or worse, resentment resulting from my constant directives to clean rooms, put on shoes, finish homework, eat two more bites, take fingers out of noses, put the toys away, try to go potty before we leave, go to time out, stop licking the dog bowl, don’t throw that inside, that isn’t food, my phone isn’t a football, wipe that up, drink some more milk, keep your diaper on, don’t unbuckle yourself on the freeway, no we can’t listen to Let It Go again, don’t sit on your brother’s face, and stop punching your sandwich?

The worst of it seemed to pass and around 4 in the morning I gingerly attempted to roll off of the couch to go to the bathroom without waking her.

“Don’t leave me, Mommy.”

Her small, whispered voice stopped my heart.  I kissed her forehead and promised I was just going to the bathroom, a certain clarity settling into my thoughts. She didn’t love me or need me less than she did Daddy. The fact was, she loved and needed both of us. The nature of his job required him to be out of the house for longer durations than me, which meant that she was far more likely to ask for him in times of stress. You don’t ask for stuff that you already have, so my being the ever present thorn in her side just meant that she took for granted that I’d be there. She hadn’t been asking for Daddy instead, she’d been asking for Daddy too.

I felt like a petty little moron for getting so butt hurt over it, but as I watched her sleep while clutching her blankie I was a happy, petty little moron. It was clear that the assumption was I’d be there to take care of things when everything went to hell in a hand basket. She felt confident that I would be there for her. I fell asleep myself, knowing that at least in this, I’d done something exactly right.

Have I lost control or did I lack it in the first place?

The course of the last few weeks and, more specifically, the last few days have caused me to ponder some fundamental questions about the state of affairs in my household. From the outside looking in, I see other families operating on a functional level that seems to mirror what any reasonable person would call typical. That's not to say that these families don't appear to have their own fair share of ebbs and flows in the craziness category. It just seems, in comparison to the chaos that swirls around my existence like a category 5 hurricane (sometimes even complete with debris and liquid of dubious origins) that the other families I know aren't subject to the same types of all out pandemonium that we have up in here. Which begs the question, is it me? Is it something inherent in my DNA that spurs children to act like demons? Like some kind of pheromone I'm releasing that triggers a biological response, culminating in abhorrent decision making? Is it my utter lack of leadership abilities, despite the fact that I try with all of my might to possess a shred of the intimidation factor that my mother and those of my peer group possess? Are my kids just heathens? In examining this, I decided to look at the events of the last week and assess the situation for what it is in an effort to come up with a game plan.

Incident #1

The child safety lock on my silverware drawer is broken and the children know this. Lately they have taken to retrieving every spoon in the drawer that they can carry and using them as their "tools" so that they can pretend to fix their toys. This didn't bother me until I grew tired of washing fifteen spoons per day, so when I heard my daughter clanging around in the drawer a few days ago and looked up from my email to see her walking through the house with a spoon, I had this interchange with her:

Me: Julia, can you please put that spoon back? It isn't a toy and Mommy doesn't feel like washing all of the spoons every five minutes.

Julia sighs theatrically and then saunters back over to the silverware drawer as I redirect my attention to the computer monitor. The sound of the drawer opening is followed by the clanging sound of silverware being thrown back in amongst its compatriots. 

Julia: I put it in my butt.

Me: (Looking up in alarm, hoping against hope that I had misheard).....you what?

Julia: I didn't put it all the way in my butt, but I put it a little bit in my butt.

I have no idea on which spoon the assault was committed but I can say that all spoons were scrubbed like Meryl Streep in Silkwood.

Incident #2

Taking my children to the mall on a hot Arizona day is one of the few activities I can do with them by myself. They are 3 1/2 and 2, which means that they may have the muscle ability to walk on their own but lack the emotional maturity to listen to reason (and possibly a condition in which they are physically unable to hear their mother's voice at all, not unlike when Carolann couldn't hear her father in Poltergeist). Taking them to the mall allows me to put them in the double stroller, walk them to the play area, watch them play in a contained space, take them to the Disney Store so that they can color and dance with the music on the big screen in the back, feed them Subway, spit out a few quarters for them to ride the carousel and then load them up for home. It kills a lot of time, is air conditioned and I'm normally able to pull it off with no issues. 

During better times. The frantic yells for Patrick are good foreshadow for Incident # 3

All was going well a couple of days ago until we hit the Disney Store portion of our rendezvous. Instead of an unstructured coloring time with music like they usually have, a kindly Cast Member was leading the children in a pirate activity that coincided with videos and songs from Jake and the Neverland Pirates. Four kids were lined up in front of her as they pretended to fly with pixie dust, looked through imaginary telescopes and practiced their pirate vocabulary. Adorable. 

My kids were over it immediately. My son wandered over to the, now pushed aside, coloring table and began working on a picture while my daughter came over to me and held on to my legs as if something about the blonde woman cheerfully channeling Captain Hook was inherently evil. This kid is not shy, so I took it to mean that she might be running out of steam, at which point I suggested that we hit the streets and get some lunch to go. 

She lost....her fucking mind. 

She ran away from me, caught sight of a bucket of bouncy balls in her escape path, reached in and threw a gob of them up in the air in mid sprint so that they flew every direction and screamed the shrill, ear piercing scream that is only achievable with the vocal chords of a female toddler. Seriously, dogs in El Salvador heard her. I caught up with her and hoisted her up so that I could put her back in the stroller, only to have her stiffen to the point of utter straightness, still while shrieking the shriek of the maimed. It was like trying to put an angry department store mannequin into the back of a Graco double stroller. I was left with two options, I could wait out the tantrum in the middle of the Disney Store while everyone around was forced to listen to it or I could apply gentle, yet persistent, force to her solar plexus with my forearm in an attempt to get her to bend in half long enough to strap her into the stroller. I chose the latter, ignoring the burning stares of the parents whose children were now skipping with the Cast Member on a quest through the store for gold doubloons. 

I got her secured as she screamed in fury and realized I'd made a tactical error by putting her in the back as I loaded my son into the front. I'd been going for maximum containment when I placed her there, but  as I buckled my son it appeared that I'd sentenced him to a session of "How Many Times Can I Get Kicked In My Thoracic Vertebrae?"

I wasn't about to try and move her to the front seat after having to employ WWE moves to get her in the stroller the first time out so I lit out of the store, pushing them for all I was worth in an attempt to get out of the mall and to my vehicle as quickly as possible, all while trying to ignore the looks of disgust and mild empathy the kicking and screaming were eliciting in those I passed. I also tried to reassure my son that his anguish would soon be over, but I'm not sure he could hear me over the sound of the body blows. 

We'd made it to the exit just in time for her to level his seat with a kick that actually gave him whiplash and I finally lost my shit. I got down eye level with her and told her to knock it off, which she responded to by kicking her legs back into his seat and then leaving them extended so that he couldn't sit back. I tried to get her to relax her legs, but she held them firm while screaming wordless sounds of insanity.

You know how, in movies and in TV shows, they make Satan's voice really deep and guttural to go for both the intimidation factor as well as an evil and unnerving sense as well?

 I did that.

 In front of Kona Grill. 

While people were sitting on the patio enjoying a few California Rolls during their lunch hour. 

In my daughter's face. 

Put your feet down and stop kicking your brother or I will throw your blanket onto the freewaaaaaaay!

People stared. I got the kids to the car, loaded them up and burst into tears. Haven't been back to the mall since.

 Incident # 3

Our final incident occurred today. I actually got a full night sleep last night and was feeling ready to take on the world. I was turning over a new leaf in all of our lives. No more junk food. No more yelling. More reverse psychology. More positive reinforcement. I made the kids and I breakfast, got everyone dressed and we headed out to pick up lunch so we could spend some time at the fire station with their dad. I even went so far as to put a little gel in my son's hair so it would be all cute and David Beckham-esque as we went out to conquer the world. This decision will become pertinent later.

All went well as we hung out with dad and his crew at the station, so well in fact that I decided on our way to drop our library books off that the kids had earned the ability to go inside and pick a few movies instead of just dropping our books off in the drive thru like we were going to. Hoorays issued forth. We went inside the library and I grabbed the stuff I had on hold, then proceeded upstairs so the kids could play in the toddler area for a few minutes before we made our selections and headed home.

I was really congratulating myself at this point. The kids were playing quietly and looking at books while I took a gander at the Jillian Michaels selection I'd picked up. I was one of those moms! The ones whose kids just behaved and I could hang out with them without having to hover over them every second to keep them from going utterly nuts. If I'd had a Starbucks in my hand, the moment would have been complete.

Then we decided to leave. I told each kid they could pick a movie and two books, which when added to the four books I already had in my hand meant my arms were completely full by the time I'd gathered up our selections. I stood there for a second, trying to figure out the best way to accomplish getting all of our loot and my kids out at the same time and that's when all hell broke loose. 

My son saw my hesitation, saw my helplessness under the pile of books and I literally watched as the evil overtook him. If you remember from my Mother's Day post, my son is a runner and he is fast as shit even when I'm NOT bogged down with diet books and Chuggington DVDs. He broke into a giggling sprint, which proved to be irresistible to my daughter, and they headed for the stacks as a unified and now shrieking front. People on the computers looked at me with annoyance, but unlike the irritated and disapproving stares of the mall-goers, I actually felt like these jack holes could go fuck themselves. They were in the children's section of the public library, if they wanted quiet they could have gone to the reference section for god's sake. 

I walked calmly and resolutely to the end of the stacks, as that was where the sound of horribly behaved children was heading, and willed myself not to start yelling for them. I may have not felt bad for the bit of noise my kids were kicking up, but I wasn't about to add to the cacaphony. I intercepted them with my best disappointed face, which only made my son crack up and act like he was going to take off again. My disapproval is like an aphrodisiac to that kid. Thinking fast, I asked his retreating back if he wanted a movie and he was thankfully unaware that it was a movie he'd already picked. I made a big show of handing him the DVD and asking for his help in carrying it and this newfound task seemed to stop his need to escape long enough for me to herd them downstairs to the checkout kiosks. 

We got downstairs after a blistering lecture in the elevator and they stood compliantly next to me for a few seconds as I began scanning our items for check out, but soon the allure of running around the lobby area was too great and I began frantically loading books onto the scanner to finish the job before they tripped someone, knocked something over or ran again. Library employees watched the scene from the front desk with awe, which I've become used to seeing in the faces of those we encounter on outings. There are things you never want to see public employees surprised by, especially those that are exposed on a regular basis to kids and the horrid behavior of your children ranks highly. 

I had finally gotten all of the books scanned when my son figured out that the door was automatic and charged through it into the open air. I dropped everything and gave chase, getting halfway around the front of the building before I was close enough to him to reach out and grab him. Unfortunately, due to my need to make his hair all stylish and spiky, that was what my hand connected with and I yanked him to a stop by it which caused a homeless man on the bench in front of us to cock an eyebrow at me. I am not making this up. I have now been judged for my shit parenting form by a homeless dude on a library bench. 

I picked up my son, who was giggling about the entire affair mind you, and went back in to retrieve my books and purse from their discarded pile in the lobby, at which point my son decided to bite my shoulder like a gremlin in front of the check out clerk. 

I'll be taking all that crap back through the drive thru next time.

So is it me? Is it them? Is it some sort of combination of the two that has produced a perfect storm of evil spawn and terrible parenting, thusly condemning me and my family to angry stares, public meltdowns, lifetime bans from various venues and nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering how in the hell I'm going to make productive members of society out of them? Do other parents have to chase their kids down so they don't enter restaurant kitchens? Do you, dear reader, ever pause with a spoon hovering just outside of your mouth to wonder if it's been in someone's butthole?

In the face of the evidence, I can honestly say that trying to come up with a game plan seems futile at best. I have no idea what I'm doing wrong and thusly, no idea how to alter that behavior. For now, it appears, I just have to wait it out and bask in public censure.

Guest Blog Fun, The Friday Five and Cursing Babies

I was given the wonderful opportunity to write a guest blog about my love of trashy romance novels for Refreshingly Riki today. If you haven't been to her site, give it a gander. She talks about all kinds of things over there, chief among them books and her love of reading, so if you are so inclined to crack a few spines (of books that is. Unless you're a professional chiropractor I think I speak for everyone when I ask that you please keep any human spine cracking to a minimum) don't hesitate to check her out and read my post here while you're at it. I hope you enjoy it!

I got the idea last week after seeing some pretty hilarious Mother's Day tweets that it might be fun to post a top five list on Fridays. Seeing as how Mother's Day is long since over I'm gonna go ahead and pick something else to focus on today, but I think it will be just as delightful.

This week, I stumbled across one of the best examples of smart assery I've ever experienced in a little thing called "offensive wallpapers." Most of us, if not all of us, have seen those inspirational quotes that someone took the time to place lovingly over a thought provoking landscape scene. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, here is an example:

(In case it wasn't clear...this is the road to discovery. It's in Duluth.)

So without further ado, here is my first ever Friday Five. This week's selection:

Top Five Offensive Wallpapers

1.

(I read this in Wilford Brimley's voice, followed by his use of the word "Dia-bee-tus.)

2.

(The crack in that floorboard grew a flower. Your crack, however...)

3.

(No, Teddy  Ruxpin, I don't want to be friends!)

4.

(Wouldn't an entire wheat field provide enough fiber to alleviate this?)

5.

(I have no words.) 

And finally, here is a video of my son becoming so incensed at my desire to film him that he crawled into a laundry basket and began hurling expletives at me this morning. My blog isn't called Mother of the Year for nothing people.

Have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend everyone!

Fat Lips, Mimi's Cafe, Clint Eastwood and Lucy Liu

Ah Mother's Day, the one day a year in which it is socially sanctioned for we maternal units to cast aside our shroud of martyrdom and demand that those we love most in the world worship us for the poop cleaning, booger wiping, tear dabbing, wound cleaning, food prepping, car pooling, schedule keeping, non sleeping, etc that we all do on the regular.

This worship can come in many forms; flowers, some form of edible delivered to us in bed and macaroni necklaces ranking amongst the highest, but really the reward one enjoys most for their efforts is unique to each mom. I, for one, am a fan of brunch. I have virtually no idea what it is about it that makes me love it so, I mean really, it's just a late breakfast, but everything about it makes me happy. From the sparkling mimosas in their long, flutey glasses to the crispy bacon and crunchy potatoes to the satisfying way the word just pours from one's mouth (brrr-uuun-cccchhhh. Say it slowly. It's super fun.) I find myself dreaming of Mother's Day brunch the moment that the calendar rolls into May.

So it should then help to paint the picture of how my Mother's Day went when I tell you that my husband was on shift (he's a firefighter), which left me all by my lonesome with two toddlers. What does one do when they find themselves in need of some Mother's Day lovin' and the person who is supposed to orchestrate it is tasked with saving lives that day like a selfish asshole? You horn in on your sister's Mother's Day plans and get yourself invited to her place.

It was a lovely affair. Her husband put out a huge spread, they provided everyone's favorite donuts and all of the moms got to eat on fancy glass plates while the rest of the dirty masses got paper ones. I felt truly pampered and worthy of the honor of Mother. Then my daughter fell off of a barstool and cracked her face on the tile, which signaled that it was time for us to depart.

(I assure you, she is fine.)

Then it was on to the Mother's Day Ice Cream Social that my husband's captain decided to throw for us ladies at the firehouse. This was very sweet and I am very grateful to him for thinking of us. Having said that, it usually works better to have everyone down to the station when you aren't among the three busiest stations in the city. We got a lot of great action images of our guys running to the truck as the emergency tones deafened everyone, but they had gotten us ice cream for the occasion and we all felt very sincerely appreciated. Thank you guys!

(When the captain ain't around, the rookies get the recliners.)

I went to bed that night pretty tired and looking forward to my husband coming home the next day so we could get down to the business of what I have heretofore entitled "Second Mother's Day." This was going to be the real deal, the type of celebrating and pampering that I was watching people post about on Facebook all day. 

Except, I learned upon waking up that he was going to be delayed in getting home by a couple of hours. Panic welled up within me. Any rational person would realize that he would be along soon, would give the kids a toaster waffle or some equally substance-less snack and patiently await his arrival so that everyone could sojourn to the long awaited brunch together in due time. But what has two thumbs and isn't rational? Well, yeah Jodi Arias is correct, but I was actually referring to myself here.

So I loaded the kids up and headed off to Mimi's Cafe because, damn it, I was getting an omelet, bacon, breakfast potatoes and a piping hot cup of coffee that I didn't have to brew myself and I didn't care what I had to do to get it. Which included actually eating at Mimi's Cafe.

The fact that the hostess put me and my kids in a booth directly adjacent to one occupied by a single, glaring man in work boots in the midst of an otherwise completely empty section of the silent restaurant had bells of doom gonging in my mind. I mean, there was no one there but this guy and us. It was Mimi's Cafe at 7:45 a.m. on the Monday morning directly following Mother's Day, the place practically had tumbleweeds blowing through it and this guy was giving us his meanest Clint Eastwood glare. Naturally, the best place for us should be immediately beside him.

(Yes, we are punks. No, we do not feel lucky.)

Still, I tried to be positive. I mean, I brought legos, that should be enough to keep the kids pacified until our meals come, right? They kept it together as drinks were ordered, happily played with their blocks as the coffee came out and smiled genially as I ordered the food for, you see, they know that in order to achieve an advanced level of evil they must wait until orders have been placed to lose their shit and start throwing lego hail mary passes across the dinning room. I got up to retrieve the blocks, returned to chew my daughter's ass for throwing them and was stopped short by the sight of my 2-year-old running with his cheetah legs straight for the kitchen. I burst into a run after him, catching his shirt just in time to keep him from getting to the food prep tables, but not before he'd roused the attention of the entire kitchen staff who were staring at the tiny interloper and me with looks that said, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I got him back to the seat and proceeded to start packing up the legos as a consequence for throwing them, at which point my daughter emitted a shriek so high pitched and so shrill that I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a signal to her dolphin people that she was in danger and to assemble post haste. This was the last straw for The Outlaw Josey Wales next to us. At least I'm taking his decision to slam his hands angrily down on his table and leave the restaurant mid french toast with no tip on the table as such.

I can now officially say that the behavior of my children has driven strangers to vacate public areas. It was now just me, my kids and my staggering inability to keep my kids under control left in the restaurant and I burst into tears. I still can't conceive of many things that are more pathetic than a grown woman wearing a shirt with a jelly donut on it having a pity party at a Mimi's Cafe but if you can think of some I'd seriously love to hear them. 

(I'm not kidding, this is the shirt. It depicts a jelly donut murder, and I was sobbing in it.)

I pulled my shit together in time for the food to come, shoved it down my gullet as quickly as possible, ran after my son one more time as he bolted behind the bar (he didn't even have the common decency to make me a fucking bloody mary while he was back there) and then left, fending off the offers of help from two well meaning employees who were obviously so moved by my lack of parental abilities that they felt compelled to lend a hand in bringing the ineptitude to a stop. 

It was a quiet ride home. Maybe, I thought, it was on the fitting side that Mother's Day would come and go with no fanfare directed my way. I clearly suck at this. In 24 hours my daughter had sustained a bloody facial injury, I'd lost my 2-year-old twice in a restaurant and driven a guy from the premises with my lack of leadership ability. Maybe I should work a little on my technique before I start expecting any gold medals here.

My husband arrived home mere moments after I did with a huge Dutch Bros coffee in his hand for me and a card telling me how wonderful I was. He added a post script to the bottom that read "Get ready to go shopping..." and clarified upon my questioning gaze that he wanted to take me to "Lucy Liu Lu Lu Diamonds, Whatever" for Mother's Day.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: What in the hell is Lucy Liu Lu Lu Diamonds?
Him: That workout clothes store you like.
Me: You mean Lululemon?
Him: Sure, yeah, that place.
Me: A guy at Mimi's Cafe slammed his hands down on the table and left mid breakfast this morning because the kids were acting up and I started sobbing in public.
Him: (Scowling) Fuck that guy, he should have eaten in his kitchen if he didn't want to be around people.

And so, I have to say, my Mother's Day turned out relatively awesome in the end. The Mimi's story has gotten a little humorous with the benefit of time and I scored some new workout clothes to wear at Zumba, an activity that I will dedicate my next post to as it is a shit show so incredible as to not be ignored.

Now that a week has passed, the dust has settled and some perspective may or may not have been gleaned, if you'd care to share your Mother's Day stories, I'd love to hear them. The Good, the Bad and even the Ugly.

The Pinterest Generation and What Makes Me a Shitty Mother

Pinterest.

I'm not new in both lauding and lamenting Pinterest and all it stands for, but I think it still bears mentioning what Pinterest and its ensuing cultural ramifications have meant to me as a parent, wife, woman and human.

Pinterest makes me believe, in the wee small hours as I mindlessly scroll through post after post of lasagnas in muffin tins and dresses made from men's flannel shirts, that I can create my own reality. It has me thinking, as I print out Nutella recipes and templates for a firefighter birthday party that I can throw under a canopy of DIY fireflies in mason jars surrounded by mugs with baked on Sharpie drawings that life is simply a means of finding a creative solution to everyday problems. Need to lose weight? Print out this daily workout schedule followed by 200 lunch recipes under 200 calories that feature avocado and hibiscus leaf for maximum fat burning. Have a kid who holds their poop until it is turtling out of their butt while they run screaming from it because they are somehow frightened by their own bodily functions? Just take a regular spray bottle, fill it with water and affix a cute "Poop Spray" label to it. Once you spray the toilet (and maybe their ass for good measure) with it that kid will buy your line that the spray makes pooping fun and they'll be flushing their logs in no time.   Pinterest gives you the feeling that you can navigate life through a series of life hacks, tricks and DIY innovations and sometimes you can.

And then, sometimes, you find yourself at Peter Piper Pizza for a 6-year-old's birthday party with both your 3 and your 2-year-old in tow and you realize, there isn't a life hack for this. This is no quick trick to navigate through the crush of greased up, cracked out children all converging on the candy skill crane like it's a life raft in the last moments of Titanic. There is no step by step guide to prepare you for the 2-year-old running away from you through the restaurant with the speed of Jackie Joyner Kersee, your only chance for catching him to some how corral him into a corner like a wolverine while the 3-year-old pees herself on the big plastic tube slide, strips naked in the middle of the throngs and then screams at you for not letting her ride the carousel that way, her point driven home by the clenching of her angry and dimpled butt cheeks as you desperately carry her tantrum stiffened body over to a booth.

What do you do? I don't have a Pinterest pin for how to deal with this situation and I think it's because of the dark, underlying theme of our Pinterest generation. We are all trying to convince ourselves that we are good at this by mod podging baby pictures onto bricks. When that fails, we try desperately to cling to the idea that we can fool others into thinking that we are by our craftiness. But the thing is, as I realized tonight while I looked at the parents who were staring at me with horror in the restaurant while I tried to jam jeans that had been in the diaper bag as a spare set of clothes for so long that they no longer fit on my now moistened daughter, no one is buying it. They see that I, and any other parent out there like me, am barely holding it together. I love my kids, genuinely love them, but they can see the wheels turning in the Target while my son is screaming "damn it" at the top of his lungs. They know I'm thinking about punting him across a vast distance. Hopefully they see that I never would, but they see that I'd like to just the same. They know I'm not good at this. Fuck, they know I'm not even really passable at this.

So what does a well intentioned but dumb shit parent do when the urine hits the polyurethane? All you can do is gather them up and make good on the 17 threats you'd made through out your excursion to leave while a child behind you makes their way down the tube slide, exclaiming to their waiting mother, "Mom! The slide is slippery!"

Then you take them home, put them to bed after story and good night song and write a blog about how truly you suck at your job, and it isn't for lack of trying. Sometimes, I suck the very most when I've tried my very hardest. There is no rhyme or reason to it, but the results of my days as a pseudo stay at home mom are rarely without stories and that is where this blog comes in. If you are the type of parent who has this shit down pat, well then pull up a chair and prepare to laugh at the asshat who can't quite seem to get it right. But if you're like me, if you suck at this too, I hope you can relate. Either way, I am writing this to chronicle my time spent as the mother of a boy and a girl that my husband and I decided to space 16 months apart as a comic relief in a day that often involves bodily fluids, broken items and copious usage of the phrase "shut up mommy", and that is just from the 2-year-old. If you wanna feel better about yourself in anyway, stay tuned.