Parenting Forums Are Full Of Insane People

Parenting forums.

They’re nuts.

If you live in the DC area and you’re a parent, I’m sure you’ve heard of DC Urban Moms and Dads. It’s an anonymous forum that at times can be incredibly helpful and informative. But because of the anonymity of the posters, DCUM can be fucking unreal. People have no fear of going crazy — and the lack of a screen name makes it easy for posters to be ultra snarky and just plain mean.

Because of this, it’s fun to read and scoff at.

For example. In the General Parenting Discussion board, there’s a thread called, “I hate it when moms two and more complain.” As you can see, basic grammar is not a strong suit of some of these posters. Anyhow, so the anonymous poster’s rant goes like this:

There, I said it.
I am not talking about those who had twins as their first children.
I am talking about moms who have two or more, who say how hard it is to deal with a toddler or preschooler while pregnant, how difficult it is to juggle kids for play dates and appointments, how hard it is to not have coinciding naps.
Didn’t you know how hard it is after having just one? Wasn’t this knowledge enough to either be prepared or not have any more children? 
Of course I cannot say anything in their face. But this is always my first thought. You made this bed, so deal with it.
. I feel guilty thinking this but I just can’t keep it inside if me anymore.
Flame away.

I love it. Parents of single children telling parents of multiple children not to complain. This response said it best:

OP I can understand where you’re coming from, but I think your logic is faulty. By your logic no one should be allowed to complain about the difficulty of raising any child who was “planned”, or really anything that the person chose to do. So no one should complain about their job because they chose that job? No one should complain about cleaning their house because they chose to live in a house? What are people allowed to complain about exactly? Only things that they had no say in whatsoever?

But then the snarkiness continues:

I’ll one-up you, OP, and say it’s annoying when any parent says they had no idea raising children would be so HARD, and how they’re so TIRED. As if they’d never seen a kid before.

And.

I hate when they bitch about money. You never know how easy or difficult your kids are going to be, but you sure as hell should have known how much they would cost the second and third time around.

And another.

I get it, OP. I’m always stunned when people complain about the work of having children. (I have one.) I was the last of my friends to have a child, so I heard all their stories. I knew it was going to be hard, and expensive. And I knew that second child sunk a lot of marriages, because the work, as other people said, was exponentially harder, not twice as hard.

While I get that you can’t know exactly what it’s like until you are in the middle of it, what is shocking to me is that women refuse to take a look around them and listen to other people’s stories, and learn from them. (Also why I didn’t get knocked up as a teen or marry a “bad boy.”)

And it continues.

PP here. Take responsibility for yourself! If you want to do something, you should have thoroughly vetted it and worked through all of the variables of what might be. Even if your friends haven’t been through it, there are books, newspapers, your mother’s stories and those of her friends.

I don’t do any big life choice without thinking through all of the ramifications it might have. It’s just common sense.

Ha ha! If you made a choice in life, then you’re not allowed to complain about it. You should’ve thought about all of life’s challenges, worked through all the possible variables, and accepted them ahead of time without complaint!

Because I’m sure moms of single children have never complained.

Now go and have a Merry Christmas! And stop your bitching about your squabbling children.

Advertisements

Let’s Play Uterus!

beckettblanket

Beckett LOVES it when we play uterus. It’s like his new thing.

It all started when he FINALLY let me read him the book called What to Expect When Mommy’s Having a Baby, by Heidi Murkoff, the co-author of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

For some reason, Becks didn’t want anything to do with the book — perhaps it’s jealousy? I don’t know. He just didn’t want me to read a book about the baby.

But yesterday he let me!

And when we got to the part about the baby being inside the uterus — he got all wide-eyed and intrigued. I showed him other illustrations on google images of the baby inside the uterus, and he kept exclaiming, “Baby inside uterus!

For the rest of the day, Becks would climb inside the empty laundry basket with a red blanket wrapped around himself and say, “I’m in a uterus!”

Fer realz.

All day yesterday he was asking everybody to play uterus with him.

“Kiera! Let’s play uterus!”

“Mommy, can we play uterus now?”

Yeah, he may be a little weird (he likes to lick the couch), but he’s a cool kinda weird. And he may not be excited about the baby yet — but at least he’s excited about my uterus!

Love By A Different Name

meandryan2013

Me and Ryan

I really believe that the first born child has it harder than the rest. I guess that doesn’t sound fair to the middle children or the babies — but it’s true.

Oldest babies are the test babies. The ones who have to live through their inept first-time parents’ mistakes. The ones who have to live a life recovering from their parents’ neuroses and anxieties about raising a human being for the first time — a foreign, precious, and terrifying experience. The responsibility of being a parent doesn’t really hit you until you’re holding that helpless creature in your arms and looking into those newborn eyes that encompass endless possibilities.

My boy. My oldest. I made mistakes with him. I had him too young. I wasn’t ready for his amazing, life-altering presence. But I did the best I could.

Now he’s approaching thirteen. He smiles less. He rolls his eyes at me. But he’s still Ryan. Funny. Helpful. Neurotic. Imaginative.

He has a learning disability that makes school a challenge for him. Some nights, his homework is almost unbearable for him. Tears well up in his eyes. “What’s wrong with me?” he says, as he rests his head in his hands in utter defeat.

It breaks my fucking heart. I want him to be happy. To know that my love for him is vaster than a billion universes combined. When I give him hugs, he puts his head on my shoulder — and I know he’s slipping away. Away to that tumultuous, angst-ridden place called teenagerdom. And I don’t want him to leave. Because he’ll see me with new eyes. He’ll see the mistakes I made.

And as he stands on that cusp, I’m about to give birth to my last baby. My last boy. A baby I’m ready for. A baby who’ll have more than Ryan. A baby who (god willing) won’t have to go through some of the difficulties that Ryan went through.

Untitled

As I’ve grown older, I’ve become a better parent — more patient and better able to enjoy the moment. I didn’t have that joy and unceasing devotion when I was young. I wasn’t a bad parent; I just wasn’t ready. I was in a perpetual state of impatience, waiting for that next developmental stage, because — god. It sounds awful, but I just wanted Ryan to grow up already. I loved him with ceaseless intensity, but I didn’t know how to enjoy motherhood. And he had to have felt that. I know he felt that.

So now I’m in my thirties. I have a three-year-old and a new little one waiting to make his entrance into this world. And I’m ready and able to give them boundless patience and tenderness. I’m ready to enjoy every moment of their little lives. It’s not fair to Ryan, but as Ryan has grown I’ve become a better mother to him. And that’s something, right?

Damn it. Here I am, not even a week after writing a post on mom guilt, and it’s here staring me in the face. Fucking guilt. But I’m human, and the best I can do is forge forward as a better mother, giving all my children the love they deserve; love by a different name.

The Moms Are Alright

1396065_10202571157379146_1439260457_n

I’m a good mom.

I am.

What about you?

It’s so easy to get caught up in the “I’m not doing enough” mentality that seems to plague parents. Mothers especially are hard on themselves due to the deeply ingrained societal expectations that have been embedded into their double X chromosomes. We just think we need to do everything. No matter how independent and strong we are as women — no matter how far we’ve come — we have a deep, irrational fear of not being perfect. Not to say that fathers don’t feel parental guilt too — they do. God knows I’ve seen my husband wracked with guilt over something he “should’ve” done, or “should’ve” done better. As parents this guilt lies in wait — and we usually bend at it’s will.

But as mothers. As mothers — and as women — we have this unachievable expectation that we should have the supermom ability to make things right. And if we don’t make it right the first time, we beat ourselves to a pulp. If we don’t achieve unrealistic levels of excellence, we bend to the guilt — to the voice in the back of our head that says:

You fucked up. You’re fucking everything up.

And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of myself and other women feeling guilty because we don’t feel completely fulfilled as mothers — for not attaining some sort of mystical and spiritual plenitude from raising children. Motherhood is not what defines us, right? So why should motherhood be our sole definition once we have a fertilized egg embedded in our uterine lining?

I came to the conclusion a while back that I wasn’t going to bend to the guilt anymore. I don’t know how or when I came to that conclusion, but over the past few months I have refused to feel guilty over my inability to be a perfect mother.

Because that’s fucking dumb.

Here is what I’ve come to accept:

Motherhood is a part of my identity, but not my identity as a whole. I’m imperfect and I’m totally cool with that shit. I will not feel guilty for my imperfections. I will not feel guilty for putting myself first sometimes. All of this does not mean I love my children any less.

I love them fiercely. 

A good example of how mom guilt pervades motherhood is the #momfail hashtag on twitter. I know the momfail hashtag is an attempt to be self-depracating and humorous. I mean, it’s good to laugh at ourselves and our mistakes. But a depressing thing to note is that there are far less dadfail hashtags than momfail hashtags. Why is that?

Because women are set up to feel guilty from birth — because we not only need to do everything; we need to do everything right.

So here is a list of my so-called failures as a mother. These “failures” are what make me perfectly imperfect. And some of them I wouldn’t even consider failures — they just may be failures in the eyes of others.

  • I yell too much.
  • I’m impatient.
  • I’m okay with my kids not being involved in a shit-ton of activities.
  • I’m okay with them watching a little too much TV.
  • I’ve accepted that their rooms are just going to be messy most of the time.
  • My two oldest children are familiar with a whole slew of swear words due to my inability to keep my mouth shut when I’m driving. Also I have the knack of not censoring myself if I drop something, stub my toe or if I’m talking to my husband about a really shitty day at work. There are just some situations that my children will here me say “shit,” and “fuck.” And I’m okay with that.
  • My house is messy and cluttered.
  • I’m disorganized and an epic procrastinator. I don’t do chore charts and I’m bad at planning meals. I just tell my kids what needs to get done (and they kind of know what is expected of them by now anyway) and I just kind of throw meals together at the last minute (that’s if my husband doesn’t make dinner — which he usually does.)
  • I don’t read to my kids every night.
  • Sometimes I put my three year old in bed without brushing his teeth (scandalous!).
  • My two younger kids will go three or four days between baths. I don’t know — it just seems silly to waste that much water every night. Plus it just makes my life easier. My 12 year old is getting to that point where he HAS to shower at least every other day — he’s starting to get all gross and oily. Because ew. Puberty.
  • I drink two cups of coffee a day and will have an occasional glass of wine. And I’m 27 weeks pregnant. But I refuse to bend to the idea that pregnant women should abstain from all things pleasurable. Pregnancy is pretty fucking miserable anyway. Might as well enjoy my coffee.

I CANNOT be a perfect parent. I CANNOT live up to the unrealistic expectations that are heaped upon mothers from the time, the day, the second, they conceive their first child. I embrace my imperfections as a mother —  and I recognize the areas where I need to improve.

So just as the kids are alright — the moms are alright too.

And isn’t that all that matters?

Now stop your crying and acknowledge the fact that we all fuck up. You’re doing a fabulous job.

Post-Christmas Cleaning Psychosis

English: "The Dedusting Pump", later...

There’s something about wanting to start anew when Christmas is over.

Yeah, I know. You’re saying, “Hey genius. Of course you want to start over. It’s the new year. What are ya, fuckin’ dumb?”

Yes, I realize my observation is cliché and less than brilliant. But whatevs. And to go off topic for a moment, whenever I write “whatevs,” autocorrect turns it into “wharves.”  Maybe it’s the universe telling me not to use such an god-awful word — or non-word.

Anyway, the house is filled to the brim with stuff. New stuff. Toys, books, things. The kids are happy. I’m content. And now I wanna clean all this shit up and organize the house. Make everything sparkly and pretty! Paint! Move furniture around!

This kind of mood only lasts so long, so I must take advantage.

Now I just need a game plan. I want to focus on one room at a time… so I’ve decided on Kiera’s room. My lovely 8-year-old daughter has to be the most whirlwind child out there. Her brain synapses are amazing. The problem with her wild creativity and general smartness is she moves from one thing to the next like the goddamn Tasmanian devil. Fer realz. It’s impossible to make that child sit still. Therefore her room is in constant disarray. Clothes, toys, little bits and pieces of art supplies, books. Everywhere.

I think she may have ADHD. But she has ADHD in the most delightful way. She’s lovely, gregarious, vocal, sensitive, stubborn, amazing. She’s my daughter so I can say these things. But these things are true. The down part is the mess — and my complete and utter exhaustion from dealing with such an exuberant child.

So yeah. Kiera’s room is first. Then the playroom — because Beckett has accumulated so many toddler toys that I feel like my life is swimming in bits of train sets, race cars and wooden blocks of assorted shapes and colors. God help me.

But my almost twelve-year-old son? That kid knows how to clean — maintaining the cleanliness is a whole other story, but when I ask him to clean, that boy breaks out the wood cleaner, glass cleaner, vacuum cleaner and broom and subsequently turns into a cleaning maniac until his room is an oasis among a sea of utter chaos.

Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from my oh-so-responsible son.

Let the cleaning begin.

Vacation, Interrupted

Vacations are heavenly. Vacations are heavenly when you’re young. Vacations are heavenly when you don’t have children.

Having children makes a vacation fun in a different sort of way — like fun in the way that watching your favorite movie with constant interruptions is fun.  You enjoy the snippets of the movie while you wipe a poopy ass. A baby’s poopy ass. Not your own. Gross. This of course doesn’t mean that you don’t enjoy the movie — or vacation. It means you just fuckin’ deal.

And I love my children. I know I don’t really have to tell you that I love my children, but I’m secretly worried that you’ll think I hate my children — and I don’t. Really, I don’t. I SWEAR. Jeez. What do you want me to do??! Gawd.

Yeah, anyway. We can’t go on vacations very often because we’re poor. Not dirt poor. Just the we-live-in-a-very-expensive-area-and-we-have-too-many-bills-and-don’t-get-paid-enough kind of poor. Which really isn’t poor — it’s faux poor, but whatevs.

So I’ve been meaning to go on a vacation. Like a big one. Like the kind where you get on a plane and fly for six hours. Like to California. That kind of vacation. And that kind of vacation, my friends, is not ideal with three children — three older children, yes — three children that includes a toddler — well — NO.

But I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway, because we’re faux poors. And being a faux poor means you spend your money on rent and bills and not travel.

But I really would love to go to Paris — because being in Paris with a toddler wouldn’t be so bad.

Now for some pictures of our trip to NYC last year. There was a lot of fun and ass-wiping to be had!

New York City Vacation — The fun snippets of the movie.

New York City Vacation — The ass wiping.

Today Kiera…

… made glasses out of pipe cleaners all by herself. Isn’t she crafty?
 
She also ate a peanut butter and honey sandwich all by herself downstairs while watching T.V. (I was cleaning, okay?) And in the midst of my cleaning I heard my daughter’s high pitched voice yell,
“I had some peanut buttuh in my thwoat and i choked and fell down and almost died!”
I love that kid.