Don’t Be a Fun Sponge
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Uncategorized, Womanhood, friendships, parenting
This past weekend I had the pleasure of hanging out with my brother and his friends at my parents' house. My brother, a 28-year-old single dude with a good job and lots of charm, is living a life that is, well, the polar opposite from mine. Because he hadn't seen his nieces since Christmas (he lives in North Carolina), I decided that, even though there would be four beds and eight people (not including Nora and Ava), the clusterfuck would be worth it.
And it was.
Don't get me wrong: I came home ten times more tired than I left it, as did the girls. I did not get more than three hours of sleep at one time. Not to mention, I was sleeping on the floor, in a sleeping bag made for a small child. In my parents' room. (I had Ava's monitor next to me, and every time the child grunted my dad would pop up in bed and say. "What was THAT? Is she ok???" Go back to sleep, Pops. For GOD'S SAKE.)
Nora slept in a bedroom with her father, and Ava slept in the utility closet. I know, I know, poor Ava. Dude, people, she had the best setup of all of us. She was in her pack 'n play, in a dark room by herself. My brother slept in the guest room with his three female friends (uh-huh, that's what I said too).
My brother rolled into town with three beautiful women on his arm, like Snoop Dogg in a rap music video, minus the bling. And the whole being black thing. He also had two male friends who joined us later. At first I thought I would be the odd woman out, the old married hag with two screaming kids no one wanted to hang out with. Let me tell you, nothing makes me feel Old with a capital “O” like hanging out with younger, single people 24/7. But the truth was that 1) my bro and his friends are awesomely cool, and 2) other than the whole married / kids thing, I haven’t changed much. Sure, I’m wiser (wise-ass) and would (hopefully) make fewer stupid mistakes. Sure, my priorities are different…Children and all that. But me, the chick who laughs at dumb jokes until she pees herself (just a little), the chick who enjoys laid-back company and goofing around, the chick who will do pretty much anything on a dare (particularly when intoxicated)… Well, THAT chick, she’s still around.
And thank God for that.
On the Fourth of July at approximately six in the evening, we all decided we wanted to go for a swim in the country club pool. Nora was dying to go to the pool as well, so I took her along. We got there to find the pool closed, the gate locked. While I was ready to turn around and just go home (in spite of Nora’s protests), my brother and his friends weren’t. I’m not sure how, but they convinced me to jump the gate with them. Yes, that’s right, we broke into the country club pool. With my two-and-half-year-old daughter. The mom in me was riddled with anxiety: What was I THINKING? What if we got caught? I mean, we didn’t even have any towels!
My brother’s friend Talya smiled and shrugged. “So we don’t have towels. So what?”
“So what” indeed. At some point, I let go of my anxiety and just jumped in the pool. Fuck it. So we get caught: My parents pay a pretty penny to be members at this club, and what the hell are they doing being closed on the Fourth of July, anyway? So they ask us to leave, so what? We were just borrowing their pool.
We didn’t get caught. Nothing happened, except we had a good time. And yes, we climbed over the gate (Nora mosh-pitted her way back over it) soaking wet (NO TOWELS) and went back home.
The point of this story is not that moms should routinely break into country club swimming pools with their young children. It’s not even that some rules were made to break. The POINT is: Relax. We tend to get all wound up with this whole parenting thing: Are we doing it right? Whose method is best? Is my kid learning bad things from us? I think boundaries and structure and routines are important in child-rearing. But seriously, wouldn’t our kids also benefit from moms who are relaxed, loving, and occasionally bend the rules? Or a mom who laughs when things don’t go as planned?
Parenting, like everything else in life, is just a ride. So don’t forget – enjoy the ride.
And because I am still waiting for the incriminating pictures of our pool break-in, here is an awesomely old ad that will make you laugh and piss you off all at the same time:
Tags: brother, clusterfuck, fourth of july, fun sponge, just a ride, relax, Snoop Dogg
A Phone Conversation Between Moms
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Womanhood, friendships
ME: “Hey. What’s up?”
Bertha: “I’m in the car running some errands. I’m going to buy an iPhone.”
ME: “It’s about time.”
Bertha: “I know. Can you hang on? I have to take some Midol.”
I hear rustling, a baby crying, some honking.
ME: “Are you taking drugs while driving?”
Bertha: “What kind of question is that? Of course I am. Oh, I wanted to ask you – I don’t want you to think I’m a hypochondriac or anything, but I’ve been having a hard time breathing today. Like I can’t get enough air in my lungs.”
ME: “Are you pregnant?”
Bertha: “Not unless I was impregnated by the Holy Spirit. And I ain’t the Virgin Mary.” *snorts*
ME: “How much caffeine have you had today?”
Bertha: “A shitload.”
ME: “Have you eaten anything today?”
Bertha, pausing for a second: “Not much. I haven’t had time.”
ME: “You probably had too much caffeine on an empty stomach. Eat something. Oh, I had a dream about you last night. I was riding a bicycle and saw you walking with Emily, and I stopped to say hi and you pretty much blew me off.”
Bertha: “Probably because you were on a bicycle. What a loser.”
ME: “Good point. But oh, you’d had a nose job and had bandages on your nose.”
Bertha: “A nose job? Jesus, are you saying I need a nose job? Are you sure it wasn’t a chin implant? I need one of those.”
ME: “Bertha, it was an effing dream. Calm down. You were also really tan and skinny. I think I subconsciously worry that you’ll change and not want to be my friend anymore.”
Bertha: “Well, not to worry. I still want to be your friend, you weirdo. And I’m still fat and pale.”
ME: “How’s Emily?”
Bertha: “She’s good. Getting bossier and bossier, just like her mother. She’ll find some nice guy someday to boss around for the rest of his life.”
ME, snickering: “Like you?”
Bertha: “Yeah. I asked BH (Bertha’s Hubster) the other day why he married me, hoping for him to say something romantic because I was hormonal, and he said, ‘Because you made me.’”
ME: “Romance oozing out of his ass, that BH. Crap, I have to go. Ava’s exploding.”
Bertha: “Bye.”
So I’m not sure what we talked about, but there is a tacit understanding between us that all moms get: We probably won’t say anything meaningful, complete any thoughts, and will have to hang up abruptly without offering a reason. We may not talk for days at a time. But when we manage to get around to it, it will do us a world of good, and make our jobs just a bit more manageable.
Thank God for Mommy Friends.
Because I couldn’t find a semi-non-cheesy picture. And no, this is not me. Photo by Aleaimage via iStock.
Tags: Bertha, iPhone, nose job, phone conversation, skinny, tan
Twin Meltdown
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Uncategorized, friendships, parenting
Seriously.
Cutest. Picture. Ever.
I am fortunate in that one of my friends has adorable twin girls and can share her joys and miseries (times two) with me.
On that note, last night I dreamed that one of my friends had twin boys and came over shortly after their birth to show them off. She carried in two car seats with croissants strapped into them. Yes, you read that correctly. My reaction was a confused, "Oh…they're…really cute…croissants…um…"
Tags: croissants, meltdowns, twins
Mommy Solidarity
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, Womanhood, friendships, parenting
As you know (if you read my last post), I went to Borders on Monday. While I was only supposed to take TH to work because his car was in the shop and then go home to my children, I took advantage of the fact that I had a babysitter and, well, disappeared for 4 hours. Being the raging nerd that I am, I went straight to the bookstore. Back before I had children, I spent most of my time at bookstores. Doing what, you ask? Studying (when I was a student), writing fiction, working on web design stuff for fun, reading stacks and stacks of books, and drinking lots and lots of coffee. Yes, I LOVE the bookstore. So given the chance, that's where I go.
The few times I have gone SINCE having children have been complete and utter disasters. Sure, there isn't a law that says you HAVE to be quiet in a bookstore, but considering that most people are sitting quietly and reading, screaming babies aren't exactly the desired background noise. Even I remember looking at noisy children once upon a time and thinking, "SHUT UP." For a fun and enlightening experience, go into your local Barnes & Noble with a crying baby and see what happens. You will get the dirtiest looks from just about everyone – the pseudo-intellectual cheese dick reading Proust; the frazzled law student cramming for finals; the well-dressed older woman flipping through Town & Country and sipping an espresso… They will ALL give you a look that says, "Why the HELL did you bring your demon seed here? And how badly do you SUCK as a mother???"
It doesn't help that Ava goes from cooing sweetly to Tyrannosaurus Rex war cry without any warning at all. She has startled the shit out of me a number of times because I assumed she was contentedly surveying the landscape when she was actually on the brink of eruption. No warning whatsoever. As for Nora, she hasn't quite gotten the whole "inside voice" thing down yet. She bursts out in song randomly, and says things like "Mama, I made a POOPIE!" in front of complete strangers in public venues. Once, we were at Target when Nora suddenly shouted, "I LOOOOOOOOOOVE TOYS!" while holding several Dora-related items piled high in her arms. She startled this woman who was standing nearby, and the woman gave me a look that said, "Your kid is spoiled." Note to this constipated, unhappy woman: I didn't buy her any of that stuff. Beeeeooooootch.
So I've had quite a few bad experiences at bookstores, only because I refuse to give up my bookstore habit simply because I have young kids. People who have a problem with it can just suck it. This isn't a library, dudes. Not to mention, the bookstore is a great place for kids to learn – Nora adores collecting books and having me read them to her in the children's section. Sure, I only ever get through one-fourth of a book before she's shoving another one at me, but I like to think the experience is still good for her.
Ok, back to my story. So I was relishing my "me" time in the Borders cafe, sucking down a humongous latte and flipping through web design books, when I heard the blood-curdling scream of a young child. The cafe was full, and EVERYONE in there turned to see where the noise was coming from. A woman stood in the Bargain Books section, a look of terror in her eyes, as her little girl, who looked to be around two years old, threw herself to the floor screaming.
Mortified Mom, trying to pick her child up off the floor: Sweetie, it's time to go home now.
Girl, struggling against her mother: Noooooooooooooo!
Mortified Mom, trying her best to hide herself behind the shelves: It's ok. Lie on Mommy for a second. You're just tired.
Girl, finally relaxing on her mother's shoulder, but still wailing: I wan' it! I wan' it! WAAAAAAAA!
I saw people shake their heads in disapproval, and fought down the desire to call someone, anyone, on my cell phone and start talking in a loud, obnoxious, Valley Girl accent. Instead, I gathered up my stuff and wandered over to where the woman was holding her sniffling child. She sensed me approaching and turned, a defensive, fearful look in her eyes. I gave her and her runny-nosed daughter my biggest smile.
ME: How old is your daughter? She's beautiful.
Mortified Mom, still looking nervous: Thanks. She's almost two. She's… really tired.
ME: Yeah, I know. I have a two-and-a-half-year-old and a nine month old, and I've been here when BOTH started melting down at the same time.
Mom, not so mortified anymore: Really? So you know how this feels, huh?
ME: Oh, yeah. Times two. It's horrifying. I just wear blinders, you know?
Mom, smiling: Yeah. Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.
I left the bookstore feeling like a million bucks. I can't count the number of times I'd wished someone would have said those words to me instead of giving me a dirty look or smirking. Someone to say, "Don't sweat it. You're a good mom. Shit just happens, and it's not your fault."
On that note, I reveal a really random but rather funny picture I took yesterday at the Houston Children's Museum:
Somehow, I managed to take a picture of Ava that almost doesn't have Ava's face in the picture at all; as a matter of fact, the reflection of me taking a picture with my iPhone seems to be the focal point of the photo. I'm such a jackass.
Tags: Barnes & Noble, bookstore, Borders, cheese dick, coffee, meltdowns
Competitive Moms
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Pregnancy, Womanhood, friendships
An alternative title for this post, if you prefer, can be “The Mommy Friend Dilemma Part Deux.” Okay, so everyone probably intuitively knows my thoughts on this subject. It begins with an angry eruption of expletives and ends with a plea to these women to stop reproducing. Hey, you guys are getting good at this.
I'm not saying anything new by pointing out that some people never really grow up, they just grow older. One of the great joys of Facebook has been finding old classmates from middle school and high school who were popular cheerleaders back in the day (and, in my defense, some of the most intolerable snotty bitches ever), but who now look like tired housewives. Oh, are those wrinkles I see? After three kids, her titties are probably not as perky anymore, eh? How unfortunate for her. * Evil cackle. * Granted, I may not look any better, but at least I didn't peak at the age of 16. I like to think I haven't peaked yet. Fuck, I hope I haven't peaked yet, otherwise my peak SUCKED.
Back to the subject at hand. The same chicks who competed ferociously over boyfriends, looks, smarts, whatever, became mothers and transferred all of their competitive energy to their kids. They want to make sure that their kids are the future popular high schoolers. Of course, no mother would admit this, but it's the truth. I mean, what mother actively hopes her kid is the friendless dork at school? Ok, maybe most of us hope for a middle ground, but most of us aren't competitive moms.
From the moment you enroll your 4-month-old in some baby gym class, you encounter the competitive mom (hereafter “CM”). She is the one who loooooooooved being pregnant, who is thinking about becoming a surrogate because she's so good at being pregnant. (I am not making this up – a woman actually said this to me). She is the one who was in labor for half an hour and had a completely natural childbirth, no epidural. She pushed twice and out came her perfect baby, complete with bow in its head fuzz. Now, someone needs to explain this to me: What the fuck is she so proud of? That she's good breeding stock? That she has a cavernous vagina? WHAT?
CM's baby never cries, except when it's hungry or dirty, and then it “mews.” CM's baby is always dolled up – no stained Circo jumper from Tar-JAY (which has trains on it and is meant for a little boy, but shit, it was on clearance for two bucks) on HER little angel. CM's baby started crawling at five months, walking at eight, was potty trained by twelve months, and was talking by eighteen months. Uh-huh. And all of this would be fine if she didn't turn, a malicious twinkle in her eye, and ask, “And what about YOUR baby?”
Eat my dust, bitch!
Another topic I've heard CM's bring up a lot is growth charts. “Olivia is in the 95th percentile for her height and weight!” Um, this isn't the SATs. Being in the 95th percentile for height, weight, and head circumference does not mean she is going to Harvard. It means YOUR KID IS ENORMOUS. Another one I've heard is, “Hannah is in the 20th percentile for her height and weight. She's just naturally petite.” Oh, puh-leeeeeeeez. What, naturally petite like you? I thought so.
My friends and I are the exact opposite of CM's – we actively make fun of our kids. Not in front of their faces, of course – we're not bad moms. Just ones with massive senses of humor. For instance, Nora once got a really, really bad haircut, and I joked that she looked a lot like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. Bertha's daughter, “Emily,” had strabismus (crossed-eyes) for a little while, and Bertha would joke that she never knew who Emily was looking at. She and her husband would go back and forth: “She's looking at you. No, at me. No, at you…”
And as for ourselves, we compete as to which one of us is more badly mutilated by child-bearing:
ME: “I've got a roadmap of vericose veins all over my thighs.”
Bertha: “Oh, yeah? You think that's bad? Look at THIS!” (Pulling up her pantleg).
ME: “That's nothing! Check out these stretch marks!” (Yanking up my shirt).
We're like 'Nam vets comparing scars. We could do this for hours. And have I shown you the cottage cheese on my ass? No? Boy, you are in for a treat…
Tags: competitive moms, Facebook, growth charts, Jim Carrey, mommy friends, snotty bitches, strabismus, war scars
My Analysis of Preschool TV Shows
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Preschoolers, friendships
Even if you don't know what shows I'm talking about, you might appreciate this for future reference. And by the way, no matter how much I say I like a show, remember that preschool television, in and of itself, is filled with mind-numbing gayness, and you might find yourself rolling your eyes every five seconds while watching it.
Lazy Town: Ok, so, I have to say I actually like this show. I'm not saying it's good for the kids, I'm saying it's more entertaining to ME than the other shit shows Noggin broadcasts. As a matter of fact, one might argue that it's NOT good for the kids – every time Nora watches it, she asks for a lollipop because of that stupid character who is always eating candy. And, I swear, her first word was “mine” because of that other stupid character Stingy. I fucking hate that kid. Why is anyone friends with that little shit, anyways? I guess when there are only FIVE kids in the entire goddamned town, you don't really have a choice. Oh, and Sportacus is a hot piece of ass. For a gay Frenchman who can do the splits.
Oswald: I don't get this one. Why are the characters just a bunch of random animals and inanimate objects? I mean, the main characters are an octopus and a hot dog. And they're friends with a penguin and a daisy. What the fuck? And speaking of the penguin, here's another character I don't get why ANYONE is friends with him. He's a pretentious little prick. Oswald is SUCH a pussy.
Max and Ruby: Where the fuck are Max and Ruby's parents? There are other “adult” bunnies on the show, including “Grandma” who pops in every once in while, but there isn't a mention of the mom and dad. As for Ruby: Back off of Max. Seriously. He's two years old. At least, I THINK he's two. For all I know, Max is sixteen and just “slow.”
Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends: I'm not so sure I get this one either. How is a spider the mother of a variety of bugs? I asked my friend Bertha this question and she said, “Oh, you HAVE to see the first episode for everything else to make sense.” Like we're talking about a fucking soap opera or something. We are so pathetic that we actually talked about Miss Spider for a good five minutes. And just to show you how mommy brained we are, the topic of conversation immediately following was about random dark hairs that are growing from our necks and chins. Yes, it will happen to you too.
The Backyardigans: I have to admit, the music is catchy. Unlike the other shows, if this one is on in the background, you don't feel like shooting yourself. But once again, I have to ask – what the fuck kind of animal is Uniqua? Actually, what are any of them? Someone tell me, so the next time Nora asks I don't look like a complete dipshit, going, "Um, that's a, uh, speckled… cat."
Dora the Explorer: I hate this bitch. She's so condescending. Can YOU say “kiss my ass” in Spanish? And talk about shitty animation. I don't get it.
Ok, I'll stop for now. Besides, I've gotten bored talking about shows I'm forced to watch every day.
I don't know about you, but I find this picture to be utterly realistic.
Tags: Backyardigans, Dora the Explorer, Lazy Town, Miss Spider, noggin, preschool tv, television, Uniqua
When Your Neighbor is a Troll
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Uncategorized, Womanhood, friendships, parenting
I've got a Desperate Housewives situation in my 'hood – minus the attractive women. Replace Eva Longoria and Teri Whateverhernameis with overweight, bored, and unhappy 50-something women, and you've got my neighbors – or the ones causing me grief, in any case.
You've met the type. They pretend to like children, but really don't – they much prefer their stupid dogs (whom, by the way, they treat like children). They sit at their windows all day long, waiting for something gossip-worthy to happen, and when it doesn't they go looking for it. They bug me if I leave toys out on the driveway. They peer into my garage to see what's there. They complain about dying plants, where guests park their cars, where and when I take my trash out, etc.
When I'm pretty sure they're hovering at their windows while I'm outside playing with my girls, I pick my nose or go digging for a wedgie. I consider it a special gift, just for them. Hugs and kisses, bitches.
One troll in particular – we'll call her “Edith” – is a special thorn in my ass. My girls cry every time she looks at them, and it's not just because she's fugly, but because kids can see a black heart. And of course, she takes offense. She has picked a fight with everyone in our gated community, so I knew it was only a matter of time before it was my turn.
It all started with a note left on the babysitter's car that read: “DEAR MAID. Don't park so close to the bushes, you are killing them!” Dear Maid??? Are you fucking kidding me? Needless to say, I got mad. It got out that I thought Edith had written it, and she's been looking for trouble ever since. Granted, the woman won't actually confront me – she's too chickenshit to do that – but she's looking for something to complain about.
TH has given her that “something” by building one of these in our backyard. Oh, sure, we cleared it with the Home Owner's Association before building it, but that ain't gonna stop Troll Face from trying to do SOMETHING. I've caught her whispering to fellow child-hating, dog-coddling hags about the monstrosity in our backyard. She slams her front door every time I walk or drive past. I'm just waiting for her to say something to me.
BRING. IT. BEEEEEOOOOOOOTCH!
Did I mention that Edith is also the “gun-toting lunatic” I alluded to in previous posts? Yep. She has a concealed handgun license. Essentially, I may get shot over a Sunray Playscape. Fun times.
Tags: Desperate Housewives, neighbor, neighbors, nosy, sunray, troll
Playdate From HELL
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Womanhood, friendships
You know that mommy friend of mine that I said I stalked? I found something out about her that I do not like: HER mommy friends.
Let me preface this by saying that I can be very difficult to please in the “friend” arena. When I call someone my “friend,” I mean it – I will be loyal and never undermine our friendship with pettiness. And I expect the same in return. So I don't have any “toxic” friends – those people get ditched, and quick. Life is just too damn short.
We'll call my friend “Bertha,” just to piss her off. (Bertha, I know you're reading this, and hopefully you're cracking up). Bertha is an amazing woman – smart, pretty, and funny. Most of my blog material comes from my interactions with her. Bertha is one of those women who gets along well with many different types of people (i.e., the polar opposite of me). Well, Bertha is friends with a group of wealthy women who are… how should I put this… Fucking insufferable. Yeah, that sounds about right. I think the popular term for them is "momzillas."
Early on in our friendship, Bertha asked me if I wanted to join her playgroup, which was meeting at her house for the first time, and I was thrilled. Here was my chance to meet other women with young children, to bond with them over the trials of motherhood. We would all be tired but happy, the kids would make a mess but enjoy each other's company, and we would all sit cross-legged on the floor and eat chicken nuggets off of paper plates. This was going to be awesome. Uh-huh. Yep.
I should have known something was wrong from the very beginning, when Bertha said she was “scrubbing her front porch” before the playdate. Or that she had to run out and pick up the quiche she was going to serve. Quiche? That's odd, I thought. Hey, I love quiche, don't get me wrong, but it sounded so… formal. Whatever. Quiche can be eaten off of paper plates while sitting cross-legged on a rug, right? No biggie.
So I show up at Bertha's front door the day of, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wearing shorts, a t-shirt, sneakers, and not a single smudge of make-up, and a grumpy Nora tucked under my arm. The second Bertha opens the door, I realize I may be under-dressed. Seriously under-dressed. My nervousness turns into full-blown panic as I realize the house is spotless, with fresh flowers on display, and that other well-dressed women are seated in the family room. FUCK. I consider bolting back out the door, but Bertha actually looks happy to see me, so I decide that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't going to be as bad as I feared.
Truth be told, I don't remember any of these women's names, but I remember the general feeling they gave me. They were pleasant enough in the beginning (despite the once-over I got), introducing themselves and their children, until another woman showed up. The Queen Bee. That's when my presence was virtually forgotten, and these seemingly pleasant women turned into pathetic, blood-sucking parasites. Holy shit. The transformation was palpable. They became shifty-eyed, nervous, and…mean. Not to me, per se, since they'd completely forgotten I existed, but to each other. I looked at the Queen Bee (QB): she was not in any way remarkable. She wasn't even as dressed up as the others. The most remarkable thing about her was that she didn't have a kid with her. Yep, she showed up to a “playdate” without her child. Her kid was at “Mommy's Day Out.”
“I just had to come by for some quiche,” she says casually, sitting down on the couch so that – I kid you not – her back is slightly turned towards me, and I am effectively cut off from the group. This woman was showing me – someone she had yet to meet – who was boss.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I sit slack-jawed for the next twenty minutes or so listening to the most unreal conversation I have ever heard, wanting nothing more than to grab Nora and throw myself through the closed window behind me. Sure, the shattering glass would slice us to pieces, saying nothing of the fall, but ANYTHING, including a trip to the ER, was better than sitting here listening to this:
Super Skinny Blond: “Omygod, Bertha, I am SO jealous… you have the sink I want!” (Yes, she was talking about the kitchen sink. I looked at it. Yep, it was a sink, alright. Looked like any other sink. Maybe a bit bigger? Definitely cleaner than mine. But still just a FUCKING SINK.)
Conversation about sink continues for about 5 minutes.
Same Stupid Blond Whore, to QB: “Omygod, QB, your ring looks SO shiny! Did you just clean it?”
QB, looking disdainfully at Stupid Blond Whore: “Are you kidding? I haven't cleaned it in forever!”
Another Stupid Blond Whore: “Bertha, are you going to give us the tour now? Please?”
This request is met with excited squeals, and I wonder, Tour? Tour of what? The house? I'd been to Bertha's house many times previously, and it had never occurred to me to ask for a “tour.” Is this normal? I could just see myself giving a “tour” of my house: “Yeah, so, this is the study-slash-guestroom-slash-baby-shit-depository…And here we have the living-room-slash-baby-shit-depository…And here is our imaginary-dining-room-slash-baby-shit-depository…”
As everyone lines up at the staircase behind Bertha, QB says, “Oh, I've already had the tour. I'll stay down here and watch the kids.”
Bertha asks me if I want to come, and I decline, in part because I couldn't care less about getting a tour, but mostly because I don't want to leave Nora at the mercy of these nightmare children (one of whom, the daughter of Stupid Blond Whore #1, is terrorizing the other kids, who are all younger than her). The second the women are up the stairs and out of sight, QB starts wandering around the kitchen, not glancing at the kids (or me) once. As she picks at the quiche, she says, “So where do you live?”
Since she is not even looking in my general direction, it takes me a second to realize she is talking to me. Hi. Nice to meet you. What did you say your name was again? Oh, yeah, that's right, you didn't, because you're a STUPID BITCH. “Um, we live just outside the Loop, north of…” I may as well have stopped talking right then, because she'd clearly lost interest. I didn't live in HER neighborhood, therefore was not worth talking to, apparently. My conversation with myself is interrupted by Nora's cry, and I turn to find the daughter of Stupid Blond Whore #1 pulling Nora's hair.
I snap. Since no one is paying ANY attention to the kids, and QB is poking around the house nosily, I grab the little girl by the arm and say in my best Exorcist voice, “DON'T. EVER. DO. THAT. AGAIN. Got it?” She nods, her eyes huge, and I gather Nora in my arms. I'm outie. For serious.
When the “tour” is back downstairs, I corner Bertha and tell her I have to go. “Nora's about to have a meltdown,” I explain. Bertha glances at Nora, who is grinning from ear to ear. Right. So she knows I'm full of shit. But somehow, I think she understands, and I hope our friendship doesn't suffer on account of it.
It doesn't. Bertha, who is loved by everyone, seems to understand that her playgroup friends are unbearable twats. I mean, she may not think they are as unbearable as I do, but she gets that I'm different from them, and that I have no desire to be around them. The great thing is, we still hang out and our kids still adore each other. All pretenses are dropped when we're together, and I think Bertha is a rare find in that respect.
Basically, we are true support to each other – we're mothers, and we're in this together. We should be supporting each other, not participating in some bullshit high school Mean Girls competition. Otherwise, you aren't really thinking about your kids, and, quite frankly, you're too absorbed in your juvenile insecurities to be a mom.
Note to these mothers: Please stop procreating. We beg of you.
Tags: Exorcist, momzillas, playdate, playgroup, toxic friends
Twitter Wha?
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, friendships
First, a disclosure: I not only have a bad case of Mommy Brain, but I do believe that my lack of sleep + diet of Kit Kat Bars + nonstop playing with Nora’s new choo-choo train = fucking idiot who can’t speak proper English anymore. I am seriously concerned about my daughters’ language development. Nora will ask me, “Mama, what dat?” about this -
- and I will respond eloquently with, “Um, that’s a, er, flag-like…er, banner thingie…” Just FYI, it took me forever to find this thing online, but it’s called a “windsock.” Yeah, that’s what I said. And I’ve begun calling these things “snorts,” since I have no clue as to what they’re called in real life:
Ok, I just looked it up: they’re called “hydraulic excavators.” See, you learn something new every day. And if you already knew what these things were called, and your two-year-old goes around calling them by their proper names and not “snorts,” then congratu-fucking-lations, you’re a genius and your kid is a child prodigy. Me? Bitter? Never.
So back to the point of this post: People keep telling me I need to “Twitter,” particularly since I have a blog, and even though I’ve looked the goddamned term up, and even watched the video “Twitter in Plain English,” I STILL don’t get it. Who, other than a stalker, wants to know what you’re doing every minute of the day? I don’t have any friends THAT close to me. I can just see myself “twittering” (or is it “tweeting?”) to imaginary friends.
Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’m signing up. And now, everyone who read this post has to sign up and follow me so that I don’t feel like a complete loser who is twittering/tweeting/twatting/WHATEVER to no one.
Tags: blogging, hydraulic excavators, language development, stalker, Twitter, windsock
The “Mommy Friend” Dilemma
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, friendships
If you're a mother, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about: Sometimes you are “friends” with a woman not because you get along famously, but because your kids do. When the kids are just babies, this is less of a problem – you just find a new mother you get along with and force your little ones to play together. But as they get older, they start having preferences, and that's when it gets annoying.
Sure, they get along – but do their moms? Photo by Kelly Sue via Flickr
Granted, as a SAHM, sometimes you're so desperate for adult interaction that you'll settle for playdates with that intolerable bitch who won't stop talking about how much she spent on her redesigned “French Country” kitchen and how her little brat (who she doesn't glance at once) got into all the elite pre-pre-schools. Or the one who has a live-in nanny and who keeps telling you how tired you look. Or the martyr mom – the one who essentially brags about how hard her life is, and how not even her 6-year-old sleeps through the night, and how she carries her baby in a sling AT ALL TIMES because she's so fucking hands-on. She makes her own organic baby food and knits her own goddamned clothes, and has she mentioned that your kids will grow up to be serial killers because you made them cry-it-out? Note: If you're having a playdate with all three of these women at once, you may actually be in for some entertainment. But otherwise, you end up wanting to hang yourself in your circa-1995 bathroom. Which, note to the snooty whores, you love – right down to its tacky floral wallpaper. And its smoky cube glass tiles.
But I digest. Unless you and your best friends from your single days had babies around the same time and live in the same place, you have to try and make new “mommy” friends. This can be agonizing, and a lot like dating. So you meet a cool chick at Gymboree whose kid seems pretty cool, and after a great conversation you wonder how to go about getting her number. You risk getting rejected, of course. But it doesn't end there. Once you've gotten the number, you have to wait the requisite 2-4 days before calling. You don't want to seem over-eager, after all. Nothing says “desperate” like calling your new friend the same afternoon and telling her you're bringing your brood over with some Kroger-fresh cookies, and oh, it's ok if your husband is home, and your house is a mess, and your kid is projectile vomiting, and you're dying of cancer, and can we come over now PLEASE?
If only I followed my own advice. The first cool mom I met, I basically stalked until she hung out with me. I didn't want to play the games with this one. When, during our very first phone conversation she said, “Look, I'm going to pee while I'm on the phone with you, I hope you're not offended,” I knew it was meant to be. And I was right – we embrace the chaos when we are together, laughing hysterically when our kids fart, talk about how messy each other's house is, and how we need to go out (sans kids) and grab a margarita. We have yet to do this, but all in good time… Our kids are still very young.
I guess my point is this: Like dating, finding a good mommy friend is difficult. You go through a lot of weirdos who have bad breath and talk for 30 minutes on their cell phone during a date before you meet a good one. But once you do, life gets infinitely better. I promise.
