Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary (16 page)

I have a friend. Well, sort of a friend, depending on your exact definition of the word. This “friend” of mine is the
perfect
specimen of a mother. If you were to google the term “good mother,” her picture would probably be the first one to come up. Her son is involved in every kind of sport and activity you can possibly imagine. He’s an “exceptionally skilled” athlete and a gifted student as well. He is kind and generous and gives half of his hard-earned allowance to charity each week. He is like this, no doubt, thanks to the countless hours and thousands of dollars his mother spends carting him around to various specialists and experts. She gave up her own promising career and has made it her mission to give her only child every opportunity
under the sun. Making plans with her takes months because her schedule is so jam-packed with the child’s activities that she can barely squeeze in a coffee date. When I do run into her, she looks frazzled and exhausted and drained. Raising the perfect child takes effort and she is 110 percent committed to the job. And it seems to be paying off.

Her boy is a well-adjusted, happy kid. He proudly boasts about his latest karate belt and displays his track trophies on his long bedroom bookshelf. He speaks Spanish almost fluently and loves conversing with the housekeeper when nobody else can follow along. He is absolutely bright and confident and no doubt will excel in school. But I wonder whether he’d be just as great a kid, and she might be a happier parent, without all the extra effort?

I know many parents who are like this, to varying degrees. Their weekends are jam-packed with sports and art classes and socializing. During the week, the kids are in school all day, with extracurricular activities lined up until dinnertime. The moms spend hours in the car just shuttling kids back and forth, keeping the appropriate changes of clothes in the trunk. Activities, meant to be supplementary and enjoyable, have become just another chore. Their kids are definitely benefiting, but they’re driving themselves a little crazy in the process.

I’d much rather pop a Xanax and focus on an activity or two that my children really enjoy than overwhelm myself (and them) with a dozen. Kids simply can’t excel at
everything
. And that shit is expensive. The memberships and uniforms and coaches’ gifts all add up and before you know it, you’re broke. I remember wanting to faint when I found out the cost of Lily’s first dance recital uniform, which she would be wearing exactly one time,
for one hour. It was more than I’d spent on myself all month—were they kidding?!

I honestly don’t think a child ever ended up in therapy because she
didn’t
get to take advanced painting as an eight-year-old. No teen is crying over not having mastered every sport before school even started, and colleges could care less what your kid did before high school. Childhood is such a fleeting time and I really want my kids to just
enjoy
it. Equally as important, I want to come out on the other side still sane and somewhat in one piece. If I didn’t have a couple of hours to myself at the end of the day, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be certifiably insane. I love my kids to death, but OMG, those punks can be annoying. Space from them is not only desirable but completely necessary. After all, part of parenthood is taking some time for ourselves, too.

But really, what do I know? My kids will no doubt be sitting on the couch complaining about the cold formula I fed them.

Can’t win them all.

O
ne of the best things about having kids is being able to see familiar things through their new, innocent eyes. Through them, we can once again appreciate all the little things we’d long forgotten ourselves. Clouds once again transform into imaginary flying horses and hopping frog princes. Rainbows are more miraculous than ever and even grilled cheese sandwiches are more delicious than they were two decades ago. And then there are the
things that
used
to be wonderful, but with kids became something else entirely. Something awful.

I’m talking about the pool. That crystal-clear body of water that used to be associated with golden tans, pure relaxation, and all things good. The tropical smell of suntan lotion wafting through the air and poolside burgers and fries. Cheesy romance novels bordering on soft-core porn along with delicious alcoholic beverages. The biggest stress at the pool: imperfect tan lines.

Until kids, I mean. With kids, everything about the pool is stressful.

The stress begins at home, long before that first step in the too-chilly water. It can begin days or even weeks before the first trip, even. The mere thought of it is enough to send me into a psychotic rage, throwing various items around my bedroom like a possessed lunatic. It’s called finding a bathing suit to wear, and it’s something no out-of-shape mother should be subjected to.

Now, this is not to say that I was the most comfortable swimsuit wearer before I had kids.
Hardly
. But, in retrospect, I should have been. The remnants my children have left on my body are never more visible than when I’m wearing a bathing suit, and it ain’t pretty. I have cellulite in places that didn’t even previously exist. Where my skin used to be smooth, it’s bumpy, and I seem to look three months pregnant, despite not being knocked up even a little. This postbaby body is just not made for swimsuits.

Once I have somehow settled on the actual suit, after trying on the seven I own and vowing to invest in one of those “miracle suits” that are guaranteed to make me look three sizes smaller next time, it’s time to begin the hair removal process. These days, this can take a full hour from start to finish. (I mean, seriously, when did my
toes
sprout hair?!) It’s a much, much longer process
than it was ever meant to be. Finally, it’s time for cover-up selection and sunscreen application. Getting the kids all dressed and protected is another half hour, and then,
finally,
we’re out the door. Let the fun begin!

Once we arrive at the pool, one of the first people I always spot is my archnemesis. The moment I see her, I immediately go all
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
Images of long swords nearly missing her eyes fill my head in slow motion. I could take her down if I had to. Never mind
have
to, I want to. I want to see blood splatter in every direction and sport a black eye as proof of our battle. It’s a fight I’m proud to have.

Okay, so we’re not
really
enemies, since it would require her to actually know I exist.

Come to think of it, I don’t even know her name. But still, I’m not a big fan of hers, and for good reason. Well,
understandable
reason, at least . . . As I huff and puff my way into the pool area, snapping at my children and dripping with sweat and tangible frustration, she glides onto the cement, effortlessly. She has a baby in her arms and three other children obediently by her side while my three fight over my two hands the whole time. She always looks like a million bucks, this horrid woman, her tanned body rocking the killer—gasp,
white
—bikini. She’s composed, her hair is impeccable, and she’s always laughing. The first few times I saw her, I logically presumed she was the Swedish nanny—what mother of four looks like that?! A gorgeous nanny, I could live with. It was still annoying how enjoyable she found the whole hellacious experience, but I didn’t find it personally offensive. She was getting paid for it—it was her
job
to have fun! Unfortunately, though, last summer, I got the devastating news. She’s their mother; all of them. Four young children,
whom she carried and birthed, ranging from an infant to a five-year-old. She held them in that washboard stomach and nursed them from those perky tits. And that is why I despise her, Mrs. Fucking Swimsuit Model.

I do my very best to ignore her and concentrate on the task at hand: the water. For some reason, until I had kids, the notion of people frolicking in communal pools didn’t really get to me. Maybe it’s because I was always clean and naively assumed that others were as well. Once I had kids, though, I learned firsthand just how nasty the little creatures are. The way they sweat and the way their feet stink. The skinned, bloody knees and the way they eat their own boogies. They are just gross, gross creatures. Suddenly, sharing a big, warm bath with them isn’t so appealing.

And that’s on a
good
day. On a bad day, you’ll hear children announce that they just peed in the pool, making you realize that they can’t be the only ones and the pool is green for a reason. And then things can get really shitty. Everyone has been inconvenienced by some kid taking a crap in the water, but can all mothers claim that child as their very own? I can. It happened on the hottest day of the summer a few years ago, and the pool was shut down for a full twenty-four hours after Evan identified the floating brown thing as his own. Not the best way to make friends in a new neighborhood, that’s for sure.

And then there’s my own meshuggaas. Water happens to be the one place where I hang up my cool, relaxed mom hat and become the neurotic mother who normally drives me nuts. But water is
scary
. If the kids trip and fall running, they’ll get a bruised knee. If they fall off of a swing, they might get a bump on the head. But accidents in the water? That’s a whole other ball game, and not one that I want to mess around with. No way am
I going to trust a bikini-wearing, sixteen-year-old lifeguard with my most precious belongings. When I am at the pool, I take my job very seriously. My job? Keep my children alive.

I glance around and see other mothers of young children engrossed in their books or glancing up from conversation and wonder how on earth they can be so relaxed. And then I feel that I need to keep an eye on
their
children as well. I may as well buy a lifeguard shirt and get a whistle. Who thought it a good idea to put children in an environment they could drown in, anyway? For me, fun is entirely out of the question. It’s about survival.

My kids, on the other hand, think it’s the best thing ever. “Mommy, look at me do a flip!” “Mommy, watch me hold my breath!” “Mommy, did you see that?!”
“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
I swear, I get whiplash just from following their directions.

It’s fucking exhausting.

Unlike me, my kids are never, ever ready to leave the pool, no matter how long I have suffered. We swim for a few hours, have a snack, and then they want to swim some more. We play Marco Polo and I give piggyback rides. We play in the sandbox and then the pool again. It’s
never
enough.

In order to actually get out of this twelve-foot-deep death trap, I’m always stuck bribing them with ice cream or threatening them with “If you don’t stop acting like this, we
won’t
be coming back.” It’s a threat that I actually mean and would love to follow through with. If I can’t leave without three children melting down and making a scene, I
won’t
do it again. The rare punishment that would actually benefit
me
.

Unfortunately, the threats inevitably whip them into shape, and we’re back sooner rather than later. At the pool. Otherwise known as hell on earth.