Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary (18 page)

I see Lily slyly eating chocolate and remember doing the exact same thing myself, as an early introduction to the world of fucked-up body image and food issues. Will she spend years yo-yoing and worrying about the fact that her body is flat in all the wrong places and round where she wishes it weren’t? Is it even possible to raise a daughter who won’t at some point have these issues? As painfully hard as I try, I fear that I am failing miserably.
Am I sending the wrong message by putting lipstick on before leaving the house? Should I stop getting pedicures and just embrace the au naturel way my nails were born to look? Is adding blond highlights to my mousy-brown hair telling her that her hair is any less beautiful? I wonder about it all.

I remember the person I was in high school, always on the outside looking in, and hope that she finds her place on the inside, where it’s far easier, while still maintaining a strong sense of who she is. But is that an impossibility, just like looking at food simply as fuel and moving because it’s natural to do so?

I want for her everything that I wanted for myself back then and never got—the date to homecoming and the close group of fun girlfriends and the popularity and the confidence and the acceptance. But as a parent, I’d kind of rather she be stuck babysitting on a Saturday night like me, where I know she is safe and sound and out of trouble.

I worry endlessly about her preteen and teen years. If this level of emotion and drama is what we’re dealing with at eight, what the hell do those years have in store for us? I kid myself into thinking that we may be dealing with the worst of it now, but I know that’s not the case. I dread acne and pudgy boobs and locker rooms and school dances. I ache for the time when someone breaks her heart and makes her question just how wonderful she really is. The thought that some punk could in an instant undo all of the confidence and self-assurance we have given her makes me ill.

They say you only get what you can handle, and I’m pretty sure that’s why I ended up with only one girl. But I am forever thankful that the powers that be thought I was up to the task, because I wouldn’t trade my girl for the world.

Even for one with less hysterics and door slamming.

I
absolutely, positively do not want a baby.

Three is, without a doubt, the perfect number of children for me. It’s neither too few for a rowdy game of tag, nor too many to fit comfortably around the kitchen table. I love the way they look, all lined up together, separated by two years and one foot, almost exactly. I love the triangle they form when they stand in a circle and the fact that, most times, there is at least one who is not driving me totally crazy. We can still drive home a friend or two from school, but the kids have enough entertainment at home to stay busy. A family of five is just right for us.

I can’t even imagine what carrying and delivering another
child would do to me; the souvenirs they have left on my body frustrate me daily. My midsection looks like a crime scene, purple spiders crawl up my legs, and my once bouncy and predictable hair is an undecided mess between curly and wavy. I have a patch of gray hair above my right temple that I attribute solely to Evan, and my hips never went back to their prebaby location. My feet are a full size larger than before and not a single one of my old high-heeled shoes even comes close to fitting my bloated, ugly-stepsister feet. I don’t even want to
think
about what my vagina would look like after pushing another kid out. Let’s not even go there.

For the first time in eight years, I don’t have a child in diapers and that fact brings me immense joy, never mind immense savings. I no longer carry around a diaper bag, and if I’m
really
living on the edge, I can actually get away with just carrying a clutch during short outings. It’s liberating. I finally got rid of all our sippy cups and crib sheets and don’t miss schlepping around an infant carrier in the least. Things are finally getting easy.

I remember back when I
had
babies, looking at the mothers who were long out of the young years and feeling pity for them. How sad that they no longer had adorable little feet to tickle and baby fat to grab, I thought. Their kids were more inclined to ignore them than shower them with sloppy kisses, and nobody stopped them at the mall anymore to tell them just how very irresistible their babies were. How sad that must be for them. Poor, poor mommies.

Snort.

I’m just starting to discover the benefits of having older children: The conversations with real people instead of mere animal
noises and horrible baby songs. The feelings of real pride, instead of just happiness, and the ability to enjoy doing things that I actually
want
to be doing with my family. They are turning into real human beings with real beliefs and identities, and it’s an amazing transformation to witness.

And then there’s the beauty of the help they can offer. Instead of simply creating
more
work, older kids can actually help lessen it. Sure, Lily changes her clothes five times a day, but she also folds the laundry and puts it in drawers. They all help set the table and pick up leaves outside and can even walk the dog. Sometimes, if I’m
really
lucky, they’ll even fetch me a Diet Coke and rub my back. Having older kids is almost like having servants. For free. Seriously, it’s all kinds of awesome.

Much as I do love the baby phase, I haven’t forgotten just how draining and consuming and frustrating it all is. I know I’m just not up for it all again.

Really, I’m done.

So why is it that when I spot a baby out and about I get the urge to just grab it and run for dear life? The ache in my ovaries is palpable.

When friends show off newborn pictures on Facebook, I immediately go shopping for them, lusting after little pink and blue layettes and booties of my very own. I imagine Lily with the little sister she dreams of, or the boys with one more male in the house to roughhouse with. Halloween-themed costumes for four and a sweet little body falling asleep on my chest. Once again.

If I’m
really
in the zone, I fantasize about how I would announce the big news to my husband, my parents, and even my blog readers. Matching big sister and big brother T-shirts? A dinner of little Cornish hens and baby carrots? I never did do a
big, dramatic reveal with my other kids, since I was so busy dry heaving and sobbing, so this could be my chance.

I waffle between wanting to rip out my IUD with my bare hands and take the plunge and wondering whether this is all just part of being a woman. Would I always feel like this, even if I ended up with six or seven children of my own? Does the baby lust ever go away, or is it just part of my DNA, programmed into me like pale skin and thin fingernails? I can never have enough candy corn, for instance, but always end up regretful and more than slightly nauseous. Would a baby have the same effect on me? I’m pretty sure it would.

And really, it doesn’t matter. We can’t afford it, can’t agree on it, and I’m just not willing to make the necessary sacrifices. The end.

I’m most
definitely
done.

(I think.)

I
order pizza for dinner so often that the shop knows my order before I start to place it. I yell too often and too loudly. My car is a complete pigsty. I often forget about homework and class projects. I can’t bake a proper pie to save my life. I don’t love reading to my kids. I scowl at mean kids at the park. I often forget to brush their teeth. I leave the house in slippers. I don’t volunteer at school enough. I love it when the kids bite their nails so I don’t have to cut them. The boys’ bathroom reeks of pee . . . I could go on all day. These are
my
mommy confessions.

If there were a Mother of the Year award, I certainly wouldn’t
be the winner. There would be no trophies lining my built-in bookshelves and no grand award ceremony to attend. No plaque of recognition would hang on my bedroom wall, there would be no tiara to waltz around in, and I certainly wouldn’t hear a speech about how flawless and perfect I am. No, I’m most definitely not Mother of the Year material. Hell, I wouldn’t even be a contender.

So, it’s a good thing that motherhood
isn’t
a competition. But it seems not everyone got the memo.

When Ben was two years old, we had an acquaintance over for a playdate. I had a few free hours in the morning, so with the help of my pal Betty Crocker, I had whipped up a plate of brownies. As I presented the tinfoil-wrapped plate to her, you would have thought I was toting a severed head, complete with live lice, on a silver platter. She recoiled as I handed it over. “Are these organic?” she asked. “Because we rarely eat sweets, and if we do, they
must
be organic and unprocessed.” I had to fight my eyes from rolling out of my head, but I bit my tongue and simply replied that they were not, and I’d grab some bananas for them instead. I then had to sit through a twenty-minute lecture on how much healthier we’d be if we adopted her way of looking at food. Suffice it to say, we never had a second playdate with them. And, also, I ate the whole tray of brownies myself.