CrankMama

1950s Parenting: Something to Aspire to?

In a recent New York Times, reporter Stacy Lu wrote a piece called “Cosmopolitan Moms” about a group of women who gather for play dates and cocktails. As you might imagine, the usual debates about drinking in front of kids ensued, as well as some keen observations about the need for some parents to loosen up.

What got my attention was this paragraph:

Some say the mother get-togethers are a throwback to the 1950s, when adults had more time to themselves and children were not always the center of attention. Martinis were in vogue; today’s obsessive, hard-driving, Harvard-or-bust parenting scene was not.

[Read more here]

What You Got?

Darlng O (oldest twin by 10 minutes ) has skin like sugary pudding, a chipped tooth from when she tried to eat a rock (bad mommy) at 18 months, a devilish expression, and a new "I can do what I want" and "I'm going to say things to shock you into silence" defiance that has me reading about developmental stages again.

There is always this freefall of despair when I realize that their kidness has exceeded my momness by quite a distance.  It often takes awhile to regroup, Mom up, and find the wherewithal to get on with parenting and being in charge and quit with the cowering in the corner and being afraid of my own kids.

When I'm doubting my ability to overcome whatever wrench has been thrown into the works (hour-long tantrums, hitting, crying, etc. etc. etc.), everyone feels it.  The kids can tell I don't know what the hell to do, so they act accordingly.  And it's hellish and horrid.  When I compare myself to the craftmaking, teach your children Spanish, enroll in every toddler playclass known to man, moms, it never ends well.

But if I stop first and ask what I bring to parenting (well, to anything) that is unique, things usually look up.

In honor of O who just yesterday informed me that she "would never listen [to me] again,"  here's what I got:

-silliness

-love of reading

-devotion

-occasional brilliant patience

-did I mention silly yet?

So, sisters and brothers, what YOU got?

***

P.S. As I write this, my husband is (actively) suffering from stomach flu, J has a sore throat and cough, and O just woke up crying for water.  I decided it was wiser for me to just stay up then to suffer under the illusion that I'd get any sleep at all.

Itty Bitty Titty Committee

I have a drawer of lingerie... the Drawer of Hope... that is filled with pinks and reds and lilacs and blacks and lace and all things feminine and lovely.  Also thrown in for good measure, a few pieces of Babeland equipment, mostly without batteries.

The drawer is papered with white tea liners and is a haven of neatly folded delicates and whispery lovely scents.  When I look into it, I feel like a princess of a lost land who has found her way home.

My breasts, such as they are, are mine once again.

Yours? Mine? Ours?

Dear V,
You are an adorable cherub whose blond and blue can melt even the crankiest of mommies into a pile of adoring goo.  You are verbal, precocious, and enjoy dumping drawers onto the floor, tipping books from bookshelves, and knocking over any and all objects filled with liquids or food.

But there's something else unique about you, my darling.  Something that sets you apart from your older twin sisters. 

You still have a desire for "the Boob."  Actually, less like "desire" more like "obsession."  And I, who with great righteousness used to make them laugh with my confident jokes about women trapped by nursing, am facing my darkest motherhood fear: being grasped and undressed in public by a loud child screaming "BOOB! BOOB!" 

Like a hunter finds her prey, you spy me across the room, your laser-vision narrows, and your little chubby legs blast you across the distance that divides us. I am scaled like a human ladder and, having scooped you up, try and distract you with something else.  Anything. Else.

I admit, I went so far as to try and sell Daddy's warm hairy chest (nipples even) as a nice alternative.  But nothing but the Boob will do.

So, I'm afraid it will have to be cold turkey around here.  For you and for me.  No more boob.  Mommy is so very tired and worn.  And I love you, but I need these ladies back. 

And as you've learned to say recently... they are MINE! MINE! MINE!!

Dear Me - Circa 2004

Dear Me,

This letter may freak you out, seeing as it’s from me - you, whatever - in the future but there’s something you should be prepared for. You don’t know it yet, but you’re pregnant. That’s right; you’re going to have a baby. Now, don’t go and freak out, it’s not like you weren’t planning for this. It’s a good thing, really, but you may want to sit down while you’re reading this.

This pregnancy is going to send your life into a tailspin but I figure you can handle this advance warning.

• First of all I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re going to be sick. Really sick.  Throw out all your ideas about morning sickness. I’ve got one word for you – Zofran. On the upside you won’t gain much weight and you’ll save a fortune on maternity clothes.
• Second, don’t plan on going back to work after the baby is born. Your bosses are going to take this opportunity to screw you over. There will be much stress and in the end you’re going to quit anyway. Save yourself some trouble and tell them to take their job and shove it.

• Third, it’s not a picnic but labor and delivery are not as bad as you think. Don’t get me wrong it’s fairly horrible, but you’ll get through it. Get the epidural, you’ll thank me later.

You haven’t passed out yet, have you? Good. Here’s what you should know for after you’ve had the baby: 

• In the beginning breastfeeding is going to suck (pardon the pun). Stick with it. It gets better.

• No, you won’t break the baby.

• Um, you might want to do some research on Colic. Sorry.

• Don’t be afraid to ask for help and if you feel like crying (hint, hint), dammit go ahead and cry. No, neither one will make you seem weak.

• Finally, that little girl – Oops, you don’t know the sex of the baby yet. Well, surprise! It’s a girl! – is going to break your heart into a million pieces time and again and then with one smile will put all those pieces back together. I know you hate roller coasters so you might want to hang on tight; it’s going to be a wild ride.

I think that’s enough for now. Remember you’re tough, much tougher than you think and this pregnancy and mommy thing will prove it. Since you’re so tough I think you can handle hearing one more thing: George W. Bush is going to be re-elected in November’s election. I know, it sucks big time, but on the upside the Red Sox are finally going to win the World Series! No, really, I’m serious! Would I lie to you? Me? Whatever. I need to wrap this up because this has gotten too confusing. Good luck, we’ll need it.

Much love,
You, Me, Whatever, circa November, 2006

 

****This post is part of October's Blog Exchange and was written by Mrs. Chicky**** 

When she’s not working on her Way Back Time Machine, Mrs. Chicky is trying to rid herself of the tics and twitches she acquired as a result of her now 18 month old daughter’s colic.

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Waking / Sleeping

For me, the thin line between contentment & crankiness is linearly correlated with the thin line between sleeping & not-sleeping.  The past week, my daughters have tag-teamed my hubs and I, insuring that any wisp of REM sleep was interrupted with a call for water, new covers, a story, or anything at all in between.  My youngest, wee V, has been making up for my lost work hours by trying to nurse again at Midnight (ack! ack!)...  The horrors of sleep deprivation had been wiped so cleanly from my brain, I'd forgotten how terribly frail mommy's world view and sauciness can become. 

It doesn't help that I had a horrible dream where a smart and adorably gorgeous twenty-something stole my husband from me.  His blithe reply to my dream-state confrontation seemed so real:  "You paid no attention to me, so I had no other option."  I yelled out his name in my sleep and tossed and turned, waking with a terrible sense of dread and anxiety and crankiness -- not the clever sassy kind.. the dreary defeated kind.

Bad dreams and interrupted sleep... a deadly combination.

I feel somewhat comforted by the fact that I kicked that hubs-stealer's bony little ass, pulled her hair, and banished her from my huge Victorian mansion.

This is one of those days I wish so much that one of my fabulously clever email/blog galpals lived nearby so we could grab a drink and talk about shoes...

The Tyranny of the Fairy Person

My twin daughters attend preschool for 2.5 hours 3 days each week.  As a newly unemployed stay-at-home-against-her-will mom (SAHAHWM), these brief hours of solitude are treasured, but they tend to fly by in a wink.  As a result, I don't want to waste them on anything productive like showering, cleaning, answering the phone, picking up toys, or exercising.  I do want to spend them writing, reading, or swearing loudly to myself just because I can. 

Earlier,  I came up with the brilliant idea to tell the twins that while they were at preschool a magical fairy person made them a special lunch.  They got so excited that they bounced up and down in their booster seats.  When they got home and saw the table laid out with food, they gobbled everything up including the carrots without one complaint. 

Unfortunately, when I pick them up from preschool these days, if I ever have the nerve to say  "no the fairy person didn't come today because she had some important reading to catch up on" a huge double preschooler car breakdown ensues.  So now, I have to make a big deal of the goddamn fairy person making the lunch.  Worse still, I have to get the lunch made before I even leave to pick them up which takes more coins from my sad little alone time jar.

I know I'm living in Crazy Mommy World and I shouldn't let them push me around.  I know that as a formerly single mama I sometimes give in to their bullying more than I should.

But the truth is, I'd rather submit to the tyranny of the fairy person than have to sit through another car tantrum in stereo.

##

 

Obesity Pandemic

 

And Then They Make You Laugh...

My $13 haircut and $20 pedicure from yesterday's solo day out have Mommy more or less back in form... cheerful (for a cranky bugger) and content on a Monday morning.  Or at least approaching cheerful when from the next room, I hear:
"Mr. Duck is heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere!!" followed by "THIS time, DON'T call me Dude!"

Then I laugh out loud and the girls, startled, look at me like I've sprung 3 heads (or laughed).  And their big grins remind me of one of my most important Mommy Rules --teach the girls that they're delightful and funny and likeable.  I can accomplish this by uttering a big honest guffaw at their weirdness once in awhile. 

I remember how much fun I had as a kid when I made my parents laugh...  Even now when my folks tell me long stories about their hangnails and sciatica and wasp problems, if I can make them laugh I feel successful and warm inside.

So tip over the seratonin bucket, Mommy's got her laugh on!

Bird Flu

Here's what being sick means now that I'm in my late 30s and have successfully reproduced a triplet of girls under 5 whose endless needs spike up as my energy crashes.

1. Morning dose of twinfighting escalates and ends with hitting and yelling and bad words ("You are a butt poop!")

2. Last Swim Lesson cannot be missed, temperature and sore throat notwithstanding

3. Feel hungover, but without the benefit of pre-party or cute dress or drunk sex with hubcap.

4. The over-talk famous among parents of twins everywhere fades into a not wholly unpleasant background buzzing noise, followed by call-outs

 "Momma! MOOOOOMMMMMAAAAAA! Ma- Maaa! Answer us! Right This Minute!!"

5. Start watching the clock and realize it's going to be a long one...

6. Play fun game called "Tune In / Tune Out" where I listen to snippets of the constant talking that goes like this

"...and the family lived in the bubble.."

"...nine, ten, YOU'RE the witch!"

"I told you, pee, talk to your parents!"

" Don't worry, mama, we're just being ghostses..."

7. And we're out of coffee...