Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (10 page)

For Mother's Day, I will trim my pubes. And then I'll pleasure myself while fantasizing about child-free days, endless bottles of wine, and the time when my husband was actually sexy.

—Scary Mommy Confession #99281

O
nce a year in May, there is that glorious day celebrating all things motherhood. The day we finally get to sit back and not lift a finger and bathe in the accolades our loved ones shower upon us. The day when we get a year's worth of recognition for all the sacrifices we've made and appreciation for all the little things we do. When we get to relax and breathe in and not spend the day cleaning or overseeing or decision-making . . . or, not.

It turns out Mother's Day is the episiotomy of motherhood: it's supposed to be for your benefit but you're the one making all the sacrifices.

Of all the lies of motherhood, I think this one might be the cruelest. I feel so sorry for new mothers, who tend to look forward to their first Mother's Day with their newborns with the same anticipation they had for the actual birth of their children. I've been there, and my own visions of photo ops, adorable clothing, and an outpouring of appreciation were quickly squashed with the harsh reality that there are no days off in motherhood. Especially in year one.

Somehow, instead of a day spent lounging on the couch with our hands down our pants like our male counterparts on
their
day, Mother's Day has turned into yet another day where we are expected to work our asses off.

In the best of Hallmark worlds, ours is a day filled with brunches, bouquets of flowers, and homemade gifts. Super, but who is going to make the actual reservation for brunch? And who is going to spend the morning struggling to gets the kids dressed in clean clothes that fit? And who is going to be stuck changing the water in that flower vase for the next several days? We are, that's who! Mother's Day gives new meaning to the word
motherfucker
. We're the ones getting fucked.

How about breakfast in bed? Such a sweet notion in theory, but in actuality, it's the worst gift a child can give. Let's let the kids loose in the kitchen while we're still asleep, oblivious that the house is about to burn down! Perfect! One year, Lily presented me with a plate of toast and some sliced berries. The cinnamon-sugar toast was edible, I was delighted to discover, and I gratefully ate it. Could have been so much worse, I thought, as I debated turning over some cooking responsibilities to my little chef.

Until I went down to the kitchen and discovered what looked like World War III. There was jam plastered on the refrigerator and cinnamon sprinkled across the floor. There were cracked eggs on the counter, the yolks oozing down the granite. The dog was frantically eating the rest of the loaf of bread that Lily left out on the table, and God knows what else that pup ingested. (As a bonus, I found out later that night. And again at 3 a.m.!) Every single cabinet was open, and the sink was overflowing with every utensil in the house—all for a piece of toast and a few strawberries. There's a reason brunch is really only meant to be eaten out, I quickly learned.

My husband and I have an argument every single year when he asks what I want to do for Mother's Day. I want to be left alone, I say, every single year. But it's
Mother's Day,
he argues. Don't you want to spend it with your children?

No, I don't, thank you very much, I answer. I spend every day with my children, and I am lucky to do so. But, shouldn't a holiday be treated differently than just another ordinary day? Yes, it should. So, every Mother's Day, all I ask is one simple thing: to be left the hell alone.

I tried this approach last year. I slept late and played dead when I heard the kids calling for me. I took a shower by myself and without an audience, and I might have even had an uninterrupted bowel movement. I didn't do any laundry, and I cooked nothing. Jeff took the kids out for several hours, and I had the house all to myself. It was wonderful—for about an hour. That's how long it took before I started feeling like something was off, like I had lost a limb or something. Before I knew it, I was missing my kids. I longed for their hugs and slobbery kisses, and I
hated the thought that they were out experiencing the world without me. I ended up calling Jeff and asking him to come back home.

You see, this is one of the cruel ironies of motherhood. Your kids make you so crazy that sometimes you want to run away, but then as soon as you get a clean break all you want is their company. Of course, there is no day where this is more evident than on Mother's Day—you know, that day that is all about you.

I went grocery shopping by myself for the first time in six years. I spent an embarrassingly long time in the detergent aisle opening each one and inhaling the heavenly scent of peace and quiet.

—Scary Mommy Confession #228532

W
hen you see a new mother attempting to maneuver her oversized stroller through a too-small door, while her baby is screaming bloody murder and she is carrying three bags of groceries and looking like she is about to lose her mind, you will no doubt be tempted to rush to her aid, hold the door, and tell her gently that things will get easier.

STOP. Don't you dare.

I mean, hold the door for her and help with the bags, of course, even offer to buy her a cup of coffee, if you're so inclined. But please, whatever you do, do
not
go telling her that things will get easier. They won't.

Go ahead and tell her that she won't always be walking through life in a complete haze or sterilizing baby bottles for the rest of her life. Tell her that there will be a day in the not so distant future when she won't be covered in spit-up, or still futilely trying to master the correct way to swaddle. She won't always be unshowered and mentally exhausted and ready to cry at any and every moment in time. But parenting
doesn't
get any easier, and you know it and I know it.

You know that sinking feeling when you start a new job and on the first day you have that moment when you start to wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into, and if it's not too late to get out? That's kind of how I felt my first few weeks on the job of motherhood. I wasn't sleeping on a schedule that I dictated, my days revolved around feeding and changing and burping, and I still felt like a live science experiment gone bad.
This
was the light at the end of my nine-month-long tunnel? I wanted my money back, thank you very much. My husband would come home from work and I'd be torn between wanting to hear about his day, for the first adult interaction I'd had in hours, and resenting that he got to have adult interaction all day. I was an absolute mess.