Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (12 page)

My kids think I'm kidding when I say I can't wait to sign myself into a retirement community where they will need an appointment to visit me.

—Scary Mommy Confession #111354

W
e picked Maisy out from a farm about two hours away. You know, to begin our quest to see just how much neediness Mommy can take before she goes bat-shit crazy.

After a rough drive that included Evan vomiting all over himself, we pulled up to a beautiful farm of rolling hills and mature trees. Horses meandered calmly in the fields. Birds chirped happily and melodically. There was a calmness about the place that almost made me forget about the stench of Evan's soiled clothes. In the distance, I could see two large golden retrievers watching us approach. The puppies' parents! I was excited to see them, but as I got closer and got a better view, my excitement turned to horror.

The sire looked fantastic. Smiling widely and wagging his tail profusely, he was robust and healthy looking. His coat was wavy and soft, and his eyes sparkled with joy and excitement. He looked proud of his puppies and maybe even of his virility.

And then there was the mother. This bitch was a mess. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, and her coat was knotted and gnarly. I'm pretty sure I saw food dangling from her ear. But that wasn't the worst of it. As she got up and made her way over to me, I saw her battle scars: dangling from her underbelly were seven—SEVEN—saggy, sore, blistered nipples. They were like testicles, only uglier. That poor, poor dog, I thought to myself, as we came face-to-face.

And just as I was starting to feel guilty about taking one of her beloved puppies away from her for the rest of her life, we shared a moment that I'll never forget. As we locked eyes, mother to mother, she gave me a look of sheer relief. “Thank fucking God,” her eyes said. “Better you than me. Better you than me.”

I swear, if that dog could have packed that puppy's suitcase and put it in my trunk herself she would have had us on our way home without a minute to spare. She was Done with a capital
D
. We would leave the farm that day with our new puppy in tow, and her mother would get her life and her body back. There wasn't even a hint of sorrow. I'd call it jubilation.

And I can't say I didn't recognize the feeling.

I sent each of my kids to full-day preschool when they turned two. With Lily, it felt like a necessity. Ben was born the same month that she turned two, and I simply needed the help during the day. The same thing happened with Ben when Evan was born just twenty-one months later. Once again, I had a newborn
in the house and needed time to devote to my new baby. But then Evan turned two, and I had no excuse. For a few weeks I even thought about having another baby just so I could rationalize packing Evan off to preschool. But that would have killed me, and then what good would I be to my kids? So I sent him off, too, and waited for the flood of guilt and sorrow to hit. And I waited. And waited. And waited.

It never came. Suddenly, for the first time in five years, I wasn't stuck home every day with a baby. I could take long showers and do my hair. I could leisurely read
People
magazine at lunch, rather than in the checkout aisle. I didn't have to change my clothes twice a day, and I could spend hours at HomeGoods looking at décor I didn't need. It was heavenly. Perhaps it was because I knew I would see my kids at the end of each day, but I never missed them for a minute while they were at preschool. I savored picking them up and seeing their joyful faces as they ran toward me with arms outstretched, but I also relished the six hours of me time I had each day.

Childless vacations were hard to swallow at first. Jeff would frequently suggest that we get away, but I just couldn't get comfortable with the idea of leaving my kids behind. What kind of mother would leave her kids home while she indulged in fun and relaxation? Me, it turns out.

We started out small. A weekend away, only a few hours' drive from home. Then we worked our way up to four days and a plane ride. Before we knew it, we were on a full-blown adult vacation. Sure, I thought about my kids and looked forward to seeing them when I returned home. But miss them? Not as much as I expected to.

When Lily became old enough for sleepovers, things only got better. One less kid whom I have to nag to brush her teeth. One less story to read. One less kid to force to take a bath or shower. One less mouth to feed in the morning. At first, Jeff and I missed her when she would sleep out. The house seemed too quiet and didn't feel totally right. But we got over that pretty quickly. It wasn't long before we started to appreciate making our kid someone else's problem for a night. Now I keep a duffle bag of Lily's clothes and toiletries in the car, just in case an invitation for a sleepover comes our way. What can I say? We believe in the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared.

Now we're starting to think about sleepaway camp. It's something I never thought I would even entertain, but now that I've been a mother for nine years, I've seen the light. My turning point was this past summer, when one of Lily's friends went to overnight camp for six weeks. At first, I couldn't believe her parents would send their baby away for that long. How would they sleep at night not knowing what their little girl had for dinner? And what if she got sick and landed in the infirmary? How could a registered nurse possibly give her the necessary care?

But then I saw the parents out for dinner one night when Jeff and I ended up at the same restaurant. While we scarfed down our food to hurry up and get home to the babysitter before we were out eighty bucks, they seemed to take their time. While they drank wine and nibbled on appetizers, we paid the bill before the food even came to the table. We stopped by their table to say hello on our way out, and the first thing I noticed was how well rested they looked. Tanned and toned, it appeared that they were enjoying their summer. They regaled us with stories about
the letters they received from their daughter each day, recounting the fun she was having and the friendships she was forging. They told us about the two-week trip they were about to take and about all the movies they had seen so far that summer. While I thought about flipping their table over Real Housewives–style then and there, I restrained myself, and Jeff and I sheepishly shuffled out of the restaurant and to our car like two middle schoolers who just lost their lunch money to the school bully.

I spent the rest of the night researching summer camps online, and I have every intention of sending my kids to overnight camp when they're ready. Or when I'm ready, whichever comes first.

I realize that, because my kids are still young, I'll likely eat these words when they leave my home for college and start their own lives, somewhere else. I've seen my own parents struggle with an empty nest and I know I'll someday long for the madness that is my life right now. But for now I'm just trying to get to tomorrow.

And hoping it's a sleepover weekend.

I remember thinking how cute it was when my child learned how to take off her own diaper. Until I came in one morning and saw her finger painting and it wasn't paint she was painting with.

—Scary Mommy Confession #254518

I
remember my children's first steps like they were yesterday. That magical moment when they no longer needed to hold on to my fingers to make it across the room was everything I hoped it would be and more. It was so exciting and gratifying and my heart swelled with pride all three times. It's the kind of moment that makes this whole mommy thing worth it.

That was then. This is now.

Years later, I can't help but wonder what the hell I was so excited about. My kids figuring out that they were their own people, rather than simply extensions of me? Their growing
awareness that I don't have all the answers? Turns out, our children's independence is completely overrated.

Once my children walked, they never stopped moving. Gone were the days when I could leave them and go to the bathroom—gasp—alone, or take a phone call in the other room while they contentedly played on the floor. Suddenly I was held hostage in my own house, stuck in a never-ending game of cat-and-mouse. But only one of us was having fun.

I naïvely counted down the days until my kids could dress themselves so I wouldn't have to leave three piles of clothes on the banister every morning. Well, the day has arrived and it's bad. Bad with glitter and ruffles and mismatched patterns. I mean, I know you're supposed to foster creativity in your children, but what if your child has indisputably horrific taste? Are you supposed to encourage
that
? These days, I have to hide the Justice catalog from Lily as I longingly look at siblings dressed in matching pajamas over at L.L.Bean.