Read Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) Online
Authors: Jill Smokler
Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (2 page)
And it didn't become more natural with baby number two even if I fooled myself into thinking that I had the hang of things. I didn't. When Ben was a few months old, he got sick. Not
really
sickâjust a lingering cough, thanks to a minor cold.
I'd been through this sort of winter before with Lily, so I knew the drill. Hell, I was an expert by now! He was stuffy but smiley, and I knew in my heart that he was just fine. There was no sinking feeling in my gut and surely, there would be one if it were something serious. A week or two later, I found myself at the doctor's office for a routine visit. The doctor knew within seconds that something was wrong and that the “minor cold” was now in my baby's lungs. He was hooked up to oxygen while I sobbed, still not being able to recognize the wheezing sound that everyone else seemed to identify simply by looking at him.
Then, there was the time Lily fell off of a bunk bed, and I was 100 percent sure her wails were nothing more than a performance. Her arm didn't look broken in the least, and she's always been one to seek attention. Mother knows best, kid. Stop your crying! I gave her some Tylenol and put her to bed. When she woke up, her arm had swelled to twice its normal size and she couldn't move it without tears springing to her eyes. I'm quite sure that the only reason they started making obnoxiously fluorescent casts was to remind mothers like me just how poor our intuition can be. In my case, it was an eight-week reminder of how very much I sucked.
After nine years of motherhood, I still don't have that sixth sense concerning my children. I keep them home from school when it's clear an hour later that they simply didn't feel like going, and I send them with the sniffles only to have the school nurse instruct me to retrieve them shortly after drop off. It still doesn't dawn on me to feed them breakfast unless they ask for
it and I never remember to tell them to hit the potty before we depart on road trips.
The good news is that, unlike when they were babies and the cries were indistinguishable, these days my kids tell me exactly what they need, when they need it. Lord knows, I need all the help I can get. The bad news? Now they never shut up.
Momfinitions
M
OMMY'S
L
AW
:
The inevitable fact that only clean sheets will be wet, that fully snow-suited children will need to pee, and that the moment you sit down with a cup of coffee, all hell will break lose.
M
OMLUSIONAL
:
Convincing oneself that the possibility of a restful sleep actually exists.
MSP (M
ATERNAL
S
ENSORY
P
ERCEPTION
):
Knowing from the very first ring of the phone that it's school calling to report a sick child.
M
OMFLEX
:
The act of instinctively squeezing one's legs together while sneezing/coughing/laughing in an attempt to prevent inevitable bladder leakage.
M
OM
S
LEEVES
:
Sleeves that have been rolled up to the elbow, to serve as tissues to snotty children.
M
OMSONIC
H
EARING
:
Knowing exactly which child is coming down the stairs, based on their pace and stomp intensity.
M
OMPREHENSION
:
The ability to perfectly comprehend multiple loud, obnoxious children competing to speak at the same exact time.
M
OMMY-TASKING
:
The ability to do a hundred times more at once than a nonmother.
M
OMNESIA
:
The act of forgetting where you put your keys, your sunglasses, your purse, your shoes, while simultaneously knowing the details of each child's schedule down to the minute.
M
OMPIPHANY
:
The realization that you have no idea whatsoever what the hell you are doing.
YOU'LL BE BACK TO YOUR OLD SELF IN NO TIME
If I'd known what having children would do to my body, I'd have spent more time naked in high school. And I would have taken pictures.
âScary Mommy Confession #192319
I
f “reclaiming your pre-baby body” were an answer on
Jeopardy,
the question would no doubt be “What is the unattainable myth that generation after generation of women fall prey to?”
Ladies, there's just no way around it, I'm sorry to say: You will
never
get your pre-baby body back. Ever.
Now, don't go ramming your minivan into a traffic pole or drowning yourself in seven pints of Ben & Jerry's. With a massive amount of effort and the blessing of genes that have the ability to bounce back from hell, it
is
possible to look decent after a baby. But even those freaks of nature who somehow manage to look
better
after childrenâeven
those
women secretly hide the
marks of pregnancy burned on their bodies forever. It's just the way it is.
Pre-baby-making-machine-transformation, shoes were the one thing I was willing to splurge onâmy waist size may have fluctuated a bit due to how much drinking or eating out I was doing, but shoes seemed a wise investment. The perfect pair of sexy black heels. A gorgeous knee-high riding boot. Overpriced jeweled slip-ons that made me giddy with happiness every time I wore them. I loved them all and would frequently gaze at them in pure admiration. We had a happy life together. And then I had to go have a freaking baby.
I expected that my feet would swell during pregnancy, but what I didn't expect was that they would never return to their previous size. Weren't feet the one consistency I could count on in life? They're feet, for crying out loudâthey're not supposed to grow after the age of eighteen. Or, they shouldn't at least. My leather and suede collection sat mocking me in my closet for years before I finally, tearfully passed them on to a childless cousin. I still cringe in shame every time I tell a shoe salesman my size.
Shoe sacrifice is the least of it, though. I have a friend with a knockout figure whose legs are so covered in varicose veins due to a blood disorder during pregnancy that she wears pants even when it's ninety degrees outside. Another has a frizzy mop on her head and constantly mourns the silky main she was lucky enough to have before her daughter's arrival, and yet another needs to manually tuck her muffin top into her pants like it's an undershirt.
Once you're a mom, you can look good, absolutely. But you
can never,
ever
reclaim exactly what you had before. It's a shame you probably didn't enjoy what you had, when you had it.
As if losing your flat stomach, perky boobs, and unfurrowed brow weren't enough, having children will also result in the loss of your mind. Sure, the lack of a fully functioning brain pales in comparison to tube-sock-shaped boobs, but it is pretty frustrating. Even worse, it never seems to go away.
For a while, I blamed my newfound flakiness on pregnancy brain. Later, it was the mindless routine of feeding and changing and burping a hundred times a day that resulted in my dumbness. After that, it was clearly just a side effect of listening to nothing but Laurie Berkner and the Wiggles. That shit would make anyone crazy! I made excuse after excuse after excuse. Eventually, though, it hit me: having children had not only ruined my body, it had also made me an idiot.
When Ben was a baby, I loaded him and Lily into the double stroller and hit the mall, ready to play the role of a mom who could successfully handle her two kids in public. I gave an Oscar-worthy performance all the way through the mall, buying things here and there, eating lunch at the food court, and even one-handedly changing a diaper in the Nordstrom restroom. So proud of myself, I trotted out the door, basking in the glow of a job well done. However, the smile washed off my face the minute I stepped into the parking lot and realized I had no idea
at all
where I had parked the car.
The kids were beginning to get fussy and I entered full-on freak-out mode. Nothing looked familiar, and I debated calling the cops and claiming the car was stolen. Instead, I flagged down security and the elderly guard drove us around for fifteen minutes
searching for the “missing” car. Happens all the time, he assured me as he helped me out and wished me well. At the time, I was convinced he was just being kind, but since then I've seen a handful of other mothers being driven around in the security vans, babies obliviously bopping on their laps. The mall security escort is the walk of shame for mothers of young children.
And the list of flakiness goes on. We shout at our kids using the names of their siblings, we're incapable of finding our keys in less than ten minutes, and we never, ever remember what it is we got up off the couch to do in the first place. We've sacrificed our minds for our children, and sadly, they'll never remember us any other way. The good news? Eventually, we won't, either.
Requiem for a Mother's Body
Dearly Beloved,
We gather here today to pay our respects to the mind and body that used to live hereâbefore motherhood. A mind and body that, sadly, was never appreciated until its untimely demise.
We remember those perky breasts previously so full of life and promise, now sucked dry of all hope and ambition.
We remember the blank canvas of the stomach that now looks more like the view of the Grand Canyon from fifteen thousand feet above.
We fondly recall the days when our vaginas were used for recreation rather than science experiments that have forever burned the words mucus and placenta and leukorrhea into our brains.
We remember how our asses used to defy gravity, and we lament how now they droop toward our thighs, forming some kind of wicked alliance against us.
We long for the days when a sneeze didn't equate to wet panties, and when exercising didn't require a completely empty bladder.
We mourn the loss of our favorite white pants, which we didn't actually lose but know will live for eternity in a plastic dry-cleaning bag hanging in the closet.
Above all, we vow to teach our daughters to savor and appreciate their undimpled flesh while they can. It won't look like that forever. We can prove it.
In the name of the good old days, let us all say, Amen.