Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (3 page)

I so love embarrassing my children. Now I know why my mom always had that weird sneaky smile on her face whenever my friends were around.

—Scary Mommy Confession #252509

I
would gladly catch a violent stomach bug, if it spared my child from the trauma of throwing up. I'd rather be the one with the broken bone than have my child wear a cast. I'd take the sore throat or poison ivy or seasonal allergies in a heartbeat if it spared any of my children the pain, suffering, or even minor nuisance of any of them. Of course I would; I'm their mother, and, as mothers, nothing is worse than seeing our children suffer.

Well, that's kind of true.

There is a special kind of suffering that
won't
pull at your heartstrings, and you
won't
try to avoid at all costs. It's called parental
embarrassment, my friends, and it's inevitable. No matter how hip you think you are, or how cool you try to be, that come a certain age, your child is bound to find you to be THE MOST EMBARRASSING CREATURE ON THE PLANET.

And if you're anything like me, you might just enjoy it.

Now it's worth noting at this point that the pain and suffering of parental embarrassment is a rite of passage. I have vivid memories of making my parents park blocks away from where they were dropping me off so they wouldn't be seen. I recall how I always opted to play at other kids' houses, because I could never guarantee that my mother wouldn't burst into song and do her best Ethel Merman impression while my friends and I played in my room. When I was twelve or thirteen, my parents could not have been more horrifying if they had skinned and eaten us for dinner.

Well, what goes around really does come around, because these days Lily is absolutely mortified by me. “Is
that
what you're wearing?” she asks as I descend the staircase looking, I think, pretty decent. She doesn't like the way I laugh, she doesn't like the way I wear my hair, and she HATES when I sing. She actually once asked me to change my shoes before her birthday party. This all from a child who thinks it's high fashion to wear gym shorts over leggings. I shudder to think of what her opinion of me will be in a few short years. The way I see it, I have two choices of how to deal with this: I can either be offended and try everything I can to become a parent who
doesn't
embarrass my offspring, or I can accept it.

Scratch that. There is a third choice we parents have when it comes to embarrassing our children, and that is to
embrace
it. Embrace it with pom-poms and cheers and glitter, because it turns out that embracing it is so unexpectedly fun.

Sometimes when I drop the kids off at school, I “forget” to do my hair and remove my slippers. Every now and then when I pick them up, I make a point of being early so that I can come to their classrooms and personally greet them, rather than wait for them to be escorted to my car. I tweeze my eyebrows in the car when I am stopped at red lights, especially when I'm chauffeuring around my kids' friends with them.

And that's just what I do now, when they are little. I have big plans for middle school. We have years of school trips for me to chaperone to look forward to. Public displays of affection and emotion at major milestones, like their bar and bat mitzvahs! Don't even get me started on proms and school dances!

I'm sure some people think this sort of behavior is unnecessary and maybe even cruel. But I figure I am just doing my part to keep the karma flowing. Besides, I'd argue that the ability to laugh at oneself is one of the most important traits a person can possess. It will serve them well in life and I'm simply getting my kids started early.

P.S.: Lily, Ben, and Evan, if you are reading this, please know that Mommy loves her little sheep so much! Hugs and kisses to the three kids with the cutest little tushies in the world!

I invited you into my home as a guest. And you brought my two-year-old permanent markers and Play-Doh. Next time I visit you, I'm bringing your teenage daughter condoms and crack.

—Scary Mommy Confession #80920

O
n a crisp Sunday last October, our family went to a small carnival in a strip mall parking lot. It was a beautiful day, the money went to a good cause, and we knew the kids would have fun. Which they did, as Jeff and I glanced at our watches and snuck forbidden bites of cotton candy.

At one point, Ben excitedly ran up to me, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled back at my sweet boy, thrilled that he was having such a great time, until I saw the reason for his supreme happiness: a brand-new goldfish. Apparently he'd won it as a prize at one of the booths. And suddenly, without
my consent, we were welcoming a new member to the family.

I ran over to the booth, planning to tell whichever teenager supervising the game where they could shove their goldfish. But to my horror, it wasn't some pimply-faced sixteen-year-old with a sick sense of humor. It was two mothers whom I knew from school, giddily handing out bags of fish to every kid who stepped up to the table. Mothers of other children. Mothers who know what bringing a fish into the house entails. They may as well have given my kids Ketel One and cigarettes, because that would have been a lot less offensive.

Is there any greater act of parental treason than gifting somebody else's kids with a goldfish?

One minute you are selflessly taking your children to a carnival—someplace you would gladly skip for a visit to the gynecologist—and the next, you're a pet owner. A pet that
you
will have to feed, whose water
you
will have to change, and whose imminent death will force you to have “the conversation” with your innocent children far sooner than you are ready.

Whatever happened to “It takes a village”?! Aren't we parents supposed to
help
raise one another's kids, not make it harder?

You know how when you have a baby, the nurse has to physically escort you out to the car and supervise you putting your newborn into the car seat? Well, there should be another law that also requires new mothers to recite an oath of allegiance to all other mothers before they let you pull away:
I solemnly swear to always be on team mommy, to never give your kids anything I wouldn't want you to give mine, to do my best to help you get six hours of sleep each night and at least three solo showers
a week, and to never, ever, under any circumstances, give your child a fish. Amen.

As mothers of daughters, you'd think we'd all be on the same side—the side prolonging our daughters' innocence for as long as possible. What's with the moms who let their third-grade daughters dress like whores? Call me a prude, but I think Daisy Duke shorts, flimsy tank tops, and sandals with heels are a little much for a nine-year-old. My rule of thumb: if you don't know what a labia is, then you shouldn't wear clothes that expose yours to the rest of us. Look, I respect your right to choose what your kids wear, at least in theory. But if your daughter dresses like a slut, then mine will want to as well. And that's when I start to hate you.

And don't get me started on the parents who moonlight as the rich tooth fairy. Ben came home from school one day with a baby tooth in hand.
Look what I lost today,
he squealed.
I'm gonna be rich!
Apparently one of his friends came into school that day with a crisp ten-dollar bill from the tooth fairy. For one tooth! We have three children, and last I counted they each had thirty-two teeth. There is no way I am spending nearly ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on their rotten teeth—and that's
before
orthodontics!

The list of things parents do to make raising children harder for the rest of us goes on and on. There are the parents who do a half-assed job of shampooing lice out of their own kids' hair. The parents who buy their kids the hot new toy the day it hits the shelves. The parents who throw birthday parties that rival wedding receptions. If I could, I'd gather all of those parents in one room and become the parent who goes Nightmare on Elm Street on their asses.

Of course, I'm also surrounded by wonderful friends and family without whom I wouldn't stay sane. The ones who offer to pick my kid up from school when I'm out of town. The ones who provide my kids with after-school snacks when I forgot to pack any. My mother, who folds my laundry when I'm just about to burn it all and start over. But just when I think I've found my village, someone goes and gives my kid a freaking fish.

I suppose, though, it should be expected. After all, every village has its resident idiot.