Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (4 page)

I put salt in my coffee this morning. My hair is unwashed. I haven't slept in two years. I regularly injure myself on small plastic objects. I envy my pets' daily routine. I depend on caffeine and
Sesame Street.
I. Am. Mom.

—Scary Mommy Confession #127336

I
read an article a few years ago about a gorgeous and slender movie star in her late forties. When she was asked about her secrets for looking so young, flawless, and vibrant, her answer was simple: “My kids keep me young,” she chirped. “I'm always playing with them and running around after them and it has taken
years
off of my appearance.” It's a good thing the magazine was in print and I wasn't in a live studio audience at some talk show, because if that woman had uttered such foolishness in front of me, I would not have been able to restrain myself from
physically attacking her. Lady: Your kids are not to thank for your flawless appearance, your plastic surgeon is. And you're not fooling anyone.

Whoever first uttered the phrase “children keep you young” clearly didn't have children themselves. Because once you have kids, you know better. Children don't keep you young; they prematurely age the hell out of you.

I can't say with absolute certainty that the increasing frequency with which I have to color my hair is directly related to having children, but don't you think it's suspicious that the gray hairs on my head seem to appear in two-year increments? I don't have scientific proof that the wrinkles on my forehead become more pronounced every year on each of my kids' birthdays, but it sure seems like a trend to me. And while I expected that giving birth vaginally three times in four years would, um, loosen things up, I didn't expect that at thirty-five years old I would be watching commercials for Depends with sincere curiosity.

Speaking of television commercials, what's with all the advertisements that show gleeful mothers playfully chasing their children around the yard?

The last time I chased my own kids, it was to retrieve my phone from an untimely death in a stream. And I
definitely
wasn't laughing about it. I had a moment last summer when I thought that maybe I was uniquely lazy, that perhaps other mothers did play chase with their kids. I was inside the house, watching through the window as my forty-something cousin chased after her ten-year-old son. Boy, I thought to myself. She is so
playful
. Such a fun mom! Just as I was starting to put on my sneakers out of mommy guilt, I watched as she caught up to him, ordered
him to open his hand, and snatched a stolen piece of candy out of his grubby paws. She wasn't chasing after him. She was literally
chasing
him.

Running around after kids isn't a job for parents. It's for the other people who don't live with the little suckers.

Take my brother and sister-in-law, for instance. They are a mere three years younger than Jeff and I, but when they're around the kids, you'd swear we were separated by generations. They dart around playing chase for hours. They have the stamina and patience for endless games of Simon Says and Red Rover and Marco Polo. And I'm not talking the lazy mom versions that I play here and there (“Simon says fetch Mommy a Diet Coke and we'll play later!”) but full-on games. Endlessly. They giggle and skip and dance and somersault while Jeff and I look on with food dribbling from our chins and glazed expressions on our wrinkled, crusty faces. We'll just let you enjoy the kids, we say. It's not because we
don't
want to go for that three-mile hike, but because we literally can't. Once we have family in town to entertain the kids, we're too fucking exhausted to even think about moving.

Before we had children, family visits were a time to show off our wonderful life together. We'd parade our childless or empty-nester guests around town, eating at the yummy restaurants we frequented and cooking them feasts at home. I'd have candles lit in the guest bath and an array of travel-size shampoos and conditioners waiting in the shower. Clean towels sat at the foot of the bed, and my guests could find their favorite beverages lining the fridge. Their wish was my command, and I made it my mission to make their weekend away as relaxing and enjoyable
as possible. These days? My mission is to relinquish all parental responsibility and get a good nap under my belt while they earn their keep.

We offer our guests a quick tour: where to find clean(ish) towels, what food is still safe to eat, and which bathroom to avoid due to the permanent stench of little-boy piss. Then Jeff and I dart up the stairs to our bedroom, before our guests know what hit them.
You're fine with them, right?
we call after them, not waiting around for an answer.
They can handle themselves . . . we think.
By the time the weekend is over, our guests look like they've been through war. Suddenly they've acquired new wrinkles, and the light in their eyes seems to have extinguished. But I don't feel badly. After all, they get to return home to a childless utopia and regain that youthful glow we kissed goodbye with our firstborn.

So, no, having kids doesn't keep you young. It does, however, serve as excellent birth control for your luminous and rested childless family and friends. Compared to us parents, they look and feel as if they've bathed in the fountain of youth. Or, perhaps that's just all the sex they're still having.

Either way, they're assholes.

I have been spit on, smacked around, kicked until I was bruised, my hair pulled out. I need to come forward and speak out. I, too, am a victim of toddler abuse.

—Scary Mommy Confession #253360

O
nce upon a time I was the mother to a single baby, and my life revolved around her and her alone. Mommy and Me classes. The library. The park. Baby ballet. My heart swelled with her little accomplishments and I could feel it breaking when she hurt in any way.

When my precious sweetheart was around six months old or so, there was a story in the local news about a mother physically abusing her child. Those sort of stories pulled at my heartstrings before, but since becoming a mother, they made me physically ill. I was horrified and called my own mother in a complete outrage. What kind of mother could ever dream of causing harm
to her precious offspring, I shouted. How could this be? And then my mother said something I'll never forget. It was the moment that left me questioning everything I knew about her—as a mother, as a grandmother, and, frankly, as a human being.

The only thing separating the women who do those awful things from those who don't is impulse control
.
Everyone has the urge to hurt their children at some time or another; most people just have the intelligence and restraint to walk away.

She could have told me that I was adopted and that Bill Cosby was my real father, and I would have been less shocked. Who was this woman, and did she really just admit to having the urge to harm me?

My mom laughed at my horror and assured me that one day I would understand. But for the next two years, I was undeterred. Every time I recalled that conversation I felt a sense of pride that I still couldn't relate to that feeling she warned me about. In my mind, it was just one more affirmation that I was a better mother.
Obviously.

And then Lily turned three.

I'm not sure who coined the phrase “the terrible twos,” but they mustn't have been a parent because two wasn't all that terrible. Lily was sweet, easy, and totally welcoming to her new baby brother. Our days were a joy and the worst thing I ever wanted to do to her was dress her up as a flower and pretend to be Anne Geddes.

Once she turned three, though, everything changed. I think it was around that time that I officially became a Scary Mommy. It was like a switch was flipped and my precious baby girl turned into Satan. And I became that mother I never imagined
I could be. The mother who could think about hurting her own child.

The first time it happened, Lily was going on hour two of a tantrum over Lemon Heads. She wanted the entire box of candy, and I wouldn't allow it. (Side note: Really, Lily?! Lemon heads? Candy isn't worth getting cut over unless it's filled with chocolate.) After fifteen minutes, I was ready to cave but held my ground on principle. She wailed like her life was ending and in the process, she woke her napping brother. Suddenly I had two screaming children; plus my husband was out of town and I hadn't had adult interaction in three days. As she went on and on and on, I had a fleeting urge to throw her against the wall.
Throw her against the wall!
It was a terrifying feeling. I felt so out of control, so vulnerable. It scared the shit out of me.

And then came a rush of that intelligence and restraint my mom spoke of. I put Ben in his crib, soothed my screaming Lily into the nap she desperately needed, and sat on the front stoop catching my breath. It was the first of many defining motherhood moments for me, as I made a conscious decision about the kind of mother I wanted to be.