Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) (9 page)

When you have two kids, sending your child to a friend's house for a sleepover makes you feel lonely. When you have three kids, it makes you feel like break-dancing.

When you have two kids, going out to dinner at a restaurant is a special treat. When you have three kids, the chances of one of them not living to see breakfast triples.

When you have two kids, finding a babysitter is a piece of cake. When you have three kids, you're lucky if your own parents will agree to watch them.

When you have two kids, you occasionally feel like a chauffeur. When you have three kids, you feel like a bus driver.

In all honesty, it's not always that bad. In general I love having three children, mostly because it increases the odds that I like at least one of my kids on any given day. But to claim that I'd barely notice the difference, as my neighbor suggested? That's
ridiculous. Now, maybe if I added a fourth baby to my family, I
would
barely notice. Not because it would be easy or painless, but because I'd be so crazy I wouldn't know how many kids I had to begin with.

Come to think of it, that's probably what she meant after all.

Our home is run by a tyrant and we're all just his slaves. He's four years old.

—Scary Mommy Confession #254123

O
ne of the theoretical perks of parenthood is that you're always in charge. No matter whom you answer to at work, you are boss at home. Everyone under your roof answers to you, and you answer to no one. Right? Like I said, it's a
theoretical
perk. Kind of like how people say that owning and walking a dog keeps you healthy. Good concept in theory, but in reality you just end up stepping in shit most days.

Many parents would like you to believe that they are always in charge—that they lay down the law and their little ones fall into place like dominos. They are the ones with the education. They've read the parenting books. They have age and wisdom on their side.

I'm not one of those parents. Actually, I might be the one person in the house with the
least
amount of control over what happens.

It's apparent the moment you pull up outside of my home that I've completely surrendered. The lawn is littered with plastic balls and hula-hoops and bikes. It's like a nonstop scavenger hunt, with no prize at the finish. It wasn't always like this. I used to be militant about the kids putting away all of their junk when they were done playing. I wanted passersby to walk by my house and think
what a beautiful home,
but I fear the more common sentiment these days is
I didn't know there was an orphanage in this neighborhood.
The kids simply wore me down, and I honestly stopped caring. Jeff—bless his heart—still tries to keep the yard toy-free, but then again he also still thinks girls don't fart, so clearly he's not a realist.

Sadly, the inside of my house is worse. Long gone are the days when I could dictate the décor in my own home. Now couches are covered in mystery stains, the kitchen counter stools are dripping with jam from food fights over breakfast, and I don't think I've seen the playroom rug since we laid it down last year.

Before kids, Jeff and I used to save up our money to spend on decorating our house. Every few months, we'd stumble across something we loved: a whimsical painting to hang in the bedroom, a new flower vase for the foyer table, or maybe the perfect throw blanket for our couch. Carefully curating, purchase by purchase, we made our house a home. Boy, times have changed. The most recent piece of art I purchased was a shockingly insulting portrait of me drawn by my son. He drew me with not two,
but three, chins, lopsided, triangular boobs, and a stomach the size of a small town. And I paid a dollar for it!

When did I relinquish control to my kids? When did
my
house become
their
house?

As if the physical state of my house weren't bad enough, a look at my calendar for any given weekend illustrates just how much power my kids have. I don't recall the last Sunday when each kid didn't have at least one birthday party to attend. God got to rest on Sunday. Why can't I? Add to that Ben's tennis lessons, Lily's sleepovers, and Evan's constant desire to play, and I'm counting the minutes until my shift as chauffeur is over once I drop them off at school on Monday.

Motherhood has also forced me to surrender control over my moods. It doesn't matter what side of the bed I wake up on; the only thing that matters is what side
they
wake up on. This is especially true of Ben. Of all of my children, Ben is the most reliably pleasant. Easy-natured and generally happy, Ben adds a desperately needed dose of serenity to our house. Usually. Every six days or so, my sweet Ben wakes up with a chip on his shoulder that knocks the wind out of me. Maybe it's because he is the middle child. Perhaps it's because his sister and brother demand so much attention that he can never get a word in. Whatever the reason, the kid turns into the devil at least once a week. Regardless of which kid is in a bad mood on any given day, it's totally contagious, and I end up spreading it to Jeff.

One need look no further than a family with young children out for dinner to see just who wears the pants. Sometimes the bargaining is so intense, I feel like I am at a flea market rather than a restaurant. If you eat five bites of chicken, then you can
have french fries, I tell them. Drink your milk and then you can have some lemonade. If you sit still for fifteen minutes you can have dessert. It's awful, but it's a small price to pay to have someone else cook dinner and wash the dishes. I've even resorted to smuggling PB&J sandwiches into restaurants just to get out of the house and then feigning surprise when the kids tell the waiter they're just not hungry.

I've lost count of all the things that were once mine that I am now forced to share with my kids. Lily frequently uses my lip gloss, leaving it uncovered and crusty. Ben insists on hiding all of our television remote controls so his brother and sister can't change the channel when he is watching a show, which might be cute if he ever remembered where he put them. And Evan thinks my new iPhone actually belongs to him.

I can't really pinpoint the exact moment when I relinquished control. Honestly, I don't know if I ever had it—first kids take over your body, then they take over your life. And I suppose I'm okay with that.

After all, I still get to control my husband.