update: i'm still a judgy B

I was late to pick up the kids yesterday. This hasn't happened in almost a year but it still makes me feel like nearly 5 years of motherhood is reduced to the 7 minutes late that I am. The kids seemed mostly unfazed though. I said, "I'm SO SORRY guys." And Colby replied, "Sowwy for what, Mama?" So it's not like they were locking this terrible memory away to be shared with therapists twenty years down the road. Or at least, Colby wasn't.

Jack: Mommy, I wish you and daddy didn't have to work on the other side of da fweeway. Den you wouldn't get stuck in twaffic jams. Wouldn't dat be so nice for you?

Me: Yes buddy. That would be amazing. Daddy and I would like nothing more than to live and work right here so we didn't have to get stuck in traffic jams. 

J: It would also be gweat if you guys could just have work but no meetings. Den you could finish your work faster and den me and Cowby could be da fuhst ones to get picked up instead of being da last ones all da time. :(((

And just to seal those gems into my Mother of the Year crown:

Text to DM: 6:07. It's gonna cost us some scarred psyches and $30 bucks. And now I am going to buy them In-N-Out and send them to bed bathed in french fry grease.
DM: Sounds like what I would do.
Me: Well, parental continuity is very important for children.

Anyway, this post is not really about that. It's about how I think I'm a nice person and a reformed judger but I'm not, I'll always be "in recovery."

So, as I pulled up to the school at 6:07pm, another car screeched into the spot next to me. She started running to the door but I was closer so I got there first. As I repeatedly tried to open the door with my fob, she angrily complained, "Oh my GOD, c'mon!" I told her she was welcome to try her hand at it, so she shoved herself in front of me and started jabbing her keys at the fob-reader thing, unsuccessfully. Apparently, it doesn't work after 6pm. One of the preschool teachers walks over and lets us in and this woman just brushes past everyone and grabs her daughter, saying (to whom?) "I have two other kids to pick up! We have to go!"

Apparently this was her first rodeo because she didn't realize that if you arrive even one second after 5:59:59, you start paying by the minute, and you have to sign the "consent to charge me for sucking at motherhood" form, in triplicate, before they will let you leave. (But, you get to keep the yellow copy to put in your Shitty Mom scrapbook!) This lady was huffing and puffing and getting seven sorts of pissy and I was having extremely unsympathetic thoughts toward her during this interlude. She was wearing riding pants and boots that had obviously just been used for their intended purpose, and I thought to myself, "Woman, you need to chill. Why are your jodhpurs in a bunch, anyway?! Because your riding lesson on your faithful steed at your fancy stable in Del Mar ran long? Puh-lease."

Then, this woman's face crumbled...  it just folded into itself, on no volition of its owner. And she began to cry. She scribbled her name on the charge slip, choked out "I just hate this!" and ran out the wrong door, dragging her daughter behind her, setting off the fire alarm in the process.

And I felt like a giant dick.

Why is my lateness any more righteous than hers? Who cares if she was getting a luxurious spa treatment and I was stuck in rush hour traffic after working all day? The truth of the matter is, I chose to be late. Or at least, I allowed that to be a possibility. Don't get me wrong, sometimes shit happens that is beyond our control and we're late and that sucks. But usually it's because we know good and damn well we're probably not going to make it in time, and we decide that whatever we're doing right now is worth the risk of tardiness. Yesterday, I looked at Google Maps. I saw that traffic was atrocious (because of the goddamn horses at Del Mar, incidentally). But two of my bosses came in to talk to me at 4:51 and 4:59, respectively, and I made the conscientious decision that the chance of disappointing my kids by being a few minutes late was a lesser evil than disappointing two senior partners in one fell swoop. Because I feel like as soon as I open my mouth to explain, 'Yes, I have been staying later but today I can't because my husband had a hearing in LA and my kids have to be picked up by 6 and traffic sucks balls because of the races and this CRAZY ASS weather and by the way WHY are So-Cal people fundamentally incapable of driving in the rain?! Even like, mist totally fucks them up..." I'm dead in the water. Just stamp "MOM" across my forehead, stuff some sticky used tissues and Hot Wheels in my purse and call it a day. And ultimately, it doesn't matter who/what/when/where/why. I let my kids down. So did she. We both lose.

But, the good news is, they'll probably survive. And, again, life is life and we have to make tough decisions and do our best to navigate these shark infested waters...

Wait. Dude. Sharks. Holy fuck.



Also this:

Sharkaphobia solution for our upcoming vacation to the Outer Banks.

Okay. Sorry. Got sidetracked for a minute there.

ANYWAY. My point is, I am a recovering a$$hole. And you and me and she and we are not so very different from one another. Do you ever blow it, as a parent, partner, employee, whatever? And you just feel so ridiculous and ashamed, and then that makes you feel defensive and angry, and all of these feelings are just fighting in your face and then it implodes and these dumb embarrassing tears and weird choking seal sounds come out of your head and everything is terrible? Ten times more so because everyone is LOOKING AT YOU like, "Uhhh, is everything alright?" And/or, "Do you need immediate medical attention?" Well, I at least know one other person with whom I share this unfortunate tendency. And I can tell you from experience she is judging herself harshly enough, she does not need that shit from me or anyone else.

Practice makes perfect :)

just try your best, mama

i worry, probably more than a healthy amount, that i may be ruining my children's lives. from the petty stuff, like not choosing the right cup or pair of socks, to the legit stuff like deciding when to send them to kindergarten, practically poisoning them with my cooking, stashing them at preschool for nine hours a day five days a week, or shutting myself in the bathroom because i don't have the emotional wherewithal to withstand yet another meltdown. but then i try to console myself and say, "they're 2 (almost 3!) and 4. they're not even going to remember any of this. it's not like i'm causing long-term psychological damage. they'll be fine."

well. my son recently brought this hypothesis into question. the other night i was driving with the kids in the car and we were running late to pick up the dog from doggy daycare. jack was lamenting from the back seat, "i feel so bad for Feta. she is pwobly so SAD dare all by hersewf." dear lord. i responded that yes, it was sad, but she would probably survive and we would just have to give her lots of extra love when we got home. 

then he says, "wemembow dat time when i was the vewy last one to get picked up in my fwee-year-old cwass? i was vewy, vewy sad." (you might remember this from my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, which, by the way, was six months ago.) he went on, "i was just sitting dare all by myself eating a cheese stick dat wasn't even cold anymore because i was so hungwy, and i almost cwied." oh sweet jesus. stab me in the heart. bring me a hair shirt. and some bleach for my motherly conscience which may very well never be clean again. 

i told him i was still so, so, so sorry that happened, and that i will try really, really hard to make sure that doesn't ever happen again, but sadly, there's a chance it might. jack said, "you just need to make sure you get there a wittow earlier, dat's all, mama." i said i will do my best, but things don't always go as planned, life happens, blah blah blah. he sagely replied "well, it's okay if you are late, maybeee... free or four more times until i'm twenty." i said alright. then he added "you just need to twy a wittow harder, okay?" me, trying not to laugh/cry/drive off the road, "okay bud. i will." jack: "just twy your best, 'kay mama? dat's all i can ask you to do." thanks, son. i'll do that. i promise. 

* Just don't be late again.
Ever. ;)

ps. on the subject of mom guilt and comparisons and so on and so forth - julie, one of my most favorite imaginary friends, is challenging people to make a "mommitment" to end mom wars. amen, sister. in the wise words of my four-year-old (who was possibly plagiarizing pete-the-cat), we're all doing our best, and that's all we can ask - of ourselves, and one-another.

Next Life, No Kids

pps. people keep asking me what a hair shirt is. click here to find out.

absentee parents

In my last post about redshirting, I claimed I wasn't angry. But I am, a little bit. I was speaking with another mom, who happens to be an elementary school teacher, about the whole redshirting issue. She feels that "parents these days" hand over too much responsibility for the enrichment and education of their children to the school system, and said, in so many words, "If parents did their job, kids would be ready for kindergarten by the time they were 5."

Alright, lady. Slow your roll. Now, don't get me wrong. I feel like being a teacher is super f*cking hard and I give them mad props for the work that they do. I'm sure our collective shortcomings as parents don't make their jobs any easier. But. I am doing my job(s). ALL of them. Mother. Wife. Lawyer. Google Doctor. F*cking Awful Chef. Ill-prepared teacher-of-things. Incompetent laundress. Housekeeper. Dog-walker. Unfortunately, having nineteen jobs means I am a less-than-stellar employee across the board. This dilemma raises a few questions/concerns:

a) When in the Sam Hill are we supposed to be teaching our kids to read/write/etc?

Look. I love books. Books are probably my fourth favorite thing in the world. My children do, too. They have a ton of them and we "read" together every single night. My kids memorize books and pretend they're reading like pros. But actual reading? Not so much. Barring the geniuses who teach themselves to read with the New York Times at three, I'm assuming it takes some serious time and effort. And I just don't have that.

Here's my weekday:

If I leave when I'm supposed to in order to get to work on time, I don't see my kids. I'm often running late so I have time for some fly-by snuggles before I go. I work for 8 hours. (And if I don't, for whatever reason, spend 8 full hours in the office, I make it up on my own time.) Keep in mind that this is considered "part time" for lawyers. I get in early so I can leave early, and I get paid half what the "real lawyers" do for the luxury of leaving in time to pick up my kids before the preschool closes. Not a day goes by without someone giving me grief for leaving, some time between 4 and 5, after I have put in the 8 hour day that I am paid for. To them, leaving at this time of day might as well be leaving at lunch. They think I'm on permanent "vacation." Little do they know, after an hour at home, I would happily return to work, free of charge!

I drive home. It's 27 miles, but in traffic, it can take anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes. I didn't mind this so much when I was listening to Serial, and I do get to witness some wicked pretty sunsets, but most days it makes me want to die, not least because if I leave any later than 4:29, there is a good chance I am racing the clock and praying to my non-denominational deity that I get there by 5:59. Thanks to the grace of my non-denominational deity, I have only been late once.

Because taking photographs while driving on the freeway is frowned upon,
I stalked pics on Instagram. It's hard to be too bummed on life when this is your view.

Then I pick up my newest baby from doggie daycare because I am that white. Also because I like my shoes and my furniture, and am willing to take measures to see that Feta is too tired to consume new items daily.

My work here is done.
(She sleeps like this sometimes.)
FYI, this pic is a few weeks old. We do not still have our Christmas tree up. Mainly because we had company ;)

We get home somewhere between 5:30 and 6:15. I feed the kids a healthy snack (not because I'm super healthy, but because if I feed them junk food, they are that much less likely to eat their dinner (which is already 10:1 odds)). Also because I am slow as f*ck at cooking and it will probably be an hour before dinner is served. I try to be "fun and engaged mom"-slash-"WWF referee" while simultaneously cooking a nutritious meal that my kids will not eat. I usually serve said nutritious meal between 6:15 and 7:00. They do not eat it. Colby can often be bribed and/or hand-fed like a motherless baby llama. On the other hand, Jack can be threatened upon punishment of death, and still will not eat. Nine times out of ten, it is a painful, tear-filled, tantrum inducing debacle for all parties involved. Seriously. There are so, so, so many other terrible things that I would rather do than endure the ninth rung of hell that is trying to get my kids to eat dinner.

Only slightly less painful is trying to get them to brush their teeth, get in the bath, get soaped and scrubbed and shampooed without the neighbors alerting the authorities, and get into their PJs. It's like a three-ring circus populated by deranged monkeys. If we're lucky, it's 7:30 by the time we're finished with that mess on wheels, but Lady Luck is seldom on our side, and it's usually closer to 8. Then we sit down and watch some inane cartoon for 22 minutes. I suppose I could use this time for educational activities instead, but honestly, I need this as much as the kids do. It allows them to calm the f*ck down, and me to gather the last shreds of my sanity.

Then comes the royal coronation jubilee that is bedtime, including three books, fresh fruit, and ice water (with FOUR ice cubes, chilled to exactly 52 degrees Fahrenheit). On a good day, they're in bed by 8:30. Contrary to those chipper bumper stickers, they're not all good days.

Except when they're sick, tired, hungry, it's Tuesday, I served something other than plain pasta or chicken nuggets for dinner, I gave him a GREEN cup, I gave her a SHORT fork, there's not a new Paw Patrol on the DVR, their favorite PJs are in the wash, their favorite PJs today are not the same ones that were their favorite PJ's yesterday, she doesn't have blue eyes, he doesn't have curly hair, I did not pronounce "Millenium Falcon" like Daddy does...

I am scared - TERRIFIED - of the day when my kids have actual school work. I can barely get them to bed before 9pm when all I have to do is feed and bathe them. WHEN is homework supposed to happen?

On the weekends we have some free time, but I feel so bad about how little time I spend with them during the week, and how un-fun a lot of that time is, that the last thing I want to do is sit them down and play teacher. I work it in when I can (e.g., Jack loves his Star Wars letters and numbers practice books), but really, on the weekends, we just want to have fun.

a1) A subset of this is the "Play 60" movement: get your kids outside, help offset the childhood obesity epidemic, and so on and so forth. I recently read an article, "The REAL reason why your children fidget." It's actually a really good article. But. The take-home is that they're fidgeting because they're not getting enough exercise. Kids "need hours of outdoor play in order to establish a healthy sensory system and to support higher-level attention and learning in the classroom."

Well, shit. Hopefully they're getting some of that at school because they're certainly not getting it at home. I guess this (along with academic enrichment) is supposed to happen with the voodoo magic where I turn 2 hours into 8 hours without the earth spinning off its axis into a black hole? In the summer, they can squeeze in an hour of play outside while I attempt to cook/reheat an edible meal. But now? It's dark by the time we get home. And sure, maybe they engage in half an hour of wrestle-mania in the living room. But if my kids' utter inability to keep their butts on their seats during dinner is any indication, it is not enough.

What are working parents to do? If this is really what kids need, then the entire system needs to be overhauled. Job-sharing, second shift, whatever... something's gotta give.

b) Not that this is a bad thing, but, I feel like parents are expected to be WAY more involved nowadays than our parents were. (Which reminds me of this hilarious post - Back to School: The 70s vs. Today.) I cannot IMAGINE my mom (or either of my dads) coming to my class to read a book or host a class party. They all worked full time. They, too, rushed to fetch their children from daycare by 5:59. My mom drove on one singular field trip in junior high (of which I have amazing memories), and said she would never do it again because it sucked that she was expected to hang out and make small talk with the other parents when she really wanted to ride the rides with us ;) She didn't send gluten-and-sugar-free- or cupcakes of any kind to school for my birthday until I was old enough to inform her that this was something that "should" be done, and then, by her logic, I was old enough to bake them myself! And I did!

I get weekly, sometimes even daily emails from teachers and class moms urging me to come to my kids' classrooms to read books, play a musical instrument, discuss our family traditions and cultural heritage, volunteer for the Book Faire, attend the PTA meeting, make memory books, schedule playdates, attend 22 birthday parties, etc.

And I WANT to be that mom. I really, really do. I don't play any musical instruments, but I can craft the shit out of things, scour Pinterest for the neatest toddler activities, and bake a mean zucchini-sweet potato muffin. Here's the hang-up, though. I'm already getting serious side-eye for leaving work "early" in order to pick my kids up at the very last minute from preschool. Monthly requests to ditch out on work so I can make quinoa-macaroni necklaces with my kids' classes is definitely frowned upon. To say nothing of the plethora of other obligations that need to occur during business hours, such as doctor and dentist appointments, dry cleaning, car repairs, carpet cleaning, physical therapy so I can fix my knee so I can actually exercise (in all my free time), and those inevitable sick days.

I guess this all just goes back to the recurring theme of the supersized helpings of mom guilt being served daily. It's a personal pet peeve of mine. Can't we all just agree that the vast majority of us are doing the absolute best that we can, and that is gonna damn well have to be good enough? Mmmkay? Thanks! Buh-bye!

P.S. I swear I start out every post and it's like, a paragraph, and then somehow I blink and it's a novella. Sorry 'bout that.

sorry not sorry

i read this article on slate a week or two ago. it was titled "'my life is a waking nightmare' - why do parents make parenting sound so godawful?" in case you can't tell from the title, the author ruth graham is complaining about the "uterus-shriveling posts" of "mommy bloggers" that she feels compelled to read while luxuriating in long, quiet bubble baths. and i get where she's coming from. i really do. before i had kids, the only thing i found more annoying than people gushing about the wonder of pregnancy, child birth and motherhood was people bitching about how hard it is to be a parent. i was like, hey, there's a pill for that! it's called birth control! (editor's note: said pill doesn't work unless you take it as instructed.)

graham also makes a decent point toward the end about the way that the faux "worst mom ever/parenting sucks/my kids are a-holes" genre, written primarily by "good" middle class moms, skews the public perception and draws attention away from real parenting problems. which kind of reminds me of an ex-boyfriend who would tell me, whenever i complained about anything, that i should be thankful i didn't have cancer and or lose my arms in a freak accident. and again. i get it. i've said it myself. we should "choose joy" when we can. but a gal can only step on so many legos before she snaps, you know? and the internet is kind of like your local indulgent late-night bartender, serving you another cold one, pretending to give a shit about your problems, and calling you an uber.

anyway, nobody is holding a gun to your head and making you read this crap. (the same can be said of me reading her post, i guess, or facebook arguments about how global warming is fake and obama is a knyan terrorist... and i know sometimes it's like watching a train wreck, you can't NOT read the stuff. but if it bothers you THAT much, maybe try? i know i do, for the sake of my own mental and physical health.) we'll leave for another day and/or professional therapy the issue of why any of us feel the need to write about our joys or sorrows at length in such a public forum.

this post was shared over 6000 times on facebook and has almost 1000 comments. it induced shock waves of "mom guilt" throughout the mommy blogger scene. (see, e.g., "you know it happens at your house too," whose author felt so bad after reading graham's article, she wrote a post of her own titled "parenting is," detailing the joys and challenges of parenting and attempting justify/explain the "inappropriate parenting humor and foul language" of the (anti)mommy-blog set.) and i get that too. one of my "child-free" friends once said that sometimes he wants kids but then he reads my emails and changes his mind. i felt sooooooo awful. my husband is always telling me to keep my yap shut around people who have yet to experience the "joys" of parenthood: "yeah, it's hard as f*ck, and they'll find that out soon enough. just let them live out these last halcyon days in ignorant bliss." i emailed all my friends who didn't have kids at the time, apologizing and trying to explain the simultaneous heaven-and-hell that is parenthood. (i discuss it at length in another post - the biggest mistake you will never regret.) one of my friends wrote back and said, "you are on crack. get off your high horse if you think your crazy ass ramblings have any actual bearing on our decision whether or not to have children." my other friend wrote, "have you always been this insane? or did the kids do this to you? i will add your points to my list of the pros and cons of procreation." ha. okay. point taken.

however, at the end of the day, you can take bubble baths and naps and buy pretty things with your expendable income and sit on the toilet without someone providing a running commentary of your bodily emissions and the "furriness" of your vagina, so i am unable to muster a whole hell of a lot of sympathy at this exact moment in time.

anyway. sometimes parenting can be difficult:

or disastrous:

or just plain shitty:

but it's not all bad. just look at the potential:

photo source: awkwardfamilyphotos.com