Take Notes!

 Let me start by saying, I think I am usually a pretty nice mom. I spend an hour tucking them all into bed at night. I often read The Very Hungry Caterpillar three times a night, even though I've been sick of reading it since 2006. I play outside with them every day. I often get up at 4 am with O, just because he wants to snuggle (Ok, fine--this is also the only way I will get any sleep. Whatever). I continue to suffer through B's swimming classes because I think it's important for him to learn to swim, though any sane person would have quit after the first week. I count to three before sending my children to their rooms, and I count to ten before locking myself in mine. What more could any child ask for?

This morning, after coming home from Church,  I decided to take NBO to the park and then for haircuts.  Jimmy was working, and it was a beautiful day for the park. N and B also really needed haircuts. Well, so do I, for that matter, but I'm sure mine can wait another year or two. We stopped at the store first, and I paid with cash. The cashier looked at the one hundred dollar bill I handed him, and held it up to the light. Repeatedly. As if he wasn't sure it was real. I looked at him, pointed to the kids, and nicely said, "Really? Does it look like I have time to manufacture money?". He looked at me like that statement was, in fact, proof that I manufacture money. Please. If I had that kind of time on my hands, do you really think I'd be making counterfeit money? Uh, no. If I had time to manufacturing something, I would be making moonshine. In my backyard. And I would not be sharing.

He eventually gave me my change, and we headed to the park. It's 80 and sunny. A perfect day for the park. For most people. For my fair skinned children, it's too hot.  Sorry, I should say it was too hot for my fair skinned whiners. Yup, I just called them whiners. Cause today, they were. From the moment we got out of the car, they whined. It's too hot. I want to ride the scooter. No, I don't want to ride the scooter. I want to ride in the stroller. No, I don't want to ride in the stroller...

We went for a walk on the trail, which is mostly shaded. In spite of this, they proceeded to whine about the heat some more, and then one over tired three-year-old decided that he didn't want to be in the stroller. Or out of the stroller. Or riding the scooter that he insisted we bring. No, he wanted to hang onto the side of the stroller, which his brother was also in, and have me push him. The stroller and two children weights about a hundred pounds. It's hard enough to push when everyone is sitting. It's about impossible to push with one child hanging precariously onto the side. I told him nicely it wasn't happening. He started to get off the stroller, and then saw that his six-year-old sister was vying for his seat in the stroller, so he decided to hold onto the side again. I told him firmly that I can't push the stroller like that. I told the six-year-old that she doesn't need a stroller. They both ignored me.

And then, I had an epiphany. I was done.

I was tired of being a nice mommy. For days, I have been having visions of me, a hotel room, and a bottle of vodka. Although that particular scenario is not an option (at the moment, but that may change. Mother's Day is coming up, after all), Nice Mommy really is long overdue for a sabbatical. I told a certain three-year-old  to get his hiney back in the stroller, or out of the stroller, but to stop hanging onto the side, or we were leaving. He ignored me, and decided to hit his brother instead. Then his sister. I turned around and headed for the car, and informed them that our walk in the park was over (haha! Walk in the park? Whoever coined that expression obviously never took a walk in the park with three kids. There is absolutely nothing about a walk in the park that is a walk in the park). We walked back to the car. B was crying, begging, and pleading to go back to the trail. "Nope. Too late", I informed him. Nice Mommy is officially on sabbatical. Now Mean Mommy's in charge. Didn't see that one coming, did you pal?

As I buckled O into his car seat, B informed me that he was staying there, in the park. Mean Mommy put on her sweetest, fakest Nice Mommy voice, and said "OK, honey, but we're all leaving, so I'm not sure who's going to take care of you. Was there any family in particular that you were thinking of asking?". B changed his mind and decided to get in the car.
"Can I still get a hair cut mommy?" he asked.
"Maybe, " I tell him. "If you are quiet until we get there and don't touch anyone."
N was mysteriously quiet at this point. At one point, she started to say something, looked at me, and apparently changed her mind. Huh.

B promised he would be good. Let me tell you, I have heard that promise before, and he doesn't mean it. Mean Mommy decided that he must learn now that empty promises are unacceptable, lest he try this crap with his wife some day, and ends up divorced, penniless, and living in our basement when he's forty.
I leaned in close to B to make sure he heard me. "Listen to me," I tell him in my calmest Mean Mommy voice, "IF we go get your hair cut, you'd better be nice. No screaming, hitting, yelling, or running. If you don't behave yourself, I don't care if half your hair is cut, I don't care if the scissors are still attached to your hair, and I don't care if you've had time to pick out a toy, we will leave. At that moment". He looks at me and nods. Nice Mommy would probably feel kind of bad. Mean Mommy doesn't.

I noticed a woman walking by. She is young, thin, and wearing coordinated clothing. She does not have a gaggle of children with her. She probably gets her hair cut every six weeks. She probably has time to take long walks in the park every day, and her walks in the park are probably really walks in the park. I finish putting the kids, stroller, scooter, diaper bag, and helmets in the car, stopping only to read B the riot act again when he hits N.

As I get in the drivers seat, I notice that the woman has now stopped, and she is staring at our car. She is also writing in a notebook. I really want to ask her what she writing. My license number? Did she think I was serious about letting B stay here without us? Is she going to report me for child abandonment? Is she reporting me to CPS for denying my kids a hair cut? Maybe she just heard the words "scissors" and "head" and thinks I am threatening them with bodily harm. Or maybe she is writing this down, so when she gets home from her long leisurely walk in the park and her husband says "Honey, isn't it time we thought about having a baby?", she can read him the list of her observations about us before she looks at him sweetly and says, "Hell No".

But no, after thinking about it, I decided it's probably none of those things. Clearly, she was just taking notes, for when she does have her own gaggle of children. 

How to be a Mean Mommy, Chapter One...

So glad I could help.



Thanks for reading! And no...of course he didn't end up getting his hair cut...but not for lack of trying.

Taking the Plunge...

It may or may not surprise you to know that I have mommy guilt. Actually, I have a lot of mommy guilt. It's usually about, well, whatever area that I feel I'm failing in on that particular day, and whichever child I feel has been short changed at that particular moment. That usually means I'm feeling guilty about several areas of life and at least two children on any given day.

Lately, B has been the focus of much of my mommy guilt. When N was small, she had me all to herself for three years. We went to play groups. We went to baby sign language classes. We went to a kids gym. We went to mommy and me swim classes. We went to mommy and me dance classes (if dancing to the Wiggles really counts as dancing). We went to mommy and me gymnastics classes at our Rec Center. (Fortunately, my role in this class was quite limited, as was our time in the class. Apparently, almost head butting the instructors daughter is highly frowned upon. I know-- almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades, right? That's what I thought. But apparently, it counts in gymnastics, too. And no, in case you're wondering, I was not the one who almost head butted her).

Eventually, N went to preschool, and the mommies were no longer welcome in the activities she did. (Of course, I'm still more than welcome to drive her there, and pay for it, and chase two boys around while she participates, but for some reason, once she turned three, my participation was no longer encouraged. But I'm not bitter. Anymore. Most of the time).

When B was a baby, we took one mommy and me swim class. N did not appreciate that she had to play in the shallow end while B and I played "Humpty Dumpty Sat on the Wall" (Huh. Not so fun to be left out, is it?). After six weeks of trying to be attentive to the baby I was holding and the four-year- old who was calling me from the other end of the pool, I gave up. Then we had O, and logistically and financially, our options became even more limited.

I looked into activities for B last year, and some of the classes N had taken just weren't available. They don't offer mommy and me gymnastics at the Rec Center anymore. Coincidence? I think not. Dancing to the Wiggles wasn't even an option.  I took B and O to the library for a while, until it was becoming obvious that B was well over a year past the age cut off for the babies group. When the other parents started giving me dirty looks when he not only took their kids' toys, but rather articulately told them he wasn't giving them back, I thought we should probably stop going before we were kicked out. I mean, I've accepted that, at some point, he will be kicked out of something. But why rush it? I'm sure there will lots of other opportunities for that.

I thought he would start preschool last fall, but that whole "I'm wearing diapers until I'm thirty-five" attitude got in the way of that. A few months ago, I decided to try a free class at the kids' gym N had gone to. I told him that morning that we were going to play. It was going to be so much fun. There were all kinds of kids there. N even went there when she was little. As I excitedly looked at him and said "Doesn't that sound like fun?" He looked at me and said, quite clearly, "No."

I ignored the voice that told me this was not a good idea (Never ignore the voice), and he eventually got in the car, but only after he had gone back in the house to get a hat. The gym is only ten minutes away. Half an hour later, we finally walked through the door. Me, O, and B.  B had finally agreed to get out of the car only if he could wear the hat. Which was actually Jimmy's adult sized ten-year-old baseball cap that said John Deere on it, and it looked every minute of its ten years.

After more coaxing, he agreed to leave the lobby and go into the gym. Where he stood behind me for most of the next thirty minutes. He wouldn't talk. He wouldn't look at anyone. He had zero interest in the other kids, none of whom were wearing a cool, if way too big and disgustingly dirty, John Deere hat like his. At one point, he expressed vague interest in the ball pit, but when the instructor told him it was circle time and not ball pit time, he looked at me and said it was time to go. I thought he probably had a point.

Recently I started feeling guilty again that B has not been involved in nearly as many structured activities as N was at his age. And, since he will be starting preschool in the fall--diapers or no diapers-- he needs to get used to listening to someone besides me (not that you should take that to mean that he listens to me). So, today, I did something very brave, and took him to swim class. This was not a mommy and me swim class. This was all three-year-olds.  I wasn't sure how it would go, but I knew that it was time we tried. I also knew that there was a large sign on the door to the pool that said "NO Parents on deck" which I thought might be a good thing, once he got past the initial adjustment to me not being there.

When B was still clinging to the door and stating "I am NOT going in that pool" five minutes after the class was supposed to start, they asked me to come sit on the deck. Apparently, they made an exception for us. I always knew we were exceptional.

So I sat on the side of the pool, in my sweats, getting soaked, and attempting to hold onto O, who unlike his brother, wanted nothing more than to get in that pool. B, meanwhile, just watched us from the deck before eventually agreeing to get his feet wet. Fortunately, no one else showed up for the class today, which allowed the instructor to spend the entire class focused on B. Good thing, since he would have had to do that anyway.

B eventually warmed up a little and went in up to his knees when the instructor, Mr. Cory, threw water toys to him. In fact, B quite eagerly threw them back. At Mr Cory's head. Repeatedly. I suggested to Mr. Cory that he may want to wear a helmet to their next class. Mr. Cory was a good sport, and encouraged B to walk into the pool to get the toys back. B looked at the toys, looked at Mr. Cory, smiled, and said "No, thanks. You can get them". They repeated this exchange several times, as O tried harder to alternately jump, wiggle, and swim out of my arms and into the pool.

I was beginning to wonder if there would be a point to us coming back next week, or if Mr Cory might suggest that we try something different--like sedatives--when, at the end of the class, B surprised all of us by walking right into the pool, all the way up to his waist.

It just took O throwing his shoes in the pool.

If only I'd known that sooner.

I would have brought a few extra pairs.