No matter what you say, it's a shitty job.

When you become a mother, there are hundreds of things that no one warned you about.  The bleeding nipples, the constant worrying, how you can both love and want to strangle your child at the same time.  For me, ALL OF MOTHERHOOD was a shock because I never really paid attention when people with kids talked before. 

But the thing that I am finding the most surprising, or perhaps the most difficult to deal with is that it has made very clear exactly what my mother did right.  Lately though, it is becoming more and more obvious what she did wrong.  Not that I didn't already go through therapy for a hundred years and deal with all my Mommy blame issues.  Up until recently, I really thought I had forgiven her.  I had decided that I was going to just use what I knew to not make the same mistakes with my child.   And I do a really good job of providing Lila with structure where I had none.

There are plenty of things that I already knew about my mother.  My mother (just like I do) suffered from a debilitating depression through most of my childhood.  Because of this, she had little patience for my greedy desire for attention and would disappear at night to see her friends to be someone else for a few hours and forget her problems.  The depression also made it hard for her to commit me to anything.  No instrument lessons or dance or extra-curricular activities because committing me meant a commitment for her. I also know that she never pushed me, never gave me chores, never taught me to sat goals, never gave me boundaries.  I always just slid by.  I was smart.  I was pretty.  I was a kid and didn't know that I was lacking life skills because I was always able to talk myself out of any setback. 

As a mother suffering from depression, I often find that I am too overwhelmed or exhausted to hear another whiny plea for a toy.  I desperately want to just give in and let Lila watch TV all day and eat whatever the hell she wants because it is REALLY FUCKING HARD to sit there any listen to her cry when I ask her to do the things she needs to do.  But I don't.  Because my job as a parent doesn't allow me to.  And as much as I want to take a handful of Xanax and walk away sometimes, I CAN'T.  I understand the avoidance and withdrawal that my mother needed in order to preserve what little energy her illness left her with each day.  I understand how much easier it would be to just decide I don't really care and just give in.  It is easier to see your child happy than unhappy.  I forgive her for feeling that way.  Because I feel that way every day.

My mother is long recovered from her depression.  She found medication that keeps the worst of it away and has worked out some of her own demons with a therapist.  But here's the thing.  As my child's daycare provider, the person who Lila spends several hours each day, my mother STILL does all these things.  And it fucking infuriates me.

All the things that I demand of my child, all the ways that I try to mould her into a well-behaved, appreciative, cooperative kid is undone every single day.  It seems that each time I pick her up, there is some argument with my mother because she has again disregarded my wishes and given something or allowed Lila to do something I have told her not to.

For example, (and believe me, this is just one) Lila was getting stomach aches.  It occurred to me that she ate grilled cheese sandwiches a lot and those give ME stomach aches.  So I told my mother not to give her any for the entire week to see if she still has stomach aches.  And what did Lila have for lunch THE DAY AFTER I told my mother this?  A MOTHERFUCKING GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH.  And when I asked my mother why the hell she gave Lila a grilled cheese sandwich, she shrugged and said, "that's what she wanted for lunch."  I often have to remind my mother that Lila is 4.  She wants an elevator in her bedroom closet and wants to get a pet Lion.  Four year olds are not allowed to make every decision in their lives.  That's why they need babysitters.

Of course, my mother maintains that she does these kinds of things because she is a GRANDMOTHER and that grandmothers are supposed to spoil their grand kids, which would be fine if Lila went over there once a month.  But that's not even the point.  Little things like this only remind me of why as an adult, I have such a hard time with moderation and why I am  (illogically) crushed if I cannot get people to give me the things I want. 

I have posted a few blogs about my mother spoiling Lila, and you will find plenty of examples here,
here, and also here of how my mother refuses to listen to me with regard to how I choose to raise my child.  In her mind, I turned out just fine and so she must have done things right.  BUT I DID NOT TURN OUT FINE!!!  I am selfish (I was given whatever I asked for), I am lazy and unmotivated (there was never an incentive for doing anything or a punishment for not doing it) , I am very smart but cannot finish anything (no one ever made sure I did)  and I have always been an underachiever (how do you push yourself if no one ever pushed you to do ANYTHING you said you didn't want to do?).  Additionally, it never clicked that other people actually SET GOALS for the things they wanted to do and worked toward them until I was 26.  I always just had things "happen" to me.  Don't even get me started about money problems (my parents' view of money and credit are seriously fucking ridiculous - my mother believes in signing up for every credit card that she possibly can, and then maxing them out and making the minimum payments because "I won't be around that long anyway.  I might as well get the things I want now before I'm dead.  NO I AM NOT JOKING). 

(I have already posted about how shitty I am as an adult HERE)

I KNOW that she gave these things to me. I blame her because my father just went along with whatever my mother said.  And at some point in my mid-twenties, I realized that it was no longer her responsibility and it was up to me to try to change these deficiencies.  And I really thought I had forgiven her because when I became a mother (and subsequently a mother with depression), I UNDERSTOOD why she did the things she did. 

But I look at myself with Lila and I can't help but to be angry at my mother.  Because I don't want to have to instill those things in her.  I don't have any idea how to, because I suck at them myself.  In fact,  I want to be left the hell alone most of the time.  But I know what I have to do.  This isn't some transcendental knowledge or wisdom that I have.  This is what fucking parenting is.  It is all about responsibility.  It is about loving someone enough to do what they NEED even of they fucking hate you for it.  It is filled with difficulty and discomfort and headaches and insanity.  But that's all just the basic part of the job.

Why did she do what was easy with me?  And why does she refuse to listen when I try to tell her that love is not just buying Lila toys and letting her throw several blobs of raw cookie dough at the ceiling so she can laugh when it sticks (nope, not kidding about that either).  It is about setting limits so that she knows what to expect.  It is about making sure she is getting the foods she needs to grow and learn and feel good. It is about telling her that you will not tolerate bad behavior because you don't want her to grow up to be a total asshole.  She does not understand this.  She says she does, but she reverts to the things that I described the next day. 

This makes me feel disappointed in her.  I am disappointed that she didn't do better with me.  I am disappointed that she never bothered.  I am disappointed that she thinks love is about temporary happiness, even if it destroys the future potential.  I am just so fucking sad about it. 

The Shit List is back.

I am in a foul mood lately.  It might be because of all the Christmas music that is being subliminally transmitted in my brain to make me feel guilty about not feeling all "Christmas-ish".  In order to get that much more into the holiday spirit, I am going to just put a bunch of annoying things on notice. 

First up, Haircuts. Since I moved back to Upstate NY 4 years ago, I haven't had a good haircut. The last time(earlier this week), I wanted to cut my shoulder-length hair short so I showed the lady this picture:

I always, ALWAYS hate the way they style it, so when I looked in the mirror and saw myself with short hair, I figured it was just the gel (yes, GEL.  Welcome back to the 90's) the lady put in it and that would look super cute once I got home and did it myself.  I showered and blow dried my hair and this is what I looked like:

I have been to 4 different places and no one seems to be able to do what the students at the Tony and Guy academy in Phoenix could do.  And they were still learning!

Next on the Shit list are My ghetto "friends" on Facebook, who feel the need to play out all their super-ghetto drama RIGHT THERE ON the Facebook. Seriously.  NO ONE cares about your ex- boyfriend's drug charges or your cousin, who (did the world a favor and) ratted you to DSS for getting your teenage daughter high. Especially if it is going to lead to a 43 comment battle between you and the person you intended your passive aggressive comment for.  Here's a little quiz for you:
Do you know why our parents' generation would never put their business out there for the neighbors to see?  No, not because they're lame and there was no Facebook.  It's because they aren't assholes and they knew their neighbors would just think they were trashy.  (Yes, I realize some of us have parents who probably WOULD do this.  I guess I am thinking about NORMAL parents).

Next up:  The commercial I heard today.   I was driving today and heard a commercial on the radio that said, "If you give a tablet or smart phone this Christmas, the person you give it to will know that you REALLY get them."  And my immediate reaction is that are really only a few situations where someone gives a $500 tablet or a $300 smart phone are as follows:

• Parents giving it to their teens, in which case they will NEVER feel you REALLY get them,
• A spouse or boy/girlfriend giving one to a significant other in which case THAT'S WHY YOU'RE WITH THEM! Or
• A guy trying REALLY hard to get into a girl's pants.  Hey, I'm not judging.  You go girl!
• A "friend" who gives extravagant gifts, in which case please friend me on Facebook. 

Finally, there's my kid.  I know that there is strong evidence that indicates that children "KNOW" when something is off with one or both of their parents.  This causes them to throw hissy-fits and be total assholes when you are least able to handle it.  A few weeks ago I would have told you that Lila had magically transformed into a perfect little well-behaved model child. And then one day while we were having lunch, she bit her tongue and turned into Satan.  Yup.  Just like that.  And she has been behaving like a caged animal who wants out ever since.  You know why? Because I have been really stressed out at work and am exhausted when I come home.  She knows.

But here's the question:  If they KNOW that you are not really feeling at your best, then why don't they act WELL BEHAVED when you are stressed out, and like animals the rest of the time when you don't mind it so much?  What the hell, Darwin.  Shouldn't that be a survival skill that would prove beneficial to their species?  Maybe then mother hamsters wouldn't eat their babies.  This just proves that kids are stupid.

Of course this is no where near a comprehensive list, but I have to go and attend to my screaming kid now.

The Ghost Mother

Sometimes I feel like a ghost. 

I have been struggling with my depression again and as always it threatens to asphyxiate me and drown out all the good that lives in me. 

But no one ever tells you that when you are a mother and you have depression, you do not get to suffer alone.  The thing you love, the thing that keeps you from being lost completely in the abyss suffers too.

Having a mother with depression is like being forced to be psychic.  You never know what is going to make her angry.  You never know who is going to greet you when you come home.  You never know if there is going to be someone to take care of you or if you are going to have to figure it out yourself again.  This was MY experience.  My mother was depressed.

And against everything I swore I would never be as a parent, this is slowly becoming my daughter's experience as well.

I feel like I am depriving her.  Her mother doesn't want to play.  She doesn't want to go anywhere.  She can't muster the energy many days to leave the house.  And when she does, the rest of the day is shot, because she only has so much patience and will to burn.  She loses her cool when the kid is just being a kid. 

And the more I feel guilty about being sick, the more I want to withdraw - to not subject her to me.  And this makes me more guilty and feeds into this twisted circle that is quickly becoming something of a spiral or a whirlpool dragging me down to God knows where.

The meds have not been helping so I keep going back begging for some kind of help.  "We'll find something that works for you," the doctor said to me today.  But it's hard to watch what I am doing to my kid while the battle wears on. 

And then there's the fear.  The fear and worry that I am scarring her for life.  That I am unable to teach her some essential survival skills that will keep her from succumbing to the same pitfalls and setbacks the threw me into the pit and left me there for dead.  I don't want her to have to ever feel this way.  But if history is any indication, my fears will be realized no matter how hard I work to prevent them.

It is hard to hold out hope for a turnaround.  It is hard when most of the medications and therapies have just led to brief remissions and when substantial lifestyle changes have been sidetracked by this unbearable lethargy.  But I have no choice.  I have my little girl to look after.  She keeps me from being able to give up.  I HAVE to get out of bed.  I HAVE to face the day.  I HAVE to make dinner even when it hurts and is overwhelming just to stand at the stove and stir a pot.  Even when I suck to be around.  She still needs me.

I just hope she will forgive me for all the lost time.

Where else would I vent

Being poor sucks.  Seriously.  Being poor but not poor enough to qualify for State health insurance is even worse.  Because it forces you to have to do stupid things for medical care.

I have been going to a community health center. 

When I first went there I was happy I found it because I was really sick and I wouldn't have to mortgage my kid to get some antibiotics.  Granted, it is in a terrifying part of town and filled with people who smell bad and look worse, but it was cheap and these were actual real doctors who were willing to see me without an up front cash payment.

But as time has gone on, the gratefulness has worn off.  I am pretty sure they have no idea what they are doing and I am not getting anything close to decent health care.

I have Major Depression.  I have been struggling with it on and off for most of my life and in the last 6 months I have been especially dragged down and lethargic.  I am medicated but it isn't working and the waiting list for the Psychiatrist at the health center is (literally) 10 months. 

I have been getting my prescription needs met by a very nice but extremely young (he may not be legal) Physicians Assistant that we will call Aaron. 

My doctor.

Aaron is terrified of me because he knows absolutely NOTHING about psychiatric medications and I have a long and tumultuous history with them.  When I first went to him, I was having withdrawals because I had run out of my meds while waiting for my mail-order supply to come from Canada (yes, it's legal).  And he was happy to write me the script. 

The next time he saw me, I told him that the drugs that I was on weren't working and he upped the dosage.  The next time he added something else to the mix.  He has tested me for Thyroid problems and Anemia and finally today I told him that he has to prescribe me something else because this shit is NOT working for me and I can't be lethargic and miserable all day every day because I am going to lose my family and my job like this.

So, he nervously agrees to put me BACK on a high dosage of Prozac until I can get into the Psychiatry department where I only have about 4 months left to wait. 

But here's the thing.  He wants me OFF the shit I am on entirely before I start the minimal dosage of the Prozac.  I told him this is a huge mistake.  I told him that I will not survive the transition if my previous experience of going off the meds is any indication of the potential for problems.  He told me that he has to be cautious and that there is no other way.  I told him that as someone who has been through the transition, I know that this is dangerous and I will likely end up at the very least traumatizing my kid and losing my job and in the most likely situation will end up hospitalized.  He told me to come back in 6 weeks and to call him if I have any problems, which is easier said than done because when you call there you essentially just get transferred around until you end up on a line that rings forever.

When I went to make my 6 week follow up appointment, the girl gives me a date exactly 2 months from today.  I say to her, "that's more than 6 weeks," to which she replies, "well it's two months...and there's 3 weeks in a month.".

"No, there's 4 weeks in a month, and July and August are long months," I reply.

She gives me this look like she is going to slap me and says, "there's 3 weeks in a month...give or take." 

What the hell am I supposed to say to that?  So I shut up and take my appointment card knowing that I am getting bad advice from my doctor and that the staff is stupid and incompetent. 

I don't feel good about this at all.  What the fuck am I supposed to do? 

Then there's this:

Mean Evil Morning Mommy

Every morning it is exactly the same thing.  Lila gets up and goes downstairs and a few minutes later I come clomping exhaustedly down the same stairs barely awake and heavy with sleep and Lila comes RUNNING to me excitedly trying to jump up onto me for a hug as if we had been apart for the length of a prison sentence or something.

Most times I barely catch her and she throws herself at one leg contentedly rubbing the side of her face against me as I struggle to keep my balance.  I pay her no mind as I limp steadily to the kitchen to make myself coffee.  I admit it - My cup of coffee is the only thing that makes me capable of putting up with the absurd amount of streaming energy that the kid has first thing in the morning.

I remember KNOWING that I was not allowed to ask my mother for ANYTHING until she had a few minutes to sit down with her cup of coffee and have a few sips in peace.  I knew it.  I understood that if I did ask for anything I would get a response like this:

That's my mother before her morning coffee.

I just KNEW this...as far back as I remember.  So why is it that MY kid, as whip smart as she is, feels the need to help me start my day with demands for 10 different cartoons, none of which are on right now and specific pieces of cereal with a certain very measured amount of milk, when I can barely function enough to remember to flush the toilet?  Have I not traumatized her enough to make her understand that Mommy needs her coffee first?  Do I have to turn into this EVERY morning:

Because no matter how many times I say nicely "just give Mommy a few minutes to wake up" I get the same whining and complaining and demanding which always turns me into the evil Mommy who won't feed her child. 

Is it wrong that I just need like 15 minutes?  Seriously.  Just long enough to brew a pot of coffee, sit down have like 5 sips so that I can be more like this:

Yes...It DOES.

I have a problem of feeling very alone sometimes, surrounded by women who LOVE being moms.  So every now and then I google "motherhood sucks".  I am rarely disappointed.  Today I found this blog and wanted to share it with you.


The worst mother

Motherhood Sucks. And then you DON’T die.

By the WORST mother


Yeah, you heard me.

MOTHERHOOD SUCKS!

With a capital M-O-T-H-E-R-H-O-O-D-S-U-C-K-S

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why are moms so afraid to admit this? Oh, that’s right, I know….

BECAUSE REAL MOMS LOVE EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF BEING A MOTHER.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

WAKING.

MOMENT.

So, does that mean there is something wrong with ME?

You all know I disagree totally with this whole thing.  NO!  There's NOTHING wrong with you!  IT FUCKING SUCKS 90% of the time. 

I love this:

Luckily she does come to a new and better conclusion:

Seriously.  Go check her out.  Mention you found her through me and I will be forever thankful.

CLICK HERE
or go to:
http://theworstmother.wordpress.com/ 

-Selena

Ancient History: 5 B.C.

I was sitting in a McDonald's with Lila the other day and overheard a woman talking about the good old days.  Back in B.C.  Before Children.

Let's take a little stroll through history, shall we?

All that's left of my life Before Children

5 years B.C. I could wake up on Sunday morning and have the whole day in front of me.  The house would be quiet and the newspaper would be waiting for me.  I would leisurely drink my coffee and peruse the paper and carefully weigh all the possibilities for the day ahead.  Those days are gone.

In 5 B.C. I could get a phone call at 7pm on a Friday and be out the door in half an hour for a night on the town where I dressed sexy and got hit on all night by various attractive men offering to buy me drinks in the hopes that I would go home with them.  That's over too.

That's me on the left in blue at a rave in 2001

In 5 B.C. if I was sick, I stayed in bed all day.  Sometimes a friend or even my mom would come over to take care of me.  I could watch movies or read or just sleep.  Not so much anymore.

In 5 B.C. I worked to buy myself nice clothes, shoes, a car, and to support my habit of buying more books than I could read.  I worked so that I could go out and eat with friends or offer to pay on dates.  I always had money left over after paying my bills even though it was just me and no roommates.  So much for that.

Me in my slutty clothes

In 5 B.C. I lived alone.  The only mess to clean up was mine (and MiMi, my cat's).  I hardly cooked because it's no fun to cook for yourself and so I ate a lot more fast food, and yet never managed to gain any weight.

In 5 B.C. I had perfect boobs, a flat stomach and minimal cellulite.  I showed off my body and if I chose to I could even sleep around if the mood struck me.  Just because I was a hot young thing.  I'm not anymore.

Me at dawn. I was 22 here.

Today, Sunday mornings are loud and my day is left in her hands.  It's impossible to have spontaneous plans pop up because I don't have a spur-of-the-moment babysitter and even if I did, I am so exhausted by the end of the day that I rarely stay up past 9pm.  If I'm sick, too bad.  Mom's don't get to call in sick.  I work to buy my kid nice things.  So that she can leave them all over the house for me to clean up.  Today my boobs are heading south, my ass is expanding to unclaimed frontiers and there is a roundness to me that I can barely identify.  It isn't pretty or sexy and I cannot remember the last time I thought about sex.

It's not that there aren't good points,  Lila is the joy of my life in so many ways.  But seriously, when you put it on paper it really makes me yearn for the good old ancient days of B.C.

 

(All photos were the result of a Bing Search and thumbnails.  But the captions are mine)

Parenting Fail?

Am I a terrible mom?  I try to stay on top of things.  I want my kid to eat well and get enough sleep and say please and thank you.  I want her to be smart and capable and independent and well-behaved.  And so far I have failed at all but the part about her being smart (assed) and independednt (3 going on 13). 

In trying to come to terms with just how to handle this problem of Lila being the sassiest little bitch on earth (yeah, I said it), the only thing I can come up with is that I am just too fucking tired to discipline her EVERY SINGLE TIME (which would literally be about 3 times per minute) that she does something that pisses me off. 

My kid yells at me.  She throws things and she refuses to eat.  Then she throws a huge asshole fit about the fact that she doesn't get any snacks because she refused to eat what I put in front of her (No, I don't give in and she still does not GET it). She refuses to poop on the toilet still and when I refused to buy any more pull ups, she held it for 4 days until it was so painful for her (even with the laxative) that she will probably never want to shit on the toilet again (thanks to the doctor for that award-winning advice).  She acts like an animal when we go to a store.  She manipulates me by crying and telling me she hates me (remind you, she is not a teenager - she's 3). 

In between the 3 minute hugs and the 2 and a half moments of happiness is all this SHIT.

I am at my wits end.  And all I can do is blog about it. 

Fucking kid.

Just like her mom!

All mothers love it when their little girls put on their shoes, jewelry, perfume, etc., and turn to us and say "I'm just like you Mommy!"  But I am finding that I am passing on other things.  Not just my shitty attitude, mood swings, and perpensity to swear like a trucker either.

Lila had her first "treatment" today.  For any of you who are fans of the sci-fi show "Dollhouse," you know why that makes me snicker. 

That's (not) me in the suit.

But all kidding aside, last night Lila tossed and turned all night waking up crying and frustrated because she simply could not breathe.

Lila has finally developed Mommy's asthma.

My poor kid.  Last night was awful.  It's seriously the worst feeling in the world when you can hear your kid wheezing and struggling for air but she doesn't complain enough for you to think its an emergency.  I wanted to take her to the hospital but knew it would just scare her and so I had to let her just suffer through it until morning. Until we could get her into her doctor.  Until they could give her the "treatment" and send us home with a nebulizer contraption.

It's kind of like this.  (But not really)

She did a fantastic job.  She was completely terrified by the thing.  She was scared about "breathing the stinky smoke".  But the doc and I assured her it would make her feel better so that she could play with her little cousins later on today.  So she sat there all pissed off at me for making her do this and when it was done cheerfully picked out as many stickers as she wanted because the doc was so impressed that she was so scared but never cried once.  My kid is a bad ass like that.

And so for a week, every four to six hours, I have to strap the thing onto her head and force her to breathe in the vapors and pray that she lets me.  Because with all the other fun battles (eating, sleeping, what to wear, not being an asshole) I truly don't want to have to fight another one.

And because the doc said that it is likely just a side effect of the extremely high pollen count and the moisture that is causing an outbreak of mold, she is optimistic that she will not need the treatments every day of her life. 

Which I hope is true.  Because being the sickly kid with asthma would be terrible for my kid's reputation as a trouble maker.

Eat What?

I am going to let you all in on a little secret that I don't like to talk about because it makes people want to slap me.  I only need to get this off my chest because it is causing me some serious problems in adulthood that I have no real experience with, even if I do "know" in an intellectual way how I am supposed to deal with these things.

I have never been on a diet in my life.

Go ahead...let the disbelief wash over you.  And now for the "I'm gonna slap this bitch" part.

Up until I was about 25, I was a naturally skinny girl.  In my teens, I just COULDN'T gain weight and was often accused of having an eating disorder.  Sometimes, I just played along and said I did so that people would leave me alone.  When I was 20, I developed really bad hypochondria (and all kinds of anxiety problems to go with it), convinced that I had a tapeworm or cancer or AIDS and I became obsessed with fat people and how their bodies looked compared to my disgustingly skeletal frame.  I also believed that I was allergic to wheat, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, milk and Chinese food.  Do the math on that one...it doesn't leave much.

When I got to be about 23, I finally started to fill out.  I assumed my metabolism was just slowing down and LOVED the fact that I was finally able to fill out a bra. 

But it never stopped.  Between 23 and 27, I had gained 25 lbs, which wasn't bad except that I really didn't have the money to clothes shop and my shit generally didn't fit for long.  Oddly, when I had Lila, I had little problem taking off the baby weight, losing all of it in about 8 months (I didn't breastfeed and the anxiety of being a new mother meant I had no appetite either).

But something happened when we moved back to Upstate NY.  In 2 and a half years, I have gained another 35 lbs.  I gained 20 lbs in one 6 month period and that alone made my doctor order tests. 

But there's nothing wrong with me physically causing this.  It's other things.

I hate to exercise.  I NEVER liked sports or sweating for that matter and I really don't get it when people talk about "the runners high".  What I DO enjoy is napping.  Oh, and sitting.  I spend a lot of time sitting and even more time snacking.  In fact, after 33 years of eating whatever I want whenever I want, I think it's pretty much a part of who I am. 

So recently, after another round of tests and a depression whose most tedious symptom is this God-awful exhaustion, I have decided that something has to give or I am going to die.  Literally. It turns out that I weigh RIGHT NOW what I weighed when I was 9 months pregnant and I am really pissed that I got rid of my maternity pants because my jeans DO NOT flatter my overflow at all.  Looking in the mirror the other day, I realized that my belly sticks out further than my boobs ad that is TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE for someone who isn't pregnant, but it DOES allow me to park in the "Expecting Mothers" space at the grocery store (who's dumb enough to start that argument?).  And I keep hearing that belly fat is particularly deadly and I swear, its ONLY my belly (since I can't see my ass I am going with that, mmmkay?). 

It's kind of like this guy...

I have never been a believer in diets because I have never known anyone who really enjoys them or keeps healthy when it's over.  And I am just way too exhausted for a total overhaul of my life right now.  But I can tell you that I eat A LOT of bad foods.  Seriously.  Really bad stuff.  And a lot of it.  So I decided that in order to help my energy level (which will make it possible for me to not sleep all the time, which will then make exercise perhaps possible, if not totally fun!) maybe I should start watching what I eat.  Baby steps...right?

I am Bill Murry in What About Bob...

So for the last few days, I have been trying recipes from "healthy cooking" cookbooks and websites and have discovered something astonishing about myself.  Apparently my body knows the difference as soon as it goes in.

Let me explain.  First off, it is impossible for me to be "full" eating shit like skinless chicken breast with herb-roasted vegetables and whole grain pasta.  Isn't there some rule about how whole grain stuff is "more filling" than refined crap?  Because I am pretty sure that when I did the same meal with vegetables cooked with oil and butter and a whole chicken with the skin, I felt full after.  I didn't make my portion smaller (remember, baby steps) and yet I found I was hungry after like 15 minutes.

The other thing is that I am hungry ALL DAY.  Grazing doesn't really work either because I will literally EAT ALL FUCKING DAY.  Apple:  not filling.  Wheat toast with peanut butter: not filling.  10 almonds (because that's a serving size...): Not filling.  14 Oreos are filling.  A giant-size Snickers bar (serving size 3...according to the package) is filling.  4 slices of pizza with pepperoni is filling.

So to those of you who have had some success with changing your eating habits, please tell me...How do you fight being hungry all the time?

On a side note...After a nice dinner of turkey burgers, roasted potatoes and a spinach salad I felt full...for 10 minutes.  Then I found myself picking at the rest of the potatoes while I was supposed to be cleaning up and I am fucking DYING for anything sweet for dessert.  Is there some trick to this or is it really a matter of me never developing any will power?  Because I may just have to choose to be fat forever if I will just feel pissed off and hungry all the time. 


(Images courtesy of google images...they're not really mine)

It is what it is.

Oh God. Here it comes again.


After several days where it seemed to have abated, it is pushing up through the cracks like filthy ground water. I can feel it wetting me, and turning me back into the monster who peers out of her cave at the world but never joins it, and feeds on its own misery.

I have been fighting my depression for most of my life. Even as a kid I remember being somber and morose. I was disappointed a lot. I always anticipated the worst. And as an adult that sort of “realism” won me the nickname “little black cloud” because I was always there to point out how quickly things could go wrong.

I have tried to find joy in the little things. I have managed on a few occasions to claw myself out of this vacuum and to actually breathe the air of normalcy. I gathered enough energy to make a go of moving across the country once; of going to college another time. I even tried my hand being a mother. But those times where I was doing more than just barely functioning were always suddenly drowned in a surge of mud that seemed to pour in out of nowhere and solidify itself before I had a chance to fight through it.

Every so often, as happened last week, I have a break. I have a few days where the going is not quite so tough. I can get out of bed without having to convince myself that there’s something worthwhile outside my dark room. I manage to get dressed and go to work and even play with my daughter without tripping all over myself and making everyone miserable in the process. I am a good mother then, and we read together and I hold her and stroke her hair. She doesn’t worry that I am going to start yelling over little misdeeds and she sometimes seems surprised when I laugh as she drops her (yet another) glass of milk. I love being that woman.

Unfortunately, that is not the person I usually am. Medication only seems to work for a little while. Therapy helps me to have longer stretches of sanity but then I seem to always fall further back than where I started – more sad, more angry, less Me. And I have to wonder, every time: “What did I do now to make this come back? Because I was okay yesterday, but today I am not. “

What’s worse is that it isn’t just all about me anymore. I am no longer the only one suffering, which makes my prognosis that much more unbearable. You see, I lived through my mother’s grueling struggle with this same demon. I watched her shrivel and atrophy so that she could barely move. I saw how she could transform into someone I hated at the drop of a hat. And I swore that I would never do that to my own. Not just because it is cruel and debilitating, but because I never want my baby to have to face this creature in her own world. And aren’t I simply passing all my failures to her?

Instead I hide. My mother kept her sadness out in the open and exposed us all to the constant derangement of drinking and rage and compulsive cleaning. I like to run; to put myself back into bed where I can’t hurt anyone with the things I do to them. Instead I only hurt them with the things I fail to do.

My mother never taught me to swim. She never made me take lessons from anyone else, either. And my whole life I have never felt like I can handle water that is deeper than a bath. This is not only indicative of her inability to give me the basic life skill that could save me, but also a fitting metaphor for the fact that I feel helpless and defenseless against the rising waters that threaten to overwhelm me and I know that I can learn how but I can’t get out of the deep end long enough to catch my breath. I don’t want to be rescued. I just want to be able to swim.

I want my girl to know how to swim.

I want to be able to teach her.

A confession. Then a small victory. I think.

I have posted about a lot of the stupid ways that motherhood makes me hate life, but this is one that I feel somewhat ashamed of.  Because I know better. Not that it's been reason enough for me to knock this shit off until now. 

Here's my confession.  I lay down every night with my kid to make her go to sleep.  This is insane, I know.  But wait until I tell you how this evolved, because my kid NEVER slept in our bed.  It's ridiculous and even more insane. 

When Lila was an infant, she was evil and colicky (or just pure evil, if I remember correctly).  There were a lot of nights where I would get up so often that I would finally just bring a pillow and lie on her floor so that I didn't have to walk as far.  I never brought her into our bed because her room had great dark curtains that blocked out the light and in the summer in AZ the sun comes up at like 4:30 in the morning and there was NO WAY I was starting my day that early.  So she needed to be in her room so that she would sleep until a still absurd 6am.  To bring her into my bed just meant I would have to get up again to move her back and I am sure that would have been the ONE NIGHT where she slept for 8 hours straight and I would have had to get up anyways. 

I also rocked her to bed every night for a long time.  Too long by most standards. We tried the cry-it-out method and learned that the kid could literally cry for 3 to 4 hours easily.  For at least 3 nights in a row (and this was when I still gave her a bottle at bedtime).  All the "experts" swore that they wouldn't cry for more than an hour or two AT THE MOST and that they would finally tire themselves out and that by the third night the crying would substantially decrease.  Not so much with this one.  Our kid had super-human stamina.  She would scream and scream and scream and scream.  She was able to out-cry our patience and I am sure would have cried until morning had we not intervened around the 3 and a half hour mark.  Even after crying for 3 hours, half the time she still refused to go to sleep.  And so after the fourth night of traumatizing our kid by allowing her to cry for longer than she would likely even sleep, we decided that we just wouldn't do that method.  But I decided that I would not rock her to sleep anymore.  I started to put her into her bed but stayed in the room with her.

At first I simply sat in the rocking chair.  I would talk to her a little and sing to her a little and she would eventually doze off.  But honestly, it wasn't very comfortable and I began bringing my own pillow in and laying on the floor next to her crib.  Ben did it on his nights too.  It was just how we got our kid to sleep. 

When Lila got her big girl bed I really thought that it would come with a "big girl" attitude and that when I told her I was not going to sleep in there with her that she would somehow be all "mature" about it (I know how stupid that sounds...she was 2).  But instead she thought it was great because I could just get into bed with her.

(There's more to this story.  You can read the post from back then here)

First off, if you have ever seen a toddler bed, you know how stupid this was.  Here I am, a grown woman, a little overweight, in a bed that is about 4 feet by 2 and a half feet.  Here is a helpful illustration as to how that looked for those of you with poor imaginations:


I looked like this in her bed, but not as cute.

I would lie there with my whole ass hanging off the side of the bed and we would do our story that way and talk for a few minutes and then I would tell her she needs to be very still and shut her eyes and go to sleep.  About half the time, she would be tired enough to do this.  But the other half of the time I would have to tell her repeatedly and get pissed off because I had other things to do (Lost was on back then). This was also when we got rid of the bottle and tToo complicate the issue, there was an infant sleeping in the bedroom directly below Lila's.  And since HIS parents would tend to him as soon as he cried so as not to wake Lila, I couldn't be the asshole who lets her kid scream uncontrollably all night.

When we moved into our new house last October, Lila was upgraded to a twin bed.  Mostly because she was constantly flinging herself out of the toddler bed since it was nowhere near big enough to accomodate the amount of interpretive-dance style movements she seems to enjoy acting out when she's dreaming. 

It also meant that I could now COMFORTABLY do bed time and lay there and talk with her.  I thought that I would LOVE doing bedtime now because we could talk in the dark and cuddle and tell secrets.  And that truly is what it's like some nights  - for the first 15 or so minutes.  But it always seems to degenerate into me telling her it's time to be quiet and close her eyes, and her "remembering" that she needs to get a different pillow or that she didn't have a drink of water or that she suddenly had to take a crap.  And I always yell at her and say the word "NOW!" a lot. 

And she HATES going to sleep.  She fights and fights and fights it.  She will start to doze and suddenly shoot up straight to tell me "something really really important that she forgot today" but now she can't remember.  And as soon as I make her lie back down and cover her up, I try to tell her that we can talk about it tomorrow but I am interrupted by snoring because she fell asleep in the 6 seconds it took to get her to put her head back onto the pillow. 

Every night now, I find that I am yelling at her and threatening to go downstairs.  And this is shitty.  Every night I have to tell her to be still, be quiet, close her eyes, over and over and over.  And I don't want to be this parent.  It's super, overly control-freakish to me.  It feels mean for me to tell her she isn't allowed to move again or "I am going to leave her alone".  I try to explain that if I go downstairs she can stay awake as long as she wants as long as she stays in her bed but she swears she's going to be quiet.  Then about a minute later she starts singing some song or talking to her stuffed cat. 

When I do leave the room she cries like I am leaving forever.  And I usually come back.  I will come back because I think that she BELIEVES I am abandoning her.

The last couple of weeks with her have been especially challenging.  I am having a pretty bad relapse into depression regardless of the fact that I am medicated and she has been sick on and off and is totally acting up.  I blame my lack of attention and short temper for her behavior and feel guilty that I am not being the best mother I can be and I think I project a lot of my childhood insecurities onto her (like the abandonong thing above). 

And then today, I read a post by a fellow blogger (Pampers and Pinot) that suddenly made me understand WHY I feel so frustrated with the way she's acting lately.  She's manipulating me. 

Any of you who have known a kid from the time they started talking will probably know that they are expert manipulators.  I am pretty sure that I could send my kid to the CIA and they could learn some fantastic new tactics for emotionally destroying the detainees at Gitmo.  She knows EXACTLY the right buttons to push.  And although I am SURE she really hates it when I yell and scream, I also know that somehow she is purposely eliciting that exact reaction from me.  Because when I don't do it, she gets confused and has to change tactics.

A friend recommended I watch Supernanny (which I hate) and I was all negative about that suggestion at first.  Until I remembered some of the dumb parents I have seen on that show and realized how many times that womansays things like  (start cockney accent here) "Yo' chi-old is run-ning this house!  You'oo ahhh the pah-rents."

My kid is sadly mistaken to believe that she wears the pants in this family.  And I do realize that it is perfectly normal for them to try to do this.  But I will be damned if I am going to raise a kid who is a total asshole! 

So today I sat her little ass down, and said, "Mommy is going to make a deal with you.  From now on, if you are good, I will not yell at you.  And if you are bad, I will not yell at you, but I will put you in the corner for a time out.  And I am only going to warn you once.  Do you understand me?"  She nodded. 

I knew that I would need to remind her throughout the day but I was determined not to lose my cool today.

She was actually pretty good.  There were about 3 different times where I had to say, "you remember the deal, don't you?  Are you being good?" and that made her behave. 

And then at lunchtime when she threw a fit because I asked her if she wanted chicken soup and she said yes, but then changed her mind as soon as the bowl was put in front of her, I reminded her of our deal.  She crossed her arms and refused to eat and DEMANDED macaroni and cheese.  So I got down on her level and insisted she look at me.  And I said, "you are not getting macaroni and cheese...LISTEN TO ME...stop being a brat and eat your lunch or you will go in the corner for a time out."  She stomped her feet telling me she hated chicken soup.  So I picked her up and stuck her in the corner. 

She refused to stand up so I sat her on the floor.  I told her I was setting the timer for 3 minutes and she continued to scream as I walked away.  I told her that she could come out when she heard the beep, and that she should stop screaming so she didn't miss it.  She kept screaming.

She did this horrible hyperventalating-type cry that is usually reserved for real-true awful things (like when balloon pops or something) and as I scrubbed the toilet (yes, this is what I did to distract myself so that I didn't go back to get her) I realized that she has learned that it's okay to be an asshole to me.  Further, she has learned (partially from my mother never letting her cry even slightly without giving in) that the more she wants something, the bigger the dramatics.  

When the timer went off, I went over to her, crouched down and asked if she was ready to eat her lunch yet.  She said she really wasn't hungry and I told her that she only needs to eat 5 spoonfuls.  I told her that if she didn't want to do this, she could simply stay in the corner until she was ready.  Crying and sobbing she reached up to hug me (this is the hardest part for me because I DO NOT ever want her to think I am withholding affection) but I insisted that she eat her lunch.  She said ok and I asked her to say sorry for yelling at me.  She did.  Then I hugged her.  I brought her to her seat and she kept crying and wanted me to hold her (this really bothers me because I cannot tell if she is playing me or if she really desperately wants me to just love her).   I sat down with her and told her I am not mad at her, but that it is not acceptable for her to throw fits about what I make her for lunch.  EVER.   She ate exactly 5 spoonfuls.

She was good for the rest of the day.  Until bedtime.  There is no good way to do a time out at bedtime.  Bedtime IS the time out.  I am not going to get her OUT of bed to teach her a lesson so this one is more complicated.

I intended to start the "you're going to sleep on your own" thing on Friday so that she would have the weekend and then Monday night to figure out how to not be up all night.  I was planning to stay there with her tonight.  We did our regular bedtime routine and talked for a few minutes, then I told her it was time to be quiet now.

For about 4 minutes she was good.  Then she started the fidgeting.  Fingers, hands, rubbing the wall, making noises with her mouth.  I told her that I was only going to tell her one time that she needed to be still, OR she could stay awake for a while and I would just go downstairs. Not a big deal. She didn't want me to leave.  I told her that I do not want to have to yell at her, and that it is time for her to go to sleep.  I told her that she needed to be quiet with her eyes closed and that if I had to tell her again, I would simply get up because she is can stay awake without me there, but must go to sleep if I am there.  She kept "remembering" things that she needed to tell me. 

I told her once that we will talk in the morning.  She kept going.  So rather than yell at her, I got up and walked out.  It was heart-wrenching.  She kept begging me, "Mommy please come back.  I'll be a good girl.  I won't move at all!"  And I felt SOOOOO fucking guilty, not so much for walking out but for setting up this dynamic in the first place.  I DON'T WANT HER TO THINK SHE'S BAD BECAUSE SHE CAN'T FALL RIGHT TO SLEEP!  I sometimes don't fall asleep that easily.  And here I have created this awful situation where I lay in bed with her (to provide love and security) only to yell at her and make her think she's being bad when she has trouble doing something that everyone struggles with sometimes. 

This made me feel like a failure. 

I went to her room and sat on her bed and explained to her how it isn't good for her or for me for me to yell at her to go to sleep.  And since she is really big now, she can learn to sleep like big kids do, without their parents yelling at them to go to sleep all the time.  I told her that I would leave her door open and we would be right downstairs.  I told her I would come back in thirty minutes (I told her what numbers the clock would say) and check on her.  Then I kissed her and walked out. 

She cried for about 5 minutes, then stopped.  I assumed she got up to play but when I went up (as promised) she was fast asleep. 

So now tomorrow I will make a big deal about how proud I am of her and we will try this again tomorrow night, but without the option of me sleeping with her.  She has school the next morning so the stakes are higher but I am determined to stop this now.  Because I seriously cannot allow her to control my emotions or my evenings like this forever. 

(In the interest of whatever laws apply, I stole that cat pic from the Cheezburger site.  It isn't actually mine.)

The beast strikes again.

I am going back to therapy. 

It's been gnawing at me for a while now and I am fully aware that depression has its nasty black claws around my neck again. 

And then I saw this:

Well, I know that I have a history of depression, and in fact am postivie that I am slipping as you read this.  But the question remains: do I have a "negative parenting style? Lets see...Do I say NO more than I say YES? Check. Do I yell at her more than I think is normal? Probably. Am I critical and easily frustrated? Not so much critical, but certainly easily frustrated. So overall, yeah. That might describe me. So I am an asshole sometimes. But my kid is too!

"Preschoolers whose parents are depressed get stressed out more easily than kids with healthy parents, but only if their mothers have a negative parenting style, according to a new study.


The research, set to be published in an upcoming issue of the journal Psychological Science, measured the levels of the stress hormone cortisol in kids' saliva after mildly stressful experiences, such as interacting with a stranger. The researchers found that cortisol spikes were more extreme in kids whose parents had a history of depression and also exhibited a critical, easily frustrated parenting style."

I have a shitload of stupid things every day that push me to the edge and I am not always capable of handling them in a way that is even remotely helpful or constructive. And I sleep a lot more than I should be allowed to considering that I have a small child. I cry a lot and I have no motivation to do...well...anything most of the time. And this is WITH medication.   I want to be functional as a mother and I want to start now.  But as I kept reading I found out it may not even matter.

"Earlier studies have found that people with depression often have abnormal cortisol spikes in response to stress, suggesting that problems with the body's stress-regulation system are a risk factor for — or at least a hallmark of — depression. Several studies have found these abnormal reactions in very young babies of depressed mothers, which could mean the system is disrupted either in utero or very early in life.


But it's difficult to tease out the early influences on the body's stress hormone system. Genetics are likely partially to blame, Dougherty and her colleagues wrote. The changes could come about because of biochemical influences in the womb or because of the way depressed moms interact with their babies. Most likely, it's a combination of all of these factors."

This is my normal kid now...as I am apparently destorying her life.

My depression is something that has followed me throughout my life. I was diagnosed first at 14. I went through my twenties in and out of therapy. My postpartum depression is the stuff of legend. And the fact that I still struggle with it makes me want to scream. But to realize that I am totally ruining my kid's life as well (and not just because I am blogging about her and this shit will still be on the interwebs when she is a teenager) is really upsetting.

"Just having a depressed parent didn't make kids more prone to cortisol spikes, but having a depressed mother with a hostile parenting style did. The study was just a one-time snapshot of stress response, so researchers can't say for sure that hostile parenting by depressed parents causes the spikes, just that there is a correlation.

...If parenting style interacts with genetic and other environmental influences to send kids' stress sky-high, early treatment may help, Dougherty said. Helping parents interact positively with their kids might be especially important early in life, the researchers wrote, because the stress regulatory system is still developing."

Yeah, so according to this article, no matter what I do my kid is fucked. Or not. I mean, I always just assumed that having me as a mother would ensure at least a decade of therapy even before I ever considered having children. But perhaps I am still in the window where I can try to prevent her from succumbing to my miserable fate. 

I wouldn't wish this on anyone, let alone my own flesh and blood.  And I am terrified that one day she will turn on me.  One day she'll be my regular kid who is a pain in the ass, and the next moment she'll be the douchy goth child who writes bad poetry and slits her wrists for attention. 

And this is my kid in 5 years after my depression ruins her life.  Obviously.

In truth though, the motivation for therapy isn't strictly because of her.  I am tired of feeling this way all the time.  I am tired of not wanting to do anything.  I am tired of having to battle my negativity to FORCE myself to type up a new blog post.  I am just tired of being tired.

So I made an appointment with a grad student at the University's counseling program.  I dont have insurance so this seems like a decent option financially.  I dread the idea that this girl will be all of 16 and not know anything about life but we'll see.  Wish me luck.
Here's the full article.
Great! So then the damage is already done. FANTASTIC! I knew it. I ruined my kid before she was even out of the oven. No need to put on the frosting and the sprinkles if the cake comes out burnt.

Saturday Shitlist

I spent a lot of time tooling around the interwebs this week and thanks to #1, I really found a minimal amount of things to put on the list this week.  Feel free to add your own.  I will even give you a grade for participation!

1. The Cold Virus or the Flu, whatever the hell this shit is.  It LOOKS like a cold- all coughs and sneezes, but it FEELS like the Flu, in that I am so exhausted and miserable that I called in sick to work and haven't left the house since Tuesday. 

2. Harry Hunters.  Jesus H. Christ on a crutch! Have you seen these assholes?  (If not, read this )
Yeah, you're going to find Prince fucking Harry and marry him by stalking him for several weeks before his brother's wedding.  I am sure he'd be thrilled to marry some slutty American chick who has a stash of postcards of him and his brother rubber banded together and shoved in her bra. 

I think Harry said it best:

Good luck ladydouches.

3. The entire world.  Has everyone gone fucking crazy?  Because I thought that crazy was my domain.

Hot off the runway for Summer '11.

4. My local community health center.  For adding an large dollop of stress onto my already thoroughly thinly stretched finances and still not managing to cure me.  It's bad enough that I don't have health insurance and have to sit in the ghetto-ass waiting room but then you can't even get my paperwork right so I'm not billed $400 for a Thyroid test that I only got because you told me it was going to cost "next to nothing"?  AND you can't find the results!  FUCK YOU ASSHOLES!!!

5. Thomas the Tank Engine.  Wait a second!  I LOVE the NORMAL Thomas.  The simplicity of narrating a bunch of model trains around a neat little model city.  And two of my FAVORITE people on earth narrated!  FANTASTIC!  What I'm talking about is this bullshit computer animated, the trains all talk and have different voices bullshit.  Now it's just another lame cartoon.  And nothing even blows up!

And there was this.  Now it's a lame cartoon.

5. Old Navy's new annoying "Layer Player" bullshit commercial.  As I mentioned above, I have been sick in the house for several days and I don't have cable.  So on my 6 or so channels, I have seen this fucking commercial about 4,793 times.  I have broken down the dance moves in my mind.  They are playing it one every channel during every show.  No, really.  I refuse to embed it on my blog, but here's the link if you want to torture yourself with it:  LINKY

6. The Lottery Mega Millions $312 Million Jackpot.  I don't play the lottery because I am the unluckiest person I know.  But Ben did play and I would have been happy if he matched like 2 of the 6 numbers.  He played 10 different quick-picks.  You know how many of the final 6 numbers he had TOTAL on all his plays?  ONE.

The other reason I don't play the "numbers".
(If you don't get this one, you're not a Lostie)

7. Which reminds me, I am STILL FUCKING PISSED about the ending of Lost. 

Scream Queen

"Mommy has a headache.  Mommy is REALLY REALLY TIRED and has a headache because I had the WORST day at work.  Let's get your coat on and go home."

Lila just ignored me.  My mother tried.  "Lila, you can come back and play with your (annoying) toy tomorrow.  I will leave it here and it will be here when you come here in the morning."  Nothing.

"Lila.  It is TIME TO GO!" 

That was when the screaming started.  Lila is a gifted screamer.  She started practicing about a week out of the womb and has truly perfected the art of the ear-busting, brain-sterilizing, skull eradicating scream.  Seriously.  When Charlie Sheen said that whole thing about mind-melting, exploded bodies or whatever, I thought of my kid screaming. 

Under normal circumstances, her scream will give a normal, healthy person an aneurysm.  But when you already HAVE a headache it turns it into the most painful, awful blinding kind of headache and you just want to die. 

Lila continued the screaming into the car.  She did it for the entirety of the 15 minute ride home.  I was pretty sure at one point that I blacked out because I have no idea how I got to the exit ramp, but there I was, alive and gripping the steering wheel for dear life at the red light. 

Lila screamed as we pulled into the driveway and then proceeded to continue screaming and then started flailing around as I began to undo her seat belt thingy.  I threatened to leave her in the car and totally saw myself coming out in the morning to a nice sleeping happy kid, but I knew that my neighbors would TOTALLY call Child Protective Services because they would have heard the screaming and thought that my kid's skin was being peeled off by that guy in Silence of the Lambs. 

So I un-buckled her and yanked her out of the car and as she walked into the house she began to calm down.  As she plodded up the steps behind me, she was breathing heavy and whining that she was tired.  And when we walked in the door, she saw her Daddy.  Her eyes lit up.  She put a big smile on her face and ran to him and yelled, "DAAADDDDYYYY!!! I AM SOOOOO HAPPY TO SEE YOU!!!"

"Thanks so much for that." I said to no one in particular.

Don't say you weren't warned.

Today I read a fantastic post from a fellow blogger about how they never tell you the truth about parenting and how it's partially a matter of forgetting and partially the fact that we're sort of sworn to secrecy about the truth.  And I walked around today thinking about this and realized that I WAS actually told on several occasions.  But not directly. 

(Here is a link to the post)

So for all you parents to be and new parents out there (and those of us who are still working out all the details), I am going to provide this little handy interpretation of what was told to me, and what I now realize they meant when they said it.

1.  Motherhood is the hardest job in the world.

The Truth:
It is the WORST job in the world.  I would be lying if I said that I know what it's like to be a worker at a third world sweatshop, but I suspect it is a lot like being a new mother.  First off, the hours will kill you.  You are basically ALWAYS on call, even when you are sleeping. And then for the first few years you are lucky if you get to sleep for more than 3 or 4 hours at a time.  There are NO BREAKS.  You do not get a lunch break where you can take off for an hour and run errands, you do not get to go to the bathroom (at least not by yourself) and you do not get to sit down without having someone scream at you.  There is no vacation or sick leave and the pay is pretty much nonexistent. 

2.  Colic is really awful but it does end.

The Truth:
It ends.  But while it is happening, COLIC IS THE WORST THING YOU WILL EVER EXPERIENCE.  It seems like it is going to go on forever and  you are trapped with this little helpless being who you can do absolutely NOTHING to make stop screaming at you.  And before the colic ends, you will realize that you are the worst parent that has ever walked the face of the earth because your only job at this point is to keep the little one alive and comfortable and you become convinced that you cannot manage to do this.  Colic will make you want to die.  Colic will make you realize that those posters all over the hospital and the reminders everywhere about how you are not supposed to shake your baby are serious business.  Because there will be at least one moment where you think, "now I understand why people shake babies".

3.  Having a baby will fundamentally change you.

The Truth:
Yes.  Completely.  But not in the ways you think.  You know that you will love this little one in a way that you never imagined (something else they tell you that is only half true) but you will no longer be able to watch movies that involve kidnapped children without becoming EXTREMELY uneasy.  You will want to avoid any books or episodes of CSI where awful things happen to children and suddenly all those jokes about punching babies and kiddie porn will not seem funny (yes, I used to have that kind of sense of humor).  Real actual news stories about children who are hurt or taken will terrify you and you will need to repeatedly check on them while they sleep at night. 

You will tell anyone who will listen about your child's poop.  There will be at least one hilarious poop story that every friend and relative hears at least once.  You will know all the words to every song Dora the Explorer (or your kid's hero of choice) has ever sung.  You will allow things that you always said you wouldn't (sure, let's have Fruit Loops for dinner).  You will beg your child to eat.  You will bribe them to behave in public even though you hate that kind of thing.   People who don't have children will tell you that it's all terrible and bad parenting and that they will NEVER be "that parent" but trust me, they will.

4. All kids throw fits.  All kids aggravate their parents.  It's how they learn limits.

The Truth:
There will be moments where you completely understand why wild animals eat their children.  You will have moments of sheer anger where you have to force yourself to walk away because if you stay in the same room with your child, you will end up hurting them.  This does not make you a bad parent (actually staying put and hurting them makes you a bad parent).  You will be amazed at the manipulative ability of a three year old, who has the ability to read your weaknesses better than any con artist ever could.  And you will fear that you are going insane because you will seriously consider the pros and cons of checking yourself into a mental institution "for the vacation".

You will have days where you really don't LIKE your child.  It does not make you a bad parent. On at least on occasion (and probably on many), you will think, if not actually say this:

5. They don't call it "the terrible two's" for nothing.

Truth:
My kid went through this phase from about 18 months until she turned 3. Then she was a normal kid who could behave for about 3 months, then came this bizarro 3 and 1/2 year old thing.  Most of the parents I talk to tell me that 3 is WAY worse than 2.  And it is.  The terrible twos are defined by the word "no".  They will tell you NO for everything, even if they mean YES, and then they will get mad at you when you think they meant NO because they said it.  The terrible two's want things to be just so.  They get frustrated and throw fits if the ketchup isn't on the right spot on their plate.  

But three and a half is KILLING ME.  Suddenly no matter is too small for a full blown, screaming, yelling tantrum.  Bath time = tantrum.  Bedtime = tantrum.  Getting dressed = tantrum.  Time for dinner = tantrum.  It isn't the big things that bring on the fits.  It's the regular routine things that you do at the same time EVERY SINGLE DAY.  Why bath time after dinner and bedtime after bath is always a huge ambush to my child, I will never know.  But every moment of every day seems like a terrible surprise to her. 

6. Listen to your gut.  You know your child best.

Truth:
Don't read every parenting book you can get your hands on because every one will tell you something different. Parenting "experts" seem to never have their own children at home.  Instead, you should call your mommy friends and/or relatives who have experience with kids.  When I listened to my gut, I thought Lila was just bright red because she was hot.  She had a cold or something and she should just sleep it off.  My mother told me that it didn't seem right and encouraged me to call the doctor and it turned out she had Scarlet Fever and a nasty strep infection.   


7. Your child will want to watch the same movie/listen to the same song/read the same story over and over and o
over.  It's perfectly normal.

Truth:
You will come to want to murder the creators of Dora the Explorer and you will fantasize that all the Disney Princesses (or whatever the boy equivalent is) are being maimed, tortured and executed.  If you are LUCKY, your kid will take to a movie, song, or character that you LOVED as a child and you will encourage this because you think it will be more tolerable.  But after the first 4,000 times, you will hate your childhood and everything you associated with that memory because your child will have worn it out beyond imagination.  Mine actually made me hate Joan Jett.

8. Motherhood is the most rewarding job in the world.

Truth:
This is totally true.  You will likely never be as proud of anything in your life as you are when someone tells you how smart/beautiful/well-behaved/creative/talented/incredible your kid is.  Seriously.  Your kid will do things that make  you want to pull your hair out.  They will make you scream into pillows until your throat hurts.  They will disappoint you and make you question your worth as a person.  But there are those moments where you look at them and your soul swells with happiness and you think, "I made that!"