In the age of constant introspection, "Where did I go wrong?" seems to be a popular question. Hell, I haven't even grown a kid to school age yet and I'm already asking myself that, especially when he is vehemently refusing any sustenance besides chicken nuggets or is trying to pee on his sister during bathtime. I sob into my delicious salvation beer and try to figure out where I got off the path of awesomeness and onto the path of terrible indiscretion that will undoubtedly ruin my precious child[ren]. Was it that time I turned up the radio so I didn't hear him wailing from his car seat? Was it because I watched Law & Order: SVU ad naseum while I nursed him as a newborn? Was it because I forgot to take my prenatal vitamins every day? Nobody can second-guess details like a Mom & I think I was given a double dose of that specific neurosis.
I'd spend half my Mommying time wishing for some quiet, alone time and then the moment The Yankee freed me to go take nap or Facebook in peace, I'd swell up with guilt at all the things I was doing "wrong". I'd berate myself for wanting to nap instead of playing yet another game of "tickle the toddler without getting kicked in the face". I was making myself miserable, imagining a life of traveling carnivals & "How did that make you feel?" for them. Then it hit me...my son's melon of a head, a direct shot to my nose. It HURT and I cursed, loudly & in the presence of my children. After I could form a thought that was longer than four-letters, I realized something so obvious it was painful (or was that my nose?). HE IS 3!
I can no more banish him to a lifetime of carnival work than I can assure him a position in the West Wing of The White House. Worrying over every parenting decision at this point, is akin to doing the post game wrap-up after kick-off. I can talk the play to death, but I'm still no closer to knowing the final outcome! So, to follow the analogy, I had to learn to shut [my brain] up & enjoy the game. Doing so allowed me to be much more present and to actually, gasp, enjoy my time with them instead of analyzing every behavior, response and sentence for a sign that I was doing something wrong. I'm certainly not one to tell you how to parent (especially because I don't need the responsibility of screwing up your kids AND mine), but I do think moms should cut themselves a few more breaks. The job is tough enough with all the pressure from the outside, try not to add your own weight to the pile. But if I could give you one piece of advice, try not to get head butted in the nose, because it hurts like hell and you probably don't want your kid to learn "f*ck" from you.
Five years ago I was a perfectly normal, amazing looking (hey, it's my memory, don't question me!) and socially acceptable member of society. Now, I am a mom of two who has spent the last 3.67 years answering to the whims of tiny humans who have claimed squatting rights to my body. How did I get here? That's an easy one, I let my hormones convince me that it was time to become a Mommy. Why I trusted the very thing that makes me both ecstatic and berserk, in a one hour period, to make a major life decision for me, well, that's a question better left for another day. Moving along...
So, after my hormones got me all baby crazy and reason starved, I convinced the Hubs that it was go time and off we went. Five weeks later & having temporarily forgotten my baby lust, I couldn't figure out why my happy hour beer tasted funny. (*Insert forhead slap*). Wish granted to a silly lady who didn't stop to think that 40 weeks later would be smack dab in the middle of the hottest month of the year. (*Repeated forehead slap*). The Yankee and I moved forward making optimistic plans, playing hooky to our birthing class and giggling at what fun, amazing parents we were going to be. Yea, karma got me back for that bit of hubris. My punishment? Weeks of constant contractions (no, I am not exaggerating) and the very difficult birth of one adorably tiny and amazingly hungry little monkey.
This creature found a boob & camped out at it for an hour and a half. Welcome to Mommyhood and it hurts! He was a HUNGRY little leech. I had planned on breastfeeding, but holy moly, I was not prepared. They (by that, I mean all the overly chipper nurses teaching birthing & breastfeeding classes) forget to tell you that the first part is HARD...or they might have said that on one of the days I was playing hooky. Regardless, I was overwhelmed, overtired & overly hormonal and if not for the intervention of a few lovely individuals my Mommy title might have been compromised by an impending slapping spree. Having conquered the first speed bump, I was decidedly slightly crunchy by that point, having mastered breastfeeding, but still quite mainstream in comparison to my long-skirted compatriots in Mommyhood.
Fast forward two years and said hungry Monkey is much larger and still nursing, only now he's sharing his leased duplex with another tiny human with big eyes and a peach fuzz covered head. The two small humans are taking over my bed, wrecking my gorgeous house and strapped to my body for hours a day with all sorts of interesting, organic fabrics. It's official, SlightlyCrunchyMom has been replaced by full-on NuttyMom and I am million times happier, regardless of all the sacrifices. So, how did I get from SlightlyCrunchyMommy to NuttyMommy? Short answer: A Monkey & a Bug. They are sneaky little ninjas.
