Why Doesn’t School Run Year Round????

It’s 9:23 am on the first day of the kids’ summer vacation and I’ve already locked myself in the bathroom to get away from them. And they’ve only been up for 23 minutes. This is looking like its going to be a loooooooooooooong summer.
Despite running the shower and covering my head with the towel, I can still hear them. I am considering curling up in the fetal position in the corner next to the toilet that hasn’t been cleaned yet this week. From what I can make out, they’re arguing about some minutiae. Shocking, I know. From the ferocity of the debate you would think they were arguing about ways to end world hunger.
My son woke up and couldn’t find his cell phone. His sister had it for what reason I will never begin to understand. She wasn’t using it. She was just holding it. She had to know he would flip out and unleash a world of fury upon her. She does this a lot; takes things of his or touches things when she knows he’ll flip out. I’m starting to think she does it on purpose. Just to start a war. She must hate me.
Of course, he starting flinging insults at her. And holding her down to hit her. And she screeched and clamped her perfect little pearly whites down on his arm. Exasperated, I reprimanded them: (use the monotone voice of Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller) “Stop. Don’t hit her. Leave her alone. Don’t bite him. Leave him alone.”
I’m considering making a recording of my voice and just playing it when they’re fighting. It’s not like they actually listen.
When the decibel level of their argument was somewhere in the neighborhood of a diesel truck crashing through the house, all the animals had scattered and ran for cover. I took a page out of their book and headed towards the bathroom with the iPad to chronicle this escapade. Except now I hear them. They’re thundering up the steps like a small herd of rhinoceroses. (Rhinoceri? Rhinoceros?)
“Mommy, he called me FAT!”
“She is FAT!”
“I’ll show you fat. I’m going to give you FAT lip!”
(Sound of hand smacking flesh)
“Mommy, she hit me!”
“He hit me first!”
“I didn’t even touch you! I wasn’t even NEAR you!”
“How did I hit you then?”
And on and on…. They volleyed insults back and forth for awhile until I heard…
“Mommy, he pulled out a clump of my hair!”
I catapulted to the door and threw it open. There they stood with smug expressions on their faces.
“Ha ha! We got you out of the bathroom!”
Apparently, the only time they will work in harmony is against me. Or their father. I guess I should be happy that I have a job where I can be home with them all summer, but it becomes exhausting and draining. They are ALWAYS home when I’m off. I can’t get away from them!
With his crazy work schedule, my husband is home most of the time, too. It’s a freaking love fest all summer. There is way too much togetherness. I’m surprised we’ve made it through seven summers without putting someone up for adoption.
Later on, after everyone had calmed down, we were in the car on a shopping expedition. My husband likes us all to “do things as a family”. Sounds sweet, but it’s mostly to prevent me from spending money without his authorization. apparently he has some sort of obsession about not running up the credit cards. He actually cut up my credit cards one year on my birthday (2008). He’s really quite the fun absorber.
The children were finally quiet and had retreated to their own sides of the car. Nobody was touching anyone or talking. Everyone was staring out their respective windows, minding their own business.
Then, my stupid husband opened his big, fat mouth. “So do you guys remember what Grandma and Grandpa asked you to do at their house for them when they go away?” Dumbest. Question. Ever.
“Yes,” chirped the little one. “I am supposed to water the inside plants and fill the little bird bath.”
“No you’re not, idiot!” the older one interjects. “That’s what I’m supposed to do! You’re suppose to water the plants on the porch and fill the big bird bath.”
“No, I’m not!” The little one is now screeching at the top of her lungs. She goes from 0 to bitch in less than ten seconds. My husband grips the steering wheel. His knuckles are white.
“Yes, you are! You just want to do the easy chores! You are so lazy!” The big one huffs as he breaches the invisible barrier between their seats and shoves his sister.
“No, I’m not!!!!” She counters as she kicks him in the shin.
“Good going,” I hiss under my breath. “I finally got them sedated and you ask questions.”
“I’m sorry,” he replies over the sounds of the children slapping each other in the backseat.
“Are you new? Don’t you know the number one rule is NEVER speak to them when they’re quiet?” I growl.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He hangs his head in shame. It’s going to be a long summer if I have to review the Parenting 101 handbook with him on a daily basis.
But I am going to be grateful. I am a working mom who gets to spend every waking moment in the summer with her darlings. Other working moms are locked up in air conditioned office buildings while their kids beat each other up at camp or a babysitter’s house. Those poor moms eat lunch in crowded restaurants with coworkers while their kids eat lunches full of sand on their camp beach trips. Those poor moms are probably eager to rush home to spend time with their kids but the kids are probably too tired to even speak when they get home. Those moms probably put them right to bed and don’t even get to intercept one single argument. Those poor mothers have to nurse a cocktail in silence as their babies slumber… I definitely have the life. I get to have a cocktail at 9 am as I attempt a craft with the kids I saw on Pinterest that will certainly end up in the garbage and result in tears. Or I get to watch them splash water in each others’ eyes as they beg me to stay in the pool with them. Maybe, one day they’ll go to school year round. Not me though. I’m saving my vacation days for the summer.

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Wake Me Up When the Hormones End

Is it 2025 yet? I’m looking forward to 2025 because that is the year neither of my children will be teenagers, preteens or PRE preteens with teenaged attitude. It better come quick. Because I don’t know if all of us will make it.
My oldest will be 12 next month. He started middle school last fall and on the first day of school I said adios to my sweet innocent little boy. I was returned a cranky, wiseass with a chip on his shoulder, in his place. Lately, we end up arguing about the most ridiculous and mundane things. In fact, I just got into it with him over eating BREAKFAST.
I was downstairs folding his baseball uniform for literally the SIXTH time this week (yeah, he played seven games last week…we have no life), when I heard banging in the kitchen punctuated with loud groans of annoyance. Wondering what could possibly be wrong at 7:45 in the morning, I poked my head in the kitchen. I found my son pulling things cereal boxes out of the cabinet and slamming them on the counter with disgust.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, naively thinking that maybe there were ants in the cabinet and he was trying to be helpful and take everything out for me so it would be easier to clean. How thoughtful!
“There’s NOTHING to eat for breakfast!” he answered in the voice of teenaged angst that he has perfected in the last ten months.
“Sure there is. There’s five different cereals right in front of you,” I pointed out, making a mental note to have his eyesight checked.
“I don’t WANT cereal. I want a bagel.”
“We don’t have bagels right now. You’ll have to eat cereal,” I replied logically.
“Why don’t we have bagels?” he asked, still rummaging through the cabinets as if bagels have magically appeared in the last thirty seconds.
“Because I bought them on Thursday and you ate them all. Have cereal.”
“I HATE cereal! I want a bagel! God! This SUCKS!”
“I am going to Shop Rite later. I will get you bagels then. Have cereal.”
“I don’t want cereal!” he repeats. “Why didn’t you get me bagels yesterday?”
“The maid was off yesterday,” I replied sarcastically while trying to keep my cool. “I shouldn’t have to be at the store every $@&# day of my life.” Nope. I didn’t keep my cool.
“But that’s what I want to eat! Why can’t you buy me what I WANT?”
“You can’t eat bagels everyday. You’ll get fat.” I grabbed for his nonexistent love handles. “You want to get fat?” Okay, that was a low blow but it’s never too early to start healthy eating habits in my opinion. Especially since obesity runs rampant through the family like a streaker at a baseball game.
“GOD, you’re so MEAN!” He stomped away while I resisted the urge to knock him into next Tuesday. I used to hate when my father said that to me, that he would knock me into next week, thinking that it was the stupidest thing I ever heard. Now I get it. Maybe next Tuesday my son would have a better attitude.
This little scene plays out pretty much anytime we ask the Prince of Puberty to do anything he doesn’t want to do at that moment like shower, put his clothes away, do his homework, feed the dog or eat his veggies. I know…we are such AWFUL parents, making a kid do any of that! We get the eye roll and the heaving sighs of annoyance. we get the stomping and throwing objects. “This sucks” is his mantra lately, followed closely behind by “you’re so mean” and “this is so unfair”. I am getting fed up with hearing it. Maybe we should buy him a thesaurus so he can expand his vocabulary.
While we should be happy it’s not as bad as some teens and he’s generally an agreeable kid, it’s frustrating because the mood swings do not follow any pattern that his befuddled parents can anticipate.
The other one however…. She will be 8 next month and so far, we’ve had almost 8 years of PMS. I can’t even begin to imagine how I am going to survive actual hormonal surges with this one. Her mood swings more frequent that Tarzan swinging through the forest. We call her Sybil (google it if you don’t know what I’m talking about). She goes from 0 to Freddy Krueger with an ingrown toenail in about three seconds.
We could be having a great day, getting a pedicure or having lunch and I will ask her something simple like, pick your napkin up off the floor and she will spontaneously combust into tears. And it is as unpredictable as an earthquake. You know your are living on top of a geographically fault, but you have no idea when the ground will start shaking and your pictures are going to rattle off the walls. But you know it’s coming.
A few parents of teenage girls have suggested to me that maybe the estrogen and all that will balance her out. Maybe the teen years will be lovely and blissful and we will have a wonderful relationship like the mother and daughter in the Summer’s Eve commercials (Mom, you ever have that not so fresh feeling?) Yeah maybe Publisher’s Clearinghouse will show up at my door with a check for a million dollars. I’m not holding my breath.
Much more likely, I will need an IV of tequila to get through the teenaged years. I know I should be enjoying every moment of their childhoods. It goes by so fast. They will be adults before I know it; off on their own, possibly battling their own kids. But it is damn hard to see that now. I guess I’ll just buckle up and take the speed bumps on the Hormone Highway as they come as they come.
Waiter! More margaritas please! And let me know when it’s 2025!

These @%&*# Kids are Making Me Curse!

We all have flaws. Some of us are more flawed than others. Some of us don’t want to admit we’re flawed and some of us are more adept at hiding our flaws than others. As hard as we try, all mothers are flawed. I have a ton of flaws which makes this blog much more interesting. Imagine if I was the perfect mom? Who wants to read about that mom when we all want to peg her in the head with her moist made from scratch muffins?
One of my glaring flaws which makes me a REALLY bad mommy, is my potty mouth. I’m not talking about an occasional slip of the tongue with a God damn it or hell. I don’t just curse when I stub my toe or cut my finger. Nope. My foul language could make a seasoned truck driver blush. The curse words slip out of my mouth without a second thought. It comes as naturally to me as driving or reading. (Okay, maybe driving is a bad example because according to my husband, I’m really bad at that). I know, I know…who would have thought sweet little me had a potty mouth?
Why do I curse so much? I really have no idea. Sometimes it just slips out. Sometimes there’s just no other way to express a thought. And other times, words just really need an f#*@ in front of them. Plus, it’s more socially acceptable than punching someone in the head. I do know my potty mouth has gotten considerably worse after the birth of my children. Hmmmmm…..
When I was pregnant with my oldest, I swore up and down (pun intended) that I was going to curb my language and only say positive things. Was I a naïve moron or what? I tried to fine myself a quarter every time I cursed. But that just gave me a nice little savings account for shoes. I tried using different words, but then I just got addicted to the word “frigging” and quite honestly, it sounds stupid when I say it and just doesn’t pack the same punch. I tried to stop myself every time I said a curse word but I just sounded like I had developed a stutter and I seriously couldn’t finish a full sentence without scratching my head to think. So, I gave up.
Needless to say, the children have picked up the cursing habit. They can be really good at it, too. The expletives leave their mouth without a second thought and most of the time, they use it in the proper context. . Now this is the part where I turn into a REALLY bad mom… I LET THEM.
Now before you string me up and lynch me, let me explain. I TRIED to do the right thing in the beginning. The first time my son called the cat a bitch, I blanched.
“No, no,” I scolded. “That’s not a nice word. It’s mean to call kitty that word.” Never mind the fact kitty had just bit him for laying on her; she really was a bitch sometimes.
My confused and VERY precocious child responded with, “Well, why do you say it?”
I immediately shot back with the typical, “Well, I’m a grown up.”
My son countered with, “So you can say mean things when you’re a grown-up?”
Damn this kid had me trapped. “Well no,” I stammered. “You shouldn’t say mean things ever…”
“So then why do you say it?”
Crap.
“Just don’t say bad words,” I muttered as I changed his diaper.
I attempted to curtail the child’s occasional foray into cursing with soap in the mouth. Turns out, the little weirdo enjoyed the taste of soap in his mouth. I tried to make him put money in the jar for cursing, but he would just sneak the money out when I wasn’t looking. Finally, I sat myself down and asked myself, “Self, is it really that bad that the kid says the s word or the f word or the a word? Is that the MOST important thing for you to focus your parenting skills on? Maybe if you just explain to him that we don’t say those words in school or in public, it’ll be fine.” Being advanced for his age, my child accepted this and promised to try not to say bad words when we were out in public and to never use foul language in school or at friend’s houses. Seemed like a good plan.
Except, I should have explained to the child ALL the times we shouldn’t use bad words. When the boy was about 6, we were driving along in the car and some *$%^ moron cut me off. I, of course, proceeded to let the other driver know exactly how I felt about them (in the privacy of my own car ). My son then proceeded to unleash a stream of curse words. I was oblivious. In his defense, we weren’t actually in public. He was following the rules.
Unlucky for me, my mother in law was in the car. I don’t think my mother in law has ever uttered a profane word in her entire lifetime. At least, I’ve never heard one come out of her mouth. She’s one of those people who thinks “stupid” is a bad word. Which is, quite frankly, stupid. Don’t get me wrong…I love her to death, but she’s a bit, um, vanilla.
Well, the look on her face was enough to cause me to pull the car over because I seriously thought the woman was having a heart attack. “Are you okay?” I was quite scared. I thought I was going to have to pull out my rusty CPR skills and actually put them to use. “A for airway…” I was muttering as I screeched to a halt.
She clutched her chest. “Did you hear what he said?” she asked in a high pitched voice.
My 2 year old daughter in the back seat responded for me with, “Yeah, he said *#%^&@.” My mother in law went ashen. Right before she passed out from shock.
Needless to say, we had a discussion later on about the cursing and the rules were redefined. We don’t curse in front of grandparents with weak hearts anymore.
Here’s my thought process on this. There are far worse things that my children can say or do. If they occasionally call each other a-holes, how is that any worse than if they call each other “Stupid poopy heads”? Really. They’re good kids for the most part. I’ve never been called to school because they told a teacher off. I’ve never been told they called another child a bad word. Well, actually, one smug and sanctimonious little girl came up to me at one of my son’s games to tell me my daughter said the game was “Crap”, but that hardly counts because that kid was a stupid poopy head anyway. And crap really isn’t a bad word, either. They get their frustration out without hurling a book at people or slapping them in the face. Someone asked me once, “don’t you worry that people will think less of them if they curse?” Nah, I think if they stab someone in the eye with an ice pick because the person pissed them off, then people would think less of them.
And really, if I yell at them, am I playing the pot or the kettle? Because nobody needs a f’*#@ hypocrite for a mother 😉

Why I’m Not Buying My Husband Anything For Father’s Day

Sunday is Father’s Day! Yah! Another excuse for me to throw money away this weekend? Like hell! Why should I buy my husband something for Father’s Day? No, no. I’m not bitter about not getting anything for Mother’s Day. In fact, my own mother brought me a tee shirt. I wanted to write on it, “I gave birth and all I got was this lousy tee shirt”.

Father’s Day, as far as I’m concerned, should be abolished. It’s bogus. As you know, I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day either, but Father’s Day is even more of a farce as far as I’m concerned. First of all…shouldn’t we be thanking our fathers (and mothers) every day? Why do we have to put aside a day to spend unnecessary money and battle with other people for tables at restaurants or the last three cards in the card aisle? Let’s all stay home, say “thanks Dad” every day and be done with it. Not to mention that Father’s Day makes kids without fathers or absent fathers feel like crap when all the other kids in school make paper plate picture collages for their dads.

All of that aside, my main point is, fathers shouldn’t be on equal footing as mothers. WHAT?!?! Mothers are, hands down, more important than fathers. HOW DARE YOU?!?!? Calm down. I don’t mean fathers aren’t important or they’re useless.(most of them anyway) This is not to diminish all that excellent fathers do. My husband is definitely one of the better fathers I know. He does pick up and drop off duty at school, deals with homework meltdowns when I’ve lost my patience, cooks and coaches baseball…he’s a hands on father who deserves a pat on the back and a BIG thank you from his kids. He definitely deserves appreciation. Not a plastic statue that says “World’s Greatest Dad” or a tie that a firefighter will never wear to work.

But for all he does, he will never equal what I’ve done. And he will never be able to either. Not even if I drop dead today. He did not house a soccer playing fetus in his uterus for nine months. He did not have to get fat and swell up and not be able to see his feet. (the operative words are: he did not HAVE TO). He didn’t toss and turn in a hot, sweaty bedroom in the middle of July because all he wanted to do was sleep on his stomach and his body was ten different temperatures at once. He didn’t have to ask a four year old to tie his shoes for him. He didn’t LITERALLY have to pee 32 times a day (yes, I counted). He didn’t feel contractions that made him suck in his breath or think he was going to poop his pants several times a day. And when the big day came, he didn’t actually poop his pants, either. He didn’t endure the pains of childbirth that start in your abdomen, radiate to your back and then shoot down your crotch making you wish someone would just slice you open with a saw already and get the kid out. And he certainly didn’t feel like he was being ripped apart when the kid actually shot out of your hooha after playing peek-a-boo with the doctor for an hour.

No, he sat in the comfy chair at the hospital stuffing his face, napping and occasionally feigning concern for your wellbeing by asking you if you wanted an ice chip or a backrub. No, I don’t want a friggin’ backrub and if you put your hands on me I WILL rip them off your body and beat you with them you jackass who did this to me.

And then after your sweet darling bundle of joy was home and you limped around like a lame deer with fluids leaking from everywhere imaginable, did HE haul his mangled body out of bed when the little one emitted the ear piercing cry of hunger? Nope. He snored away and then had the nerve to ask if you could “keep it down” when you got up in the middle of the night because you was disturbing his much needed beauty rest. Because he had to “actually get up and work.” Yeah, I know. You were sunning by the pool with margaritas when your kids were 2 weeks old. The nerve of you; how insensitive.

The first six weeks of any child’s life sucks for a mother in a way that is incomprehensible to anyone but that mother. Nobody tells you the truth about this either. They tell you it’s “magical” time and you’ll bond with your child breastfeeding and cuddling. Uh, no. Here’s the real scenario: You’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck the first day or two, but then, you’ll get some rest in the hospital thanks to the nursery staff and you’ll find yourself saying, hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought. And you’ll pick yourself up and dress the baby to leave the hospital and think you’ll be back on your feet in no time.

Instead, you’ll find out that you brought the wrong baby home. The quiet sleeping baby that needed to be woken up to eat at the hospital has been replaced by a demon that literally screams nonstop and has no need for sleep at all. You will get absolutely no sleep because even if you do fall asleep, you will be jolted awake either by the crying child or the insane notion that you’ve rolled over on the baby (even if he’s in his crib). During the day you’ll no chance to rest and heal your body and by the fourth or fifth day you will be feeling like you have been thrown off the Grand Canyon and ran over by the truck that hit you the first day. This goes on for almost two weeks, but what do you know. You’ve lost all track of time because you’re the walking dead anyway. By the third, fourth and fifth week your body will feel a little better, but you’re still bleeding to death and not sleeping and now in addition to a fatigue that is making you hallucinate, your boobs will feel as if they are going to split at the nipples. Your kid is crying and you are joining it. You’re overwhelmed, tired and hormonal. Not a delightful combo. One morning, my husband took my coffee mug and I sat down on the floor and sobbed hysterically for an hour. Your OB will let you drive again and you will literally have a panic attack and pull over to the side of the road because you have imagined that you left your baby in the car seat in the driveway. Or the roof of the car. Or that you’ve forgotten the baby all together in the house.

No one tells you this. Father don’t go through ANY of this. Even if they get up in the middle of the night (a rare gem), they still will never understand this. At most, they’ll be tired. Oh boo hoo. Come cry to me when it feels like your prostate is going to drop out of your pee hole.

So if fathers get a whole day, I want a whole month. And that’s just unreasonable, so let’s just take our “mother’s day” and give them five minutes of celebration for themselves. Oh wait…that’s how most of them became fathers to begin with…

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The Baby Pushers

20130626-215941.jpgYesterday, some really annoying woman who is pregnant with baby number 3, asked me, “So, when are YOU having another one? You’re not getting any younger, you know.” She proceeded to elbow me in the ribs like we were sharing some private joke. I did not want to be elbowed in the ribs. I didn’t like her humor. I wanted to punch her in the face. I hate these people. I call them baby pushers. I don’t know why baby pushers exist. Maybe they’re like Jehovah’s Witnesses and get extra points in heaven if they get people to procreate. Or maybe it’s simply a case of misery loves company. Either way, they’re a pain in the ass.
I am really going to go out on a limb here and probably will make some enemies, but I said to her, “Never in a million years. In fact, sometimes I wish I only had one.”
The obnoxious party clasped her hand over her mouth and gasped, “Oh, you don’t really mean that!”
Uh, yeah I do. Sorry if this sounds unforgiving, but some days, I wonder why we didn’t stop with one. Don’t misconstrue my words…I’m not saying my oldest is my favorite or I don’t love the youngest (even though she definitely gets the prize for being my bigger hemorrhoid). I’m saying, two is much more difficult. And you’re saying, “Well, duh…didn’t you realize that? Can’t you do the math?” And my response is, Of course I knew it was harder. I assumed it would be TWICE as hard. Not FIFTY times.
After the oldest was born, I enjoyed him so much, that I couldn’t bear the thought of not having another one. He was pretty easy going baby and I had time for myself. I laughed at the frazzled new moms who said they didn’t have time to shower. My house was clean, I worked out regularly, had time for hubby and friends AND met my child’s every need. I assumed I was gifted or something because I was a damn good mother. Parenthood, at that point in time, was a breeze so I wanted another one. Apparently, I was a naïve moron.
Much to our dismay, having the second child was not as easy as having the first. I went through the misfortune of being rendered infertile for reasons I will not bore you with. Suffice to say, we needed to actively decide to have another child and go through IVF because of the infertility issues. (oh, yes, another taboo subject…maybe I’ll delight you with the anecdote of THAT saga some other time)
When the youngest came along, we started dealing with these glitches we had never had before with just one child. Parenthood was not so much a picnic any longer. When I was alone with the kids, I was outnumbered. (sometimes, even when their father WAS home, I was outnumbered because he can act like a child himself…sorry dear). Despite what many deceptive mothers with multiple children will lead you to believe, older children are rarely helpful in the least when it comes to taking care of the younger siblings. Yeah, I know, I was duped into optimistic thinking by some sadistic mother of six who swore up and down that the more kids she had , the easier her life got. Her husband must be practicing some sort of Kool-aid mind control to get her in bed with him and she actually believes that bull crap. In fact, the older ones can actually be MORE of a hassle when you have a baby, because all of a sudden, the four years (or three or whatever) of individual attention that you heaped upon them, is suddenly forgotten. All they know is they’re not getting ALL your attention. They start acting up and throw temper tantrums because you can’t dress them or feed them because you’re taking care of the younger one. You have no idea how to manage your time because someone is going to be pissed off no matter what you do. Usually, the baby wins out because she can actually shatter your ear drums with her cry. It’s exhausting in a way you never understood with one child.
Baby pushers will say, “Oh they need a sibling. They need to learn to share.” Ok, can’t they learn to share in preschool? Isn’t that what I paid a ridiculous tuition for? I’m convinced I could have bought them cars for less than we paid for preschool. And in preschool I’m not the one who has to referee the “sharing games.” Because detaching a handful of Legos that a maniacal two year old has snatched from a crying older sibling is one problem parents of onlies don’t deal with. Neither is the “I’m not touching you” game or the “repeating game”, both of which designed to make parents operating a moving vehicle drive straight into a guard rail while trying to swat at the children in the backseat.
Another reason baby pushers cite as needing more than one child is “They will be each other’s best friends when they’re older and everyone needs a sibling when their parents are gone.” Um, who said this is gospel truth? Is this written in stone somewhere? Now, truth be told, most siblings who are at each other throats as children do tend to get along better when they’re adults. I hated my sister’s guts growing up and now I couldn’t imagine life without her. In fact, making fun of our parents wouldn’t be half as much fun doing it alone. We can keep ourselves amused for hours with tales of their latest antics. However, I know plenty of grown people who still can’t stand their siblings or don’t even keep in touch with them at all. Their parents are rolling over in their graves wishing they had only had one.
I have a friend who only wants one. It is none of anybody’s business WHY she only wants one, but those damn baby pushers are relentless. They constantly allude to her “second child” and tell her she will regret not having another or it’s selfish to have an only child. I have to admit, I have even joined in the foray. I know, I know…what a hypocrite! But I rarely mention baby number two and when I do, it’s always because I’m having buyer’s remorse (hehe…the second one was very expensive) and I’m in a state of envy. Because honestly, she’s a lot smarter than I was. She said to herself, “Life with one is good. Let me enjoy it.” Dumb me said, “Life is good. Let’s complicate it.” Studies have shown, mothers of one child are much happier than mothers of two or more. Hmmm. Maybe they’re on to something.
Perhaps I’m a bit selfish for thinking this way, but I doubt there is one mother alive who has not flung themselves into bed at the end of a harrowing day of vacuuming Goldfish crackers out of the couch while preventing the children from blinding each other with juice box straws and not thought, “Why the hell did I have kids anyway?” I’m sure the rewards are endless when they’re grown, and some days my heart is ready to burst from love for the little monsters. But a large percentage of the time, between juggling endless activities and mumbling to myself, I seriously doubt my sanity. Damn those maternal hormones for hoodwinking me in the first place! Well, they’re not getting me again. Because in the words of Taylor Swift, I’m NEVER, EVER… having another. The baby pushers can kiss my keister.