Manic Motherhood

By the time you read this, my son will be a teenager. I can’t tell you how awful this is. Yes, I know that all of us grow up. I mean, I was once a kid myself, even though Junior doesn’t believe me. If you ask him, I was born a full-fledged adult, ready to become a parent just so I could fulfill my lifetime goal of embarrassing my kid.

Anyway, to prepare for his descent into the teenage years, I have been reading tons of books on the subject. I have to say they’re pretty dang depressing. I think the most that I can hope for is that one of us emerges alive. I’m kind of hoping it will be me. That’s not too selfish, is it?

Even worse, the books all indicate that I‘ve already failed as a parent and I should just start saving for Junior’s therapy because he’s going to need it. In fact, my failures at parenting include, but unfortunately are not limited to, the following:

1. I have had the utter and complete nerve to humiliate my son by speaking to him in public. And in private. And in front of his friends. And when he is on the phone to his friends. Or when he is simply sitting on the couch thinking about his friends which we all know allows the friends to establish a telepathic link so they can hear me talking to him. And let’s not even discuss how many times I have made this worse by calling him one of the annoying nicknames I have given him over the years.

2. I have sung along to the radio in my car with the windows open where anyone could hear me. And by “anyone,” I obviously mean his friends/people who may in the future become his friends/people he wouldn’t want to have as friends now, but may change his mind about at another time/random members of the opposite sex.

3. I have stood next to him in public where people could get the mistaken idea that he is related to me. For the definition of people, see 2, above.

4. I have punished him by taking away the most important things in his life, i.e., his PS3/phone/basketball/skateboard/bike/social life/TV. Strangely, his homework is never included in the list of things he finds most important.

5. I have assigned him chores and actually (gasp) EXPECTED HIM TO COMPLETE THEM. I know. I’m evil.

6. I have never, ever, allowed him to do something just because ALL the other kids’ parents allowed them to do it, no matter what “it” was.

7. I have answered the door on more than one occasion in my pajamas. And it was usually one of his friends ringing the doorbell.

8. I have attended numerous displays of team sports where I committed the felony of actually cheering for my child. Okay, maybe there were times when I didn’t know what I was cheering for, but I cheered. Sometimes for the opposite team, but still. It’s the thought that counts, right?

9. I have required that he save money for the future, even though he is apparently going to be so fabulously wealthy as an adult that he will never in a bazillion years need to save a dime. And no, I don’t know how he plans to become so fabulously wealthy. I’m afraid to ask since I suspect it might involve some sort of criminal activity.

10. I have written about him in the newspaper and on my blogs. Now, in all fairness, when I first started doing this, he couldn’t read. And once he started reading, I did try to stop. But let’s be honest here—kids are funny. I just couldn’t help myself.

But Junior, as a birthday gift, this is my last column about you—although I will continue to humiliate your father and detail my adventures in shoe shopping. Unless you do something really funny. Hey, if I’m paying for all that therapy you’ll need in the future, I might as well get my money’s worth. Assuming I survive your teen years, of course. 

Okay, so today I’m reading my newspaper (again, I like to read the actual paper with newsprint). Anyway, I read a column that appears every day—I don’t want to name names, but it begins with “Dear” and ends with, er, “Abby.” So a woman writes in asking for advice because her 9-year old son refuses to shower, brush his teeth regularly and (GASP) barely changes his underwear. 

Hello. Is it just me or did this woman just define the very existence and habits of 9-year old boys all over the planet?

And it gets worse. Turns out that this woman thinks her son is unusual and so does Abby. In fact Abby actually said, “This may be a stage, but if it persists for more than six months, consult a child psychologist.” Oh for God’s sake, Abby, dear. If every mother of a 9-year old boy took that advice, there would be such a rush to get to the psychologist’s office that the wait list to get treated would be years. Years, I tell you. 

It’s a proven fact that 9-year old boys are dirty. They play hard. They stink hard. And they don’t stop stinking until they reach that stage defined by moms everywhere as “the stage where they discover girls” which is usually followed by “the stage where boys use up all the hot water and everyone else in the house gets a cold shower in the morning.”  Yes, once boys discover that girls in general are turned off by yellow teeth, stinky armpits and general filthiness, guess what they do? Yes! They bathe. They brush. They change their underwear. It’s like a miracle, only it smells better.

That mother should not waste her money on a psychologist. Instead, she should just invest in a case or two of Fabreeze and wait patiently for her son to discover girls. Or boys. Hey, I don’t judge. 

I’ll be the first to admit that Valentine’s Day hasn’t always been high on my list of favored holidays. All that hearts and flowers stuff just didn’t do it for me. But after a while, it’s difficult to resist the allure of a day where you get to eat tons of chocolate and drink champagne. Seriously, what’s not to like? 

Unfortunately, this year Valentine’s Day has been hit with a serious case of the recession blues. Sure, last year it was cool to refinance your over-valued home and blow all the cash on French champagne and imported chocolates—or better yet, go to France and drink champagne and eat chocolate. But this year, it’s not so cool. And it has the potential to make the best holiday ever a total bummer. 

But as usual, I have come through to save you from being alone and bitter, wondering when you will find true love and eat massive amounts of chocolate again. Okay, fine. I’m not so much help in the true love department, but the chocolate and champagne are right up my alley.

First of all, let’s discard the silly notion that French is better. Yes, it worked for fries. I mean, all that Freedom Fry nonsense did was make the forbidden pommes frittes taste better. (“Pommes frittes” means “fried potatoes” in French. Or possibly “free pom-poms.”) In any event, champagne doesn’t have to be French to taste good. In fact, the only difference between good champagne and the stuff that costs $1.99 at Wal-Mart is one thing: the first glass. 

That’s right. One glass of bubbly and most people start feeling a bit happy. And once that person is a bit happy, he/she won’t notice that the stuff in the glass tastes like vinegar mixed with used motor oil from your neighbor’s rusted out ‘52 Chevy. Trust me. I speak from experience here. I was once a champagne-swilling teenager. 

As for the chocolates, honestly, do the French have anything on green M&Ms? I think not. So forget the fancy heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. They’re overrated and filled with those icky marshmallow things. Go with the green. You can’t go wrong. 

Now, what V-Day would be complete without flowers? Yes, roses are the traditional choice. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, though, it’s not exactly prime rose harvesting season. So, roses, like the old-school champagne and chocolates we all gorged on last year, are expensive, not to mention imported or hothouse grown. (Imported and hothouse grown are French for “more expensive than tuition at a good 4 year college.”)

So do yourself a favor. Don’t buy roses. Instead, steal whatever is blooming from your neighbor’s yard, tie a ribbon around it and call it a gift. If you can’t bring yourself to steal, buy a bunch of daisies at Wal-Mart. Look, as a woman I can tell you, a rose by any other name—even if the name is daisy—really does smell as sweet. Of course, I have allergies, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same for everyone. 

Moving right along, you have to do dinner. Nobody wants cheap champagne and M&Ms unless dinner is involved. Now you don’t need to go to a fancy French place where your date will order something super-fancy and French-sounding only to discover that it’s just a cheeseburger and fries (or, as we international types like to say, “cheeseburger and pommes frittes”). Instead, do dinner at home. Make it or, better yet, buy a pizza and put it on some nice plates. Use cloth napkins and tons of candles. Not only do the candles provide perfect romantic atmosphere, using them means nobody has to know your PG&E has been turned off. 

And for the “piece de resistance” (French for “woo-hoo you romantic devil”), you have to dance. Personally, I try never to dance because I find that stepping on people’s feet isn’t as romantic as it sounds. However, I have also found that a gift of steel-toed shoes usually takes care of that. Just try not to twirl your date too much after he/she’s full of pizza, M&Ms and cheap champagne. Believe me, you don’t want to end the evening with a hurling contest.

And if you are very lucky, an evening spent at home with somebody you love—or at least somebody who was willing to date you on the most romantic night of the year—will be the best Valentine’s Day ever. Or as the French say, Saint Valentin meilleurs jamais.

Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs.  

~P.J. O'Rourke

Okay, who among us has ever sat down after a hard day of parenting and thought, “I know why some animals eat their young.” Oh, be honest. We all think it, but very few of us admit to it.

But Nadya Suleman, the mom who just gave birth to octuplets, probably doesn’t have her hand raised. This is because she now has 14 kids total, 8 of which are newborns. Look, I try very hard not to criticize another parent. Parenting is hard enough without having other people stick their noses in your family’s business. But as a mom, I have to say that woman is absolutely insane. Or extremely desperate to meet Oprah. Or both. 

Seriously. She has 14 children, people, all under the age of 8. Is it just me or does anyone else think the woman is absolutely bonkers? I don’t think I’m alone here. Sure she loves babies—who doesn’t? They’re cute and cuddly and with the exception of that whole poo-in-their-pants thing, babies are all kinds of sweet. But doesn’t this woman understand that just because you can have it all doesn’t mean you should?

Of course I’m not the only one questioning Nadya’s choice. People all over are asking why doctors would perform IVF on a parent who already has 6 kids under the age of 8. Even Nadya’s mom has been quoted as saying that when Nadya gets out of the hospital, the mom plans to leave. And frankly, whether she leaves or stays, who can blame her for not wanting to hang out and help with 14 kids?

To me, those aren’t the only questions that should be asked. Look, if Nadya has 8 tiny butts to diaper, does the diapering ever end? Will there be a time in the next 2 or 3 years when she will not have a naked baby butt lying on the changing table waiting for a fresh Huggy? 

And does Nadya even comprehend what the future holds for her in terms of body image? First of all, she has 14 kids. Frankly, at 6 kids she could kiss perky goodbye. But 14? No amount of lifts on earth will defy gravity and breastfeeding. I don’t even think Victoria has a secret strong enough to lift her up again. And let’s not talk about the tummy. Suffice it say she will have one. Forever. There isn’t enough miracle cream on the planet to get rid of the stretch marks. 

Now as we all know, kids grow up. So what happens when they are all in school? 

What about the dreaded, horrifying homework? Frankly, no amount of wine will be sufficient to get her through 14 kids worth of dividing fractions and memorizing facts about the Roman Empire. Trust me. I speak from experience. And may I just say that she probably should not be consulted when it comes to reproduction in Science class? 

And I have even more questions. Like how will she transport all these kids anywhere? Will there be multiple vans schlepping the kids around--because I can guarantee you that Chrysler isn’t making minivans for jumbo families any time soon. 

And then there are team sports. Will the local Park and Recreation department have to have a soccer team just for her family? And what if the kids don’t all want to play the same sport? Can you imagine this woman’s Saturday? “Now let’s see, Kid 1 has a track and field meet at 10, Kid 2 has basketball at 11, the twins have soccer 30 miles away at 12:45, Kids 5-9 have a dance recital at 10:30, Kid 10 has…” All I can say is Nadya had better be an expert multitasker. 

Of course, the discipline will be the hardest. Look, there are 14 of them. And one of her. You do the math. If those kids are smart (and I’ve yet to meet a kid who wasn’t) they’ll gang up on mom and get their own way before the littlest 8 are speaking in complete sentences. Now that’s a mom’s biggest nightmare. Other than having 14 kids, of course. 

So I don’t know what made Nadya do what she did. What I do know is that Nadya Suleman has a long road ahead of her. And she might want to think about the Guppy parents before she tries this again.