See, They Make These Things Called "Baby Gates"

No doubt you've heard about the book Go the F--CK to Sleep and Samuel L. Jackson's audio reading of it.  

When I first heard the audio version, I laughed.  I played it for Kevin and he smiled uncomfortably and shook his head.  (I'm used to this.  He can be a prude.)  I thought of posting it to my blog's Facebook page, but didn't because it's kind of offensive, and...meh.  That's not my thing.

Now the book has exploded as a Best Seller and everyone has a take on it.  Most people love it and think it's hilarious.  Some are offended by it.  A few over-analyze it.  Let's just say it hit lots of parenting nerves.

I want to tell the parents to buy a damn baby gate.  Chasing the kid around?  Multiple tuck ins?  Laying down with them until they fall asleep?  That crap doesn't fly in my house.  But more than that, I'm rolling my eyes at yet another "This Parenting Crap Sucks!" whine.

Remember when the parenting trend was Super Mom?  Power suit, sensible hair cut, brief case and diaper bag?

"I think it's so important for a family to find the time to eat together and share their day. Did I share with you how many meetings I had to rearrange so that I could be here -- not that I'm complaining..."

Well...that was the 90's.  That whole "I can do it all!" ship has sailed.  Now the trend is "I'm cracking under all this!"  It's all about Moms Whining & Needing Wine.

"These kids are so exhausting...I can't even shower...oh god, school's out?!?...I live in yoga pants...I need a night off...I hate laundry...I don't have time to heat up a Hot Pocket...I need a drink..."

I love that we moved beyond Super Mom.  I mean, those shoulder pads just had to go, but I miss her "I can do this!" attitude.  I'm so tired of whining disguised as "honesty".  I'm tired of single people overhearing us and saying, "Wow.  I never want to have kids."

My...uh...observations?...of modern parents are pissing you off.  (I'm sure of it--after all, I'm talking about you.)  You're probably even screaming at the screen, "Jaci, you are such a hypocrite!  You're whole blog is whining about motherhood!" 

You're right.  Quite a few of my posts have been self-indulgent wallowings about feeling trapped in my life.  I'm also someone who just came off PPD--and I sound like today's "normal" mom.  Is that really okay?!? 

Anyway.

If you laughed at the book, great. So did I.  We're supposed to.  If the book really is your life, put a gate across the bedroom door and walk away.  Turn your movie up loud to cover up the temper tantrum, and when the screams stop, pick the sleeping kid up off the floor and tuck him in bed.  Repeat each night as needed.  

Board book parody not required.

Elizabeth Never Did That!

Last night, I dumped both girls into the bathtub at once. 

I'm not big on group bathing.  Put mah pwrecious baby in the same bathwater as Big Kid Elizabeth and her black flip-flop feet?  Ew.  No. 

Now that summer is here and the kids stay up later and later, I just don't care anymore.  Sit in each others filth!  I'm exhausted!  Go to bed!  Damn you, Daylight Saving Time!!! 

Elizabeth sat with the faucet jammed in her back, Elodie enjoyed the sweet spot in the shallow end.  They fought over bath toys and used the wrong washcloths.  I sat on the toilet seat reading Ramona the Pest aloud, multi-tasking way too many parenting rituals because let's just get this over with already.

Then it happened.

Elodie shat in the bathtub.

Elizabeth screamed.  I dropped Ramona the Pest and screamed.  Elizabeth grabbed her Polly Pockets and jumped out while I grabbed a screaming Pooper McGee.

I dressed the kids while Kevin brainstormed ideas to get the poop out of the tub (it wasn't a lone turd, people) and we both kept saying things like, "Elizabeth NEVER did this!" 

"Children are different?  SIBLINGS are different?!?"  I must be a moron who can't fully grasp the concept that Elodie is not a clone of Elizabeth.  Never-ending ear infections?  Elizabeth was never sick!    Butt-scooting?  Elizabeth crawled right!  Not walking at 14 months?  Elizabeth walked on her birthday, remember?

Whatever Elodie does, I compare it to Elizabeth because I know Elizabeth.  And I'm dumb enough to think that since I mothered one child, I'm a baby expert.  

NOPE.

It makes me wonder how much of an asshole I was pre-Elodie, doling out parenting advice because it worked on my only child!  Therefore it must work across the board!  Try it on your kid!  

I wonder how many moms of 2+ silently sigh when Mom O' One gets preachy or brags about her only child's stunning awesomeness.  How many times do they think, "Oh, STFU.  Talk to me when you have three."

But if I follow that logic, than the only Mom able to give out parenting advice would be Momma Duggar.

YOU FIXED YOUR HAIR?!?  Holy crap!  When did this happen?!?

And that ain't right.

I'm Not Drinking the Sugar-Free Kool Aid Anymore

For three months, my scale sat coated in dust under my bathroom sink.

Sometimes I felt gross and chugged meal replacement shakes, other times I pigged out.  I didn't do any formal exercise.  I didn't drink nearly enough water or serve enough vegetables.  I had numerous Peanut Butter Cup binges.

I got on the scale this weekend and...I weigh exactly the same.

I didn't allow sporadic weigh-ins to determine my mood.  I didn't ruin my day over four pounds of pre-period bloat.  I didn't pour hatred over my soul because I ate an entire bag of Dove chocolates.  I shrugged it off and moved on.

In Girl World, I'm committing a huge sin.  I should be on a diet.  It's summer!  And I'm overweight!  And my thighs touch!  And everyone else is counting points/carbs/calories and feeling either smugly superior or self-flagellating!  It's what women do!

Sorry, but...  I'm tired of it.

I read this in a dieting book recently: "Do you eat to live, or do you live to eat?"  It stuck with me and pops into my head when I stare vacantly into the fridge at 9 pm when I'm bored.

But the idea behind it is way more interesting than the corny dieting cliche--LIVING.  Focus on life!  Activities!  Work!  Relationships!  Look up from your plate (and bathroom scale) and check out everything else life has to offer! 

What are our bodies for, anyway?  Is it something we're supposed to keep in pristine "new car" condition? Or are we supposed to use the damn thing to live our lives? 

I hate watching friends beat themselves up over their imperfect bodies.  I'm annoyed by ongoing sagas of "weight loss journeys".  I'm half angry/ half sad for the women who post their awful, horrible, bad girl! food choices on Facebook/Twitter for either atonement or accountability.  

I'm done with it, ladies.  

IT'S FOOD.  Sometimes it makes me happy, but mostly it keeps me alive and fully functioning.  It's not evil.  It's not bad.  I'm not going to count it, weigh it, ration it, make an idol of it, or find my self-worth in it.  IT'S FOOD.

IT'S MY BODY.  It's strong and healthy and I use it to live my life.  I'm not going to starve it, push it, hate it, hide it, abuse it, feel ashamed of it, make an idol of it, or find my self-worth in it.  IT'S MY BODY.  

The bathroom scale is shoved back under the sink.  Sometimes I serve dessert and a bowl of vegetables with dinner.  The elliptical is covered in dust while we all play together in the pool.

I'm living life and enjoying it without the Diet Guilt.  It's kind of awesome.  You should try it.

$300,000 Houses and Public Schools Just Don't Go Together

Yesterday I dropped Elizabeth off for a birthday party at the most expensive home I've ever set foot in.  (Without paying admission, anyway.)

I can't say enough how down-to-earth and sweet this family is, or how they never ever ever throw their money around. They are lovely, gracious people.  They aren't the focus here because...

I'm the classist jerk.

When I pull into Millionaire Acres, I have to give myself a pep talk about not being jealous:  "My home is lovely, with it's little window seats and slanted cape cod ceilings. It's aged and mellow and well-loved. I own a NICE HOME."  

My talk wears off after five minutes when I notice how plush the lawn is.  Or that the adorable play cottage has sturdier windows than my real house.  Then I look around at the Pergo flooring and brand new carpeting and Ethan Allan furniture and...wait, did you remodel your jaw-dropping kitchen again?!?

Suddenly my house is a 60 year old piece of junk. I'm jealous and bitter and go home to $120,000 Clearance Street hating life.

It's useless to smugly assure myself that most people living there are in massive debt (suuuure) or shake my fist at the sky and rant that maybe there is something to Communism after all, or think of starving children in Africa to guilt myself over such a 1st world problem.  Nothing works.  It has to seethe off with time.

When I picked Elizabeth up from the party, I conquered my House Envy just in time to get smacked in the face with Class Reality.  Elizabeth was the poorest girl there.  The other little girls were from the expensive private school, while Elizabeth was only there through church friendship.  In the real world she'll never know those girls--and let's face it, by 3rd grade the church friendship will drift apart as the girls make BFFs at their own schools.

I'm wondering who, exactly, will be Elizabeth's friends at public school?  Who's left?  If a family can afford it, they shove their kids into private school (there goes the middle class) and more and more are homeschooled.  So we have...what?  The working class?  The poor?  

Even though I survived public school in a very economically depressed area--I'm worried.  This isn't 1985 when it was unusual to hear of a kid NOT going to public school.  This is 2011 with lots of options to find the "best fit" for each special (read: moderately wealthy) child.

Last night I thought about the hard working, dual-income-and-still-paycheck-to-paycheck families in our neighborhood.  The lower middle class.  The other moms I see driving kids to daycare at 7:00 am right along with me.  The dads I see changing the oil in the driveway while trying to entertain two kids.  The parents who are working hard, pinching and saving to give their kids the best.  Good kids from good homes. 

That's who's left in the public schools. 

She'll be fine.  She'll be with our kind of people.

Scary Mommy in a Bathing Suit

This picture makes a lot more sense if you read my guest post at Scary Mommy.

Moral of the story?  Find a bathing suit you feel comfortable enough in and get off the lawn chair.  It took me 6 years, but whatever.  I found one.  This year I'm swimming with my kids--not obsessing about my jiggly bits under a big towel.

I'm not going to make the cover of Vouge--or Playboy--or US Weekly's "Stars in Bikinis!"  I'm a wife and mom and average-sized woman, and life is too short to feel gross about myself on the sidelines because I'm not model thin.

Screw that.  I'm jumping in.

And to anyone snorting over my body...

...or my weight...

...or my lumpy, pasty-white thighs...

Suck it.