A Mother’s Love is Not a Mother’s Like

I truly love my son.  I do.  I really love him.  The thing is…..there are times when I just don’t like him very much. 

The weight of the guilt I used to feel about this used to keep me up at night. I used to pray to be a better mom.  I prayed for patience, a lot.  I asked God to forgive me for being such a disgusting person.   I prayed that my very occasional dislike for Son was just a reaction to the Terrible 2’s or the Whiney 6 year-old Stage or the 14 year-old I Know Everything, You’re Just Stupid Stage. 

Then, I remember that I am merely human, and that it is totally ok to not like your kids sometimes.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  They can be total dickheads sometimes.  

Example 1

Your child is two months old.  It’s 7:00 p.m.  You haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 40 days, but who’s counting?  Your baby has been bathed, diapered and fed.   You think to yourself, “This is the night.”  You can feel it.  Your baby is going to sleep through the night.  If you and Hubby can stay awake long enough, you might even get some. 

You kiss your baby’s beautiful little nose, turn out the light, and close the door.  Fifteen minutes later your baby is screaming so loud that your first instinct is to call 9-1-1, because obviously a Dingo is stealing your baby.  Your baby is up for the for the next 8 hours.  Crying.  For no reason.  You love your baby, but you don’t like him very much right now.

Example 2

Your child is 2 1/2 years-old.  You have to go to the grocery store.  Because you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 910 days, you’re not thinking clearly.  You decide to take your toddler with you. 

You’re flying through the store Supermarket Sweep style because your baby’s nap time is in about 5 minutes.  If he doesn’ t get his nap he turns into a little troll who will make you want to kill yourself.  You have about $800 worth of groceries in your cart, but you know you won’t be able to put a decent meal together with any of it because you didn’t have time to check your list.  You need to get the hell out of dodge. 

You’re in line to check out when your baby notices a red plastic squirt gun.  He wants it.  He tells you he wants it.  You say no.  His baby neck veins pop out.  He’s screaming.  You’re sure he’s going to hyperventilate.  He’s in full meltdown mode.  You leave your cart full of groceries at the checkout, and drag a screaming,  kicking child through the crowded parking lot.  You have cereal and hot dogs for dinner.  Love does not equal like.

Example 3

You’re exhausted from a long day at work.  Dinner has been served, dishes are done, and there is a box-o-wine in the fridge with your name on it.  Just as you sit down to enjoy a glass before heading to bed your 7 year-old informs you that her history project is due….tomorrow.  As you look over her assignment you realize your options are to either create an entire Indian village out of toothpicks, twine, and glitter or recreate the Battle of Gettysburg using leggos, firecrackers, food coloring, and toilet paper rolls. 

You’re up the entire night glueing glittler-covered tampons to toothpicks You’re a little drunk, but you’re pretty sure you don’t like your kid so much right now.

Example 4

It’s Monday.  It’s Summer vacation.  Before you go to work you leave a note for your 15 year-old kindly asking him to pick up the dirty underwear and socks that are hanging from the ceiling fan in his room, take the chicken out of the freezer, and let the dogs out once in a while.

You walk in the door at 5:15 P.M., to the shower running, the freezer door wide open, your puppy chewing on dirty boxers, every dish in the house dirtied and on your coffee table, dirty socks sitting on the entertainment center, ESPN blaring on the T.V., a freshly laid dog turd sitting in the middle of the livingroom, and a note that reads, “Mom, I need $20.00 and I’m suppose to sell 150 raffle tickets for football by Wednesday.”

So, yeah.  I don’t like my kid sometimes.

Pick Up the Needle, Press Pause, or Turn the Radio Off

 There is a huge double standard in Hispanic culture.  While my male cousins were allowed, and even encouraged, to go out and sow their wild oats, we girls were told horror stories of a young girl who got pregnant by writing a boy’s name on her notebook.  Wuelita would often warn us girls of the dangers of sex:

 Jo nooo, jo can half a baby if joo look at a pee pee.  Neber look at a pee pee.  If joo see juan, joo run away.

My dad (Papi) had three girls- his penance for his wild oats sowing days.  Papi’s biggest fear was that some day some hormone charged, sex on the brain, gets a boner when the wind blows, Latin Lothario was going to swoop in and devirginize one of his daughters. 

Papi, you have nothing to worry about with this guy. I promise.

When I was a Freshman in high school, after one particularly emotional cryfest of an argument with Papi about why he wasn’t allowing me to go to prom with a Senior, Papi decided it was time for us girls to understand where he was coming from.  Apparently, the sex talks given by Mami and Wuelita weren’t stern enough.  So, he sat my sisters and I down at the kitchen table for his own “talk”.

My sisters and I could tell what was coming, and we immediately started giggling.  This was going to be very painful…for Papi.  We were excited.

We pinched each other under the table to stifle our laughs as Papi paced back and forth, back and forth.  He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed it.  More pacing.  More giggles.  One more beer.  He was ready:

Girls, it doesn’t matter what boys say.  They just want one thing.  They want to get in your pants.

*Pinch, pinch, pinch*

A boy will tell you you’re beautiful, but what he’s really thinking is that he wants to see you naked.  If he tells you he loves you, it means he’s getting impatient.

*Hysterical giggle fit lasts long enough for Papi have another beer.*

LISTEN! 

Boys are always thinking about sex.  That’s all they want and they’ll say and do anything to get it.  They are liars and cheaters.

By my count, Papi was well on his way to finishing a six-pack.  His eyes were glassy, and he was talking more freely.

Basically, girls, what it comes down to is that I want you to be smarter than those boys.  I don’t want any boys to think of you as just……..p!$$y holes.

He said p!$$y holes.

What followed was a laughing fit so loud, so consuming, so out of control that the only thing I heard in the several minutes that followed was the sound of the screen door slamming shut.  It took us half an hour to realize Papi had left the room.  We had stomach cramps from laughing so hard.  Our faces hurt from the laughter.  Our poor dad.  He didn’t stand a chance. 

When I recounted this tale to my husband years later his only response was a knowing, “Your dad spoke the truth.” 

Huh.

Papi- 1/Devirginizing Sex-Crazed P-hole Lovers- 3 (Sorry, Dad)

Wish I Would Have Known

From Yahohomimi on Flickr

A Michigan Applebee’s has recently come under fire for serving a toddler  “apple juice spiked with an alcoholic margarita mix magical goodness“.  I wouldn’t have thought to mix the two, but now I can’t wait to try it. 

Fortunately, the drunken baby is ok, but, apparently, this isn’t the first time a mix up like this has happened at an Applebee’s.  Before the A-Rita (see what I did there?)  incident an Applebee’s employee served a  5 year-old a Long Island Iced Tea.  A Long Island Iced Tea.  That’s the drink equivalent to a Vicodin!

The mother of the toddler said she knew her son was drunk because:

“I mean within minutes his eyes were glazed, he started behaving so peculiar, laughing uncontrollably, licking the bread basket that was on the table…”

Ok.  Personally, what that mom described sounds exactly like every toddler I’ve ever met.  Kudos to her for coming to the conclusion that Jr. was wasted.  I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference since I think toddlers act like alcoholics most of the time anyway:

1. They can hardly walk.
2. You can’t understand 90% of what they’re saying.
3. They pee their pants.
4. They can be hilariously silly (e.g. licking the bread basket).
5. They can have really shitty attitudes, and usually need to sleep it off. 
6. They drool all over themselves.
7. They shove food in their faces and only get 1/3 of it into their mouths.
8. When they get pissed off, they can clear a room by making everyone feel uncomfortable and sorry for their parents.
9. They’re co-dependant.
10. They can be emotionally abusive.

I can’t stop thinking of this A-Rita!  After I drink my lunch, I’m going to start the rumor on Son’s Facebook page that Applebee’s serves to everyone so long as they use the code word “Juice”.  Then, I’m going to take him and a bunch of his friends there for dinner tonight.

It Just Tastes So Good Once It Hits My Lips

I have a love/hate relationship with smoking.   Basically, I love to smoke.  And, I hate myself for it. 

I have the matching t-shirt and tote.

Please don’t judge.  I know it’s bad for my health.  I’m not debating that.  I’m just being honest. 

My nasty habit began long, long ago on a cold and rainy spring day in my friend’s garage.  She had been doing the laundry and found a soft pack of Marlboro Reds rolled up in her brother’s faded, hole-infested Metallica t-shirt.  There was one left.   The whole thing went down like a cheesy After School Special.  We were bored.  We dared each other that the other wouldn’t take a drag.  Five minutes later we’re in the garage coughing up a lung and getting sick to our stomachs.

 My trigger is the smell of a freshly lit cigarette.  The Wisconsin smoking ban has helped curbed this trigger because all bars, restaurants, and campuses are now smoke-free which means I don’t have to smell it.  It also means that  I can smell a cigarette a mile away.   

The other day at school, I walked up on someone sneaking a smoke near a backdoor.  I stood there, frozen, staring at this kid as he took two long, crackling drags off his cigarette.  “What?”,  he said in his cocky 18-year-old voice.  “Nothing”, I silently mouthed.  I continued to stand there and watch him has he texted and smoked, texted and smoked, texted and smoked.  I focused on the sizzling red cherry of that cigarette until all that was left was a burnt little nub.  The entire time I was thinking, “I  love/hate you kid with the snotty attitude who won’t be told what to do, and sneaks out to have a smoke behind the garbage can on a non-smoking campus even at the threat of the rent a cop finding you and giving you a stern talking to”.  I love/hate you. 

I have given up my dirty little carcinogenic habit, for the most part (spoken like a true addict). But, I can do better.  I have to do better.  It’s just that every once in a while the urge to light one up is so intense that I feel like a full-blown junkie.  I get cold sweats, nervous twitches, and I start thinking of what I can trade for a cigarette. 

Excuse me, Sir.  Would you be willing to trade one of your cigs for…..my car?  No?  Oh, ok.  I understand.  Thanks anyway. 

Then, I break a bottle over the bar and shank him with it.

Why did you make me do that?!  I didn’t want to hurt you, man.  I just wanted a smoke.

 Just kidding.  It’s not that bad.  I mean, I don’t actually say that stuff out loud.  I just imagine it. 

Flash forward to this weekend.  It was nice out.  Hubby and I visited some friends, had some wine, and grilled some food.  I caved and a had smoke.  I loved/hated every second of it.

The next day, Son and I are driving in the car together.  He tells me about this cute girl he knows (I suspect he likes her even though he would never tell me). 

Me:    Do you think she’s cute?

Son:  I don’t want to talk about this.

Me.  I’m just asking if you think she’s cute.  It’s a yes or no question.

Son:  I used to think she was cute.

Me.  Used to?

Son:  Yeah.  But, I saw her smoking at a party and it was just……gross.  She smelled like cigarettes all night and I couldn’t talk to her.  I’m glad you quit.  I hated when you smoked.

*Shanked in the heart, punched in the gut guilt*

Readers, forget the E-cigs, the Nicorette, the patches, and the hypnosis.  For the unbelievably low price of $19.99 I will get my Son to come to your house and make you feel like a d-bag.  You’ll never want to smoke again.  

P.S.  Call within the next ten minutes and get a “I’m a d-bag” travel mug . Free!

Baby Ninjas-27, Parents- 0.

My personal trainer sister is the mother of two babies, which explains why, when I talked to her on the phone this weekend, she sounded exhausted; but that didn’t stop me from talking about myself for twenty minutes.

 

As usual, I was blabbing about how annoyed I was with someone/something. In this case, I was going on and on about the evil hex I wanted to put on the woman at the bank drive through who angled her car diagonally across three lanes while waiting for one to open up, leaving the rest of us to fight over the remaining lane. I was explaining to my sister that I could probably make a voodoo doll out of a potato, some toothpicks, and old buttons when I heard her snore, so I said I would call her later.

Son is 16, and although I remember being tired when he was a baby, I’ve forgotten how much energy a baby can suck out of you. They’re like little ninjas that throw sleep stealing ninja stars at your head when you’re not looking, and if you’re dumb enough to think you might actually get a few minutes of shut-eye, they drop kick you in the face.

Evil

After I finished my potato head voodoo doll, I decided to call my sister back and ask if she needed any help. She then proceeded to tell me one of the scariest stories I’ve ever heard.

The night before had been rough because  my youngest nephew, L, is teething and would only be soothed by Sister picking him up and aimlessly walking him around the house. The second she stopped or slowed down, his eyes would pop open and glare at her. The stare down lasted until L fell asleep which was sometime around dawn. The moment L’s curly-haired head hit the pillow, Sister heard her fiance’s alarm clock go off (I just threw up in my mouth).

As Sister dragged her butt to the shower, she heard my 3-year-old nephew, N, whimpering in his room. The smell of barf coming from his room hit her like a brick wall. She told me she was so tired that she had no gag reflex, and was able to pick up the puke with her bare hands (added for dramatic affect). 

She cleaned N up, washed the linens, and was heading to the shower when she heard L tossing and turning in his crib (goose bumps).  Sister’s eyes darted back and forth like a cornered wild animal.  If L woke up, he would need to be changed, fed, burped, and changed again, a process that could take anywhere from 30-90 minutes depending on what kind of mood he’s in.  Sister was running on zero sleep, and was at the mercy of a teething, and really pissed off baby ninja. (dum, dum, dum)

Needless to say, L woke up, and N got sick again, and this pattern continued until about 3:00 p.m., when by the Grace of God both babies went down for a nap. Sister was so tired that she thought if she tried to take a shower, she might drown.   Instead, she dragged her body to the couch, grabbed a handkerchief sized blanket and a diaper to use as a pillow, and laid down.  It was almost orgasmic. (Oh, good!  A happy ending!)

Her eyes were just about to close when N walked in crying and rubbing his eyes screaming that he didn’t want to take a nap.  My poor, dear sister, semi-delusional, got down on both knees, and with tears in her eyes begged the older ninja:

 Sister:  Please, N, let’s have quiet time.  You watch Dora, and Mama will close her eyes, and when Dora’s over, Mama will give you snack.  Please.  Please.  Please.

N:  Ok, Mama (I grant thee thy wish). 

Sister was out like a light for about 3 minutes when she felt an intense jolt of panic.  She was suddenly more alert than she’d been in days.  What woke her up?  The quiet woke her up (chills).  The eery, long forgotten sound of quiet and relaxation was enough to alarm my sister that something was very wrong.  She ran to the kitchen and saw N, standing with his back to her, talking to himself, as he sometimes does. 

Sister:    Hi, baby.  What are you doing?

N:  Just playing, Mama. 

Sister:   What are you playing? 

N:  I’m playing Chef!

N slowly turned to face Sister, and a glint of sunlight coming from N’s right hand, blinded her for just a second.  As her eyes refocused, she saw N, wearing one of his dad’s old t-shirts, one Spiderman sock, Cars underwear, hair tousled and tangled, wielding a long ominous looking bread cutting knife. 

Nothing to see here.

 Holy shit.

If mother nature didn’t give us baby amnesia, if we remembered or let our bodies remember how much work babies are, the human race would be screwed.