Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary (11 page)

L
ast winter, on the coldest day of the year, I decided to take a rare bath. After I was all dried off, I continued the alone time with a face mask and a quick call to a girlfriend. Jeff was downstairs with the kids, and surely, everyone could survive without me for a little while longer. Besides, didn’t I deserve a few more
moments to myself? From the bathroom, I could hear one of my children loudly banging around in the family room. My precious baby was obviously getting restless. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I hollered, waiting for the green clay to dry so I could wash it off. “But, I neeeeed you,” I heard from below. “
Pleeeease
come downstairs!” I ignored the wails as the huffing and puffing intensified. When I finally descended after a whopping fifteen minutes of alone time, I found my baby sulking on the couch. “What were you
doing
for so long?” he wanted to know. “I was so lonely.” And there he was—the biggest baby of all. My husband.

I looked around for someone to roll my eyes at, but everyone else in the house was happily occupying themselves by playing alone, independently coloring, or reading. So I looked at the dog. “Seriously?” I asked her. “
This
is what I’m married to?” She sighed and put her head down, obviously in agreement. I was just glad to have a witness.

Jeff’s transition from husband to child began immediately after Lily was born. It started subtly—a hint of an outturned lower lip when I’d accidentally fall asleep rocking the baby to sleep, when he and I would normally be together. A pouty face when I suggested that I spend a weekend out of town. And from there it grew, from merely a discreet facial expression into a full-blown personality trait. “You don’t pay enough attention to me” and “I think you love the baby more than me” escaped his lips on more than one occasion. The metamorphosis was undeniable. Before my very eyes, I watched as the love of my life had transformed into the last thing on earth I needed: another child.

Unfortunately, unlike the others, this child doesn’t seem to grow up. My kids are getting to the age when they don’t want public affection anymore; I need to sneak in quick cuddles and
hugs when no one else is looking. Usually, they just want an air kiss or a wave hello. Jeff, on the other hand, needs to be touched
constantly
. “Can you rub my temples?” he’ll ask, giving me no choice as he inserts his head in my lap. He’ll sit thisclose to me, reading over my shoulder as I type and taking up my precious breathing space. Sometimes, I find myself hiding out in the bathroom to get some distance, not from the kids but from him. If he could be carried around in a BabyBjörn all day, he would.

Remember the loss of sleep that’s synonymous with having a newborn? Well, I’m still experiencing it, years after the bottles and crib have long been retired. It’s not feverish children, middle-of-the-night pleas for milk, or help recovering from a bad dream that’s keeping me awake at night. No, it’s far, far worse. Jeff’s snoring has become such a problem that I am shocked that I don’t receive calls from the neighbors at three in the morning, threatening to call the authorities if the noise doesn’t immediately cease. It sounds like what I imagine a dying elephant to sound like, if there were a microphone placed in the elephant’s mouth. I can hear it when I retreat to the family room couch, an entire floor and three rooms away. People at school drop-off assume that I look like death all the time because the kids are keeping me up at night, and they’re right. Sort of.

Then there is his inability to do anything for himself. Make a tuna fish sandwich? But where do we keep the mayo? he’ll ask. And the bowls? And the cans of tuna? Put away leftovers that he snacks on until bedtime? Apparently, E. coli is not a concern for him, as food sits out until I notice it and put it away, hours later. Pay a bill? Not unless I were dead. It amazes me that my five-year-old can set up the DVR and get past parental controls, but Jeff can barely change the television station without my help.

The one time I actually did sneak off for a weekend away, I came home to a new member of the family: a puppy. Yes, my husband is actually the man who bought a dog when his wife was out of town. “It’s for the kids,” he defended himself. “They just fell in love.” Of
course
they fell in love, when he drove them three hours to the breeder filled with adorable eight-week-old dogs and told them they could pick one out. Guess who ended up having to walk the dog and feed the dog and bathe the dog and take the dog to the vet? I did, that’s who. Of course.

The dog lasted a mere few weeks before I’d had enough. After much debate, we gave him to close friends who were overjoyed to take an undeniably precious puppy. The children tearfully said good-bye, and I promised that when they grew up a little bit and proved how responsible they could be, we would revisit getting another puppy for them. And I’ll keep that promise.

Fortunately, knowing my husband-child, that day might never come.

I
have a favorite child. There, I said it.

There is one child of mine who I want to spend more time with than the others. One child whose voice is more melodic than the rest and whose touch is somehow softer. One child who isn’t grating on my nerves or instigating sibling fights or tracking in mud over my newly cleaned entryway carpet. One with whom I just seem to be simpatico. Simply put, one I just like more than the other two.

For now.

See, this favorite child of mine changes by the day. No, by the minute, actually. Who is this favorite child of mine? It’s the particular one who is pissing me off
least
at any given moment in time. They have all had their fair share of being the favorite and they have all inspired the “Oh my God, did I really give birth to you” moments as well. It’s one of the best things about having more than one child: there’s always another one to go to when one of the others is driving you up a fucking wall.

I never wanted boys. For some reason, I saw myself as a mother only of little creatures dressed in cute little pink bloomers and polka-dot ruffled bathing suits. I think I’ve just never particularly
understood
boys, so the notion of raising them seemed foreign and daunting. When I found out at twenty weeks that Ben was a boy, I cried. There, in the office with the
ultrasound tech who’d just pronounced that our baby had one beating heart and ten fingers and toes, I burst into tears. Not water-gently-welling-in-my-eyes tears, but ugly tears. Borderline hysterics, like there was something wrong with my child. It was my gut instinct and not one I’m proud of. It was also a surefire way to feel like the ultimate mother failure before my child was even born. The thought of having a boy just terrified me, and I wasn’t sure I could possibly love him as much as I loved my Lily.

But something amazing happened when Ben arrived; I fell in love with him at first sight. Unlike the feelings of confusion and fear I experienced with Lily, I had that instant rush of love for my newborn child. Just like in the movies.

Not only did I love him, but I actually
liked
him, too. Lily was the light of my life and I had adored having her to myself for the last two years, but OMG, suddenly she had become a tad annoying. Maybe it was the new baby, maybe it was our recent move, or maybe it was just part of being two years old, but girlfriend
knew
how to assert her independence. The tantrums had started and the drama level at our house was climbing into uncharted territory. My new baby, on the other hand, was happy to just be along for the ride. He ate well and slept well and always had a serene smile on his face. He was a
pleasure
. Who could blame me for falling asleep while rocking him once in a while just so I didn’t need to put Lily to bed?

When Evan was born, I had a similar experience, except there were
two
other kids at home. Two kids who had their ups and downs and were developing into real people with real opinions. Otherwise known as pains in the ass. In contrast, Evan was just so . . . peaceful. That’s the thing about babies that you appreciate
more every time. They may cry and fuss, but they also shut up relatively easily. He quickly became my favorite, especially when the other two were bickering over which cartoon to watch or just how many more chips one had than the other. I inhaled his new-baby smell and retreated to the couch to cuddle him, trying to block out the hysterics in the next room.

These days, there is no consistently easy child. Lily, my lovely and beautiful firstborn, is most definitely the girl I always wanted. She loves her Barbie dolls and playing with my makeup and trotting around in my high heels. We love getting our nails painted together and she’s already far surpassed my hair-braiding abilities. It’s so much fun watching her play with the same things I played with at her age and relating to her so closely. She’s so incredibly sweet and nurturing and, really, the experience is even
better
than I thought it would be. She makes me proud every day. She’s my
favorite
.

Unfortunately, there is another girl inhabiting my daughter’s body who is far less enjoyable. She’s volatile and bratty and, sometimes, I wonder if she has a screw (or fifty) loose. This child likes to yell at the top of her lungs and slam doors with such force that the whole house shakes. She pinches her brothers when nobody is looking and rolls her eyes so harshly that I sincerely worry that they will actually get stuck in the back of her head. She’s argumentative and antagonistic and just plain nasty. I’m
really
not fond of
that
girl.

So, it’s on to my Ben. My Ben, who already is one step ahead of the rest simply by virtue of resembling me the most. Ben, whose smile lights up his entire face and who can’t resist stomping in every puddle he sees. Ben, whose laugh is just contagious
and who’s always good-natured. He’s kind and generous and just an all-around great kid. He’s my
favorite.

But then he whines. Ben’s whine has to be the most irritating noise on the planet. His whine could be used as a torture method to drag out top secret information from the most threatening of men. It’s constant and shrill and, really, just can’t be properly conveyed on paper. You have to hear it to believe it, which for your sake I hope is never the case. When he’s in the middle of going on and on about dinner being yucky or a museum being boring or a walk being too long, I often want to shoot myself. At those times, he’s most definitely not my favorite.

And then there’s my baby. I’m pretty sure Evan will still be my baby when he’s forty. Or thirty-five, at least. He tells me he loves me a hundred times a day and melts me every single time. He sings along to every song he knows in the cutest, deepest little-boy voice ever. The things that come out of his mouth completely crack me up and he is so delicious that I could eat him up. Though I resented every minute of my pregnancy with him, I couldn’t possibly love him more. Our family would be incomplete without his addition. He’s my
favorite
.

But lately, he’s begun to be a bit of a nightmare. The kid who used to proudly get himself dressed every day now insists that I outfit him from head to toe. The child who would, at one time, happily eat salmon and peas now wants only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for every single meal. His newly begun tantrums rival any other tantrums I’ve ever seen before and he’s a walking incubus, ensuring that our winters are spent running back and forth from the ER to the pharmacy and back home again. When he’s thrashing around on the floor over not being allowed a third
breakfast bar in an hour, I crave a more reasonable child. A more mature child. A child whom I can reason with and converse with like a sane human being.