Because you aren’t going to get it here.  Not today.

I realize that a lot of my parenting posts have a negative tone to them.  It’s not that I don’t love and adore my children and cherish many things about my life with them.  But, seriously, isn’t that what every mommy blog out there is about?  Feeding tots organic, only grown in the US pears while simultaneously tandem breast-feeding their sling-bound newborns?  I, for one, am sick of it.  I’ve been known to toss frozen mini waffles at my kids (I do toast them) whilst being completely unaware of their country of origin and babies in slings just feel like extended pregnancy to me.

This is what my life looks like tonight:

1)  Feeling really mad that Special K didn’t leave work (over an hour away) until 7:30 p.m.  This is an extremely rare occasion, couldn’t be helped, and he did call.  I did do my perfect “No problemo, honey” bullshit routine on the phone, because I’m doing the whole supportive wife thing this week.

2)  I’m calculating just how many hours today that I’ve been dealing with the shit my kids dole out to me.  It’s been fourteen straight, just in case you care.

3)  I ate Jell-o pudding for dinner.  I’m considering Cheetos for dessert.

4)  Aspie is downstairs.  He is the smartest person in this house; he consistently positions himself on whichever floor has the fewest people.  I think that’s called “flying under the radar.”  He does it better than anyone I know.  He calls it “Giving you alone time Mommy.”  I’m no fool.

5)  Veruca is in bed.  Kind of.  She’s been up three times for pee breaks and once to ask who, in her room, keeps saying her name.  After extensive investigation, we discovered who it was-her.

6)  Devil Dog is in his bed crying.  Well, he was crying, begging to use the potty.  He is two, a boy and has zero interest in controlling his bodily functions.  But he picked up this catch phrase along with “my tummy hurts”, “you’re fresh” and “what the hell?” and now, these are all I hear.  Personally, I think he just asks to use the potty because it gives him a couple minutes of access to his toddler unit.

In the past couple of minutes, I’ve been gifted with some silence.

You know that parenting is going to be hard.  After all, if forming decent humans was easy, society would look a hell of a lot better than it’s current appearance.  What they don’t tell you, and who is “they” anyway?…but what they don’t tell you is about the resentment that mothers feel.  I don’t know, maybe I’m the only one.  I don’t resent my kids; they were just the result of margaritas or failed Ortho-Evras.  But there are days when I look in the mirror and look at my life and feel like it all went to them.  They deserve everything I had to give; I’m their mother.  I’m supposed to give it all away.  But I never replenished and now I’m too fucking tired.  Parenting has become a survival sport and I’ve lost the battle.  I’m exhausted, my stamina is gone and they are stomping on my limp carcass.  Over-dramatic; I’m aware.

In other news, my editor emailed me some suggestions on how to help with my bandwidth issues.  Which is awesome; she’s a wealth of information.  I think she reads here and just shakes her head at my idiocy, but then eventually takes pity on me and sends me nice emails that, in their original, pre-edited state, probably read more like :  “Dude, Are you really this stupid that you can’t properly manage your sad and insignificant blog?”  I also think she, like my other childless followers, reads here and then serious contemplates permanent sterilization.  To her and to all the rest of you:  yes.  Consider it.  Strongly.

Special K just walked in.  Veruca is on her fourth pee break, Devil Dog is screaming again and Aspie…well he’s still giving me my alone time.  I am going to lock myself in a room and watch a couple episodes of Intervention.  Most people watch for inspiration; I’ll be watching for technique.

My cousin and I were raised in close proximity and had a sister-like relationship.  Growing up, she always excelled academically.  Now, she just excels.  At thirty-six, she is a complete obsessive.  The slightest, perceived, less than the best, performance is a FAIL.  And I always look at her with a mental eye-rolling.  Like, seriously, you’ve got and are everything! 

Here’s where the self-inventory comes in:  I’m the same way.  I mean, I don’t have money or a career and those are very tied to my sense of self-worth.  But I got a weekend writing gig this Fall.  That was huge for me.  But then it was like, “Oh, I’m not good enough; I’m sure no one else applied and that’s why I got it.”  And now, I’ll be writing some more and during the week.  It’s a step up for me.  Believe me, I’ll find a way to re-mold that advancement into something where I come out the loser.  I’m cognizant of how exhausting my low-confidence, high-maintenance ways are.

In addition, I’m a rule follower.  I always was.  As a child, I didn’t push the boundaries of any stated policy.  If I was told something was so, it never even occured to me that questioning was an option.  I’m not sure if that’s a personality trait but fear is definitely an element of the culture in my family.  I’m always afraid bad things will happen if I break rules.  Not wearing a hat in winter is near-certain pneumonia and more than two bananas a week is a potassium-induced heart attack in the making. 

Needless to say, 2008 has been a totally uncomfortable year for me.  So much of what I’ve known, from a decades-long friendship, my relationship with food, and my privacy with writing, has changed.  I’m flying without a net and it really sucks.  It seems that so many people pursue, and thrive within, the unknown.  I’m not one of them.  I read the last page first in any book I start.  I want to know the outcome of, not just my books, but my very life. 

In the early days of being a mom, I decided that I wanted to raise my kids without those invisible strings that have always held me in the safe zone.  I want them to question without being reckless.  I want them to stretch and reach in a way that I never could; and still cannot.  And most of all, I wanted them to have confidence.  To believe that their accomplishments are results…not just happenstance.  Aspie was sorting laundry at three-years-old.  Why not?  I didn’t want his perceived abilities to be determined by his time of birth.  I wouldn’t toss him a map and some MBTA tokens, but a bottle of Tide?  Yes.  He learned his colors in the process and learned that women possess no special chromosome that enables only them to run a washing machine.  He also learned that wool shrinks.  Progression can be painful.  And Veruca, at almost four, knows not only the difference between curly and flat parsley, but how to use it to prepare (and tie!) a roasted pork tenderloin with Anjou pears (thanks to my mom…can’t take credit on that one). 

I’ve got dreams for these kids.  And maybe a couple for me too.  But for today:  May my children not just grow to fill their space on this planet but may they expand and redefine their space.  May my children be sure-footed and exploratory.  May my children always be age-inappropriate.

This is what I woke up to this morning.  Devil Dog decked out in mittens and a hat.  Sweet, right?  I appreciate that my child is so intelligent that he is dressing properly for the frigid deep freeze that we just entered.  He’s brilliant and it puts my mind at ease that, even though he wasn’t breastfed, the couple of missing IQ points aren’t damaging him too deeply.  But these are Veruca’s hat and mittens and Devil Dog knows:  You do not  fuck with Veruca’s accessories.  But she was in her room and unaware so he took advantage of this freedom.

He took some time to read, though kept glancing nervously to his right looking for her.  Incidentally, watching a kid try and flip the pages of a laminated board book while wearing fleece mittens…that’s good stuff right there.  Highly entertaining.  It’s the more humane version of dipping bread in brandy and putting it out for the squirrels.  My grandmother used to do that.  Oh, how she’d sit back and witness the hilarity that would ensue.  I never realize how fucked up parts of my childhood were until I type them out.

 We had a talk and I tried to show him the error of his ways…

In time, he knew the gig was up.  He heard the footsteps of his maker and immediately asked to eat breakfast.  My prodigy is wise enough to know that, even a rage-filled Veruca, isn’t strong enough to raze a high chair with 26 lbs. of kid strapped into it. 

 Do you remember the Elian Gonzalez picture where he was being taken away by an INS officer?

At this point, they were just both pissing me off so much.  He was screaming like he bought Vera Wang at retail and Veruca was just being a total bitch, as advertised below.  So I took everything away from everyone.  

 I don’t know why I always think that disciplining my kids will lead to a more peaceful life. 

 In time, they calmed down.  No they didn’t; that’s a lie.  I just couldn’t stand it anymore.  I gave Devil Dog a new hat, of which his reaction to could only be described as neutral.  And I think “neutral” is being generous.

 It’s obvious who got the better end of this deal, but fret not.  Devil Dog is getting an extra cookie at dinner tonight.  Hell, he may get cookies for dinner.  It all evens out.

But here is what you must know:  This ALL happened before 9:30 a.m.  And this is why I’m speechless by six.  And why I probably need to be medicated.  And why I need this.

Veruca came up to me today and said “You have chocolate eyes.  And they’re cracking.”  And the cracking she was referring to was my wrinkles.

I’m in a quandry.

I put Devil Dog in a time-out this morning.  You don’t listen around here, you get a TO.  It’s that simple.  It usually works and we’ve managed to raise some fairly well-behaved children.  I hate to brag but when we go out to eat, old people smile approvingly at us and sometimes stop by our table to compliment us on how proper the kids act.  Needless to say, old people don’t know about invisible fence and collar combos.  Sorry…where was I?  DD, TO, P&P (pack and play).  So, he’s in my room, in a pack and play,  and there is no crying out about the injustice of incarceration.  After a couple of minutes, I realize that the TV, tuned to Disney, is on in my room.  Damn.  So the time-out is completely ineffective.  What can I do now?  He needs to learn that a negative action equals a negative consequence…not an episode of Handy Manny.  I was thinking of something like this:  “DD, do you want a puppy?   (long pause while frantic celebrating ensues) Tough.”  Too mean?