Was I Warned? Or Was I Just Not Listening?

 
Quick Update Since I Don’t Feel Like Writing an Entire Entry: I’ve been told my posse of rubber dummies has officially been shot ta hell. I’m also to understand that their faces, for the most part, are pretty much still intact, which got me wondering: Would I be called in to identify their bodies? The answer is no. But I was reassured that before their very timely death they were dressed in sweet white T-shirts, and that they were very much loved and admired by all who came into close-combat-contact with them.
 
On a non-thug note, this weekend I got up in the attic and dragged down every baby contraption we had: the Graco Port-a-Crib, the Fisher Price Take-A-Long Aquarium Swing, the Graco Travel Jungle Bouncer, and the Graco Combination Carseat-Stroller. Apparently we like Graco around here. I bleach-wiped them down and washed out any removeable pieces of cloth. We actually thought ahead when registering for these "essentials" and chose all non-gender-specific themes and colors. So we’re already sitting pretty with just about everything we need, thanks partly to my keen foresight back in 2004, but mostly to Caleb’s reluctance to accept that our then unborn Mia was, indeed, a girl.
 
I also hurt the crap out of myself Saturday by playing a rousing game of chase with the girls and then partaking in a little teeter-tottering action (that’s gym-dandying to those of you in the know). Yeah, it kind of hurts to walk…or get out of bed…or move at all. So if you call me and I sound out of breath and in pain, I’m not in labor or anything; I’m just pissed with you for making me get up off my ass to grab the phone.
 

 
As a wise Chris Rock once said, "If you haven’t seriously contemplated murder, you ain’t never been in love." Maybe that’s sort of the way it is with being a mom: you don’t fully understand what it means to be a parent until you’ve wanted to shake the living shit out of your kids. Hell, I’ve heard my own mother say it again and again: "There were times when I could’ve just shaken you girls." Only now do I know she meant that quite literally.
 
Case in point: Cheyenne (snapping gum and listening to her I-pod). March 6th, 2008, 4:30 p.m.
 
HER: "Mom, this cookbook here says that the more processed foods you feed your children, the more sugar and salt their bodies get."
  ME: "Oh, I believe that. In fact I–"
HER: "It also says that you have to cook with ‘healthy’ fats and oils so that your child’s eyesight develops properly."
  ME: "Well, I–"
HER: "That would explain why I have to have glasses. You know, Mom, you feed us a lot of processed foods. I can’t even remember the last time we ate something that was actually homemade."
  ME: "What? Just the other night we had shrimp and noodles and vegetables! And what about the chicken and potatoes and carrots I cooked yesterday? We eat homemade stuff all the time!"
HER: "Well, it wasn’t really homemade. The vegetables were frozen and those noodles came from a box."
  ME: "Yeah, but they were whole-wheat, organic noodles!"
HER: "And everytime I take a lunch you make me have a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and yogurt. That is soooo not good for me."
  ME: "Well I’m freaking sorry, Cheyenne. If you want to make freaking yogurt from freaking scratch then you go right ahead and do it. And then you can get out there in the freaking cold weather and start freaking growing a freaking garden, too, while you’re at it, so that none of us have to settle for frozen vegetables again, okay? And P.S. we’re having frozen processed pizza from a box tonight."
 
I wonder if my mom ever had to fight every natural urge in her body not to leap across a coffee table and strangle us whenver we pissed her off. I’m actually impressed that while growing up I didn’t hear her cuss more than she did, because I know exactly where Cheyenne gets that know-it-all, smart-alec, matter-of-fact attitude.
 
What I don’t understand is where Mia comes up with her ideas. February 29, 2008, 4:30 p.m. Our driveway:
 
MIA: "Aren’t the clouds pretty, Mommy? God made them."
  ME: "That’s right sweetie! God made everything in the world."
MIA: "Yup. And God lives in the clouds."
  ME: "Uh, sure. God lives in the clouds."
MIA: "I love God, mommy."
  ME: "Me, too, sweetie. I love God, too."
MIA: "But I don’t like Jesus. I hate Jesus."
  ME: "What? That’s not–"
MIA: "I wicked hate Jesus."
  ME: "But God is Jesus’s Daddy, and Jesus is God’s little boy, so it’s good to love Jesus, too."
MIA: "Oh. Well. Hmm. Does he live in the clouds?"
 
Never had a conversation with either of my daughters left me so…disturbed…although, I could do a better job at getting my family to a church. And I refuse to start them out on Carebears.
 
But I digress.
 
I’m sure the next baby will come up with his own ways of challenging me–"Who taught you how to poop all the way out the back of your diaper and into your hair?" or "Damnit, I thought I told you not to throw your strained peas to the dogs. It gives them the runs!" In all the parenting books I’ve ever skimmed over quickly, no one has ever mentioned the utter confusion and suppressed rage that comes along with raising children. Nevertheless, I told Caleb the other night that I’m feeling a little more at ease about having our third baby–that this time, I’m more excited than scared. "Do you know what I mean?" I asked.
 
HIM: "No, baby. I wasn’t scared with our first. It was all natural for me."
  ME: "You weren’t the slightest bit, I dunno, anxious, about taking care of a baby for the first time?"
HIM: "Can’t say that I was. I can’t believe you were.
  ME: "Were? I am, still, with this one…though not as much."
HIM: "I can’t understand why."
  ME: "Well, maybe that’s because all you have to freaking do as far as taking care of the baby is concerned is hold it when it’s happy, damnit! I, on the other hand, have to A) push the thing out of my ass, B) wake up every 2 hours to C) feed the thing from my sore tits! And then, because I’m D) already up, I might as well E) change his dirty diaper, after which he will F) want to eat again!"
HIM: "That’s what parenting is all about, sweetie."
 
Which brings us right back to Chris Rock and his "seriously contemplating murder" observation. I swear, somedays I could just SHAKE my husband.
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About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

4 responses to “Was I Warned? Or Was I Just Not Listening?

  • barnyardmama

    Gawd.  Do you know I used to give my mother a hard time because she didn’t have a job?  Hello?  Hypocrite.  Right over here.
     
    Yeah, I think it’s neccessary for people to have times when they want to shake their husbands.  Mine had the HARDEST time figuring out how to hold the baby and get a bottle.  How does he think I do it all day?  I won’t complain too much.  I would have died without him the weeks after Charlie got home from the hospital. 
     
    And, I’ll add, if you’re not nervous about raising a kid. . . then you haven’t thought about it long enough.
     
    KM

  • Bev

    Thanks for a good Sat. morning laugh.  Sorry.  It was funny.  What a hoot!  You also exercised ADMIRABLE restraint in not shaking anyone….especially given the hormones raging through your little pregnant self!!
     
    Have a great weekend, my friend!
     
    BBB

  • Joell

    Based on your convos with your girls, I have to say Toni, that I think 4:30 pm is a bad time of day around your house…Ha!
     
    Chris Rock was on to something! LOL
     
     

  • Nooner™

     
    Surprise!
     
    "In all the parenting books I’ve ever skimmed over quickly" <—- HaHaHa… I loved that line!
     
    ~Nooner~
     

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