Confessions of a Stay at Home Mom

   Being a stay at home mom is phenomenal. I have the opportunity to watch The Minion grow, learn and play. I don't have to worry about who he is with or how he is being treated. I know where he is, what he is doing, how many poops he has had for the day, and what he will eat for lunch, bugs included. But there is a darker side to all of this glamour.

1. What's on TV today?

Ask any stay at home mom "What is baby's favorite show?" and you will surely hear responses such as Dora, Sesame Street, Bubble Guppies or Little Einsteins. And as true as this is, there's a strong chance that we are not tuned in to one of those more than and hour, maybe two, per day. At any given moment, on my T.V. there's the definite possibility that the tuner is set to MTV, TLC, E!, Bravo, or any other melt-your-brain station. In my defense, watching Hoarders makes me want to clean house just a little bit more, and My 600-lb Life convinces me to only eat half of the bag of chips instead of the whole.

2. I am just as busy as I say I am.. sometimes.

We've all seen it or heard it. The "I'm a chauffeur, bank, referee, chef, therapist, laundromat, doctor, seamstress, and dentist. I'm a stay at home mom," crap. Yes I play all those roles, and sometimes more, but it's not so bad. I mean, I'm not busy ALL the time. Sometimes I get 5 seconds to myself when The Minion finds a toy he likes. Until he breaks it, then I'm a repairman. And he naps for a few hours. All though that's when the laundry gets done, toys get picked up even though they'll be strewn about as soon as he wakes up, make the bed, and set out dinner. That leaves me about 30 minutes to myself. To work. Oh yes, I also work from home. So maybe there's not much time in a day. I'm all for moms who can go back to the office after baby, but it really irks me when they say "I'm a full time mom with a full time job." Oh, are you? Because if being a stay at home mom was so easy, I don't think people would pay so much for someone else to do it for them during the day. Throw me a bone.

3. I hold it all day

I've broken many of the the "When I have kids.." rules that I set up for myself. But I do not take The Minion to the bathroom with me. I've done it twice, with horrible results. So what do I do? That's right, I hold it. All day if I have to. I wait patiently for nap time, then go. Unless he skips a nap, then The Husband wonders why I'm so grumpy when he gets home. And now he knows why.

4. I've plotted The Husband's death.. more than once.

Okay, not plotted, but I have definitely wondered what would happen if he suddenly passed. I've planned out where I would move to and how to invest the insurance money. I would sell 2 of the 3 cars and pay off the other, which I would then have painted a gaudy shade of pink, just to piss him off in his grave. The Minion and I would have a small, quaint apartment, in which I would paint the walls turquoise because I can. It would only be The Minion and myself because I am not the sole guardian of the girls, Cellphone and FaceTime. I've planned down to bank accounts for all the kids, the color of his casket and how his head stone would read "I had a smokin hot wife." True story. Love you, babe.

5. I hate other moms.

Not all of them, just some. And not personally, just their lives. Sometimes it's jealousy, sometimes I just can't handle the stupid anymore. The party all the time moms. The bikini contest 3 hours after giving birth moms.The moms that spend more time at the gym because of day care and nannies, then wonder why I'm not a size two. The Husband likes the way I jiggle like a bowl full of jell-o, and who doesn't like jell-o? That reminds me, make jell-o.

6. My baby is cuter than yours.

We all ask "Do you really think my baby is cute?" I could have given birth to Quasimodo and no self respecting person would ever tell you to your face. This is the way I convince myself that my baby really is cute, because otherwise someone would tell me. But if they ever did, they'd get a clean right hook to the nose. Then Quasimodo and myself would mosey on about our day, scaring all the neighborhood kids who looked in our general direction. 

7. I've named our future children.

The Husband and I have both congruently agreed on no more children. He's got three, I have one. The two of his I have taken in as my own. I love them to death, but I still have those days where I scream out "I'm too young to have a teenager!" The Minion is good enough to be a stopping point. But I do have some time on my hands. Enough time so that if we were to conceive again, we would have a Lucille Elizabeth, Emma Leigh, or Hunter Lane. I'm sure The Husband hates all of these names, and that's all the more reason for him to be a little cautious during play time.

The Little Things

   Over the past few weeks, it seems Batman is growing at an incredible rate of speed. Taking an interest to toys, using his hands, sitting up and eating cereal, which has caused diaper changes to look more like a Christmas-time fudge making attempt gone awry, than the cute naked-baby commercials on TV. Ahh, memories. He is only 3 months old now, but I already feel like we should be preparing college essays and picking out tuxedos. Maybe even his speech for when he accepts the Heisman. (Yes, I have already looked to see how much pee wee football is going to cost... in 5 years.) But all of this gives me recognition for my own parents, who I put through Hell for no apparent reason. From my bedroom that looked like a hazardous material dump, to my first derby car. It wasn't intended to be a derby car, but it turned out that way. Oops. But just looking at this little man in front of me, I wonder if my parents looked at me the same way. All though I don't have to wonder, I know they did, and still do.

    So I just have to remind myself that the long gone sleepless nights, pee in the face, kicks to the ribs (from the inside, now to from the outside), drool and what seems like endless streams of "spit-up" that have forever ruined our furniture, carpet, clothing, and anything else within 10 feet of the baby, are all for a reason. The memories. It will all be funny someday. I can look back on all this and say "There, I did it. Now I'm done so I can laugh about it." Until one day, the grandchildren come. And it starts all over. So this year, I won't sweat the little things, and will appreciate that every reprimand, every heart ache, and every hug, were all for a reason. It all got me to where I am today; sitting in my pajamas at 3 pm on a Wednesday, covered in vomit that's not my own, and more than likely missing a chunk of hair on the right side of my head. I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

 

 

Cry So Hard You Laugh

  Sometimes I just need to have a little refresher on the lighter side of life. The things that make you laugh so hard you cry, or cry so hard you laugh. Something to reminisce upon later on down the road, and chuckle at the thought of how hard it seemed at the time. The experiences in which you realize, at one moment or another, that it's not all so bad.

 

  I'm a new mother of a two month old baby boy, who I will refer to as Batman, because it is more fun that way. And when I say 'new', I mean it in the sense that crying babies made me cry, because they were foreign, and loud, and quite frequently made smells that would make any one of my male friends gag. I, unfortunately, was not born with that maternal instinct that my sister, The Baby Whisperer, was obviously born with. I did not do the "ooh" and "ahh" thing, did not enjoy tiny, little things, and for her first baby shower, I broke down in the middle of Babies R Us the way a man surely would in the shoe department at Macy's the day before Valentine's Day.

 

  No I, all though not considerably a "tomboy", would preferably hang out with the guys, have an adult beverage and discuss the newest upgrades of the Ford Mustang, all while cursing like a sailor and being undoubtedly the "prettiest of the guys". I enjoyed when my now-husband showed me how to change my own oil, because I could get my hands dirty and have nasty crud under my nails. Oh if I had only known.

 

  So here I sit, 2 months, 1 week and 2 days after giving birth to my son, with my hands dirty, like I had always wanted. I have the cutest baby vomit in my hair, I ooh and ahh at the tiny little dirty diapers, and the only time I cry now is when I forget to cover certain boy parts during a change, and wind up with substantial amounts of peepee in my face. And I'm not sure how this baby get a hold of liquefied garden salad, but the evidence is under my no longer finely manicured fingernails. Yes, I got my hands dirty. But I cried so hard I laughed.