Category: Family
Up All Night, Up All Day
The majority of my adult life was defined by insomnia. Scratch that – the majority of my life, period. Summer vacations involved a lot of reruns at 2am – which explains my deep, eternal love for Scott Bakula. Mornings were my enemy – to the point that I worked for several years on an overnight shift. It suited me – although I did start reacting to sunlight like Gollum.
I’ve been on all of the sleeping pills, the pills that aren’t for sleeping but have that as a side effect, herbal teas, supplements. I’ve cut out caffeine, tried meditation, set up a very specific schedule, exercised, and tried drinking myself to sleep. Nothing worked for more than a week, most not at all. I’d accepted my life would be lived in an exhausted haze with plenty of nature documentaries and QVC.
Then, about a year ago, I was suddenly cured. I was going to sleep by 10 and waking up at 6 like a proper adult. The change happened when I moved in with a friend – we’ll call her Shmauren – and her very energetic son, who we’ll refer to as Optimus Prime. Living with Optimus Prime was like living with the world’s most effective alarm clock. When he was up, so were you. And it became kind of awesome. I was getting a solid 7-8 hours a night; I was productive in the morning; I was ON TIME TO WORK.
This Is How They Hurt You: The Step-Parent Nightmare
It happened last night. The moment every step-parent-type knows will happen, but wishes never will. The moment I’ve been lucky enough to dodge for 7 months. The “you aren’t my mother” moment. And it just about killed me.
Cal is obsessed with Mario – he has all of the games and toys and clothes. He’s obsessed with finding cheat codes to unlock…things. And, this was something I learned after meeting Cal, people will record themselves playing games, upload them to YouTube, then other people watch them to learn things. I’m not a gamer, never have been, so none of this really makes sense to me, but it’s Cal’s life.
Scott has an older iPod touch that now basically belongs to Cal. He uses it to watch his videos and learn his cheats and…stuff. He’s a good kid, his autism really keeps him locked in on Mario (and now Pokemon as well), we trust him – so we don’t monitor every single video he watches. Which is how all of this got started.
Please Stop Telling Me That I Want More Children
As a lady, I find myself in the position of having my decisions publicly judged on a daily basis. From the old dude who tells me to “Smile!” because “It ain’t that bad!” to all sorts of legislators telling me what I can and cannot do with my own body, every day feels like a goddamn shitshow. But the one that’s really been the hair in my ass lately? People, some of whom I barely know, playing concern troll for my son’s lack of siblings. No, really. This is a thing that happens. I was just as surprised as you are! People really seem to care about the contents of my uterus, and seem to be surprised, offended, or a combination of the two when I tell them that I would prefer that it has no further occupants. Sigh.
Dudes. Duuuuuuuudes. Here is a secret about me that actually is not a secret at all if you talk to me for more than, say, 20 minutes. I don’t really like kids. Let’s back up because GOD KNOWS the shit flies like a swarm of killa bees when you make statements like that. I love my son. He’s mine, I made him. He is hands down the worst roommate I’ve ever had, but jeez, yeah, I love the shit out of that kid. And my friends’ kids? Sure! They’re okay too. Many of them are adorable, and some keep my own child occupied so we can sit on the porch with beer and Parliaments. But generally speaking? If given the choice of being around a bunch of kids and the opposite of that scenario? I will choose the latter. Some people are kid people, just like some people are dog people, others are cat people, and some are CENTAURS. (For the record, I am none of those things.) (Sorry if you thought I was a centaur.) Babies are cute, but I like to give them back to their rightful owner when they get fussy or poop up their backs. Kids are loud and mean and if I wanted loud and mean, I’d hang out with…well, me. I’d hang out with me.
9 is the new 14
When M was born she was perfect. I know every mom says that about their kids but seriously, M was actually perfect. She slept through the night 3 days after she was born. She was and still is a great, healthy eater. M was polite and smart and never really got into trouble. She never colored on walls, or cut her own hair. She never threw fits or tantrums to get her way. She was always happy and smiling. She was, and still can be, so compassionate, she would cry at the thought of a lost dog or want to help anyone she thought might be a little sad. She was that little ego boost. You know, the one that makes you say “Damn, I am good at this parenting thing!” I mean, realistically I knew it was all her, but I figured I had to have something to do with it.
Staying At Home: It’s Not All Bon-Bons and Soaps
I never intended to be a stay-at-home mom. I have been working since I was eighteen, and the thought of stopping to stay home all day with a baby was terrifying to me. “I’d be so bored!” I would cry! “No one does that anymore!” I’d tell people. Stay-at-home mothering was right up there with moving back in with your parents at thirty in my life. The shame! The horror!
While I was pregnant, I kept my nighttime bar-tending job, working eleven hour shifts right up until I was nine months pregnant and people starting making serious comments about me giving birth while mixing a cocktail. When I was asked what would happen after the baby came, I was optimistic. “Oh, I’m going to take five weeks off, and then I’ll be back to keep working my shifts. No big deal.” And I did. I was the crankiest, most irritated bartender in Richmond, serving college kids their red bull and vodkas with the bitchiest stink face I had because they would get to sleep off their hangovers while the only thing I got to sleep off was an hour or two of not being vomited on. I schlepped on for about four months, until I had to finally admit to myself and my husband that I was harboring a pretty terrible case of postpartum depression that I was trying to mask by drinking a lot while at work and going to target almost every day I wasn’t working.
Once I got some help with my depression, I cut back to one night a week at the bar for mental health and settled into a fairly decent routine with my kiddo, who was starting to be less of a screaming worm with appendages and more like a smiling human who only screamed intermittently. Around this time, my husband started a new hobby which evolved into a new business. He was working seven days a week and when he wasn’t working, he was holding down the fort while I went to work. After a few months of him working all the time, we realized a couple of things. Monetarily, we were doing OK. We certainly weren’t showering in Perrier and eating fancy dinner every night, but we were holding our own. Secondly, the money I was bringing in from my one night of work a week was pretty much equal to what my husband was trying to do on the two and a half days that he wasn’t at his real job. It seemed pretty clear that my job was becoming a moot point.
A Manifesto Of Sorts
I used to roll my eyes when friends complained about “mommy blogs”. “Why do you care what some twat said about raising kids? You’re doing a good job; just don’t read her stuff anymore.” I didn’t understand why it was such a big freaking deal. I mean, I didn’t go around reading sites praising George W. Bush. That’s how the internet is, you pick and choose and everyone else can go to hell. Or wherever.
Then, this really strange thing happened. I started dating a single father. And then I fell in love like a dummy. Now we live together and I’m suddenly a mom-type. So I spend a lot of time online, researching and finding new things to try out with them. And that’s when I found out how hideous the mommy blogs really can be. All of the sudden, I was the one feeling judged for working full time. For allowing chemical-filled cleaning sprays into our home. I was the horrible parent that used food as a reward. I let them watch tv all day, and play video games, and have pizza rolls for dinner on the regs. And I curse! Sometimes in front of the boys, sometimes as I yell at them to PUT SOME DAMN PANTS ON.
As much as I tried to take my own (dismissive, bitchy) advice of just don’t look at it, that’s really difficult. Because everywhere you turn there’s some stay at home mom with a lot more time, money, and patience making me feel like Asshole of the Year. Which is BULLSHIT because I’m a great parent. Even if I drink and smoke and curse and eat fast food, I still love those boys with all of me and they know it. We have a home filled with laughter and joy and craziness, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. (At least not permanently, but if someone wanted to give me an all-inclusive week to a resort all alone, I’d so do it.)
Put Your Damn Pants On! 