Valium with my Latte

Moms get a lot of play in the media. From Tiger moms to slacker moms. French moms to moms who breastfeed until the kid is old enough to ask for the car keys.  Moms get play in the media because Moms do a lot. We work, we volunteer, we help sell Girl Scout cookies. We cook, we clean, we do laundry, we drive drive drive.  We remember doctor appointments, dentist appointments, meetings, field trips, and when library books are due.  We cut fingernails and toenails before they reach Wolverine status (or TRY to, anyway), bandage boo-boos, remind to brush brush brush and floss floss floss.  We grit our teeth at homework time, science fair time, and while brushing out tangles roughly the size of a womprat.  Everyone sings the praises of Mother for all this and more. But you know what I never see? Moms getting kudos for bed-making.  I did some math, and figured I have made approximately 2000 beds in the past 11 years. And this doesn’t include the daily bed-making when the kids were little. This is weekly tearing-the-bed-apart-and-putting-on-clean-sheets bed-making.  I got to thinking about this a few months

Luckily, someone who can afford a bed like this probably has a hired hand who takes care of pesky household chores like bed-making.

ago, as I scraped my knuckles YET AGAIN on Type A’s headboard.  I remember my mom making all our beds.  I remember sliding into those cool, clean sheets, blankets heavy on my body.  That fresh smell of recently washed laundry that never lasted long enough, but was so soothing.  I remember feeling loved and safe.  I also remember never thanking my mom for doing it.  Why would I?  In my childhood mind, it was what moms did.  Like making dinner, and teaching me how to tie my shoes.  Mom-work.  But now, as a Mom myself, I realize how much WORK goes into making beds, and I have to say I HATE clean sheet day.  I very rarely escape without a scraped knuckle, broken nail, bruised shin or sore back.  And word to the wise: think twice before getting a bunk bed.  Then think twice more.  Sure, kids love them, and they ARE space-savers, but you have to know it will be YOU who has to climb your fat, scared ass up that ladder to change the sheets, clean up vomit, or spray the mattress down because of a pee accident.  You will

Room for ACTIVITIES is GREAT, but who wants to try to change the sheets in the death-bed??

madly try to remember what the max weight limit is as you lay yourself flat across that top bunk to distribute your weight more evenly (like with snow or quicksand).  Have you ever tried to put clean sheets on a bed while laying flat on your stomach?  Yeah.  It’s terrifying.  Trying not to move too much because the bed sways and makes alarming creaking noises.  Imagining a catastrophic collapse turning you into a bunk bed sandwich, like Will Ferrell in Step-Brothers.  Yeah, I did that for a few years until I begged hubby to separate the bunks, because it really was just a question of WHEN the bed would collapse, not IF. Speaking of hubby, I don’t know why sheet-changing became exclusively “Mom work”.  Looking back, I don’t know of any Dads who changed sheets when I was a kid.  Maybe it’s because most men don’t mind wallowing in the same dirty sheets for a month or more.  Ugh. Just the THOUGHT of that makes me all skeevy.  I don’t know how they do it.  I think most men believe there is a Clean Sheet Fairy who flies in while they are at work, and puts clean sheets on the beds.  Kind of like the Clean Underwear Fairy, and the Clean Sock Fairy.

So I guess my point here is this:  Call your Mom (or whoever was your chief bed-maker back when you were a kid) and say “Thank you.”  Thank her/him for the scraped knuckles/sore backs/broken nails they had to endure.  Thank her/him for those middle-of-the-night sheet changes when you puked, peed, or pooped all over the bed.  Thank her/him for changing your sweaty sheets when you were sick, and your fever broke.  Thank her/him for enduring the nightmare of folding clean sheets to put away in the linen closet (folding fitted sheets makes me want to punch myself in the face).  And make sure your kids understand the sacrifice YOU make every week changing out those nasty dirty sheets by complaining loudly and sighing a lot.  Muttering the f-word under your breath gets your point across nicely as well.  Also, if you have a bunk bed to take care of, make sure you hand your cell phone to one of the kids with strict instructions on how to call 9-1-1 if the bed collapses under you.  That gets the point across to the kids that every time you make that bunk bed, you take your life into your own hands.  I’m not above guilting a “thank you” out of them.  But to be honest, I DO get a weird satisfaction of watching them snuggle down into a bed of clean sheets because I know they are experiencing that same intangible sense of well-being I did when I was a kid.  And sometimes, that is thanks enough.

I was walking through the hall, holding a mug of coffee, when it happened. I paused to tap on the closed bathroom door, to make sure my oldest, Type A, was going to the bathroom, and not giving herself premature hemorrhoids by sitting on the toilet for 45 minutes with the ipad. All of a sudden, it’s like my hand forgot it was holding a mug of coffee, and it just…. let go. The mug fell to the carpet and hit, bottom first, causing the hot coffee inside to forcefully eject from the mug like demon vomit from Linda Blair’s unholy mouth. I only had time to gasp in horror as the coffee shot out, splattering the walls and covering me head to toe. I stood there, frozen, as coffee dripped from my hair Carrie-style (pig’s blood for a pig),

This is what I looked like, only I was covered in coffee, not pig's blood.

and ran down the walls in little brown rivulets. And my God! Was that coffee on the ceiling???? ON THE CEILING????? I managed to choke out a horrified “Oh my GOD” before the kids came running. When they saw the mess, they too, froze. Probably in fear. “Can you guys PLEASE get me some TOWELS?” I asked through clenched teeth, not even knowing where or how to begin cleaning up this mess. It was the blue slushy all over again. The kids ran around like the 3 stooges, running into each other in their eagerness to ward off what was sure to be a Mount Vesuvius-style blow-up from yours truly.

I WILL BURY YOU IN ANGER-ASHES!!!!

One ran and brought back a bunch of rags. The other two brought paper towels, and mercifully, some cleaning spray. They then quietly went into their separate rooms and shut the doors. An unearthly silence fell over the whole house, and if I HAD been Carrie (of Stephen King fame), you can BET I would be using mind bullets to vent my anger. I looked down, and there, in a puddle of coffee that was slowly being absorbed by the beige carpet, was my mug. Upside down. I can only assume it hit the floor, bounced, flipped over, and landed on the rim. Stupid fucking mug. I hate you. So. First things first. I wiped my face and blotted my hair (it was in my HAIR!!!). I felt sticky and nasty but before I could clean myself up, I had to take care of the carpet. And the walls. And the ceiling. So I mop up the mess on the floor as best as I can, then attack the walls with cleaning spray and paper towels. Once that was done, I headed downstairs to get the carpet cleaner. That’s when I notice the coffee dripping down the banister. THE BANISTER?? OH COME ON!!! THAT’S LIKE 10 FEET AWAY FROM GROUND ZERO!!! HOW CAN COFFEE POSSIBLY FLY THAT FAR???? So I get the carpet cleaner and lug it upstairs, and I get to work. Soon, the upstairs smells like wet carpet and cold, dirty vanilla Via, and it is making me vaguely nauseous. And no matter how much I go over the area, there is still a vague brown stain on the carpet. One I cannot blame on the kids OR the dog. I guess I’ll just have to resign myself to having an ugly brown stain on the carpet. I finally get to shower, and realize that I was wearing my last clean pair of non-holey jeans when the “incident” occurred. Damn it. I’m afraid to even ASK if this day could get any worse, because we all know it can.
And that, my friends, is why you can never trust Tuesday. -K

I hated it so much.... it-it- the f - it -flame - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breath- heaving breaths. Heaving breaths...

These are NOT the people Kerstin spent Saturday night with. But aren't they lovely?

Personally, I am deeply thankful that Kerstin and I are not famous. If anyone ever hacked our phones, and got a hold of our text conversations, they would be convinced that two 10-yr-old boys had gotten ahold of their moms’ phones. Yup. LOTS of poop jokes. ‘Cause they never get old. Also, play-by-plays of how wretched our periods are. OK, maybe 12-yr-old girls…

Anyway, here are our texts back and forth from Saturday night. I am translating them as texted—in all their Swype Autocorrect glory. I never did figure out what one or two texts meant:

Kerstin and I text each other constantly. But I didn’t hear my phone for about an hour, then checked it and saw I had missed 15 texts. FIFTEEN.

Kerstin: Omg I am at Studly’s work Christmas party. He forgot something, so he has to run home, which will take like 30 mins snd I am here with a bunch of people I don’t know.

K: Thank gid I am getting to know this lemon drop pretty well

K: AWKWARD

K: ONE DRINK TICKET down, 3 more to go…

K: Shit. I just remembered I forgot to put my black bra on under my blck knit swear… My white bra totes shows thru. That calls for another lemon drop.

K: Drinkey drankey drunkey dronkey… I getting dronkey

K: Oh shit I think kenny g is here

K: Ok, not kenny g but but solo clarinet (out whatever jenny g plays) playing in the corner to a prerecorded track

K: Actually a classy party

K: Your stol continue to very updates until Studly comes back [Nope. I don’t have a fucking clue either.]

K: Omg the last text made no sense … Stupid Swype

K: Ok, and stupid lemon drop… can’t blame it aaalll on swyped this time

K: Whaaaaa? Pumpkin spice martini? Oh, that shall be my next stinky

K: Drinky not stinky [by this point, I can totes hear her teeth grinding and see her fighting the urge to bitchslap her own phone]

Theresa: I just read AAALLLLLL 15 texts, and I cannot BREATHE.

K: ON the shorter peeinf out some martini… My texts are hilarious

Theresa: Ima post em on Valium 2morrow

K: Ok

K: While I feel like my makeup is running down my face in drunken sludge, I actually look almost human.

Theresa: I drank a BOTTLE of wine at The King’s christmas party last night.

K: Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttt

K: Omg bartenders made do a digit if tequila… Haywards [never got that one either]

Theresa: Lsnb! I can’t WAIT until u read that one tomorrow.

K: Lmao!

K: Looking at Studly over they rew in his wrinkled red sweater makes me wish I ironed but only s little

K: you should read my tweets… An ode to the lemon drop

K: I like drink people… Especially dronk me

Kerstin tweeted these over the course of an hour. An hour I spent wheezing and gasping for breath.

Oh lemon drop martini, how do I love thee, let me count the ways….

1. You help me to navigate the social niceties of a work xmas party…

2. You quench my liquor lust

3. You give me the liquid courage to mingle with people I don’t know

4. You are so tasty

5. You are starting to make me feel dizzy and a smidge spinny

6. You are making me feel slightly amorous

9. I love you, man [yes, she skipped 7 & 8. She was drunk! Don’t judge.]

B. You make me want to talk to strangers like they were my best friends

Threeve. Oh, lemon drop… You are all gone… I shall have to ask thre bartender if you have any sisters….

? Three drink tickets left…. I may get into some trouble…..

Omg a pumpkin spice martini? Sorry lemon stop… You are booted

Heels and booze do NOT mix

I worked really vargas to NOT embarrass Studly art the part tonight. It worked…i only embarrassed myself

Drinky drankey drunkey dronkey

If a drunk Kerstin falls in her ved, does she make a sound? Question of the ages…

Then she came home and drunkbooked all over FB:

Kerstin’s comment on our friend’s status: “Fuckin awesome. Of course, I am completely drink right now, so my awesome scale might be off…”

Annnnd again: “Of course, I am drunk right now, so these might just be the ramblings if a crazy drunk person…”

To which I replied: “I think we can safely go with option B”

Kerstin: Bitch. I love tou

When I sent her the whole blog post of all her tweets and texts that night, she wrote:

Kerstin: “Ok mg. I would be ensured if I wasn’t still drunk”

Theresa: “You just keep digging yourself in deeper… and like a true bestie, I just keep LAAAAAUGHING.”

Kerstin: Whore. You know you love me. SAY MY NAME, BASTION! [You know she’s drunk when she’s throwing out quotes from “The Neverending Story.” Skip to 5:10 of this clip. Holy crap, that movie was bad…]

Theresa: This is ALLLLL going in the blog, baby!

And her final tweet of the night:
Dear bed…. Spin allllll you want, ima routed axmas I’m a sleep…. Night night

I would just like to say, I worked really vargas to get this all typed up.

Had myself a little breakdown last night after The Boy spilled his blue coconut slushy all over the freezer, down the front of the fridge, under the fridge, and all over the kitchen floor. Jebus, it was pathetic. I was crying hysterically, yelling at ALL my kids with my squeaky laryngitis voice, calling them animals and “screaming” that I was tired of being treated WORSE than a maid, and no one does shit to help me, etc.

It took me about 45 minutes of cleaning (and crying) to clean up that sticky mess, and the fridge door and the floor STILL have sticky spots. The children wisely stayed upstairs with their doors closed during this whole tirade.  I can kind of chuckle now about how I screamed like a petulant 4-year-old throwing a tantrum: “That’s IT! We are NEVER getting slushies AGAIN! EVER!”  and “I am so sick of this SHIT, no one cares about me and you and your FATHER treat me like a FUCKING MAID….”

After everything was less sticky and blue, I had to throw dinner on the table, 45 minutes late. If there was ever a time that I was LESS interested in making sure my kids were fed, I don’t know when it would be.  I was so angry and upset I was willing to let them go without supper.

And go without me for a while, for that matter.  For the first time since I was 13, I actually felt like running away from home.  All this over a spilled slushy, you might ask? Drama queen, you might say.  This was just a backlog of SHIT that finally broke the dam.  I had been sick all the previous week, and with my best friend Theresa’s visit pending, I was frantically cleaning the house, trying to make it presentable, rather than have it look like a pack of wild, rabid hoarders lived here.  It was during this cleaning that I realized how far gone the house really was, and I castigated myself for letting it get that bad.

Did anyone actually ever see Alice do ANY housework?

But then I realized how it got that bad.  I work 2 part time jobs, and still consider myself a SAHM. One of my jobs I do in the home, the other I do in my “free time”, which means on the weekends when spouse is home to watch the kids.  I do housework when I can, which means maybe an hour here, 15 minutes there, and that is not including “regular” chores like dishes, laundry, walking the dog. I am talking about vacuuming, scrubbing toilets, cleaning windows, etc.

And, I do 98% of the housework BY MYSELF.  No one helps. I can’t remember the last time someone other than ME vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed a bathtub or a toilet, or even folded clothes or made a dinner that didn’t come out of a box or from a fast food place.  The dishwasher could be standing open, empty, waiting for dirty dishes, and EVERYONE will just pile their dirty dishes up in the sink, under the assumption that I will do it, I guess. That it is somehow MY responsibility.  You’re maybe thinking “Crazy bitch should MAKE her family help!”, but I have begged, pleaded, bribed, asked, threatened and demanded help.  I get whining and crying from the kids, and nothing from the spouse. Or one hour of frenzied “helping” from the spouse that involves busy work, like cleaning out the cabinets under the bathroom sink, while dishes sit in the sink and there is a 6 foot tall laundry monster taking over the hallway.

When Theresa, the other half of Valium, visited, I at least had the common areas picked up, but I showed her my shame too- the messy office and master bedroom. Of course I was mortified, and stammered apology after apology.  Theresa (around whom I never feel like I have to apologize or be anyone but me) laughed and said, “Honey! Don’t apologize! You are a slob! Like ME!”  My subconscious chewed on that for a bit, and then I had a realization. I am NOT a slob.  I grew up in slobby conditions as a child, and I swore I would NEVER live that way again.  And yet, here I am.  How did I get here?

I'm more Alice the Goon than Alice from The Brady Bunch.

I will tell you.  I am one person picking up and cleaning up after 4 people who don’t do anything to clean up after themselves, other than the bare minimum.  The ONLY person.  Do the math.  It is impossible.  IMPOSSIBLE. And yet, everyday I try. I try to balance work, the kids, the dog, the bills, the husband, and the housework, and I fail. Miserably.

The thing is, there are women out there who do all this too, and STILL manage to have a neat house. How do they DO that?  Am I somehow deficient? Lazy? I think maybe the hour or so I spend a day on Facebook is probably time better spent cleaning.  That maybe I go to the bathroom too many times a day, and I could spend that extra few minutes cleaning.  That maybe I could clean the shower while I take a shower, mop the kitchen floor as I make dinner, or fold clothes while I am on the crapper. I mean, I have two hands, right?  Maybe get up a couple of hours earlier (my son would probably hear me though, and get up with me, thereby defeating the purpose of getting up while everyone else is still sleeping), or use that couple of hours after the kids go to bed for housework.  I will admit, the prospect of spending the few hours I have to myself on housecleaning depresses me. I mean, am I doomed to an existence of servitude to other people? When did I cease to be a person, and become “this”? I would say maid, but at least a maid is paid for her services. My family couldn’t AFFORD to pay me for all the shit I do.

Consuela got paid. Why don't I?

There has to be more to being a wife and mother than this.  There has to be more than resentment, anger, and sadness.  Look, I KNOW my family loves me. And I love them and wouldn’t trade them for the world.  But when did it become the wife/mom’s job to do EVERYTHING?

I just found this in an old file. I am no longer 38 *sob* I just turned 40. But it’s still frighteningly appropriate. More appropriate, really. *SIGH*

(And thanks to Little White Lion for the great pics )

I got a surprise visitor this year. I’m not happy about it.

Hi! Wow, uh, Peri-Menopause! Wow, I wasn’t expecting to see YOU this soon. I see you’ve

Might as well enjoy the ride.

brought along Extra Days of PMS, and Soak-My-PJ Top-Nightsweats… Thanks for that. I don’t sweat nearly enough during the day… Um, listen, are you SURE you’ve got the right… yeah, that’s Renner with two “n’s”… Theresa with an “h”… so you’re sure it’s me? Uh, ok, I mean, it’s just… well… I’M ONLY 38!!!!

*Sigh* I guess I should have expected it. I mean, your other little buddies have already moved in: 15-Pounds-I-Can’t-Seem-to-Lose, Saggy Boobs, and Undyable-Grey-Hair. But you need to tell Grey Hair she needs to stay in NORTHERN REGIONS, if you get my meaning. She heads south, and I am rebelling against this whole process.

I need to talk to Extra Days of PMS, though. I just don’t know if I can make that work. I realize my cycle is going to change, and get kind of weird, and I’ve noticed mine is getting longer, but it seems like I should just get more NORMAL days, ya know? More days of even keel, if you take my meaning. I’m not sure how much more my kids can take. You know, I waited until I was 30 and 34 to have them, so they’re still pretty young. They didn’t sign up for Menopausal Mom in conjunction with elementary school.

See? It's a HEALTHY emotion! So instead of wondering what our "problem is," husbands, just praise our emotional honesty. We'll all live longer.

See, I used to spend one day a month kind of weepy. No big deal. And, the first day of my period, I was pretty tired. NOW, I’m getting like 2 ½ days of exhaustion, and about 4 days of Jekyll and Hyde like behavior. Biting people’s heads off one minute, crying over the pretty bird song the next. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

And could you do me ONE favor? Let Dry Vagina know she can pass over this house. Seriously. I can have the whole menopause experience without her dropping by.

I’ve already got Dry Skin. I’ve even noticed Saggy Skin is trying to move in, right above my knees, which I am NOT happy about… OH, I’m not SUPPOSED to be happy? Well, that doesn’t seem fair, I mean I don’t have to worry about getting pregnant anymore, right? CHUCKLE… What?!?!? I thought this whole deal came with no more fertility?!? Now you’re telling me I could end up with a surprise bundle of joy if I’m not really, REALLY careful?!? Son of a BITCH!!! How is THAT fair?!?

Wow, I LOVE being a woman.

Ima make 40 ma bitch I turned 40 this morning at 12:30 am–EASTERN Time. That’s actually 9:30 pm Pacific Time. I toasted myself and flipped off the clock, the calendar, and the universe in general.

Mostly, of course, I want to flip myself off. I HATE pity parties. God, Theresa, get OVER yourself.

I know you want to slap me. Trust me, I want to slap me. I have NOTHING to bitch about. I have 2 incredible kids, and goddamnit, I KNOW I can take credit for a LOT of that. I have a phenomenal marriage—more than half my doing, as the King will attest. I have great friends. We own a nice house. I live in a country where I am free to post all KINDS of crazy shit on the interwebs. I love the town where I live. We have food and shelter and clothing. Clean water. Wah wah wah. Usually, enumerating these blessings in my life yanks me out of whatever funk I’m in.

Most awethome princesses EVAH.

So why am I being such a whiny little bitch?

Well, as I told my husband, “I feel like all the lies have caught up with me.” All the lies I’ve told myself about what I should do, and where I should be, at 40.

What a crock of shoulds.

This isn’t like me. I’ve never been uptight about getting older. But at 25, I loved my job and was engaged to The King. By 30, we’d bought a house and I was knocked up with Faerie Child. At 35, I’d had 2 kids, was my fighting weight, and felt like I was entering a new phase in my life. Up until now, I was always right where I thought I should be. *SIGH*

For years I have been looking FORWARD to turning 40. Why? Because in my jacked-up mind, by 40, I’d have accomplished all kinds of shit. I’d be established in my career. Our 100-yr-old house would be fully renovated. We’d be financially independent. I’d be my optimal weight. We’d be traveling more because the kids are finally old enough—AND we’d have the money to do it.

Also, I’d have learned to really accept myself. *EYE ROLL* I thought I had that one down. Turns out, not so much.

I’m in the best shape of my life. I ran a half-marathon on my 39^th birthday, and I am in

That's my size 14 ass crossing the finish line of a GNARLY half-marathon trail run. SUCK IT, skinny bitches.

 better shape now than I was a year ago. But I’m still a size 12/14, and realistically, I always will be. So of course, I’m not happy with my weight. Or my gut. Or the fact that, despite having rock-hard upper arms, I have 40-yr-old skin hanging down from my triceps. And back-bacon over my bra. *SIGH* (I do have smokin’ gams, though. Ask Ammi.)

I wanted to be “established in a career.” What career? My kids are only 9 and 6. I’ve been homeschooling the 9-yr-old the last 3 years, and finally found (hell, I helped create) a school situation that will work for her. So next year, when they’re in 1^st and 4^th grades, will be the first time in my motherhood life that I will actually have 6 straight hours a day kidfree. Five days a week. I can hardly imagine it. “So,” Sane Theresa says to Crazed Theresa, “when the hell were you supposed to have established this fantastic career? You DID establish a career. You’re a MOM.”

I wanted to be traveling more. Know what I finally admitted to myself? I fucking HATE traveling. If it’s more than a 5-hr-drive, it seems like too much damn work. And the older I get, the less inclined I am to leave the Northwest. I like it here. When we have vacation time, I like to hang out here. Call me crazy for liking where I live.

That beautiful oak floor had carpet and 2 layers of linoleum--and NO, I did not paint that room Peptol-Bismol pink. Work in progres, remember?

Our house was supposed to be fully renovated. For god’s sake, we’ve been here 5 whole years! *SNORT* Yeah, right. That’s just not our style. The King and I are LAZY and we love to lie around on Sundays. Actually, we kind of NEED to lie around on Sundays. I’ve noticed that all 4 of us in this family—even the eternally social La Diva—really need a “down day,” where we don’t have to BE anywhere, don’t need to DO anything, preferably once a week.

So I’ll always be a size 12/14. Oh well. I can do the splits, run a 10K in around an hour, and do a pretty badass sidekick that will break a ¾ inch thick board.

My “career” can wait. My kids can’t. For now, I can be satisfied with a small number of satisfied clients. Also, every time someone says to me, “Your blog/FB page makes me feel normal, like I’m not a horrible parent,” it seriously fills my heart.

We’ll travel where we want, when we want, when we can afford to. For now, little

We ride our bikes to the beach. Neener neener neener!

 vacations with our kids are good enough. What difference does it make if a memory is made in Paris, France or Bend, Oregon? As long as we’re together and laughing, ’sall good.

I’ll never be an energizer bunny constantly on the run. I truly have reached the point where I can look at friends who are always on the go, always getting shit done, and think, “That’s not me. That’s not us. And that’s OK.”

As for our house, I mean, JAYsus, it’s a hundred years old. I can live with it being a work in progress. I like my Sundays too goddamned much, thank you very much.

All right, I feel better. A little. Admitting you’re being a whiny little bitch is the first step to slapping yourself out of it, right?

Shhhh, Theresa, shhhh...it's OK. Huckleberry vodka loves you. ALWAYS.

Also, I found a loophole. One time where my anal-retentive nerdiness is actually coming in damn handy. See, all us nerds know that the new millennium REALLY started in 2001—not 2000. The year 2000 was the LAST year of the 20^th Century. So technically, turning 40 means this is the last year of my 30s. So suck it, Universe! I have one more year to make myself proud.

What will I fail at today? Mothering? Volunteering? Working? Maybe I'll burn the roast...

I may be opening myself up to a beating from the feminists, but please bear with me.  I’ve been thinking a lot about how much being a wife and mother has changed within the past few decades.  I am going to use the 1950s housewife as my example here because she is rather iconic. America was fresh from the “victory” of WWII (I used the quotations because I hate to put too much of a positive spin on something cost so many lives, even if it was for a good cause).

Hopes were high, as was the economy and the standard of living.  New inventions were making our lives easier, giving us more “leisure” time. With the new ovens being sold, you could cook a roast in under a day!!! But looking back, most of these “modern conveniences” didn’t work worth a shit, by today’s standards.  Women still had to be up by 6 in the morning (or earlier) to be fully dressed, perfectly coiffed and made-up and downstairs making breakfast for her family. Of course, making breakfast came AFTER getting that roast in the oven so it could be ready at 5 pm sharp.

Dishes had to be washed by hand, and quite often, the clothes did too, which then had to be hung to dry.  EVERYTHING had to be done by hand, and it took three times as long as it does today.  Many women couldn’t drive, either because they never learned, or because the husband took the car to work everyday.  They had to walk to the grocery store, or do their shopping on Saturday, because Sunday was for churching and potlucks.

It all sounds like so much work.  So why do I feel a certain kind of jealousy for those women?

It seems things were so much simpler then, despite all the “hard labor” women had to endure to “keep house.”  Mothers stayed home.  Fathers worked 9 to 5 (with a paid lunch hour, or sometimes the enviable 2-hour, 2-martini business lunch) and didn’t expect the wives to work outside the home.  Working was for young single women—secretary, waitress, librarian, teacher—something to do until they got married.

Mothers sent their children outside to play, ride their bikes and climb trees, without feeling like they had to be outside with them. They didn’t worry about kidnappers or pedophiles. Yes, bad people existed back then, but without television and the Internet, I think most mothers never thought anything bad like that would ever happen to their kids, if they ever even thought about it at all.

After school activities consisted of Little League and Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts and baking cookies.  Moms didn’t need a 4 ft x 4ft calendar to keep track of all the soccer practices, ballet recitals, clay therapy, play dates, and swim classes.  Moms didn’t have to zip around town seven days a week dropping off, picking up, cheering or volunteering.

It seems to me that even with all the “modern conveniences” most of us have today, we are more stressed and over-worked today than we were 50 years ago.  Not only do we mothers still do most of the child-rearing, many of us also work outside the home (or earn extra money working for other companies from our homes).  We do most of the cooking, cleaning, homework-helping, and at least some of the yard work.  We volunteer, we try to give our kids every experience, every opportunity to try new things.

And now, on top of worrying about our own families, we are supposed to “think global” and do something about hunger, disease, death, destruction, and oppression in other countries. We need to “save the environment” and stop “poisoning our children” by buying organic and we are called upon to stop the corporate rape of third world countries by buying free-trade.

We are also supposed to help support our community by “buying local.”   We are vilified if we let our kids watch TV, or eat fast food, when we buy frozen meals, or let our kids play video games.  We are bombarded with negativity and often contradicting theories on how to properly raise a normal, happy, well-adjusted child.

Are there days when I DON'T feel like pounding a few highballs? Nope. No, there are not.

Do you think June Cleaver ever felt guilty about pouring Ward a hot cup of non-free-trade joe?  Do you think she ever cried herself to sleep at night? Well, maybe after having sex with Ward, but never because she stressed out because she realized she let her kids watch two hours of Sponge Bob after eating cold cereal and cheese sticks for dinner.

Please don’t get me wrong! I am very GRATEFUL to the women who kicked ass and paved the way for us to get (mostly) equal pay for equal work, the right to vote and NOT be considered property, the right to wear pants, drive a car, be a police officer/soldier/CEO.  But I have to say, sometimes I long for the days where not much would be expected of me other than keeping house and having dinner on the table by 5:15.  Because now-a-days, it feels like TOO much is expected of me. I can’t keep up, and I feel like I am failing at life, the universe and everything.

I'm NOT picking on all retro-hippies; just the ones who are sanctimonious & holier-than-thou. They need a kick in the taco.

The older I get, the more I realize how many of us feel like we’re putting up a front, and we desperately hope we won’t get found out. As I said recently on our FB page, if Dr. Phil put cameras in anyone’s house for any length of time, he’d dig up some dirt. So here’s mine.

(Holy shit, this is long. I tried to break it up, but here goes.)

I live in a small, hippy-town in the Northwest. You know these places—we move here to “escape the rat race” because we want “a simpler, slower way of life,” in a place where “we feel safe raising our kids” and congregate at the Farmers’ Market every Saturday. Yup, all those clichés are true.

When we moved here 6 years ago, I REALLY wanted to fit in. I was younger and stupider, and I still cared what people thought. We enrolled 3-yr-old Faerie Child in the local hippy private school (pre-school through 8th grade), after we went through the “interview process.” (I found out later this was total bullshit, by the way; they were so desperate for students, they didn’t refuse anyone. They just wanted the appearance of discernment, apparently. Ass-hats.)

At the mandatory orientation where we were indoctrinated with the rules (which went on for 3 hours, and included a SKIT put on by the fucking teachers), my husband leaned over and whispered to me, “Did we just join a CULT?!” I agreed with him, but I honestly thought it was the best place for Faerie Child—a faerie school is the best fit for a faerie child, right?

WRONG. More on that later. But here are some of the rules:

1. Dress code—no pictures or characters on their clothes because it’s “distracting.”

Yeah, that's a sweet play kitchen. So is the PLASTIC one I got for 5 bucks at a garage sale. Suck it.

2. No sugar or juice in their lunches because… well, do you need a reason? What kind of parent would feed their children that kind of horrible thing? Don’t you love your child?!?
3. No TV or “technology usage” during the week. “When they watch TV,” it was condescendingly explained to us, “they get ‘stuck’ in the last story they watched, and can’t play creatively.” WHAT the FUCK?
4. They discouraged reading of books because it “stifled creativity.” (“TELL your child a story instead! Let them create their own pictures in their minds!”)
5. Please don’t “push” academics on your child. 3-yr-olds should be playing, not practicing letters! (Actually I agree with that one. They go a little far, though. They START teaching reading in 3rd grade.)
6. Dress your child warmly—we play outside a lot. (Uh, OK, but my idea of “warm enough” and theirs differed GREATLY. How many fucking layers does she need under a ski jacket for Christ’s sake? I don’t think sweating in the cold from heatstroke is healthy.)
7. We only have unpainted, wooden toys. Plastic is so artificial, you don’t want your children touching it, do you? Do YOU?!?!

As I got to know the other parents and teachers, I’d make excuses if people “caught” me letting my kids watch TV. I’d explain, “Oh, we hardly EVER let them eat that crap,” when exposed for feeding sugar or—oh the horror!—fast food to my kids. I explained that I enjoyed hand-me-downs, garage sale finds, and thrift store purchases because, even though they weren’t “organic cotton,” at least they were used clothes being “recycled.”

Have you puked yet? I want to puke just reading it. And I want to go back and shake the SHIT out of my 34-yr-old self. JAYsus. (I will point out that while I was trying to fit in, I was not joining in the Judgy McJudgerson club of moms. That’s just not my style.)

Then something really, REALLY horrible happened: my kid’s crazy flower-child wannabe teacher reported me for child abuse.

The Department of Welfare called and politely “requested” that we come in for a meeting. (This was 5 years ago, and just writing this, I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack all over again.) We showed up with Faerie Child, age 4 by then, and La Diva, 10 months old and still strapped to me in her sling. The social worker introduced us to the POLICE OFFICER who would also be joining us—and who was carrying a FINGERPRINT KIT. I was very, VERY hard-pressed to politely shake his hand. My husband, who is the least flappable human being I have ever met, reached out and gregariously pumped the cop’s maw.

Wait--are those pajamas ORGANIC cotton? 'Cause if not, we're reporting you to the Organic Mom Hotline

Here’s why I was reported: Faerie Child’s teacher had seen a “red mark” on her and asked her about it. She’s as pale as her dad and I are, so I’m guessing someone BUMPED her. My daughter responded, “My mommy hit me.” And I had. The day before she had thrown a rock at my face—while I was holding her sister—and I slapped her for it.

When I went to pick up Faerie Child, Crazy Flower-Child Wanna-Be Teacher asked me about it, and I explained what happened. By that time, the “red mark” was completely gone, by the way.

Next thing I knew, we’re being hauled in for an interrogation. NOTE: Never, EVER admit to a teacher that you have struck your child. Just don’t risk it. If asked, play DUMB: “She said WHAT? [LOL] Oh, kids say the craziest things!”

Only it wasn’t an interrogation. Within 90 seconds of sitting down, the social worker was apologizing to us, and was visibly upset. “I was told your child had a ‘dark bruise’ on her face from where you’d struck her. This child has no mark!” Again, I explained what happened. The police officer said, “Pff. If MY kid threw a rock at my face, I’d probably slap her, too.”

They both assured us that there had obviously been a huge mistake, and there would be nothing “on file” about our family. “This is clearly a false report, and this will NOT follow you around the rest of your life. I just want to assure you of that,” the social worker told us.

We went home from the meeting with the social worker and the cop with the fingerprint kit… and collapsed. At dinner that night, I looked at my husband and said, “I guess the lesson here is that we just went through a parental nightmare, and we’re fine. We’re OK. Our family is safe, and we’re OK.”

That was ONE lesson, but there’s a bigger one: don’t try to be something you’re not. I am not Hippy Mom Extraordinaire. I let my kids watch TV. They’re allowed to have sugar and fast food sometimes. I refuse to spend hundreds of dollars on organic wool and cotton clothing. I use foul language around them. I am honest about the horrors of the world (put into words and a context they can comprehend). And I do. not. do. crafts. EVER.

When I embraced that truth—that I am doing the best I can and I don’t owe ANYONE an explanation—when I really, truly embraced it, something magic happened in my family: I relaxed. Consequently, we ALL relaxed. (Remember: if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t no body happy.)

And we yanked our kid out of that school. Not before slapping some people around on the way out, though.

So next time some uptight, pearl-clutching bitch tries to tell you how you’re fucking up your kids, just look her dead in the eye and say, “I think I’m going to kick you in the taco.”

Nah, I’m kidding. Don’t bother saying it. Just think it REALLY hard, and walk away. You don’t need that shit. And you’re not alone. We’re all just doing the best we can. 

Happy kids are things of beauty. Now stop telling me what I'm doing wrong, or I'll have to waste the last bit of my wine by smashing the bottle over your head.

If you’re curious about the aftermath, read on:
First of all, Faerie Child’s behavior improved immeasurably after leaving that school. It hadn’t occurred to me that stupid hairy flower-child wanna-be could have been DAMAGING my kid, but their inane philosophy of “always being happy” was in direct contrast with our family culture of being honest about your feelings—however unpleasant they may be. The hypocrisy was too much for our insightful little kid.

Second, we asked for a meeting with the school administrator (whom I refer to as Der Fuhrer) and the crazy bitch teacher. They brought another teacher in on it, too (for moral support, I assume). On the way into the room, the other teacher said, “Isn’t this weather beautiful?” I was flabbergasted. I snapped, “I haven’t really noticed. I’ve been a little pre-occupied.” Stupid bitch. (I have since learned that THAT teacher is widely disliked in our little town. SHOCKING.)

My kid’s teacher refused to admit any wrong-doing. When I asked about the non-existent “dark bruise” that she’d reported, she said—wait for it—“NO! I said a ‘deep-bruise’ and it looked like [she then proceeded to describe an imaginary mark, in great detail, that had never, ever been on our kid’s face].” I just stared at her. I realized I was never going to get what I wanted: an apology. She was so divorced from reality in her crazy little hippy world, she had obviously convinced herself that my kid had been bruised and pummeled. Psycho much? She moved away that summer. GOOD riddance.

A few years later, the school administrator ran into my husband somewhere in town. She looked at him quizzically and said, “Don’t I know you?” He told her his name, and he said he thoroughly enjoyed it when: he saw it click in her brain, watched her go pale, and she said, “OH. Uhhh… I’m really sorry about all that.” My husband just nodded and walked away.