If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon (30 page)

Now that our daughters are older and mobile and speak English so they can tell us when they want a snack or need a ride to Nola’s house, they are fodder for an entirely new breed of marital discord, namely over those things we don’t just disagree on but over which we sit at diametrical, polar opposites of the spectrum. For instance, he thinks I’m overprotective, and I think he’s reckless. He accuses me of spoiling them; I’m constantly berating him for being too hard on them. I think they should make their beds; he feels that if they’re going to do chores, they should be chores that
matter
. I don’t make them listen. He refuses to apologize to them, even when he’s patently wrong. I let them walk all over me.
If he spent one eighth of the time with them that I do, he’d be singing a totally different tune so I don’t really want to hear it, thank you very much.
And then there is the massive distinction between what I now refer to as Daddy rules and Mommy rules.

More often than not, the difference between my policies and Joe’s boils down to hygiene, decorum, or some combination of the two. Allow me to illustrate Daddy rules in action with a handy example: We have a hot tub outside, and most nights after dinner Joe takes the girls for a soak while I clean up the kitchen. If it sounds like he’s getting off easy here or forcing me to play some dreaded retro-hausfrau role, let me assure you that I relish this quiet time by myself to scrub and scour and load the dishwasher using my preferred and undeniably superior method without anyone getting in my way or asking me for a single blessed thing. I can talk on the phone and check my e-mail without any dirty looks or an ounce of guilt. Plus I don’t have to put on a swimsuit or get my hair wet. I live for this hour.

Anyhow, one day Joe was out of town and the girls begged me to take them in the hot tub.
Why not?
I thought. They usually seem to be having a lot of fun out there. I could be the cool pool mom for an hour or so.

No sooner were we submerged than they began an exciting game that involved gulping large quantities of murky, chlorinated water and spitting it at each other.

“Girls, stop that!” I demanded. “That’s disgusting! Our filthy feet not to mention our
bottoms
are in this water, and it’s filled with dirt and bugs and all sorts of toxic chemicals.”

They looked at me in confusion, murky ass-water dripping down their chins.

“But,” they stammered in unison. “
Dad
lets us do it.”

I shook my head sadly. Of course he did.

“I have to pee!” one of them announced next.

“Okay grab your towel and walk carefully—don’t run—to the back—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence because she was already standing spread-eagle on the deck, her bikini bottom pulled expertly to one side while she
emptied her bladder right there on the deck
.

“What are you
doing
?” I shouted, aghast.

“Peeing!” the fruit of my womb replied with a what-do-you-
think
-I’m-doing look.

“On the deck?” I moaned, wondering what on earth else went on out here when I was inside scraping macaroni and ketchup shrapnel off the table.

“What?” she asked back. “
Dad
lets us do it.” Her sister nodded in confirmation. I had found out just the week before that Dad also sometimes lets them ride in the back of his truck—only on our street, but still—which about gave me a heart attack (even though I grew up riding in the back of
my
dad’s truck, frequently perched back there on a folding lawn chair, because it was a different, safer world back then, and you and I both know it).

It must be nice to be the good cop. What fun that would be! You could teach your kids to make obnoxious armpitbarking sounds and let them stay up until midnight watching
Weeds
. You could agree with them that if they promise to brush their teeth “really, really, super good in the morning” then it probably won’t kill them to skip brushing them tonight. They’d like Sprite and brownies for breakfast? Well, hell—who wouldn’t? Fizzy chocolate bombs for everyone, coming right up!

Alas, I feel strongly that kids should only be allowed to have one laid-back legal guardian who lets them drink chlorinated water, shun sunscreen, and sleep in their wet bathing suits when that bizarre urge strikes, and Joe clearly rocks that job. As the self-appointed guardian of my children’s little lives and limbs, I spend most days detailing the many things they
can’t
do and cataloging the gruesome consequences that will most surely befall them if they ignore my sage advice and do it anyway. It’s exhausting and they often call me
the meanest mom ever
because of it, but seeing as they are both still alive and boasting the same number of digits they were born with, I will continue to wear my bad-cop badge with pride.

Let me make something perfectly clear: It’s not that Joe isn’t concerned about our children’s well-being, because he most certainly is. He would wrestle a hungry grizzly bear to protect them. It’s just that he isn’t nearly as afraid of blood, vomit, or infectious diseases as I am.

Just the other day, one of our neighbors had stacked half a dozen large metal crates by the street. Before their current stint as a roadside eyesore, these crates had been home to a large family of bearded dragons, which are giant alligator-lizards that feed on live crickets, roaches, mealworms, and occasionally their own tails. What had happened to the crates’ scaly former tenants was anyone’s guess, but precisely why their erstwhile habitats were bound for the landfill was not something I wished to explore.

“I’m going to go ask them if they’re giving those crates away,” Joe announced one afternoon, motioning toward the house next door.

“Why?” I asked, curious as to what he could possibly have in mind for our neighbor’s contaminated trash.

“I thought they might be fun for the girls,” he said.

“For
our
girls?” I asked incredulously. “To do what with exactly?”

“To play in,” he said.

“To play in?” I repeated stupidly, nearly gagging on the words. “Uh,
no
.”

“Uh,
yes
,” Joe replied, working the single brow arch like a madman and folding his arms across his chest.

“They’re filthy and disgusting,” I pointed out. “I am not letting our children
near
those cages.”

“You need to lighten up,” he answered me. “They’re going to love it. I’m asking.”

“You can’t just make a unilateral decision and then decide that it’s final,” I told him, getting angry.

“Why not?” he demanded. “You just did.”

“I said
you
can’t,” I reminded him with a satisfied smirk. At least he had the good sense to laugh.

“But seriously,” I added. “We’re not bringing those germinfested crates over here.”

“You are one stubborn, opinionated bitch,” Joe said to me, shaking his head.

“You should have realized that before you married me,” I replied.

He forgets our kids! We have three children, ages ten, nine, and six, and he sometimes forgets to get them from the bus when I cannot get there in time. One time I told him he had to be there in fifteen minutes, and he said, “Okay, no problem,” and thirty minutes later my phone was ringing to notify me that no one showed up at the bus to get them! He got caught up mowing the lawn or something to that effect.

MAGGIE

 

 

The very same man who feels as if he needs no wisdom or input from parenting professionals has a mantra that causes more arguments between us than an army of in-laws: “Experience is the greatest teacher,” he’ll say. I understand the “free-range parenting” concept in theory, and I’ll admit that more often than not I am guilty of leaning (hard) toward the overprotective end of the spectrum. But I’m not going to let my kids lay their tiny hands on a scalding appliance so that the impact of “the stove is very hot” will be magnified.

Joe thinks kids are hearty and resilient; I worry constantly about the countless hidden dangers that lurk like hungry sharks waiting to maim my babies. One menace in particular is a certain upstairs window in our home that opens—if I were to allow it to be opened, which I rarely do—directly onto the flat roof of our master bathroom below. In my fantasies, one day we will enclose the roof with a sturdy railing and swap the window for a nice French door and have ourselves a cozy little rooftop terrace from which, if the goddamned neighbors would ever bother to trim their trees, on a crystal-clear day we might enjoy a sliver of an ocean view. In the meantime, with its unprotected edges and a sheer twenty-foot drop on three sides, it’s an absolute off-limits death trap. I have spent years convincing our daughters that if they so much as leaned even an inch out of that window they would burst into spontaneous flames and perish on the spot. Because of this, they have never even considered asking for a roof pass, as it obviously wouldn’t be an option. Relieved, I confidently scratched
kids climbing out onto the roof
off my long worry list.

So you can imagine the shock and horror I felt the day I walked up the stairs and caught sight of the two of them out there dancing and laughing and twirling while their dad stood several frightening feet away, clapping and laughing and egging them on.

“What in God’s holy name are you
doing
?” I shrieked, hauling myself through the window and grabbing one of each of their tiny arms in a death grip.

“Oh, I was replacing a shingle and the girls wanted to come out and see what it was like,” Joe replied casually.

“It’s fun!” shouted one.

“We like it out here!” chimed in the other.

“Great idea,” I said sarcastically, shuffling the protesting pair back through the window to safety.

Later that night I tried to explain, rationally, how upset I was about the whole incident. “Honey, I think I did a really good job scaring the shit out of them about going
near
that window, and now you’ve completely ruined it,” I scolded.

“I was out there with them, Jenna,” he replied. “And I think it’s wrong to make them think their heads will fly off if they step out onto the roof. Besides, I told them that they are never to do it without me.”

“So you think they aren’t going to do it because you told them not to?” I demanded. “Children believe they are immortal and invincible and every last one of them defies their parents’ rules. It’s their job! Before it wasn’t a rule they were tempted to break to see what might happen, it was something they were utterly terrified of, and I liked it that way. A little healthy fear is good for them.”

“You have to let kids live,” Joe insisted, whipping out yet another of his hateful parenting clichés.

“
Live
is what I’m trying to make sure they do,” I spat.

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” he replied sarcastically.

“And just so we are clear, when they climb out there when you’re not around and fall off, it is
all your fault
.” I added, mentally etching
kids climbing out on the roof
back onto the damned worry list.

Before you got married, you might have made sure that your views on religion and finances and sex and politics were compatible with your future husband’s. But if you’re like me, you forgot to bring up a thousand or more seemingly benign possible dissimilarities like your take on whether or not it matters if SpongeBob SquarePants is gay and a child’s absolute right to an annual celebration of his or her nativity.

“What should we do for the girls’ birthdays this year?” I remember asking Joe one day. I am sure it was far too early in the year to be planning two hypothetical celebrations that wouldn’t happen for months, but I had meant it as more of a generic, input-gathering question than a strategic planning session.

“What are you talking about?” Joe replied blankly.

“Their birthdays,” I said, drawing out the word
birthdays
with annoying slowness for emphasis. “Like, should we do big family-style barbecues or maybe something at a park? I guess we should ask them before we plan anything because they might want a slumber party or to take a bunch of friends bowling or something like that.”

“We had parties for both of them last year,” Joe stammered, confused.

“We sure did,” I said. “What’s your point?”

“Are you suggesting that we should throw a birthday party for each of them every single year?” he wanted to know.

“You’re not being serious, are you?” I asked. “Of course that’s what I’m suggesting! Kids have birthday parties every year that they have a birthday, which last time I checked was
every year
.”

“Who says?” he wanted to know. Joe defaults to “Who says?” a lot, and even if I could cough up a relevant biblical passage (“And then the Lord said to Little Sally, ‘Fear not, my child, for ye shall haveth a bouncy house and a strange balloon animal guy and a mountain of gifts to behold on each anniversary of thy creation . . .”), I know that it still wouldn’t satisfy him. Because “Who says?” isn’t actually a question, not even a rhetorical one. Translated literally into Joe-speak, it means
I don’t give a flying flip what anyone else does because I think it is stupid and I’m not doing it, the end
.