Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (2 page)

“Yes, take
your
kids and let me be sick by myself. And please, please don’t ever get me pregnant again.” I said. I snatched the bag out of his hand, pushed all three of my family members out of the bathroom and locked the door behind them.

There are a lot of things I said I would never
do when I had kids. I swore I would never say, “Because I said so.” “Don’t you make me pull this car over!” or “You just wait until your Daddy gets home!” I would never “let myself go,” have petrified French fries in the floor of my car, wear pajama pants to the grocery store and I would
never, ever
drive a mini-van. The only one of those things I’ve stuck to is not driving the mini-van but it’s not by choice. I fantasize about my own mini-van on a daily basis, complete with automatic sliding doors, enough cargo space to haul a dead body (You never know, right?) and stale fries in the floor board.

I used to think I wanted four kids. This was, of course, before I had one and realized how much work was involved. I was convinced at eighteen-years-old that I would have four perfect little stair-steps, all exactly two years apart; two boys and two girls. (And yes, I was a little Type A.)

I heard people talk about how hard it was to be a parent, but I babysat all the time. Being a babysitter and being a mom are practically the same thing, right?

I thought I knew. I had
no idea
. The thing you can’t explain to someone who doesn’t have children is how constant being a parent actually is. It is more than twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week… if that’s even possible.

Children, toddlers especially, have boundless energy with which they can torture their parents. Hell, if all I had to do all day was color, watch Blue’s Clues, eat a snack and nap, I’d have boundless energy, too. But no, I am the one getting out the crayons, trying to keep my children from consuming crayons, picking up broken crayons and putting away the crayons. (And while I’m on the subject, why don’t those folks at Crayola either add some vitamins and minerals to their product, or make them taste bad? My kids love eating them and I’m tired of telling them no and having to buy more. Put up or shut up, Crayola. Fortify them or make them taste bad. This isn't rocket science.)

Unless you want your children to be completely stinking rotten, not only do you have to tell them “no” on a regular basis, you have to mean it and you’ve got to be ready and willing to back it up. All the energy they conserve while napping, snacking and playing is ammunition to defeat us, their parents, who have been busy behind the scenes keeping the house from falling apart. Even though you are exhausted, you
have
to win. Once you have thrown down the gauntlet and made a rule, if your child breaks it 200 times in one day, you have to correct them 201 times.

Now I’ll be the first one to admit to occasionally ignoring bad behavior. If my two oldest are in another room, making a mess without cleaning up one they have already made, and I am actually getting something done, such as cooking dinner or doing laundry. I
may
have occasionally pretended I couldn’t hear them so I could finish the task at hand, and dealt with their bad behavior after I was finished. You say,“Lazy parenting.” I say, “Priorities, priorities, priorities.”

I do deal with the behavior. I just act shocked when I walk into their room, like I didn’t realize what was going on. I also recognize that I can’t do this up forever because they will eventually figure it out. But for now, a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.

And have you ever attempted reasoning with a toddler? Even explaining to them why their behavior is wrong can be exhausting.

“But why Momma? But why?”

I have tried and tried and
tried
to be patient, to be an attentive parent, to answer each “why” with love and long-suffering… to avoid the phrase I detested so much as a child, “Because I said so.”

“GIRLS! Quit jumping on the bed!”

“Why Mommy, why?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“Why Mommy, why?”

“Because you could fall and break your arm or your neck or impale yourself on the posts sticking up out of the footboard…”

“Why Mommy, why?”

“Because you are jumping on the bed…”

“Why Mommy, why?”

“Because you are being bad. Stop. Jumping. On. The. Bed.”

“Why Mommy, why?”

“BECAUSE I SAID SO.”

It’s unfortunate, but it really is the only phrase that can stop one of these maddening conversations in its tracks.

Another thing I knew nothing about was the selective hearing children seem to experience as they enter their preschool years. Anything you say to another adult (especially regarding another adult) can be repeated verbatim by your children. Anything you say directly to your child must automatically be repeated — at least twice.

“Emma, stop unrolling the toilet paper all over the bathroom.” I’ll say clearly, standing less than fourteen inches away from her.

“HUH? What you said, Momma?” She’ll ask with one hand cupped around her ear and leaning in… as
if
she actually cannot hear me.

Their selective hearing will often lead to me wondering to myself if I actually spoke out loud or if I was just
really
concentrating on what I was going to say.

“Test one, two…testing…is this thing on?” I’ll say as I pretend to check a microphone, which usually leads to zero response from anyone in my house and occasionally makes me think that they really
can
hear, but I apparently don’t know how to make words come out of my mouth.

I just didn’t realize B.C. (Before Children) how much work it takes to maintain some sort of order in your house. You are constantly cleaning, battling for good manners, good behavior and refereeing fights between siblings, trying to teach values and spend quality time with each child
and
your spouse. It is exhausting. (Quick soapbox moment here for you “animal people” — having a pet, even a dog, is
not
the same as having children. Case in point… you can lock your “baby” in a cage or take it outside, lock the door and ignore it for a few hours. Parents cannot, unless we would like a cage of our very own.)

Even with all of this, when I was pregnant with my third child I still wasn’t sure I was “done.” After I had my second child, I didn’t feel like our family was complete; it felt like someone was missing. And to be honest, I was worried I would be sad when my baby-making days were over. My husband was satisfied with his three daughters, but throughout my third pregnancy I speculated what would happen if I wanted another child and my husband did not. I had looked forward to being pregnant and having babies my whole life and wondered if I would be depressed to say goodbye to those days and begin a new chapter with my family.

All my concerns about wanting more children quickly vaporized when I was introduced to life as a mother to three. As soon as I held Sadie Plum in my arms, I knew my whole family was present and accounted for. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as all the pressure and expectations I had placed on myself for so long faded away.

I began the cleansing process of giving away maternity clothes and baby items as Sadie outgrew them. The idea of getting into shape and finally being able to replace my very dated wardrobe was intoxicating. As soon as a pair of pants or a shirt was deemed too large for me, it immediately went into my “giveaway” pile.

Things at my house were crazy but fulfilling. I loved being a mother to my three daughters but I was still quite positive my baby-making days were behind me and smiled at myself in the mirror as I took my birth control pill every night.

Until one evening I stumbled into the bathroom to take my pill and couldn’t find them. It was a Friday evening and I was exhausted from a week of entertaining my children in the summer heat. I dug around in my drawer and in my jewelry box, just in case a “little helper” had stashed them somewhere, before I finally gave up and decided to go to bed and look for them in the morning.

Of course, the next morning I was woken up as Aubrey, my four-year-old, and Emma, my two-year-old, wrestled for the spot next to me in my bed and in the process almost threw me onto the floor. It was
two days
later when I finally remembered I still hadn’t found my birth control pills and began frantically searching my bathroom.

I called a family meeting.

“Everyone in Mommy and Daddy’s bathroom RIGHT NOW!”

Aubrey and Emma walked calmly into the bathroom followed by their sweet Daddy.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Aubrey and Emma were in our bathroom the other day playing with my makeup and I haven’t been able to find my birth control since then...”

I didn’t have to say one more word. My husband transformed from a laid back, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-kind-of-guy, to a drill sergeant.

“You will find Mommy’s medicine and you will not STOP until you find it! Do you understand?”

Aubrey spoke up, “Oh! It’s okay Mommy, you can do it! Just be very patient and keep on looking.”

My husband said, “I don’t think you understand. No one is leaving this room until we find Mommy’s medicine.”

“Oh.” She replied.

As soon as Emma realized this was
not
a test, but serious business, she opened the cabinet and plucked my medicine from its hiding spot.

“Here you go, Mommy!” She said proudly.

I couldn’t have been happier to see those pills if I was stranded in the Sahara and someone offered me a Cherry Limeade from Sonic — one of those Route 66 ones, the ones that are big enough to swim in. It might be time to start researching other birth control options. They couldn’t find and hide an IUD from me… could they?

W
e’ve seen it in the movies and on TV a million times. The perfectly pregnant woman (just a baby bump, and skin and bones everywhere else) wakes up in the middle of the night and tells her husband, “It’s time.” He rushes around like a nincompoop. He can’t find his shoes, his keys,
or
his suitcase while she does deep breathing. They hurry to the hospital where it is too late for an epidural. Thank
God
they took Lamaze classes! She can now push a
person
out of her body by doing a few “hoo-hoo-hees.”

Then, miraculously the baby appears, pink and clean and looking about three-months old. The now perfectly serene mommy, who will have no trouble whatsoever fitting into her size four jeans, puts the baby to her breast with a smile and a contented sigh, while the new daddy beams dotingly over her shoulder.

Ladies, Hollywood is doing us
no
favors.

First off, I would like to say that anyone who is skinny and pregnant does not deserve an epidural; in fact any such woman deserves hemorrhoids. Secondly, there is a way to ensure that it is never too late for an epidural. My advice is starting at thirty-seven weeks you should go to your obstetrician’s office daily and claim to be in labor and tell them you are ready for your epidural. They are not going to send you home without checking you because they are afraid of a little thing called a
malpractice lawsuit
. Eventually, you will actually be in labor and be able to get said epidural. I do not understand, nor do I want to understand, the level of masochism involved with someone wanting to give birth Laura Ingalls Wilder style. I’ve had three babies and it
hurt
. All that “hee-hee-hooing” ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Secondly, your baby is not going to be pink or clean. Not at first anyway. Your child is going to look like she went to Paula Deen’s house, was confused with the Thanksgiving turkey and got basted with butter. And if that kid comes out the way God intended her to, she’s probably going to look like she was in a bar room brawl, as well. I cried when I saw Aubrey for the first time, partly because I was a mother and here was my first born child and partly because her nose was crooked.

Nobody told me when I was pregnant that some babies don’t know how to breastfeed, and I was finishing nursing school and had worked in Labor and Delivery for two years while I was in school. I felt like I had been totally duped.

Breastfeeding was the most frustrating experience of my life. I had a screaming, hungry baby and a bowling ball-sized boob full of milk. It seemed simple. But, it wasn’t. Aubrey didn’t know how to latch on properly and when we finally figured that out, she would fall asleep every time I tried to feed her. I went to the “lactation consultant” in tears and showed her my nipples; they looked like something out of a science fiction movie.