Tales from Fort Parent Hood

What have I gotten myself into? That question runs through my mind at least 15 times a day. No doubt it’s popped into every parent’s mind at some juncture, and perhaps like me, it’s a familiar mantra whispered frantically at chaotic moments. It’s also possible this thought has been muttered with an expletive thrown in for good measure. Raising children is one of the hardest things in the world. If it’s not, you’re doing it wrong. It should be a training objective for the military because you haven’t really earned your stripes as a human being until you’ve survived it. While you may get a 3-day pass every now and then, you eventually have to strap on your gear and return to the war zone. And if you go AWOL you can face jail time. Although you may need a translator occasionally, and the preferred method of torture is sleep deprivation, parenting is the most honorable duty you may ever perform.

My typical day begins with my daughter calling from her bed, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. C’mere. I got stinky.” Oh goodie. Nothing like a fresh poop to start your day off right. Next comes the ordeal of waking my son for school, which is the equivalent of rousing a wino from a 4-day binge. Although Connor has been doing this for 2 years, every morning without fail, he angrily accuses me of “losing my mind” for waking him up at such an unreasonable time. I’ve recently decided apologies are in order to my own parents: I was not a darling little angel in the mornings and my son has taken after me in that regard. Once we are finally prepared to go to school, I must advise Connor that his shoes are on the wrong feet. This is also an everyday occurrence. Watching him hobble out of the door like a penguin was cute and endearing the first couple of times; now it’s annoying and a little alarming. Sighing heavily, I ask, “Why do you always put your shoes on the wrong feet, son?” “Because I’m cool and hilarious,” Connor says matter-of-factly. How can I argue with that logic?

After the morning rush, the real work begins. There’s always cleaning, laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, bill paying, and errand-running to do. On the best of days, I get to stay home and change dirty diapers, chase my daughter, prevent numerous potential fatalities my daughter can manage to inflict on herself, and endure temper tantrums that occur when the method of death is snatched away from her. Contrary to stereotypes assigned to stay-at-home moms, I do not watch hours of daytime television with a carton of ice cream in my lap. First of all, ice cream or other junk food must never even be mentioned in the presence of children, unless you enjoy wrestling a child trying to steal candy from you. I have the unfortunate curse of having a toddler that will eat absolutely anything. I’ve trained my stomach to go an entire day without eating just to avoid a fight. I’ve lost 15 pounds in the last 2 months. Having a non-picky, combative, hungry toddler is turning out to be the best diet ever! Second, even if I wanted to watch television all day, I’d never hear it over the continious cacophony of giggling, squealing, crying, yelling, banging and the sound of mysterious items breaking.

By the time 2:00 pm arrives, I am feeling a little faint, but eager to get the afternoon school pick-up over with. Or, as I like to call it, “Bungle in the Jungle.” Jethro Tull’s song of aggression, crime, and the human capacity for evil seems to have been inspired by the school pick-up and drop-off ritual. I have seen fist fights break out over parking disagreements. I’ve heard PTA moms yell profanities at one another for breaking some unwritten parking etiquette. And if some poor soul enters from the exit lane or vice versa, I cringe at the atrocities awaiting him or her. The most heinous action one can commit in the school yard is parking in the lane reserved for thru traffic. There is no other alternative for cars to drive so you‘re stuck until the jerk moves. When the driver of the offending vehicle leaves to go inside the school and traffic is backed up into the road, harried housewives, busy businessmen and women, and school buses are trapped in the parking lot like rats in cages. It’s the perfect storm. I’ve seen police called to the scene. I’ve heard death threats exchanged. I’ve even thrown in the finger on one occasion. One furious man broke into the car, put it in neutral and physically pushed it out of the way like a redneck Incredible Hulk. It’s the most dreaded part of my day. Not because I fear committing a parking lot felony, but because I’ve seen so much stuff go down, I feel like a veteran with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just returning to the scene induces flashbacks and cold sweats. Once that ordeal is over, it’s back home.

The next few hours fly by in a flurry of homework, cooking, giving the kid’s their baths, putting them to bed, returning them to bed when they wander out, and finally yelling empty threats (I.e, you’re television is going in the trash, I’m going to put you in time-out for 12 hours, etc.) until they stay in the bed for the night. The rest of the night is dedicated to unwinding, watching my favorite tv shows, surfing the internet, and bathing. And just when I’m lulled into a false sense of peace, I hear the customary ker-plunk that indicates a child has fallen out of the bed. The identity of the child can be confirmed by listening to what immediately follows the thud. If it’s my daughter, Addison, I’ll hear a high-pitched wail to which I must respond promptly and offer comfort until the trauma is forgotten. If it’s Connor, I’ll hear, “What the…MOMMY!” In this case I can simply call out, “You fell out of the bed, Connor. It’s ok. Get back in and go to sleep.” The most amusing nights occur when something has propelled Connor from his bed to seek out mine. At best, I’ll awaken to see him stumbling into my room, looking like an inebriated sailor stumbling out of a bar. The confused look on his face seems to say, “I don’t know who I am, where I am, or where the I’m going. All I know is I gotta get the away from that place.” At worst, I’ll hear bumbling footsteps in the dark coming toward me and my still-asleep brain will assume an intruder has broken into the house to murder me. Terrified and frantic, I will scream, start trying to climb the headboard, and cry, “Oh God! Oh no! Oh God! Oh no!” until my husband shakes me awake and tells me, “It’s just Connor.” I swear to you: this has happened about 4 times. The first couple of times, I startled Connor and he started screaming also. Now, he just climbs in the bed unperturbed.

Such is the battle of parenthood. Even when my nerves have snapped completely apart, I love every minute of it. In desperate times like that, I hum “Highway to the Danger Zone” and imagine myself completing some super-perilous mission. What dampens my morale is when I hear people dissing stay-at-home moms. The most infuriating comments are, “Stay-at-home moms are lazy”, “You’re a disgrace to feminism”, and “Why don’t you get a job?” (A variation of this is the husband’s statement, “I can’t take out the trash. I actually have a job.” In this case, sending an invoice to your husband for jobs you perform in the place of chefs, chauffeurs, maids, therapists, tutors, nurses, nannies, and prostitutes should shut him up.) The lazy argument is ridiculous. The people that say this have never entirely taken care of a child for a whole day. As for feminism, wasn’t the point of it to empower women and give them choices? Just because my choice keeps me at home raising children doesn’t mean I’m a disgrace to my gender. Furthermore, working mothers enjoy bragging that they “have it all.” Um, no, actually you don’t. You have a career, more money, greater respect, but you are technically not raising your own children. The nanny or the child care worker spends more hours a day with your child than you do. The at-home moms are the ones having it all: they get to raise their children while they’re young, then pursue a fulfilling career when the kids are in school. It’s a lot tougher--by a country mile. I’m not knocking working moms, though. In many instances it’s a necessity. In others, it’s more about happiness and fulfillment. It’s wonderful and I applaud any working mother, especially single ones. My problem is with working mothers who feel superior, stronger, or more intelligent than stay-at-home moms. You’re not. Get over yourself.

For a job with no respect, recognition, reimbursement, or relief, it’s the greatest job in the world. I wear the battle scars stretched across my stomach with honor. I take comfort in knowing that I’m fighting for a cause greater than myself: the future generations of the world. I haven’t gotten my medals yet; in fact, I’m not even close. If this were basic training, I’d still be 10-12 years away from hell week. I’ll probably get wounded, I know I’ll get shot at, but at the end of my life, I want to retire knowing I fought the good fight. My goal is to have two beautiful medals that shine with love. God willing I never get called in for a third tour of duty! Adapt and overcome. That’s the objective isn’t it?