Well Rope, it seems we've reached the end.

My daughter and I are at war. All out, nuclear missile, weapons of mass destruction, war. W-A-R, WAR. What is it good for? That's right, absolutely nuthin'.

My heart hurts, my head is pounding and my throat is sore from yelling. And I'm pretty sure my neighbors are wondering who that crazy bitch is who moved in last year, the one who screeches at her kid. I've reached the end of my rope on more than one occasion over the past year and nothing I do seems to make any bit of difference. Not that screaming helps. Nope. That's just to release the frustration so things don't actually get broken. It doesn't work either.

Maybe it's the age? Her personality? My personality? It doesn't start out bad - I'm positive. I'm zen-mother-goddess. I praise, I reward, I praise, I reward, it devolves, I warn, I punish, I punish, I punish, I lose control, I scream. I do everything the experts tell me to do until it becomes clear it's not working and then it turns into a horrible shouting match. Doors are slammed, things are thrown. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a fight.

Hey Chicky, it's daytime!

No! It's not and you can't tell me it is. Hmmph.

But, but, the sun is shining. It's day. Really! Look! It's daytime.

NO!!! *screaming, crying, tantrum, slamming door, The End*

She's four, for Christ's sake. What's going to happen to us in the coming years if we can't get this sorted out now?

We don't have good days and bad days anymore. We have a good ten or twenty minute span followed by a few hours of hell. Or maybe we go a whole hour or two without arguing and I get comfortable and cocky and then she sets me off with her repeated insolence and rude, defiant behavior.

I want to wrap this up nicely with a pretty pink bow but there is nothing pretty or nice about ending the day with the both of us in tears. There are no learning moments, no future seen in soft-focus, only pain and frustration and fear. I fear that I'm failing her and by virtue of that, her sister who witnesses it all. These are essential years and I can't seem to get it right. It doesn't really bode well for the rest of their childhoods, you know?

I'm so tired. I was hoping by writing this I'd get some of this pressure off my chest and I'd feel better. Turns out, no. There's a list of child development specialists on my fridge that I can call, that I should call, so why does it feel like admitting defeat? Like I can't properly parent my child.

I sound like a broken record at this point. Feel free to move on. No humor, no cute stories. Nothing to see here. Move along.

And please ignore the screaming.

Bad Mommy Confessional - Part 275,398 in a continuing series

I've made some pretty magnificent fuck ups when it comes to my kids in my four years as a parent. I'm pretty stellar in the fuck up department anyway but when it comes to my kids I try to keep it to a minimum, which only makes each fuck up more of a train wreck.

Also, fuck up.

Take for instance that time two weeks ago when I got Chicky hyped up on the promise of Summer Camp. After being away from it for three weeks due to vacations and trivial things like dwindling bank accounts, she was desperate to go back to her preschool, where summer camp was being held.

For a week I counted down to that damn 3-day camp like it was the end of days, but way funner.

Then when the day finally came we had a spectacularly bad morning where no one (read: Everyone but me.) (Okay, everyone including me but I had to so the choice was taken out of my hands.) wanted to get ready to actually get out of the house and to the summer camp even though everyone (read: Chicky. And me. Please for someone to be taking my child.) so badly wanted to go but apparently not enough to actually get dressed or eat breakfast or willingly have their teeth brushed or anything.

Then the baby slept late. So I had to wake her up in order to get her fed, dressed and out the door.

Let me repeat that - I had to wake up the baby. On purpose.

And then, as we were just about to head out the door - Bowel movements for everyone!

Yes I just went there and I am unrepentant.

So we were late and I was snappy and Chicky was sulky and CC was stinky (Three of the lesser-known dwarfs that were cut when casting the original gang of seven. True story.) and none of this would have been bad or even out of the ordinary if I hadn't messed up my days and brought her to camp ON A WEEK SHE WASN'T SCHEDULED TO BE THERE.

Mother of the Year right here, baby. Now where the hell is my medal?

In front of her friends, their parents, and her teachers - and let's face it, God was probably there to witness it too, judging me. The preschool is in the bottom of a church, of course it is - I had to convince my child, who by now had backed herself in a corner like a frightened doe facing a shotgun, that she had to willingly leave her most favorite place on earth EVER, the place where she gets to run in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack, to come home with me and her sister to do unfun stuff. Like play in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack.

Uh uh, she was not going. She wasn't going and nothing anyone could do could convince her otherwise. She's stubborn, that one. Not sure where she gets that from.

So I cajoled - Come on, honey. Please come with Mama? We'll do lots of super fun stuff! We'll watch movies! We'll bake cookies! Anything! Just ask! A pound of flesh? You've got it! Take two, there's plenty where that came from.

And her teacher stood there, giving me that look. You know, that look? That, Aw, this kind of sucks for you, huh? But don't worry, we've all been through it and that alone should make you feel way better about screwing up your child's whole life forever and ever, look?

Okay I may have imagined that last bit. I doubt it, but maybe.

Please baby, Mama loves you. I'll buy you a donut! I'll buy you a toy! I'll buy you a damn pony, just please come with me so I can drown my shame in a chocolate frosted and large iced coffee.

The donut must have been the key because she came with me. And we drove to the nearest Dunkin Donuts while I heard all about how much she wanted to be at summer camp with her friends. How much she really wanted to go to school again. How much she really hated my guts.

Again, maybe I imagined that last part. Maybe?

And as we drove away from the donut shop I handed her the bag that held her precious sugar fix... and she immediately informed me that I had bought the wrong donut. Gee, what are the odds?

That kind of set the tone for the rest of the week. On a scale of one to ten, ten being accidentally mistaking my children for speed bumps and one being not washing a favorite blanket in time for bedtime, this fuck up fell probably around a four. Maybe a five. In the grand scheme it wasn't that bad and I'm sure I'll probably do much worse before my children finally flee the nest. As a matter of fact, I'm positive I will.

This? Was not so bad.

I try to remember the good moments when I'm going through a rough time. Like when I'm missing my mom I try to recall a happy memory and hold on to it because I don't have the real thing. When it comes to my kids, for the sake of this blog anyway, I try to put the good before the bad. This is a sort of diary for them as well as for me and I want them to know that no matter what, I love them fiercely. That's not to say I don't include the ugly bits here. I see no reason to shield anyone from the nasty parts of motherhood and I have always been forthright about this family's low patches.

That being said, things are not easy around here right now. Today was a particularly bad day, and it's not even 3pm. I'm too tired to write about it so I took a reasonably banal moment and documented it with a touch of tongue-in-cheek humor thrown in to make me, if not anyone else, laugh. It's not anything specific, maybe just a case of growing pains, but when people thank me for reminding them that this parenting gig is not so bad most of the time when I'm the one in need of reminding... I don't know. I guess I feel like a bit of a hypocrite.

So quick, quid pro quo - tell me how great this parenting gig really is.

Mean girls and the hurting words

Chicky, CC and I are part of a playgroup that meets once every week. It's one of those groups that are equal parts playtime for the kids and sanity saver for the moms. This week, seeing as we were experiencing one of our only nice days in the past five thousand years (at least), the group decided to have it at a local park.

Fresh air and sunshine, just what everyone needed. Desperately.

In this playgroup there is a for year old boy whom we'll call "B". B. adores Chicky. It's really cute, in a horrifying, this-is-your-future-with-teenage-girls type of way. The two of them, to quote Forrest Gump, are like peas and carrots, and when we take our leave of these get-togethers B is almost always there to give Chicky a huge hug goodbye. Like I said, terrifying and adorable, all at the same time.

When we arrived at the playground this week B was already there and from fifty yards away we could hear him screaming, "Chicky is here! Chicky is here! Hi Chicky!!" To say he's always excited to see her is an understatement.

(Mental note to lock this one away for the next 13 years until he shows up at our door to take Chicky out on a date. Just remember, kid, I know your mom.)

But my child was fickle that day. She didn't want to play with B or any of the other kids in our playgroup. She wanted to play with her new friend, the little girl whom she met on the swings and was instantly captivated by.

(Name: unknown. Because really, why bother with inconsequential details when making new BFFs?)

The two girls ran around the large play space as fast as their little legs could carry them. Which, apparently, was pretty fast seeing as how poor B couldn't quite keep up. It got to the point where, dejected, he ran back to his mom and cried, "Chicky and that girl won't let me play with them. They don't like me."

The look on his tear covered face nearly broke my heart. My kid was causing that pain. Uh uh, this is not working. So I called Chicky over and asked her nicely to include B in their games, to which she replied, "No", and ran off.

I've got so much control over that kid. It's spooky.

But B., not giving up so easily, kept trying. He ran where they ran and sat where they sat. And from the sidelines I cheered him on while his mother and I inwardly wondered if and when we should step in.

What came next was told to me by B.'s mom.

While I busied myself with CC and her mulch-eating obsession, thinking my child was playing so nicely with this new girl she had met, Chicky and her new, unnamed friend were swinging, not allowing B. to take a turn. And as one girl descended from her movable perch toward B. she would chant, "Dumb" while the other swung upward. Then the other girl would swing down and chant, "Dumb", and so forth and so on. "Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb." That's what B. heard.

I watched as B.'s mom stepped in and removed her son from in front of the girls but didn't know the reason. Like I said, I was busy making sure CC didn't get too much fiber from the playground mulch. I was busy chatting with the other moms. I was... Okay, to be truthful, I never thought Chicky would ever say anything like that to another child.

But she did.

Taking her cue from the other girl, she wielded this new word like a weapon. She was drunk off the heady feeling that comes from watching another person react to something you say. I honestly don't think she knew what she was doing but she was enjoying the shock value, not understanding the pain she was causing.

We've had discussions about the word Stupid and why she should never use it in relation to another person, or to ever use it at all really. We've had long talks about why that word is hurtful, the meaning of it, and so far all that work as been successful. She knows not to say it, will correct others when they do and gets upset when she hears it used in a pop song on the radio. But while I was worrying so much about the usage of one word, I forget to mention it's synonyms.

I'm giving myself the ol' pat on the back for my foresight.

In the end, I apologized profusely to B.'s mom for missing it all and she, in turn, was very gracious and understanding. She had removed her son from the two girls and admonished them for the name calling, making the executive decision to not allow the kids to work it out for themselves and seizing the opportunity to teach everyone a valuable lesson. The other girl's mom came over to apologize as well.

In the end, Chicky and B. were friends again, as four year old's are often inclined to be even after hurtful things are said and Chicky's new friend went home, probably never to be seen by us again.

Chicky, on the ride home, was given a stern lecture about hurting words and how they affect others.

And I made a mental note to break out my thesaurus.

CC, however, has not yet made a commitment to stop eating mulch.

One thing at a time.

What I need is a pig's head and a stick

Captain's Log - Day 19:

We have been stranded in the "no school zone" for what seems like forever and yet still days away from any scheduled day camps that will bring necessary relief. The natives are getting restless.

The weather, I'm afraid, has not been cooperating. Dreary, gray skies threatening rain almost every day has forced us to be inside on most days. Four walls are starting to close in on us.

We have watched all our videos, been on multiple playdates, made high calorie treats with much sugar, and endured many tantrums and still, there is nothing to satisfactorily break up the monotony. In the middle of the night I hear sounds of tribal drums and then... Silence. An eerie silence occasionally broken up by sounds of metal on stone. Could it be weapons are being made?

Communication with the outside world is almost totally cut off by small people and their unreasonable demands for food and entertainment. When communication does become available, sheer exhaustion stops me in my tracks. I'm afraid soon I will be completely overwhelmed by their need.

I fear the end is near.

Send gin.

This will gross out at least 50 percent of my readers. But I'm okay with that.

Oh, honey. I know what you're thinking. Please don't do it.

I'm begging you, PLEASE don't do what I know you're about to do.
I mean, I could stop you myself, but you need to learn some self-control, babycakes. That and I don't feel like leaving the couch right now.

To the untrained eye she looks like she's giving him a kiss. But her mama knows what she's really doing is checking to see if he tastes like chicken.

I'm guessing he doesn't.

How you doin' there, hon? It looks like you've got a little something in your mouth.

Yep, right about there. I could help you clear all that dog hair out of your mouth but Mama's a little busy recording this for posterity. You'll understand when you have your own kids someday.

I hope there aren't too many of you who are greeting your guts right now...
(Like my friend Liz. Hi Liz!)
...but a mom does what a mom has to do. And when CC comes home from a night of teen binge drinking and is tangoing with the toilet I'll pull out these pictures and ask her, "I bet that tastes a lot better than when you chewed on the DAMN DOG." And then I'll laugh and laugh.

Oh, c'mon Fisher. Get a sense of humor, will you? That was funny. It's nothing personal. I'm sure you taste delightful but I'm not going to be finding out any time soon.

This might explain her God complex.

I have a bit of a potty mouth. Cursing, cussing, swearing, whatever you like to call it, I like to do it. I like to talk like a trucker. I like the feeling I get when someone who doesn't know me very well, who assumes I'm as pure as the driven snow, hears strong language come out of my mouth. It makes me chuckle.

However, I try not to swear around me kids, I really do. Harmless interjections like "Oh hell" and "Dammit" may escape my lips on a regular basis but I save the hardcore curse words for my husband. Or for the asshole who cut me off in the rotary.

But as a lapsed Catholic, my upbringing dictates that I use the Lord's name in vain often and regularly. I can't help it. It's like breathing. Spend any time in a good, God fearing Catholic's home, especially those of the old school variety, and you'll hear the God's name being used in so many interesting ways, you'd be sure Moses was going to walk through the front door and start kicking some serious ass with a stone tablet. That's how it was in my family anyway. Cursing is much more satisfying when you think lightning may strike you at any time. I may not go to church anymore, I may not believe in the teachings of Cathol, but old habits die hard. So if I'm going to hell I may as well make the infraction a good one.

I save the more colorful phrases containing the Almighty's name to myself but I'm not above a good "JESUS CHRIST" (Caps are important here. Stick with me, this is important) or "God dammit all to hell", or maybe even a "Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick", and I will admit that more than once a day they've snuck through my lips in front of the kids. I'm not proud. I blame my mother. Now that woman could blaspheme with the best of them when you really got her going. Or if you stayed out until 3am without calling. I'm just saying.

For the most part those phrases are pretty tame in comparison to what could come out of my mouth when Chicky pushes my buttons, which she is inclined to do on an hourly basis. So I was feeling pretty good about my restraint until my husband shared a conversation he had with her recently.

Last weekend, first thing in the morning, she came downstairs and immediately noticed that the night before her father and I had made popcorn and popcorn means movies. Which means we watched a movie and had popcorn without her. How her head didn't pop off right then and there I'll never know.

"Daddy, why is there popcorn on the counter?"

"Because we watched a movie last night and we had popcorn while we watched it"

"What kind of movie?" Translation: If it was produced by Disney or Pixar I will unleash my wrath upon you and you will rue the day you ever dared watch a film with a CGI'd robot or cartoon fish without me.

"A musical." Okay, not really, but you explain this movie to a three year old.

"What songs were in it?" Translation: You'd better say there weren't any singing candlesticks.

"Um, there was a song about Jesus." Mr C. thought he was off the hook here. Chicky doesn't know who Jesus is. He may as well have said Cheez-its.

"That's what Mommy calls me!"

"Huh?"

"Jesus. That's what Mommy calls me. She calls me Jesus."

Mr. C was perplexed, to say the least. But it took him about three seconds to realize that my blaspheming ways had struck again and this time it hadn't gone completely unnoticed by our daughter. But what she didn't realize was that I wasn't calling her Jesus, I was cursing at her.

Jesus, Chicky, stop beating on the cat. Jesus, Chicky, stop throwing your toys. JESUS, Chicky, your sister is trying to sleep and if you wake her there will be HELL to pay.

The poor girl thinks her name is Jesus Chicky.

Some people would see this as a sign to go back to church and throw themselves at the mercy of God or at the very least change how they spoke in front of their kid. I see it as an opportunity to write a new entry in her baby book.

----

To drive the point home (and to remind me that I'm not alone) SciFi Dad reminded me of this oldie but goodie:




And of course this one:
(go to about the 6:45 point)

Meta blogging through real life. Now with more blasphemy!

Even though I sounded like a whiny shit on my last post (come on, admit it. I was pretty whiny even if life was kicking my ass) you all left the most wonderful comments anyway, so I thank you from the bottom of my cold, dead heart.

I always told myself that if I was going to post something on this blog it was going to be 100% truthful. I may not include everything that is going on in my life but what I do share I am open and honest about. Warts, whine and all. I am not this open in my real life but here, as strange as it sounds, I feel safe to let it all hang out. Figuratively speaking of course. I'll leave the boob flashing to my more uninhibited friends.

The other night I shared this blog with a friend of mine (Hi K.!). I had recently begun to open up about this site with my friends - when in the past I had kept it secret from all except my husband and sister, even going so far as to use a nickname instead of my real name (Have you noticed yet? Look to the right. Higher. Higher. Yeah, that's it. That's me. Hi! *waving*) - so I felt comfortable doing so. Especially since she answered an email of mine practically begging for a playdate with a plea of her own. She's also a new mom of two and going through the same crap that I am and it seemed like she felt a little alone in her woe. So off I sent my site address.

Alone? Ha! I'll show you how NOT alone you are, friend. There's a whole community of people out there who know exactly what you're going through. Let me share the love with you.

I don't feel as comfortable doing this in real life. Sharing, I mean. I don't think I'm going out on a limb here when I say that in my every day travels to preschool, playdates, and visits to our local fight club other parents seem to have their shit together when I feel like I'm falling apart. I know this isn't true, but damn if the mothers especially seem to have both feet firmly in reality when I'm floating in the ether. It makes me want to shake them. What is your secret?! Why are you handling this so well?! And who does your hair?? Because it looks fabulous.

It felt like there was a short period after C.C. was born that whenever someone asked me how I was doing I felt compelled to tell them exactly how I was doing. They would ask innocently and out would come this vile spew of words before I could shut my big yap to stop them. And their faces, oh lawdy, the look on their faces when they realized their innocent question was getting them covered in my emotional vomit... After that I figured it was better just to keep my feelings to myself. Everyone was left decidedly less gooey.

And that's the beauty of this medium. When I need to purge, I purge. You can choose to read now, save it for later when you feel ready to deal, or move on quietly. Rarely, but sometimes, someone will tell me to suck it up, and sometimes I need to hear that, but for the most part you offer kind words and virtual hugs and reassurance that things will get better. Here, have a glass of wine and a Xanax, you say to me. This too will pass.

Okay, you've never offered me a Xanax. Ahem.

This is not to say I don't love my real life friends and know they'd be there for me. There are just some barriers to break down before I can feel comfortable enough to pick up the phone to any one of them and scream "GAAAAAAAAH!" and hang up and know that they'll know and understand and empathize. The women I consider my friends today (Hi guys! Please don't look at me too funny when we next meet, 'kay? This will all make sense. Promise.) were not made in the same way I had made friends in the past. We have come together because our common thread is our children. We also came together because there was something about the other that we liked, yes, but our kids were the ice breaker. Strange relationships these are. Strange and wonderful but odd and sometimes uncomfortable during the feeling out process.

Which is why I finally came out of the blog closet and shared.

(Yes, that was the point of this post. I knew I'd get to it eventually. What? Like you've never had a brain dump before?)

Now if they choose to read, my friends will know exactly how I am feeling. No pretenses, no pretending, just me and my baggage. Maybe I can convince a couple of them to start their own blogs. It's very therapeutic. Kind of like confession.

Forgive me mothers for I have sinned, it's been 9 days since I've bathed my baby.

Say five Goddammits, ten Jesus Christs, and have two bloody marys. Go in peace, my sister.

If they chuckled at all at that last bit, we'll all get along just fine.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.