My son is almost a year old, which means that things have finally gotten a bit easier. He sleeps twelve hours at night, is entertainable in public, diaper blow-outs are few-and-far-between and reaches for me while smiling and babbling, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma.”

So.

I was a little irritated to realize all of the things he’s not “supposed” to do once he turns a year old–use a bottle, play in the jumperoo, drink formula.

Apparently, once a kid turns one, they enter early-Toddlerville and it’s time for Big Boy stuff like walking, finger food and sippy cups. Before we know it, we’ll be blowing the fuck past those milestones and it’ll be time to mark the liquor bottles and set the parental controls on the porn channel.

While I don’t object to any of these things and realize they’re just part of growing up, it’s hard to realize that we’re going to be jerked out of our complacency and back into “I have no idea what the hell to do” mode. Just when I was SO enjoying the feeling of having this Mothering shit down. (Although my son challenged that feeling yesterday when he managed to gnaw paint off our walls while I was in the bathroom. I’d like to thank my family and Jesus for the Mother-of-the-Year Award.)

I guess my parenting lesson learned for the day is: When it comes to parenting, it’s best not to get too comfortable. Treat child-rearing in same manner as snake-charming–always be alert, ready to react and never underestimate your opponent.

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A few weeks ago, my husband, son and I all went on a long-weekend vacation together. Something we had looked forward to for months, we anticipated a lovely weekend of napping, swimming in the lake, eating out in Wisconsin’s finest dining establishments, drinking some great beer and watching movies. Or at least some small combination of all of the above.

What we got? Was puking. Lots and lots of puking.

As our car pulled into town on the bright and shining Friday morning, our son looked at me and projectile vomited all over himself. Seriously, it was like something out of The Exorcist. We called the doctor, who said it might just be a fluke and to continue on with weekend, but to keep a close eye on him. So, we cautiously continued our fantasies about a weekend filled with watersports and beer.

And, he was fine until we went to dinner Saturday night, when he leaned over the table and vomited directly into my purse as I ate my cod dinner. This was five minutes after he knocked my glass of red wine onto the floor. Oh, and fifteen minutes after an old man tripped over my son’s diaper bag. Needless to say, we were “those people” at the restaurant.

We cut our losses and left early. As for our son, he was fine the moment we pulled into the driveway. As for us? Still scarred and bruised.

They say your life changes when you have a baby. And it does. But I hadn’t “gotten” quite how much until that weekend. Sure, we never sleep in anymore, we don’t eat at nice restaurants and my paycheck is signed directly over to the nanny, but, when life beckons, we’ve always been able to scoop our son up and take him along without too much protest.

I sense this is a valuable lesson for the future i.e. when he learns to start talking. Especially when he learns the words: “No” and “I hate that place” and “Why do we always have to go to Target?”

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Before I became a parent, there were so many things that I saw other parents do that I SWORE I wouldn’t do when I had a kid of my own.

(Let’s all pause a moment while we laugh collectively.)

One of the “there’s no way in hell I’m doing that” items was: stick to a nap schedule so rigid that our days are planned around when our dear child needs his sleepy time. We laughed, we scoffed, we rolled our eyes at parents who would freak out at 1:04 because their child needed to nap at 1:00 and oh-my-god-we-have-to-get-home-because-precious-Johnny-needs-sleep.

Now, I totally get it. Because missed nap = potential for hellfire and brimstone to rain down upon us all. Those parents were only trying to spare us the agony of witnessing a catastropic event of Biblical proportions. And we had the balls to whisper and laugh behind their backs.

And last weekend, we officially morphed into “those parents.” On Saturday, my husband and I decided to take a drive out to a far suburb for lunch. In a perfectly timed universe, we would’ve left when we were supposed to, eaten lunch and gotten back within a couple hours. In reality, it took like thirty minutes to even get out of the driveway because leaving the house these days resembles a space shuttle launch between the Cheerio baggies, sippy cup pieces, travel wipes containers that always need to be re-filled and all the other crap that goes along with venturing into the outside world.

As we sat down to lunch, I realized it was naptime and started to sweat. I obsessively checked my watch and hovered over my child, convinced he was going to suddenly morph into a rabid, flesh-seeking zombie. Or at least a bratty toddler. But he was fine. (The fact that we let him suck on anything he wanted, including my credit card and a salt shaker, also helped.) We all survived despite a totally screwed up naptime.

I guess the moral of the story is that I should* withold judgement (and laughing, snickering, rolling of the eyes, etc) about other parents, since karma seems to have a pretty good sense of irony.

*”Should” does not mean “will.”

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These conversations always seem to happen when I’m elbow-deep in bread dough.

“Jump, Mommy kangaroo, jump with me!”

“Not now, Baby kangaroo.”

“Jump with me!”

“Mommy kangaroo hasn’t been that big into jumping since puberty, hon.”

“Mommy kangaroo has big boobies. I’ve got little boobies. When I get really bigger, I’ll have big boobies and then I can’t jump.”

What am I teaching her with my laziness and unsupportive bras? That she can’t jump once she gets boobs?

Then again, there’s genetics. I was a C-cup in sixth grade. Her father’s mother didn’t sprout until high school, but by the time she graduated she was 40-24-36. Unless there’s something *very* freaky in the water, my little munchkin is going to look like she’s 20 before she gets her learner’s permit.

“Honey?”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got financial planning with your company, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You need to make an appointment with them. Discuss savings plans with the goal of being able to afford a Swiss convent school in about ten years.”

“Is Penny talking about her boobies again?”

“You know it.”

“Have you tried telling her she’s really a boy?”

“Honey, we can’t afford private school. You think we’re going to be able to foot *those* kinds of therapy bills?”

“Point made. Just start in with the ’sex is evil’ talk.”

“I’d rather leave it to the nuns.”

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Never mind me, I’m just sitting here eating my words. I’ve been going on and on for the past few years about how wonderful the ten year age difference between my first and third kid is, and well, now I’ve hit a snag and have been forced to ‘fess up about it.

I bragged about how wonderful my son was with the baby. He held her when she was small, marveled in her milestones, rocked her, played with her, then as she grew he gave her piggy-back rides, got her juice and turned on her TiVoed Scooby Doo shows for her. I made my friends green over my live-in babysitter, allowing my husband and me to escape on weekend nights to movies or grown up dinners. All of that is still true. She adores him, he’s her hero. He thinks she’s a living doll. The trouble is not their relationship with each other. It’s their relationship with me.

I’m a smart person, one with a degree in psychology, and actually one who tends to be anxious and lie awake at night following worst case scenarios to their most horrific end. So why did I not see that at some point in this little dream family, I would be mothering a 3 year-old and a 13 year-old at the same time?

You know that scene with Homer Simpson swinging between a rock and A Hard Place? That’s me, being pulverized to dust between the toddler and the teenager.

To make it worse, they share tactics. Exchange strategies. Commiserate. I have the only three year-old in the world who stomps her foot, shouts at me, “I HATE you, you never do anything for me, leave me ALONE!” and then stomps off, slams the door behind herself and climbs into her crib. When I go in to get her, she shoves her fingers in her ears and sings, “La-La-La-La, I can’t HEAR you!” He, on the other hand is not above turning on fake water works to try to make his case more dramatic. In private. He has too much self respect to do it where any of his peeps might see. Really, I could give a dozen scenarios and quiz you—is it the teen or the toddler? And the only clue you’d have would be the size of the vocabulary, and even that is blurry, since the little one’s is expanding and the big one drops a few IQ points when he yells.

Everywhere I turn these days, there’s fear of stepping on some hidden trip wire in their delicate psyches and blowing the whole house to bits. I’m good at diffusing and ignoring and standing my ground with things. Tantrums never did really faze me. But, when there are two of them, it’s just not fair. And what works with one isn’t appropriate for the other. There are times when I would just love to hoist the big one over my shoulder and carry him out to the parking lot, strap him into his seat and tsk tsk sympathetically all the way home, “I’m sorry we had to leave like that, but when mommy says you need to stop, mommy means it, maybe next time you’ll remember that.” And, there are times with the little one when I’m dying to say, “Look, we’ve been through this, you got your answer, now leave me alone and go deal with it somewhere else, because I am DONE talking about it.” But, I can’t. The big one is too heavy and the little one won’t go away when you tell her to. They can compare notes and study each other’s techniques, but I can’t just use one universal response for both of them.

I give myself pep talks. This is normal development for both of them. Teens are supposed to be obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of paranoia (“You hate me! You love her more! You wish I was never born!”) Three year-olds are supposed to obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of grandeur (“No, YOU stop it, mommy! YOU’RE being bad! No, YOU sit down! Bad mommy!”) It’s normal. It’s all so agonizingly normal. They will grow out of it. I will help them along and not become a child abuser or alcoholic along the way. Then I’ll have a 4 year-old and a teenager which is better than a 3 year-old and a teenager, and surely 14 is better than 13, right? Right? I’m sure it is. Pass the salt, please.

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Your child will learn to use the toilet by himself. We don’t all need to be involved in the process by proxy. He remembers how many accidents he’s had recently, he was there. We don’t want to know.

Using your child’s full name to get his attention when you’re mad at him is just pretentious when you’re mad for like an hour straight. We will never get that asinine middle name out of our heads now.

Your child will understand you if you speak to her in normal conversational tones. There’s no need to be so loud, over-pronounced and, oh for God’s sake please don’t squeal.

Your child does not need a running commentary throughout the day. He can figure out for himself that the little girl is looking at the fishie, and now she’s looking at a book, and that the man is reading a magazine. While we all may seem distracted doing something else, we’re all really just hoping that you’ll shut the hell up soon.

Every moment does not have to be a teaching moment. Because you have a few minutes to kill, you don’t have to yank out a workbook and quiz on letter identification. It won’t get her into Yale any sooner, and the rest of us are not impressed. We already know our letters.

If you want her to take her coat off that badly, then stop asking her over and over and just get hold of her and peel her coat off of her body. You’re bigger than she is.

Again with the middle name. Stop it. I mean it.

It isn’t necessary to bring snacks with you everywhere. They can go a few hours between goldfish and juicebox sessions. See? Now the rest of us are hungry. Did you bring some for everyone?

Just because we happened to reproduce at roughly the same time doesn’t make us friends. Nor our kids.

This job isn’t that hard, you’re really over-applying yourself. It’s OK for everyone to just sit quietly for a while. Pick up a book, take a deep breath, see? It’s all just fine.

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So, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t really like kids all that much.
 
OK, scratch that.
 
I don’t like YOUR kids that much.
 
I happen to really like my own. Just not yours.

 I happen to think my own child is perfectly hilarious when he farts loudly in public. I think it’s cute when he regurgitates sweet potato puree down the front of his miniature Cubs jersey.  I make others stare at him while I try to get him to make, “This face he made the other night that was so funny…Kevin, jump up and down again and see if he’ll do it…I swear, it was so funny.”
 
I do not think it’s endearing when anyone else’s kid does it. In fact? It’s pretty annoying. Actually? Your kid is bothering me. Please take it out to the car and give it a spanking.

When I was pregnant, I had lunch with a childless friend of mine. A toddler at the table next to us began throwing a temper tantrum, complete with screaming and throwing of toys. My friend rolled her eyes then caught my eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

I responded that she shouldn’t be apologetic; I found the child hideously annoying and just because I was having a child myself didn’t mean I suddenly became tolerant of children misbehaving in public. (I should also add I wouldn’t have been nearly as annoyed had the parents properly responded by whispering death threats through clenched teeth while yanking the kid out of the restaurant instead of laughing merrily and continuing to eat their sushi.)

As a parent, I think my child is just the bees’ knees.  I might even think your kid is cute, too.

As an adult, I’d like to enjoy my lunch without the child next to me screaming, “Fie truck! Fie truck! Gimme fie truck!”

I have to tolerate my own kid throwing tantrums. I shouldn’t have to listen to yours.  Now, I’ll do my part by hustling my kid out of any public place when screaming begins and refusing to submit to “Parent Brain,” a condition in which the second after a child is born the parents become blissfully unaware of any social disturbances little Joey is causing.

In short?

I love my kid. I just don’t have to love yours.

And that’s all which is required of a parent, no? 

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A feature in the local paper as well as witnessing a toddler last night being forced writhing and crying into Santa’s lap for a photo op inspired me to dig up this picture of what was surely the most frightening thing I experienced within my first 11 months on Earth (and which also may explain my love of mustard on hot dogs):

What’s odd is that this picture is clearly not at the mall and is at someone’s house… unfortunately there is no one remaining on my side of the family to ask, so the real identity of the Santa with the awesome watch shall remain a mystery.

Here’s a bit of info for those of you with wee tots terrified of Santa — they get over it the very second they can even vaguely comprehend that this fat guy in the velvet suit brings them tons of crap on Christmas Eve. Commercialism soothes the savage beast.

Anyone else have crying, screaming Santa pics of yourselves or your kids that you wish to share? You can email them my way and I’ll put them up, or include a link to it on Flickr, Photobucket, etc. in the comments below.

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