Quit Calling Me Mom - Honest Reflections On Why Parenting Kinda Sucks

There is no more effective stalker than a needy toddler. How many of you have been walking, minding your own business, turned around abruptly and knocked the little crumb snatcher over because they were so close on your heels? You want ‘em, you cuddle and coddle them and then, at some point, all you want out of life is for them to sit on another piece of furniture. I know I’m not alone finding myself in a bathroom with a child banging on the door and crying because they haven’t seen you in 10 seconds. One day, as I was trying to steal a moment to myself in the bathroom, in walks my daughter, who might have been three at the time. Well, it was nearing the end of “that time of the month” and since she was ALL in my face, she sees the pad and says, “Oooohhhhh, you pooped on yourself! Ohhhhhhhhh. Bad Mommy!” Little girl, if I could have had just TWO minutes by my damn self in here, neither one of us would be experiencing this trauma. My son, who is 13 years old at this writing, can pretty

By now, you’ve probably deduced that kids aren’t really my favorite. I mean, they are ok from a distance, like riding by on a bus, but up close, not so much. I like mine a good amount but I really have very little use for other people’s children. So, when the requests for sleepovers started, I was quite wary. What does this entail exactly? Am I expected to watch them, feed them, entertain them? Would they destroy my house? I have very clear rules about where to drink red juice and where to wear your shoes. How will this work exactly? When I shared this trepidation with other mothers, they of course thought I was kidding (I was not) and they all told me I was missing the boat/blessing here. “Nikki” they’d say, “Girl, you want other kids at your house! They keep your kid occupied so they don’t keep trying to play with you!” Hmmmm, that did seem intriguing. Except there was one thing. My daughter had figured out how to operate very well in her “My Mom doesn’t really want to be bothered

My son has turned into quite the label junkie. Well, to be more specific, he’s a “sneaker-head” and peruses Amazon.com ad nauseum checking out the new releases and dropping them into the virtual cart. He then calls me into his room to show me his latest find. I end up deleting them right out of that cart. I promise you, if I could get my hands around Michael Jordan’s neck, I would do so with a smile. I swear he has sent some subliminal mind game stuff to get young men to follow him and his shoes like a cult. I could not care less about his shoes and the fact that my son is obsessed with them. One of the reasons I enrolled him in a school that required uniforms was to avoid this very thing. But nooooooo, “I need sneakers for the weekend, Mom, and to walk into school and to leave school.” This topic gives me an instant attitude. Few things irritate like being asked to buy stuff I think is ridiculous. $150+ sneakers couldn’t get any dumber. I say No and then he’s annoyed with me. There is

My first marriage was over so fast that I didn't get a chance to change my name on everything. I'm talking Britney Spears fast. I mean swift, like had we bought in bulk, we'd have still had some of the stuff left by the time we got divorced. We were married only long enough to get pregnant and have the baby. We signed divorce papers when our daughter was two months old. She has zero recollection of us ever being together and while she did spend time with her father as a child, the lion's share of time was spent with me. Given these facts, imagine my surprise when she started to show traits exactly like her father.  Let me paint a picture for you. I grew up with my granny. My stern, you'd better follow the rules or pay the costs, Granny.  What I'm getting at is, I was reared to do the right thing and not rock the boat. While my first husband was probably raised the same way, by the time he got to college, his middle name officially became, "Buck the system&

Schools LOVE to come up with special little days to challenge my organizational/parenting/paying attention skills. Crazy Hat Day, Nutty Sock Day, you name it, best believe, I’m not prepared for it. There are multiple reasons for this particular failure. a.       I couldn’t be bothered to go through the kid’s folder to check in advance for these kinds of things b.      The kid didn’t remind me. I mean, I went to 5 th  grade already. Do YOUR part. c.       I don’t feel like running around everywhere the night before trying to create this required “Wacky” outfit so I’m trying to create it at home---only about 32% successful at any given time. So, we land in a place of mutual annoyance and borderline contempt over socks. Damn socks. Evidently, being the ONLY kid without the fun outfit of the day is damaging to their psyche (so I’ve heard) so here I go, racing to Walmart at 10 pm, completely against my will so my kid won’t hate me forever. Too. Much.   Let’s all pause here and have a

I have been accused of having a bit of a controlling nature. Well, sadly, there might be some truth to that, especially when it comes to making ANYTHING in the kitchen with my children. I stare in awe when I see parents hand their kids the mixing bowl, flour, etc and say, “Let’s bake something together honey! It’ll be fun!” Actually, Mama Martha, it will NOT be fun. It will be a mess! Have you ever seen a 4 year old crack an egg or pour flour from one bowl to another? Their hand eye coordination is not yet up to snuff so that cake will surely be crunchy and there will be at least ¼ of the flour OUTSIDE of the bowl. Listen, I like to keep my time in the kitchen to a minimum as it is, so I REALLY do not wish to do extra math to gauge how much of the cup of sugar is now on the counter and how much more I need to add to the actual bowl. That’s not what I went in there for. My daughter (21 years old at this writing) is a superb cook. I mean, she’s creative and fearless and makes restaura

 Evidently there’s a parenting style out there where the Mom says to everyone in the house, “You will eat what I put in front of you or you will not eat.” Yeahhhh, soooo that wasn’t really my style but I didn’t even think about it until my son came along. See, my daughter was agreeable in this area (she later became EXTREMELY disagreeable in ALL other areas once she was like 13, but I digress). She’d eat whatever flavored rice, Shake-n-Bake chicken in a bag situation I put in front of her. Since I don’t even like second level veggies like brussel sprouts and that hateful lima bean, she was safe from my ever putting them on her plate. I stuck to the basics…broccoli, string beans, corn. You know... kid veggies. Well, here comes Sir Picky, King of the Beige Diet. If it wasn’t cheese pizza, grilled cheese or mac-n-cheese, he really had no use for it. I’d try to slip some ground turkey into his mac-n-cheese, just to end up watching him dig around in his mouth to extract the minuscule piece

One of the most popular questions for parents of newborns is, “How is the baby sleeping?” I have asked this question many times but I must admit that it was for petty reasons. I wanted them to say that the kid actually never slept at all. My misery wanted company. I literally despise people who tell me their babies have been sleeping through the night as soon as they got home from the hospital. First off, you’re lying. Secondly, why must we always play this game where you have to be better than I? Finally, you’re a damn liar (Yep, I listed that twice on a very short list). I don’t believe it and I have decided that it’s not real. It’s like those people who like to brag about their baby walking super early. You want a gold star for them being able to wreck your house and wind up in the ER at 8 months old when everyone knows they are MUCH easier to keep alive when they stay where you put them? I don’t believe your baby walked that early and I’ve got another bulletin for you…. NO ONE

Let me be clear. I love my children. I even planned them. I’m talking counting days and ovulation tests to get them here. I wanted them, prayed for them, danced a jig when I saw those positive pregnancy tests. Feeling their kicks was pure joy.   They are two people I would kill for (well at least maim—I don’t look great in orange or jumpsuits). I kiss and hug them non-stop. They are my favorites. HOWEVER…they get on my #$%^& nerves. I mean, no one drives me bonkers quite like those two. They are the primary reason  that I journal, use hair dye, and why my fridge might not have milk in it, but always has wine. So, I’m writing this blog for all of us. The ones who truly love their children but have had thoughts of driving them to a  forest and leaving them there. Oh, that’s just me? Yeah, ok. I’m tired of the shaming of “real” parents. I’m tired of the fake smiles and the stories about how motherhood is the  best thing since sliced bread.   I’m tired of people pretend