Confession: I want a baby.
I have mixed feelings about becoming a mother over 40.
I'm not going to lie, there are moments where I can barely tolerate the 3 kids I have. Moments where, despite my unwavering and intense love of my children, I feel like if I have to spend another second in mommy-mode, I may actually die. Dramatic? A tad. True? Absolutely. But the majority of days, thoughts of having a 4th child is consuming. Granted, these thoughts are usually a lot stronger when the existing 3 are sleeping- but still...
When I look in the rear view mirror while driving, all I can see is the one lonely, unoccupied seat behind me. When I look at our 6 seat dining table, I focus on the one unoccupied chair at the end of the table. And when the kids are playing together, and inevitably one of the three always gets left out after the other two pair up for something, I think of how much easier life is in even numbers. And I try to cherish and be ever so thankful for the 3 glorious, beautiful healthy children that I have- and I am. I truly am beyond blessed with my babies. And yet, I feel like something is missing. Someone... missing.
My pregnancies were not extremely enjoyable. I had gestational diabetes with the first. And was on complete bed rest for 20 weeks with the second. But the third was uneventful and normal, and after all the memory is short. I get sad when I see pregnant women, or sniff powdery-scented newborn baby heads. I feel defeated at the thought that I will never experience that again. I don't think about the morning sickness, the leg cramps, or the lack of sleep- oh the lack of sleep. And as everyone so likes to remind me, I am not getting any younger. I am finally beyond midnight feedings, diapers, potty training, and all of the "chores' of early childhood. And it could be that I look back with rose-colored glasses, but I just don't remember it being all that bad. Or at least, I refuse to let myself remember it that way.
Even if it weren't for the naysayers, and oh there are a ton of those (you wan't to do WHAT, are you CRAZY?) my age and my husband are right there nipping at my heels and whispering in my ear- NO WAY. There's a book called You're Never Too Old to Raise a Little Hell, and apparently that might be true. But it seems as though there comes a time when you are too old to raise a little child- and if you ask around, I seem to have hit that time straight on.
The statistics about having babies in your 40's glare out at me from every magazine and website. Increased risk of this, higher chance of that... and my dear, sweet husband only half-jokingly telling me that if I get pregnant again we won't have to worry about having enough room for one more, because the baby can take his spot. And he or she might just have to. With the 2 of us, 3 kids, 2 dogs, and our seemingly ever-growing mountains of stuff (though we're not approaching Hoarders status yet), we barely have enough rom in the house as it is.
After losing the "baby weight", reclaiming some spare time, ditching the diapers, turning 40, and
constantly feeling cramped and crowded, it seems less than logical that I would even want to have another baby. Most people would say it's better to just bide my time until I'm a grandparent. But, I got a later start then some, the first baby at 30, then 33, then 35. With any luck, and if she knows what's good for her, my oldest won't be giving me any grandkids for at least 15 years. And I don't think I can wait 15 years to have that baby smell pressed up against my nose on a regular basis.
Still though, I know I have about as much of a chance of getting pregnant as I do of becoming the next American Idol. Not because biology is against me or anything like that, but because, let's just say that my husband is having no parts of it- and short of going all psycho and pulling some sort of secret birth-control strike, it's simply not going to happen. And I know that. Deep down, I know that I am done. And one day, the fantasy will fizzle, and the reality will finally be set in stone. But for now, I hold on to the teeniest flicker of hope- a hope that with every passing day- becomes fainter and fainter as I move away from 40, and "into my forties". Because as young as I feel, time will eventually catch up to me. I don't ever want to be the "old' mom. I don't want to be slurping my food through a straw when my kid graduates college. And I want to dance at my kids weddings, not watch from the sidelines with my walker or my cane. And I want to toast the birth of my first grandchild with champagne or tequila, not Metamucil.
So, I'll keep squelching my baby cravings until they subside and eventually disappear altogether. For now, this would be a really good time ask me for a babysitting favor.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Confession: I want a baby.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
... or worse- a crackwhore. Wait- is crack whore one word?
So, I'm thinking of changing the format of this blog from the "confession" style as it has been for nearly 5 years -this style implies that I am doing something irritating or embarrassing- to "pet peeves" which rightfully implies that other people are doing things that are irritating or embarrassing. Because really, this blog has become a lot less bout me and my foibles and more about my observations of all the crap that is wrong with everybody else- and truthfully, well, that's just a lot better for me. It gets exhausting outing yourself as an idiot on a regular basis. It's far more fun to out other people as idiots. Okay, I am joking. Well half joking. I am totally serious about the changing from confessions to pet peeves part- and I am half serious about taking pleasure in other people's shortcomings. Okay, I really don't take any pleasure at all in other people's shortcomings. Still, it doesn't mean I wouldn't like to point them out to you here. Consider it... constructive criticism. It's like I'm doing a public service. Yeah, that's it... a public service.
So allow me to introduce to you my first ever pet peeve in lieu of a confession- oh by the way, the blog will still be called Mommy Confessions because, well, Mommy Peeves doesn't sound as good, and I don't feel like buying another domain name.
Also, if we could think up another name for a "pet peeve" that isn't so annoying, that'd be great. Because frankly, the words "pet peeve" are kind of a pet peeve of mine. So, let's get on that okay?
Pet peeve: Parents who don't want to meet me before they send their kids to my house to play.
What is UP with this? I mean I am talking like not even a phone call. Not a quick visit to my casa. Nothing. Zip. Nada. I am talking about a kid calling my kid and saying, "can I come over?" and then a car dropping off the kid and shouting out the window, "I'll pick him/her up around 5, okay?" And yes, that is pretty much how it's gone, on more than one occasion. Not always. Occasionally I get the mom who will ask to speak to me just to confirm that it is, in fact, okay for her to bring her kid over. But yeah, for the most part, parents have no interest in meeting their kid's friend's parents. This is a huge thing-that-we're-not-calling-pet-peeve of mine.
Of course there are exceptions- take me for example. If I have never met or spoken to you, my kid isn't coming over. If our kids are making plans to get together, I want to speak to you, And if my kid is going to be playing in your house, I want to meet you, face to face, and I want to see your house. If we're getting right down to it, I'd also like your full name, social security number, and full background check, but I'll settle for a brief 5 minute conversation where I can assess your core values and beliefs. Or at least make sure your arms aren't covered in track marks.
'Cause for real, these parents who drop their kids off sight unseen at my house, they have no. freakin'. clue. I could be a hooker. I could have clients in my bedroom while the kids are building a Lego tower in the den. I could be a drunk. Or a druggie. You could be leaving your kids in my care while I am pounding back vodka and tonics and popping Xanax like they're going out of style. You could be entrusting your child to come into my safe home, and if you're not there to at least take a little glance around, how do you know that my coffee table isn't covered with AK47's and big pile of blow? You don't. You don't! And that's what I'm saying....
A big fat pet peeve- or whatever yet to be determined word you guys are gonna come up with.
So if your gonna let your kid play with someone you don't know, talk to them first. Maybe stop by. Hell, bring a quiche. Or maybe a bottle of gin. At least then we can get drunk together while I'm watching your kids.
Monday, November 14, 2011
the one in which i tell the cold, hard truth, thereby alienating many of my neighbors and ruin any chances i ever had of being inducted into any type of mom clique.
yeah that's right- a title with no caps. deal with it.
Confession: Some parents just don't seem to give a crap what their kids are doing.
The title is a little wordy, but in this case, it works for me.
I mean maybe, maybe, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and say that it's not that they don't care but rather they just don't know.... but is that really better?
Remember when you'd bring a kid home and your mom or dad would be all, "that kid is no good." And you'd be like, "yeah right mom- you can't tell if they are no good." And now you are a parent- and turns out- yeah, you actually can tell. Pretty much from the second my kid brings somebody home, I know whether or not they are bad news. And you would be damned surprised at how many kids in the 7-10 age range are bad news already. Or maybe you wouldn't. And I ask the question I ask myself each and every day when I look out my living room window- what is up with these parents?
When I was in middle school, there was this guy, we'll call him Billy. Okay, no we won't. We'll call him Roman... because that was his name. And I don't think anyone will take offense to me using his real name since 1) he very sadly passed away several years ago and 2) I doubt all that many people who I was friends with in the 8th grade are reading this right now. Anyway, back to Roman.
Roman was like 16 or 17, or maybe 18- I honestly have no idea. As I recall, he was still in high school, although I never actually saw him go to school, and he looked about 35. I was 12 or 13. Probably 13. For some reason, Roman was that guy who was always hanging out with us younger kids. For reasons unexplainable to me at the time, he liked hanging out with us. Sure, he had some friends that were his age; friends who were probably like "dude why the hell do you keep hanging out with these young kids"... but for the most part, he was always around the younger crowd. We thought it was because we were clearly so much cooler than our same-aged counterparts who did not get to hang out with Roman and his pals. As a parent and grown adult, I can probably safely say now that Roman hung out with us for a few reasons. First, he probably didn't really have that many friends his own age, or maybe he just didn't feel accepted by the kids his age. And second, it was probably a lot better to hang out with a bunch of kids who think you are the really cool older guy, that just some average nerd. It kind of worked to both of our advantages though. We felt important because we got to hang out with the older crowd (crowd being Roman and whatever 1 or 2 friends he could convince to hang out with us at any given time). And he got to be a hero. He got to be the cool guy. He got to be the one that we could count on to do all the stuff that we couldn't do yet (drive, buy cigarettes, stay out late, etc.)
Anyway, why am I bringing up some dude that existed to me in another lifetime, many, many years ago? Well, we seem have our very own little Roman here in my neighborhood. A real life high school boy and his "crew"- and by crew I mean 2 little kids that follow behind him and do whatever he says. And for whatever reason, they like to hang out at the park, with the kids in my daughter's class- my 4th grade daughter. Now, I can totally get why these 9 and 10 year old kids want to hang out with this kid, but for the life of me, I could not understand why he wants to come down to the park day after day and hold court to these... children. And then I watched out the window one day. I watched as this boy did tricks on his bike, as a gaggle of 10 year old girls sat in awe. I watched as he climbed to the top of the jungle gym and sat on the very top, where no kids are supposed to go- as if he were the king of world. His loyal subjects below him staring up, mouths agape, at his bravery and coolness. And suddenly, it was Roman all over again.
Here's the thing with that though: Roman got me in all kinds of trouble back then. I got grounded more than once for breaking curfew with him. I got caught smoking. I was riding around in cars with boys... stuff that if I catch my daughter doing at 12 or 13, I am going to be livid.
Granted my daughter is 10. She just turned 10 last week. She still plays with Barbies. And she is by no means allowed to play at the park with this Romanesque character. But the curiosity is there. She watches out the window as her friends, who are allowed to go out unaccompanied to the park, follow these boys blindly... around the park.. into the woods... and I am lucky- for now. Because she still listens to me.
But it certainly doesn't make it any easier that most of her friends are allowed to do things she can't (i.e ride their bikes around the neighborhood and go down to the park and play there by themselves.) But it's not so much the things they are allowed to do as it is the things they do anyway that bother me. Like cursing like a truck-driver. Or smoking. Or staying out late. Or yes, hanging out in the woods with kids much older than them. And I again I have to ask what is up with these parents? Because I have to believe that no parent is going to let their 9 or 10 year old willfully engage in this kind of behavior. Or maybe they do?
I'm not saying I am perfect... okay I'm not saying it right now... but I have to question the decisions that parents make sometimes. I want to believe that 99% of these kid's parents do not know that they are hanging out in the woods with boys that are several years older than them. And not that they just don't care. But I am tired of being the park police. Keeping your kids from engaging in bad behavior is not my job. And yet if I don't do it, I have to watch it- day in and day out- and allow my kids to be exposed to it. And quite frankly, I don't want to.
I'm no lawyer. And I don't have a clue about the difference between libel, slander, character assassination, etc. but I am pretty sure that if I start putting kids real names up here and outing them for their crappy behavior, I am going to have an angry mob of soccer moms at my door ready to kick my ass (or at the very least run me over with their Honda Odyssey or their Volvo station wagons). Then again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. At least if they came down here beating on my door to defend little anonymous kid's honor, I would know that they give a shit- which is a lot more than I can say right now for most of them.