How Does She Do It?

I never expected to be a parent this way.  Like most people, I figured I would find the right guy, we would settle down and eventually have a kid to warp.  I did it the ‘right’ way – found a nice guy, dated him, got engaged, then got married.  However when it came time for the kid, fate had other ideas.  After a while, you get to the point where you decide – well, no kids for us – let’s have pets instead.

Then comes along a friend who whispers in your ear, “Have you ever thought of fostering/adopting?”  And stupidly you think, “Hell, why not?”  Next thing you know you get a call one morning, and then you find yourself staring at a tiny person a few hours later.

Your first reaction is ‘OMG!  There is a BABY in my house!” followed quickly by “OMG!  There is a BABY in my  house! HOLY SHIT!”

Eventually you come to grips with the tiny person who has invaded your life.  Just when you think you got the hang of it, you get another call and WHAMO – there is ANOTHER baby in your house.

With those calls came the inevitable “How do you do it?” comments.  Well, truth be told, I have no fucking idea.  I would love to tell you “I am super mommy/wife/woman who can handle any shit you throw at me without batting an eyelash, running a stocking, or breaking a nail.  I am Betty-Freakin’-Crocker and Martha-Effing’-Stewart on acid so bring it on!”  But guess what?  I am not and never will be anything even remotely close to the wife/mommy/woman of perfection we were told about in fairy tales of long ago.

I am not the parent I thought I would be.  I scream, yell, cry, have tantrums that rival my two year olds, walk around wondering if I am fully dressed, and if so how much of what I am seeing is powdered donut, snot or god knows what else?  My floors are not spotless, the only dusting that happens on a regular basis is when the three year old gets hold of a wipe and proceeds to take a swipe at the cat, and my lock picking skills are at an all-time high.  Don’t open my cabinets unless you relish seeing my attempts at baby-proofing – which roughly translates into “I emptied out the silverware drawer and shoved in the hall closet so the kid wouldn’t decide to take up juggling sharp knives for fun so be careful when you open the door”.  I don’t know what non-sticky furniture is anymore and just be grateful that the smudges on the window are from snotty noses and sticky fingers rather than someone mooning the neighbors with a shit-covered butt that was recently freed from her diaper unbeknownst to mommy and daddy.

My idea of “me” time consists of me literally sneaking off to the bathroom so I can pee in peace while hoping at the same time that the kids are not duct taping the dog to the couch with that roll they cleverly found while practicing their trapeze act from the ceiling fan.  Eating out involves ketchup packets and happy meals – which by the way are a lie – there is no happiness in those little fuckers despite the advertising.  Current events for me include discussing potty training successes and failures with other poor helpless parents who find themselves in similar situations. 

And still I get the occasional “wow, you are amazing” and “I can’t imagine how you do it” comments.  I think they are meant as praise and encouragement.  I don’t know if I am ‘amazing’ but I can tell you that locking one’s self in the mini-van in the garage occasionally does contribute to what is left of one’s sanity.  That and secretly hiding that Ben & Jerry’s ice cream from every known person on the planet.  And let’s not forget the occasional stop where you manage to sneakily purchase that cheese cake and devoured it in one sitting.

I would like to say “It’s those tiny adoring smiling loving faces that make it all worth while”.  I would like to say “I do it for the children – they are what is truly important”.  But in truth, I think it is the Sara Lee coffee cake I ate between the grocery store and picking up the kids from day care that kept me going.  Yeah, I ate the whole thing in like, 15 minutes.  And no, I didn’t share.  And before you think of giving me grief about it, consider this little shred of wisdom that the hubby shared with the three year old:  “Leave mommy alone or she will pop your head off and drink your blood.” 

And that my friends, is how I do it….