mythical mommy
I fucking hate Mythical Mommy. She only exists to make me feel like a piece of shit.
Let me back it up a little bit so you know where this is coming from.
A few weeks ago we discovered a substantial black mold growth on the wall behind a built-in shelf in our closet. So now we're looking for a new place to rent.
Buy.
Rent.
No, buy.
Wait... maybe rent?
Rent.
Okay, so, yes, we're finding a new place to rent.
Wait.
Let me back it up a little bit more.
Ryan and I are camping in the living room while Buster learns how to sleep. Chicken has a room. Buster has a room. I have a couch. Ryan has a sleeping bag on the floor with two decent foam pads. Buster has been sleeping pretty reliably from 7 until 5 or so, so we're thinking it might be time to move him into Chicken's room.
Wait, but we're about to move.
So should we move him in now or wait until we're in the new house? Wait, right?
And when we're there do we leave the crib in our room too, for naps? Right? Yes?
But Buster still wakes up so fucking early and Chicken hasn't been napping... if we do this too soon our world will implode.
I was standing in my bedroom - sorry, I meant the room where Buster sleeps in a mini-crib in the corner next to an empty queen-sized mattress - and I just couldn't stop having this conversation in my head. How do I get the kids in a room together? Is Buster ready? Is Chicken going to be okay with this? Is it too much change to move them into the same room in a new house, or will it be like oh hey there's my brother I find this comforting now?
I tried to calm myself. There's no way you can be wrong about this. Whatever move you make, you'll learn something. It's not a final decision. You can always bring it back and try again later.
I was unable to calm myself. If I am wrong the Mythical Mommy inside my head will never let me live it down.
So hi. Here we are. Back at the beginning of the post.
I fucking hate Mythical Mommy, for so many reasons, but the big one is this: Mythical Mommy is never wrong. She's the most enraging fictional character that the worst people you know believe is real. She's the "great mom," the one who always knows everything, the psychic seer of truths, wise and brilliant and humble and lord knows she's never hungry enough to order a whole dessert by herself but that is another kettle of fish.
"Everyone said to just let her cry but I KNEW THAT SHE HAD A POOPY DIAPER."
No you didn't.
"I had this feeling that it was the right time to wean."
No, you didn't.
"I knew that if she bought the big carton of blueberries that he would eat them all and have a poopy blowout in the car but she didn't listen to me and the next day she called me and guess what someone has to wash her car seat cover again. Well, I knew that would happen."
No. No you didn't. You make me want to start biting again.
What drives me crazy is that I know Mythical Mommy is just another Nessy, another Bigfoot rustling in the bushes, another fucking Area 51, a fantasy constructed of wishful thinking and too much sugar. But I still think of her as... I don't know... someone I should be.
Today when I stood in my bedroom - sorry, I meant the room Buster shares with my dresser - I dreaded, DREADED having to engineer Buster's move into Chicken's room. Because I'll do something wrong and make it harder than it has to be, and if only Mythical Mommy had been at the helm it would have gone perfectly.
I hate this lie of motherhood, that insane expectation that as a mother you are going know how shit is going to go down. People will ask me, "so, is Chicken going to like this curried goat?" And I'm like, "fuck if I know, give it a shot."
I don't know the future any more than anyone else does. But now that I'm a mom who can't see the future, I feel like the dumbest kid in the class.
Nobody knows your baby as well as you do.
Really? Shit. My baby is a fucking mystery to me. What's that face? Is that pooping? Teething? Are you about to yawn or cry or laugh? What is about to happen?\
You'll just know if something's wrong. You'll feel it.
Great. I feel it. Wait. Or did I just watch too much local news today. WAIT. NOW I feel it. But I don't know if I feel it-feel it or if I'm just feeling it because everyone else is saying that they've felt it and I can't be inn the Mythical Mommy club until I have a story about how I saved my baby from a feral hamster with my unexplainable ghost hunter intuition.
Future-knowing is the exclusive purview of mothers, the Long Island medium, and cheesy Wall Streeters, and we're all of us equally accurate.
Some days Chicken takes a nap and some days he doesn't and I have no fucking idea which one it's going to be tomorrow. And it's not because I don't pay attention - it's just that if you share your world with other human beings, you will live to sample an infinite number of permutations for how you day is going to go.
And anyway, what would be the reward, really, for knowing the future? If I woke up tomorrow as Mythical Mommy, able to see the clearest way through all of the obstacles I'll ever face for the rest of my life, what would I get for that? I'd get a fucking A that I cheated for, that's what.
I'm not opposed to taking the low road when my feet hurt, but there's something to be said for sweating over your life.
(drops mic)
(it's Mardi Gras)
(I may have written this post after several adult beverages)
(This is going to be really embarrassing when I read it tomorrow)
(Sorry 12 readers)
( Мне очень жаль, парень в России)
Let me back it up a little bit so you know where this is coming from.
A few weeks ago we discovered a substantial black mold growth on the wall behind a built-in shelf in our closet. So now we're looking for a new place to rent.
Buy.
Rent.
No, buy.
Wait... maybe rent?
Rent.
Okay, so, yes, we're finding a new place to rent.
Wait.
Let me back it up a little bit more.
Ryan and I are camping in the living room while Buster learns how to sleep. Chicken has a room. Buster has a room. I have a couch. Ryan has a sleeping bag on the floor with two decent foam pads. Buster has been sleeping pretty reliably from 7 until 5 or so, so we're thinking it might be time to move him into Chicken's room.
Wait, but we're about to move.
So should we move him in now or wait until we're in the new house? Wait, right?
And when we're there do we leave the crib in our room too, for naps? Right? Yes?
But Buster still wakes up so fucking early and Chicken hasn't been napping... if we do this too soon our world will implode.
I was standing in my bedroom - sorry, I meant the room where Buster sleeps in a mini-crib in the corner next to an empty queen-sized mattress - and I just couldn't stop having this conversation in my head. How do I get the kids in a room together? Is Buster ready? Is Chicken going to be okay with this? Is it too much change to move them into the same room in a new house, or will it be like oh hey there's my brother I find this comforting now?
I tried to calm myself. There's no way you can be wrong about this. Whatever move you make, you'll learn something. It's not a final decision. You can always bring it back and try again later.
I was unable to calm myself. If I am wrong the Mythical Mommy inside my head will never let me live it down.
So hi. Here we are. Back at the beginning of the post.
I fucking hate Mythical Mommy, for so many reasons, but the big one is this: Mythical Mommy is never wrong. She's the most enraging fictional character that the worst people you know believe is real. She's the "great mom," the one who always knows everything, the psychic seer of truths, wise and brilliant and humble and lord knows she's never hungry enough to order a whole dessert by herself but that is another kettle of fish.
"Everyone said to just let her cry but I KNEW THAT SHE HAD A POOPY DIAPER."
No you didn't.
"I had this feeling that it was the right time to wean."
No, you didn't.
"I knew that if she bought the big carton of blueberries that he would eat them all and have a poopy blowout in the car but she didn't listen to me and the next day she called me and guess what someone has to wash her car seat cover again. Well, I knew that would happen."
No. No you didn't. You make me want to start biting again.
What drives me crazy is that I know Mythical Mommy is just another Nessy, another Bigfoot rustling in the bushes, another fucking Area 51, a fantasy constructed of wishful thinking and too much sugar. But I still think of her as... I don't know... someone I should be.
Today when I stood in my bedroom - sorry, I meant the room Buster shares with my dresser - I dreaded, DREADED having to engineer Buster's move into Chicken's room. Because I'll do something wrong and make it harder than it has to be, and if only Mythical Mommy had been at the helm it would have gone perfectly.
I hate this lie of motherhood, that insane expectation that as a mother you are going know how shit is going to go down. People will ask me, "so, is Chicken going to like this curried goat?" And I'm like, "fuck if I know, give it a shot."
I don't know the future any more than anyone else does. But now that I'm a mom who can't see the future, I feel like the dumbest kid in the class.
Nobody knows your baby as well as you do.
Really? Shit. My baby is a fucking mystery to me. What's that face? Is that pooping? Teething? Are you about to yawn or cry or laugh? What is about to happen?\
You'll just know if something's wrong. You'll feel it.
Great. I feel it. Wait. Or did I just watch too much local news today. WAIT. NOW I feel it. But I don't know if I feel it-feel it or if I'm just feeling it because everyone else is saying that they've felt it and I can't be inn the Mythical Mommy club until I have a story about how I saved my baby from a feral hamster with my unexplainable ghost hunter intuition.
Future-knowing is the exclusive purview of mothers, the Long Island medium, and cheesy Wall Streeters, and we're all of us equally accurate.
Some days Chicken takes a nap and some days he doesn't and I have no fucking idea which one it's going to be tomorrow. And it's not because I don't pay attention - it's just that if you share your world with other human beings, you will live to sample an infinite number of permutations for how you day is going to go.
And anyway, what would be the reward, really, for knowing the future? If I woke up tomorrow as Mythical Mommy, able to see the clearest way through all of the obstacles I'll ever face for the rest of my life, what would I get for that? I'd get a fucking A that I cheated for, that's what.
I'm not opposed to taking the low road when my feet hurt, but there's something to be said for sweating over your life.
(drops mic)
(it's Mardi Gras)
(I may have written this post after several adult beverages)
(This is going to be really embarrassing when I read it tomorrow)
(Sorry 12 readers)
( Мне очень жаль, парень в России)