Being a parent is NOTHING like I expected it to be. Although, I’m not EXACTLY sure what I was expecting to begin with.

Yes, I love my children more than life itself. These people are the most important and precious humans on the planet to me.

So why is it that sometimes I feel like running away and leaving them all behind?

Sometimes, I just want THEM to just shut up and disappear and leave me alone to do my own thing.

Looking at those words makes me shudder because really, the thought of them not being there is horrifying.

But still.

I find myself getting jealous, sometimes, of the non-custodial parents in our families equation. They can come and go as they please and our house is the child depository. They go on vacation or just don’t feel like being a parent that day, no big deal, we are here. The constant.

We can’t do that. EVER.

But what if?

When the kids come home from school and each, with individual needs and immediate wants, get in my face at the same exact time. The only thing I can do is sit there and listen, trying to focus on whose need and want is most immediate. While wishing them away. Because otherwise, I get lost. My voice, my entire being. I disappear as a mom and become the life complaint center with very dissatisfied customers.

I get overwhelmed in them and their issues. I’m their mom, they expect me to, IMMEDIATELY if NOT SOONER, make things happen for them that they want to happen. Taking no for an answer doesn’t always seem to be in their realm of reality.

I can’t afford something. They want to know when it is that I’ll be able to afford.

I can’t do something immediately. They want to know when, as close to immediately, I can do it.

And all I do during this bombardment is wish them away. I wish them to be somewhere else. Demanding, needing, wanting from someone else. Because, at that particular moment, the only thing I wish for is to be gone. I picture myself in a little cottage overlooking the Mediterranean, perhaps the South of France. Or a villa in Tuscany looking at the rows and rows of grapevines bending and twisting toward the sun. I sigh, content in these fantasies.

But what if?

The trouble is, I’d never leave. That is never even close to being an option.

But still.

They take turns, my kids, being havoc wreakers. If it’s not one, it’s another. Or another. And the other.

I. Just. Want. QUIET.

I want them to UNDERSTAND.

I want the to give back, in some way, the way they expect us to give. Even 50% to our 100% would be nice.

I wish they would understand that life doesn’t alway revolve around their needs and wants, other things factor in. Perhaps it’s my fault, I let them think the moon rose and fell around them when they were little.

They were easier then.

The problems were as little as they were.

Their needs were more manageable.

I never, ever thought they wouldn’t be easy still.

I never thought their needs would become so BIG.

So overbearing. So emotionally toiling.

I don’t remember being like that as a teenager. Perhaps I was. And if I was, I owe my parents so much more gratitude than I ever thought I did. Because I don’t know how they lived through being parents. Being Mommy and Daddy 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Without losing themselves or their sanity.

I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t. Because I love my children with every single beat of my heart and every single breath I take.

But sometimes I wonder…

What if it were just me.

Just for a moment.

But still.

My son has been living with chronic pain. He’s been battling a horrendous beast.

When he was in 2nd grade, the doctor told us that, at some point, medication WILL be necessary.

The last 8 years, I’ve let him deal with this pain in his own way, allowing him to slap away my helping hand. There is, after all, only so much a mother can do.

These last 8 years, I’ve watched him struggle with this pain, this beast. There have been days where he has been able to force it away briefly but, lately and more often than not, the beast, so strong, is winning.

That beast, the one I’ve had to let my son struggle with…is depression.

Yesterday, it came to a head. He was so miserable and sad. I ached for him. I wanted to hug him and transfer this horrible beast onto me. Let ME deal with it. I’M the MOM. Leave him alone!

This time though, he came to me. My son lead his beast to me and asked me to help him so that he’d be able to lock it in a cage.

He told me that he doesn’t remember a time where he ever felt any true emotion other than sadness. The other ones, he learned to fake. He knows how to pretend to be happy but his incredibly beautiful smile never really reaches his eyes. Any positive emotion that many of us take for granted, he doesn’t. Because they rarely touch him.

It was something the rest of us already knew. We were just waiting for him to come to us, hoping that it wouldn’t be already too late.

I’m so thankful that my son was brave enough and strong enough to admit, through his intense stubborn side, that he is depressed and needs me to help him. So many children never come forward and where they end up is somewhere I don’t want to think about. Especially when it comes to children.

I don’t know what chemical depression feels like. But I know what it looks like. I’ve watched it grow for 15 years. I’ve opened its bedroom door in the middle of the night, held my breath, and made sure it was still breathing. I’ve monitored how long it goes into the bathroom, or how long its shower is only to feel relief when he reemerges in one piece.

For so many years he has refused any help. Constantly swatting away ANY hand that wants to help. Trying to find blame in other people instead of really looking to the real root of the problem.

Until last night.

The depression was too much for him. He told me that he kept waiting for it to pass, to subside, to release its grip. It was too tight and it hurt.

His pain was all over him. I saw it. I watched it.

I promised him that he was done dealing with this himself. I wouldn’t allow it anymore.

He is finally allowing me to take on that beast. Mommy style.

I called the doctor this morning.

My son WILL be going on meds, just as was predicted by our psychologist 8 years ago.

Beast be warned, my son will be armed and dangerous. A war has just been waged.

And I’ll make damn sure that my son comes out the victor.

6am: Not so gently awakened by the deep voice of a 15 year old man child who is informing me that I’m stupid. Why am I stupid? Because he has no clean clothes and no dry clothes. Why? Because I’m stupid and didn’t turn the dryer on so all of his clothes are sopping wet in the said appliance.

6:07am: I stumble down the stairs to investigate the cause of my so-called “stupidity”. If I am guilty as charged, then fine.

6:08am: I am led directly to the laundry room where the lid to an appliance is open and that deep voice of the 15 year old says see…

6:08 1/2am: I turn around to leave the laundry room. As I head toward the stairs I yell out…hey stupid, check the dryer. Your clean, DRY clothes will be in there.

6:09 am: I return to my bed to stare at the ceiling for the next hour, confident in the fact that I am not stupid but worried that, perhaps, my child might be.

7:30am: Go into almost 8 year olds room to get him up for school.

7:50am: I am finally able to drag cranky child from bed to couch in order to feed him, dress him and get him to school by 8:20am. Yes, I’m in a hurry and he’s almost late.

7:53am: Walk into kitchen to find that sometime between the hour of 6:09 am and 7:53am the dogs have gotten into the garbage and decided to decorate the kitchen floor with the contents. And, the big dog has eaten the last four bagels.

7:56am-8:20am: Various decibles of screaming from various octaves of vocal ranges. But kid is finally off to school.

8:30am-3:15pm: Stuff. Work. Phone calls. Bathroom breaks. Coffee breaks. Lunch breaks. Work. Walking dog breaks. Break breaks. Consider working out for a moment. Get preoccupied and forget that I thought about working out. Realize I have probably been sitting to long and that is why I seem to have a pinched nerve in my butt that is traveling to my knee. Take motrin. Sit back down at the kitchen table to “work”.

3:30pm: All kids are home and I am told I’m stupid for a myriad of reasons. But coming from teenagers, it’s practically a compliment so I smile at them and give them the finger behind their backs. It’s how I roll.

5:30pm: Husband comes home. Crabby. Complainy. Asshole-y. I give him the finger behind his back. Then the double bird. Also, I give him the finger to his face. It’s how I roll.

5:40pm: I start thinking about cooking dinner. Realize I have nothing in the house and I call and order pizza. But that’s ok, it’s now considered a vegetable. So I make sure to order extra cheese, pepperoni and Italian sausage. So the kids get protein in there with their veggie.

9:00pm: I get the little guy into bed, read him a chapter of a book and fall asleep. Me, not him.

10:00pm: I am awakened by husband telling me to tell the kids to take the dogs out because he is sick of being the bad guy. So, every night, I’m the bad guy because he’s sick of being the bad guy?

10:30pm: Everyone is whining, crying, yelling, slamming doors and stomping feet because they don’t want to take the dogs out to poop. So, I give them the finger again and briefly consider packing my bags to run away from home. Instead, my husband and I take the dogs to poop.

11:30pm: The teenagers are still running around the house getting ready for bed. It’s as big a production for them to get to bed as it is for them to get ready to go in the morning. What gives?

11:33pm: Exhausted, I crawl into my bed with my make up still on. No worries, I moisturized and brushed my teeth. I begin to doze.

11:45pm: Husband tells me I should shower so we could…you know…

12:00am: Lock bedroom door so that you know can commence but am sure I hear breathing as children, who are still awake, are outside listening.

12:15am: Sleeping.

3:30am: Strange, vile choking noise coming from somewhere in our bedroom.

3:35am: I go to investigate said strange noise and step into a warm, slimy fur ball that was thrown up around 3:30am.

4:05am: Strong, putrid stink wafts into the bedroom. I pull the covers over my head to block it and to, hopefully, fall back to sleep.

6:00am: I am awakened by a deep voice telling me that one of the dogs had shit on the floor downstairs and I should clean it up.

6:09am: Repeats from the previous day…

Disclosure so that I’m transparent: Times, events and circumstances may change daily but it’s always a variation of the same theme.

This is a typical Q & A exchange between my 7 year old and myself.

Him: Mom, should I wear the red shirt or the blue one?

Me: The red one, it looks nice with your pants.

Him: Umm, I think I’ll wear the blue one.

*********

Him: Mom, should I have the grilled cheese or chicken nuggets?

Me: You should have grilled cheese because you had chicken nuggets yesterday.

Him: Um…I think I’ll have the chicken nuggets.

*************

Him: Mom, should my pirates win or the knights?

Me: Who are the good guys?

Him: The knights mom, duh. Knights are always good and pirates are always bad. Who should win?

Me: The knights. The good guys should always win.

Him: Um…I think the pirates are going to win.

And on. And on.

It took me 7 years but, I’ve finally realized how to make him do what I want him to do.

REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY.

Articles are being written about research showing that 65% of all parents prefer one child over another. So, it’s sort of proving that when one sibling cries to the other because their parents “love you the best”, it’s totally true. I guess my sister wasn’t lying to me. I AM the favorite. I mean, my parents used to tell me all the time that I was. In fact, if my memory serves me right, so did my grandparents. Wow, as I’m writing this, I am feeling sorry for my poor, unloved, unwanted sister.

Well, not in my house. I don’t have a favorite child. I love each of my children individually, their own unique qualities making them shine.

My oldest is my favorite because he is my first born. He was the first time I saw what my heart really looks like.

My daughter is my favorite because she is the little girl I always wanted. She made a dream come true and still does.

My youngest is my favorite because he is my baby I never thought I would have.

My oldest stepchild, the daughter of my heart, is my favorite because she is the one my mother cursed me with. She’s just like me.

And my stepson is my favorite because he brings the most drama to the family. Who doesn’t love a good drama?

At certain times…

I may be prouder of one child than I am of another.

I may be happier with one than I am with the others.

I may be more excited for one than the others.

There are times, however, that I hate one more than the other. Yeah, true story.

There are times when I want to smack one child more than the other. What?

There are moments when I want to shake a child more than the others. Sure, why not.

There are times when I want to help one child pack so that they can carry out their threat of running away. Huh?

There are even times when I consider putting an ad on Craigslist stating “Obnoxious child. Free to good home.” Is there something wrong with that?

And, there are times when I want to take one child to an unfamiliar place and leave him/her there. I’m serious.

Yes, I’m here telling you that I love all my children equally. I really do. BUT SOMETIMES, I hate one, at a particular moment, far more than any other.

I did. I used the word hate. I can even say despise.

It’s usually for a fleeting moment, those negative emotions. They do happen though.

But I can honestly say, I don’t love one child more than any other.
I love, with every single fiber of my being, each of my children with none of them being my favorite.

Bragging rights in my house belongs belongs to my Silky Terrier, Oscar.

He’s actually my favorite. I mean, look how cute and well behaved he is. Do you blame me?

Twas the night before school starts, when all through the house
All the children were whining, including the spouse.
The clothes were laid out, disheveled at best,
The mommy ecstatic to empty her nest.

The children were tossing around in their beds
While nightmares of homework haunted their heads.
With momma on her laptop and dad in a mood,
She smiled widely while he darkly stewed.

When in the kids rooms there arose such a clatter,
Mommy sprang from her work to see what was the matter.
It was just one of the children piteously crying
Mommy just shrugged because no one was dying.

The moon it shone brightly, the stars were a’winking
And Mommy couldn’t help but sigh as she was thinking.
The kids would be gone now for most of the day,
And now it was her time, she’d get to play.

Now homework! Now schedules! But late in the day
So many free hours she’d spend her own way.
To drop the kids off! To send them to school!
Her hubby at work! The mom was no fool!

She was excited and happy as she went to bed
She set her alarm clock that was next to her head.
Closing her eyes she falls into deep slumber,
6:15 is the magical number.

The alarm awakens her with a start
Her husband stirs and then loudly farts.
She rises from bed to wake up the brood
Ignoring the fact they’re in a foul mood.

She kissed them goodbye and hurried them out
She watched for a moment, they stomp and they pout.
In the kitchen her husband slams down his joe
She kisses him and tells him it’s time that he go.

With everyone gone, she’s alone, it’s her break!
She whoops and she dances, and coffee she makes.
She exclaimed to no one, because no one’s in sight,
Finally in her world, all is quite right!

I think I’m supposed to be sad as the Summer months draw to a close. I mean, that’s what I’ve been reading in the blogosphere. Not because we are kissing goodbye the sun and warmth because yeah, I’m SO sad about that. I mean, why wouldn’t I be excited about the upcoming icy, gray, gloomy, cloudy, snowy mess that we are surely facing? Bah. Humbug. To winter and all its bitterness. I’m not a snow and cold chick. At all.

We mommies are supposed to be sad that our house will become like a still life painting. No noise. No commotion. NO fighting. NO mess. It’s an unwritten rule in the unwritten book of excellent mommyhoodedness. We mommies must be sad every single time a school break ends and the kids go back to school. So we can earn our mommy angel wings and go into mommy heaven.

Yeah, sure. I’m devastated.

I’m not sad, at all, that my children are going back to school. I’m not sad that my husband will be going back to work.

In fact, I’m…what’s the opposite of sad? Oh yeah…SO FUCKING EXCITED.

Goodbye Mopey. Goodbye Tantrumy. Goodbye Sleepy. Goodbye Lazy. Goodbye Spoiledy. Goodbye Douche-Canoey. Hi ho, hi ho it’s off my couch and off to school you go. Ho, ho, ho. Don’t forget to pack your lunches and brush your teeth. And shhh…don’t wake mommy, she’s still sleeping but she’ll see you when you get home.

I can’t wait to reclaim my life. I can’t wait to be reunited with quiet. Oh, and peace. I can’t wait to have a neat house…for part of the day. I can’t wait to not have to schlep this one here and that one there. I can’t wait to have my friends all back from a life of home imprisonment.

Hello sushi lunches with friends. Hiya to you, morning walks with gossipy girls. Well, how ya doin’ to my kitchen table with no eyes prying over my shoulder.

No, I’m not sad summer vacation is ending.

Not in the least bit.

In fact, I think it goes on for far too long. I believe Summer VACATION should last a month or so, then off to school with ya so that the mommies can enjoy SUMMER. So we can float in quiet contentment in our pools, uninterrupted, lost in our daydreams of sexual encounters with rock stars. What? Is that just me?

Bittersweet? No. Not really. The only thing bittersweet about it is the fact that the season is in its dog days.

Hopefully, once the kids are locked in their classrooms forced to learn stuff that they forget the minute they get home…there will be some sort of Indian Summer.

Hot days. Cool evenings. Far into the fall. Please Mommy Nature, hear me begging. I’ll gladly sacrifice one of those damn moles that keeps finding its way into my pool filter in exchange for a warm, leaf-on-trees Fall.

OK, I sound like a miserable, unloving wretch. I assure you, I love my children with every fiber of my being. I really do. And I love my husband as much. Truly.

But whoa. Way, way, way too much togetherness during the Summer. And every long school break.

It’s ok though, don’t fret, I love them all so much. Even when they aren’t here to bother me. It’s a perfect relationship.

So, in case I didn’t make it clear enough, I’m not one of those moms who are sad this glorious summer full of family love and togetherness is drawing to a close.

In fact, I’m…what’s the opposite of that?

Oh yeah, one of those moms who are so freaking excited that the kids and hubby will be gone all day that she is even willing to embrace the 6:15 a.m alarm clock with its multiple snooze hits because she can take a nap during the day.

Yeah, that’s me. Happy the summer is almost over. Because if it lasts any longer, I’m going to go insane.

p.s: this is written sort of tongue in cheek but that doesn’t mean I’m not so glad summer break is almost over.

When I was younger, out of curiosity I would ask my mom what her age was when she lost her virginity. She would tell me, straight-faced, she was still a virgin.

I NEVER believed her. Know why? Because I may sometimes act like I’m the messiah but I know I’m not. We’re Jewish. And she’s no virgin.

Whenever I asked my parents what bad stuff they had done in their youth, they never EVER gave me a straight answer. I just assumed the worse, which in my parents day wasn’t that bad, because they avoided answering my questions at all cost.

With my kids, I am transparent. Well, mostly.

They know I’m not a virgin. I’m sure I don’t have them fooled about only having sex 3 times, once for each child I’ve given birth to. They just need to know that I’m no longer able to be used as a human sacrifice. Period. They don’t need to know what age this happened.

They know I drink, fairly regularly, a glass of wine in the evening.

They also know that I used to smoke cigarettes.

They know nothing of anything else, especially from my high school days.

Today, after I picked my oldest up from summer school (another post, another time), we were chatting in the car. He mentioned that some of the kids, for “some strange reason” were discussing getting high. Not that any of them have ever done it. Yet. They were just talking about it innocently.

My son and I began talking about pot.

He asked me if I had ever done it. Smoked it, inhaled it, held it in my lungs and GOTTEN HIGH.

Being the SOMEWHAT transparent and borderline honest parent that I am, I answered that, yes…I had indeed “done pot”. I admitted, to my 15 year old son that I had GOTTEN HIGH before.

He looked at me and shook his head in shame. I mumbled, in my defense, that I hated it, it was gross and I hated how it made me feel. And besides, I mentioned, I hadn’t touched the stuff since I was 23 years old.

His jaw hung open and he blinked wide-eyed at me a couple times before he said he wasn’t planning on ever trying the stuff. He also said that if he ever tried he, he’d probably admit it to me.

Yeah, just like I admitted it to my parents. Years later. Around the same time and using the same wordage as Clinton, who I admittedly still have a little crush on. Shush.

My son then wanted to know if I’ve ever tried any other drug. Which…I have not. Except maybe hash, which is from marijuana anyways. And that was when I was at camp so it doesn’t count.

Then we talked about drugs a little more. I made it very clear that they are gross and only losers take them, no offense to anyone of my blog friends who do drugs, I still love you even if I don’t agree with your gross and vomitatious habit. But yeah…I drink wine on occasion so…whatevs.

I started thinking…wondering…if I should have even remotely admitted to smoking pot. Will it make him more curious and want to experiment with the stuff, even though, at this juncture in his life, he has no interest…because he knows that I had done it more than a few times?

How honest should you be with your teenager? How much of your experimentation (alleging you experimented) do you share with your kid without worrying that your kid will lose respect for you or use it as an excuse to do some of his/her own experimenting?

Please, share your opinions or experience in the comment section because I could use some advice!!

THANK YOU!

To my children…the WHY generation,

You constantly challenge and question my authority.

You never accept that NO is the final answer.

Even when I’ve said it repeatedly.

Instead of responding the way well brought up kids would with “OK” or the like, you want to know “WHY”.

Save that question for your teachers. They can answer “Why” until they run out of answers.

I’m not your teacher.

I don’t have to respond.

To my word there is only one answer…

AND THAT…IS WHY.

It comes with a guarantee…

Non-negotiable…because I’ve already thought about it and decided NO was the answer.

Non-debatable…see non-negotiable.

I don’t ask a lot from you.

I don’t tell you no all that often.

I am SICK and TIRED of my answer being met with obstinate belligerence and defiance.

I love you all.

BUT…

You are the kids.

I am the parent.

Tough shit for you.

No means no.

Live it.

Learn it.

And shut up about it already.

Or face the embarrassing consequences.

Love,
Mom

We are beginning the third full day of summer vacation. I’ve already lost count of how many more to go.

It feels like they’ve been home for months. And by they I mean…all 5 kids and my husband.

My husband, the big boss, has thankfully taken over the laundry. On his own accord. Fine and dandy. Because there is as shitload of dirty clothes and towel. But who is busy cleaning the filthy kitchen all the time, and clearing out the shoes from the front hall, and blah, blah, blah. So stop telling me that you do everything and I do nothing. Or soon that will, most definitely, be the case.

My house has been a revolving door of teenage bodies, leaving trails of pizza and pool water throughout the house.

Wow, are teenagers mouthy. Mouthier when on any school breaks because there isn’t really a break from their mouth. Unless they go to their friends houses. Which, I’ve been encouraging. But when they’re home, they are following me around whining, begging, crying out of boredom. Sorry, can’t hear you, my walkman from the 80′s caused major hearing loss and all I can hear is ringing.

Somehow, though, all the kids end up here. Probably because of the pool. I should get it filled in. Just a thought.

My youngest son finally, after years of hoping and waiting, sleeps through the night in his own bed. He has for this whole year. But now, his new thing is…he wakes up at 7 and starts screaming…whining…for me to take him to the bathroom. Then, after he is done peeing, he is starving and needs breakfast NOW.

I’m making a deal with him. Bribery, if you will. His summer chore is to not bother mommy and daddy until 8:30. He’ll earn a dollar each day that we are allowed to sleep. We had a big talk about it yesterday. He’s also in charge of taking the little dog, Oscar, out for a morning pee.

Day one, which happened to be this morning, didn’t go so well.

Not one red cent earned.

Can someone please explain this to me. During the school year, I have to wake my kid up so that we can get him ready and off to school. Which, we are always a little late for. Because the kid can’t wake up. Unless I scream and shake him.

But weekends and vacations, he’s up by 7. Is it because it’s his turn to wake us up after the five previous days of me waking him up?

Paybacks???

WTF?

My teenagers, they sleep all morning, wake up and mope the rest of the day.

I don’t remember being so needy. I was able to entertain myself and I didn’t have all these electronics. I knew how to pour myself a bowl of cereal and milk. I left my parents alone because truthfully, I didn’t want to be bothered by them, with all their rules and stuff.

I’d wake up, eat cereal and leave a note for my parents…if I remembered to and I’d head outside with my sister. I didn’t care what the weather was like.

I don’t get (my) kids these days.

I completely get why people send their kids away to summer camp all summer.

It’s not for the kids. Not really. OK fine, maybe a little. It’s actually way more fun at camp than hanging around at home, bugging parents for rides to the beach or the mall, that’s for sure.

Summer camp was invented by parents for parents.

Yeah, day 3 of summer vacation with way more to go and I already need a dose of vacation myself.

Or Xanax and a bathroom with a working lock.

Actually, I’m so grateful to FlipFlop wines for sending me samples. Keep ‘em coming, my friends. Keep ‘em coming. Because the Merlot has been my evening Xanax of choice for the last couple nights. It’s delish!