The Mom I'm Not

The Anarchist and the Dictator mix
with granola babies and Brits at
My Urban Toddler.

A few days ago I took the Dictator and the Anarchist on a play date to My Urban Toddler (in rural Saline, strangely enough) with my friend and her daughters--we'll call them The Mini Mommy and the Bitty Bruiser for simplicity's sake.  My Urban Toddler is a pricey baby boutique with an amazing kids' play area attached...or an amazing kids' play area with a pricey baby boutique attached...however you choose to view it.  Parents come, bring their 1-5 year olds, and supposedly relax while their kids play.  It's a prime location for people watching, and I observed the manifold variations in parenting style and ways of being "Mom."  I'm not sure how I fit into the whole world of Moms, but what I can tell you is the kind of Mom I'm not:


The Ambitious Mom:

My friend (Mini Mommy and Bitty Bruiser's mom) is an Ambitious Mom.  She has lots of amazing ideas of fun, creative adventures for her children, and she's actually willing to plan and follow through, bringing other moms and kids into the fray of joyous chaos and discovery.  Her idea of a fun day off from work is going to a free kid's story time at the coffee shop, running some errands, going out to lunch with the kids/their friends, shopping, darting off to the zoo for a quick jaunt, meeting up for a play date and somehow finding time for dinner.  I don't know how she does it.

My idea of a nice day is sitting on the couch in my pajamas reading Jane Austen while my kids play at my feet...all day.  I am NOT an Ambitious Mom.

The Teen Mom:

The Anarchist kind of wishes she had a Teen Mom.

I got mistaken for a teen mom a lot when I first had the Dictator (I hadn't yet cultivated my "wisdom lines" around my eyes or developed my "womanly" figure).  It wasn't fun.  I got a lot of disapproving stares and "tsk tsks."  I don't envy teen moms and I can't imagine being one.  The good news for them is that they still look amazing in skinny jeans and have loads of energy to literally run after their kids without getting winded or breaking a hip.  Their kids often look like mini-teenagers themselves, the girls always have painted nails and trendy hairstyles, despite being unable even to stand up on those wobbly 8-month-old legs of theirs.

My kids might not look quite as cool, the good lord knows I don't, but I'm okay with that.  Even if the Anarchist did try to run off and join a Teen Mom's family the other day, in search of something hipper.

The Perfect Mom:

The Dictator would prefer I were a Perfect Mommy.

She sits quietly in the center of the play area nursing her completely content and silent infant (which she carries in a fully-organic sling) while her elder child (dressed in all organic play clothing) plays calmly and contentedly with a toy ice cream cone for two hours straight without complaining.  The Perfect Mom plays with her, in an educational manner, for the entire two hours, without once acting bored, tired, annoyed or frustrated.  She's either slightly slow in the head, or she's developed the self-control of a saint.  She is selfless, conscientious, responsible and loving.

She makes the rest of us hate ourselves...if I had to play with that ice cream cone for two hours, I'm pretty sure I'd end up chucking it at someone. 

The British Mom:

I can't quite put my finger on it, but they're different.  They get to name their kids things like "Nigel," "Oliver," and "Tilly" without repercussions.  They call their kids "dah-ling" in such a charming way that their children cannot resist following their directions.


If I had that accent I just KNOW my kids would listen to me.  I just KNOW it!

The Older Mom:

Old enough to be my mom, she's often mistaken as Grandma.  She imparts values to her children in ways I can't even imagine.  Her children are usually not fashionably dressed, but they're always insanely appreciated.  Probably because instead of being happy accidents like a third of the world's kids, they were planned, longed-for and waited-for.  On the downside, unlike the Teen Mom, she doesn't usually look quite so hot in skinny jeans and might actually break a hip in an attempt to run after a stray child...luckily her children are usually super-obedient and rarely run.

My kids: not obedient, often run, only half planned.  On the up-side: I'm never mistaken for the Anarchist's grandma.

The Pushy Mom:

Mini Mommy and the Dictator play puppet theatre. 
If I were a Perfect Mom, I would be up there
with them.  If I were a Pushy Mom,
they would be taking puppeteering
lessons, instead.

I usually meet this one at school or extracurricular activities.  Her kids literally do EVERYTHING--Tae Kwon Do, soccer, softball, ballet, gymnastics, voice lessons, swimming, yoga, organic gardening, theater--and she still makes time to send them to preschool.  She will stop at nothing to let you know how many things her kids do, how good it is for them, how hard it is on her, and how much she has to work at her part-time job to be able to afford those pricey designer boots her tot is carelessly flinging off in an attempt to make it into 2-Year-Old tap class on time.

The Dictator gets fatigued and disoriented after a half day of kindergarten...she's very lucky I am not a Pushy Mom...although she would get some amazing designer boots out of the deal.


Now here's the scene at My Urban Toddler:

Bitty Bruiser, ready to do some bruising.

 The Perfect Mom is sitting serenely and patiently in the secluded infant section nursing and educating her well-behaved offspring.  The British children are crawling and babbling incoherent, but totally British, nonsense, looking quizzically at all of us ignorant-sounding Americans.  The Ambitious Mom and I are exhausted, trying to prop ourselves up with coffee as the Anarchist careens recklessly around the place, chased by Teen Mom and her daughter, the Dictator quietly builds block villages to rule as she sees fit, the Bitty Bruiser knocks down British Tilly (who, predictably, cries in a British accent and is consoled by the soothing tones of a British Mom), and Mini Mommy plays house with the children of Older Mom (who is looking on attentively, but inactively).  Where are Pushy Mom and her spawn?  The answer should be obvious: competitive ice dancing, of course.

Aww...look how well they play together!
Maybe I am Perfect Mom, after all.
Wait a second...nope.  Nope.
Definitely not.

Tantrum Prevention and Me (or, Thanks for Nothing, Supernanny!)

The Anarchist has a new hobby.  She throws tantrums.  She throws several a day.  She watches herself in the mirror as she throws them in order to perfect her facial expressions and overall technique.  She experiments with hurling different objects at different rates of speed, gauging the overall effectiveness of her antics by the amount of wrath she incurs.  And she emits varying pitches of banshee screams when in public in order to discover which shrill tone garners the most disgust from passers by.  She's going to have this thing down to a science in a few more weeks.  That is, if we don't pawn her off on some sympathetic and unsuspecting relatives first.

I'm generally pretty patient with tantrums.  Other things make me livid with rage and impatience, but tantrums tend to leave me unfazed.  However, this is getting ridiculous.  I think I'm going to have to call in Supernanny.

The problem is, I don't beat my children, have a dysfunctional relationship with my ex-husband/teenager/mom, or have some sort of tear-jerking story involving military service, orphaned puppies or a tragic past.  So Supernanny's never going to come and save our boring little family.

Luckily, she has a website.

According to the Supernanny website, "every child will throw a tantrum at some point."  Well thanks, experts.  Thanks for the reassurance that I have "a tantrum" in store for me.  Oh...wait...make that at least two or three a day.  Yeah, that's right.  I'm not comforted.  I'm annoyed.  In what perfect world should I only expect one? 

Moving on.  The Supernanny site also lists several techniques for preventing tantrums.  Here are a few:

• "Have clear routines to your child’s day; for example regular lunch, nap, bath and bedtimes."

My children live out a routine that would make an obsessive-compulsive proud.  The   Dictator see to that.  Our routine looks something like this:

Wake up.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Put on shoes.  Commence screaming about coat/hat/mittens.  Escalate to tantrum.  Be 3 minutes late for school.  Return from school.  Wash hands.   Throw tantrum.  Eat lunch.  Nap.  Wake up.  Throw tantrum.  Have dinner.  Play.  Throw tantrum.  Bedtime story.  Bed.  Repeat.

As you can see, routine does not prevent  the tantrum, more than it provides a predictable structure in which to throw the tantrum.

• "Plan ahead, keeping an eye on frustration levels so you can step in before they go over the top."

I would love to step in before the frustration levels of my children go over the top.  The problem is, my kids' frustration levels begin at "over the top."  So I never really had a chance to begin with.

• "Give children some control and choice over what to eat, wear or play with."

Me:  Anarchist, would you like to eat blackberries or strawberries?
Anarchist:  I want grapes.
Me:  Unfortunately, we don't have any grapes.  Would you like  blackberries or strawberries?
Anarchist (flinging herself dramatically to the floor and shrieking like a banshee/screech owl hybrid): I WANT GRAPES!!!!! GET ME GRAPES!!!

This is not the technique for us, apparently.

• "As children reach pre-school age, talk to them about how you want them to behave in different situations and have clear, simple rules."

          That's adorable.  But she's an anarchist. 

So it's clear that in my family, preventing tantrums is an exercise in futility (one of many in which I engage on a daily basis, it turns out).  Thank goodness, then, that the Supernanny website also blesses us with helpful tips to deal with tantrums should they occur (and occur they shall, Supernanny, occur they shall).  I'll try some of them (oh, wait, I probably already have) and let you know how it turns out for us at a later date.  Something tells me this isn't going to be pretty.  Maybe if I were a matronly amazon with a British accent I'd stand half a chance.  But I'm pretty sure I more closely resemble an exasperated baby squirrel...and when was the last time you respected or feared a baby squirrel?  Exactly.

Wish me luck.

Our First Morton Family Snow Angels

The Dictator's first snow angel.
She was obsessively precise in her snow-flailing.

So, the other day, in the middle of frantically cleaning the house in preparation of impending visitors, I was interrupted by the Dictator and Anarchist begging to go outside and play in the snow.  It wasn't an unreasonable request, the timing was just hideous.  And everything in me ached to say "no."  After all, it was cold (I don't like the cold), it was almost lunch time, I had to finish cleaning so as not to embarrass myself to terribly in front of my guests (as if they aren't already aware of my housekeeping skills), and going out would require actually getting everyone dressed (the Dictator and Anarchist were still sporting pajamas and bedhead).  But then I realized something: the Anarchist and the Dictator have never actually been outside to play in the snow. 

Now, before you lifelong Michiganders shake your heads in disgust, let me defend myself.  For the first year of the Anarchist's life, we were quarantined inside our house by prematurity-related medical orders and the practical impossibility of dragging her oxygen tank outside in the cold.  Before that, I was pregnant and constantly nauseated.  And last year I was just plain lazy and too poor to invest in snow pants (okay, so that's no excuse).  Also, we're just not an "outdoorsy" bunch.  We like warm, cozy, artificially controlled climates, fuzzy pajamas and sedentary activities like eating...and sleeping.

The Anarchist writhed like a languishing fish out of water to create her angels.
They turned out beautifully, anyway.

This year, however, both girls have finally been supplied with shiny new snow pants, and I was suddenly struck with the realization that the Dictator may well be the only 5-year-old on the planet, or at least in a snowy climate, to never have made a snow angel.  So I felt guilty.  And we spent a half an hour bundling up in ridiculous layers of previously unused outdoor apparel. And we played in the snow. 

For 12 minutes. 

Don't judge.

I couldn't get the Dictator to leave the house without her toys.
They "watched" her play in the snow.

What I Learned On My Christmas Vacation OR An Insider’s Guide to Pushing the Morton Family Buttons

This year, Christmas vacation afforded the Morton family the rare and much-needed opportunity to actually be present in the same room—all of us together—for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Truth be told, I had forgotten what the Bureaucrat’s face looked like, having only been able to view the top of his head as he ate his dinner or leaned over his law books for the past several months.  Turns out the children resemble him as much as they do me…go figure.

Of course, our children resemble us in much more than just physical features (the Dictator has my eyes, the Anarchist has his forehead); our children also have inherited a fascinating mix of our personality traits, both good and not-so-good, so that the combination of personality traits clashing and sometimes exploding in the Morton household this Christmas was nothing short of a fascinating spectacle.  We had to reacquaint ourselves with each other, with our various personality quirks and compulsions, and learn how to live with one another again.  In the process, we fast discovered how best to torment one another, deciding by trial and error exactly which buttons to push to manipulate, annoy, retaliate, or destroy, depending upon our needs. 

The following is a guide to pushing our buttons, should you ever need to seek vengeance against any of us.  Use it wisely.

The Bureaucrat:

• Leave a mostly empty mug of coffee wherever you go.  When you need a refill, get a new mug and leave it somewhere different.  See how long it takes to grow mold on the mugs.  Insist that the house’s growing mug collection is part of its charm.

• Eat graham crackers on the couch.  When graham crackers are halfway finished, sit on them.  Let crumbs collect over time for maximum effect.

• Wait until the Bureaucrat is at a lengthy mid-sentence pause (this should be easy, as they are frequent).  Sigh heavily and urge him to “hurry up.”  Snap your fingers impatiently in his face while doing this to maximize his rage.

• Become convinced you are dying of your head cold.  Attempt to convince the Bureaucrat you are dying of your head cold.  He will LOVE this.

Dictator:

 

• Touch anything that might arguably belong to her.

• Insist that skirts and cloth shoes are not always practical clothing options.  Suggest pants and boots, instead.

• Make dinner.  Place her sister’s cup at her place at the table.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned cup-mix-up.

• Run out of blackberries or strawberries.  Offer apples, pears, oranges, peppers, pineapples, carrots or blueberries instead.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned produce "shortage."

Anarchist:

 

• Sit on the spot on the couch nearest the television.  Refuse to move.

• Use the phrase, “use the potty.”

• Wait until she has consumed a coin.  Remove the remaining stash of coins to a safe, undisclosed location.

• Suggest that she is too small to do anything.

Me:

 

• Discuss at great length, and in extremely minute detail, your plans for some part of some specific activity for the day.  Be sure to obsessively analyze the various ways in which the mundane task (for example, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, packing your Littlest Pet Shop Friends) might be carried out.  Ask constantly for reassurance that your decided way of carrying out said task is the most reasonable.  Repeat regularly for maximum effect.

• Be excessively compliant until two minutes before we have to leave to go somewhere important.  Upon my urgings to hurry, remove your shoes, coat and hat.  Run off to another level of the house to “get something.”  Forget you are supposed to be leaving.  Weep because someone touched your possessions.  Insist that I help you find something.  Start dancing in front of a mirror.  Cry because I’m angry.  Become angry with me because we’re late.

• Put the dishes away, but neglect to put them in rainbow order. 

• Leap out from a dark and secret place and sink your fangs into my calf.  Go on, try it.  I dare you.

and, lest we forget, the Fat Assassin: 

• Pass the upstairs linen closet (in which the cat treats reside).  Ignore repeated, entitled meowing for cat treats.  Neglect to give out cat treats.

• Wrap Christmas gifts.  Refuse to let the Fat Assassin luxuriate all over the overpriced designer wrapping paper.  Kick the Fat Assassin out of the room. 

• Attempt to sort the dirty laundry mountain in the closet upon which the Fat Assassin has made her cozy bed.

• Withhold your fleshy calves for any reason.

New Year's Resolutions...ha ha, yeah, like those ever work...

This year I resolve to be alluringly mysterious.
Or maybe just more organized. 
Whichever turns out to be the easiest.

Okay, so this year I resolve to go on a completely Vegan, raw produce diet, wear exclusively fair trade clothing, never lose my patience with my children, reduce/reuse/recycle everything, take up smoking so that I can promptly make a valiant effort to quit, take shorter showers and save the world.

Nope.  Nope.  I definitely do not.

New Year's Resolutions are a ridiculous tradition.  People consistently break them.  The new year is not really a useful psychological motivator to start doing things differently.  I don't make New Year's resolutions because I'm better than that.  Or lazier.  Or I just don't like to set myself up for disappointment.  Pick any or all of the above.

That being said, I'm totally making a few, modest resolutions this year.  Because when everyone else does it on Facebook, I feel left out.  And I don't like feeling left out.

So without further ado, my 2011 Completely Unrelated to New Year's Non-Resolutions:

1)  I will make an attempt to wake up early enough in the morning that I am not forced to rush the Dictator to the bus stop.  Rushing the Dictator is the most futile and frustrating endeavor known to humankind.  And it results in yelling, crayon-throwing, crying, whining, and tantrums...mostly on my part.

2)  I non-resolve to keep track of all the adorable things my children say so that when they're teenagers I have something to embarrass them with.  Note the new "Pages" section at the bottom of this blog.  That's where these adorable things will be stored...because I also resolve to be that irritatingly doting parent that forces my kids' perceived adorableness on all of my friends/acquaintances.  You're welcome.

3)  I pledge to actually go get a new pair of eyeglasses frames to replace the pair I sat on last year.  That way, I'll be able to see again when I drive at night...and look a little more like Liz Lemon.  Who may or may not be my personal hero.

Donning the ill-fated glasses, back when I could still read street signs.
Note the loving relationship the Dictator and I share here. 
It's because I wasn't rushing her.

4)  I non-resolve to work-out so that I no longer feel winded when climbing (slowly) a flight of stairs.  Also, I hope to reduce the blurred vision and chest pain I experience after my sporadic, but apparently intense rounds of "So You Think You Can Dance" disco-themed cardio by building up my stamina.  Yes, I know this is a terribly cliche New Year's Resolution.  So I will add to it this: I resolve to workout this year when I feel like it.  There.  At least it's honest now.  Isn't that refreshing?

Some of you may perceive this as a Keeping Up With the Joneses New Year's Resolutions sell-out.  To that I can only say, I want to be just like the Joneses some day, because they're the cool kids and they recycle, quit smoking, save the whales and all that jazz.  If you pretend you don't want to keep up with the Joneses, you lie.  Liar.  Pants on fire.

Some  of you may perceive this as a lack of effort on my part...I'm assuming this applies to those of you who are making those extra lofty New Year's resolutions involving veganism, responsible energy consumption, organized closets, community involvement and all that nonsense.  To you I say, best of luck in 2011.  Seriously.  You're going to need it.