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side effects of motherhood

side effects of motherhood

This is how I know my girl will be nothing like me

I abhor headbands because they cut off blood supply to my brain and I can hear my brain cells begging for mercy as they die off one by one. I know I should never say never but I’ve never been caught dead in a headband and unless I have a lobotomy (even then, I’ll do without the flower thankyouverymuch), I probably never will.

But that’s just me.

Baby girl knows that she rocks the large-flower-on-her-head look and wants to wear it every time we go out. When I forget to put it on for her, she grabs her head like “hey mom, where’s my pretty, huh?” Then after I position it nicely on hear head, she pats her hair in satisfaction and flashes her coy, girly smile.

I have a feeling she’ll be ransacking my makeup drawer in no time but it’s less of a drawer and more of a small pouch where I keep all of my 3 lip colors (of almost the same shade) and none of those fancy nail polish thingamajigs that girls are so fond of. Maybe it’s time for momma to up the girly-girlness a little so I don’t get outdone by my little fashionista.

side effects of motherhood, stuff best described as not safe for parents

The return of Chucky

One of the great parenting lessons that books don’t teach you is how to deal with your kids’ terrible taste in stuff. You ever look back at old photos with horror and wonder why your parents would allow you to wear that fugly horned-rimmed specs to school for 2 years? Or cringe at the sight of your bad hair that was plastered to your head with enough oil to make roti prata? Lucky for me, I did.

I was a walking fashion disaster as a kid but hey, I’m allowed to look like a a cross between Mick Jagger and Cyndi Lauper at the age of 9. Ok, so I insisted on picking the godawful glasses myself but there should be some parenting guideline on how to stop your kids from making choices they will regret. Moments like these, you’re entitled to play the “I know best because I’m your mother” card, even if they throw the biggest hissy fit of all time.

I was hoping my kids wouldn’t inherit my questionable taste but alas, it seems like I’m going to have to exercise my veto power more than I was prepared to. So I figured, until the kids turn 21 or have good taste (whichever comes later), I’m responsible for helping them make good choices.

This morning, we brought baby girl to Toys R’ Us to pick out a new toy and she was real excited about the whole process. She was busy browsing all the toys, looking at each one intently before tossing them away. Daddy was all like “you can choose whatever you want, sweetie” so that’s exactly what she did. When we got to the doll aisle (she’s really into dolls recently), she started bouncing on the spot in her stroller, a sign that we were getting close to finding what she wanted.

Which was this.

I don’t think it can get any worse. Of all the toys in all the world, this is probably the worst possible choice. We were like “NOOOOOOOO, don’t touch it!” but she started hugging it and kissing it and patting its face so lovingly (the kid obviously haven’t watched Chucky). We tried offering her a whole bunch of other dolls that were so much less likely to stab us in the middle of the night but she found what she wanted and she wasn’t going to budge.

At that point, I think I knew why my parents indulged my awful choices – because it was what I wanted and for what it’s worth, it made me happy, which was (arguably) more important than not looking like an alien life form for the better part of my adolescent years.

If you must know, we didn’t get the doll eventually. She’s probably not going to remember wanting the doll when she grows up, but she will sure as hell remember if she gets attacked by a psycho doll in her sleep. Call me paranoid but this is the kind of risk I don’t take.

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I should stop being so weird.

Quirks, we all have them. A peculiarity of behavior that we can’t explain or understand, really. Some are cute, others weirdishly charming and some downright bizarre. Most of mine were acquired during childhood and they have been honed to perfection these 20-some years. I can control them if I need to (like when I’m trying to impress a guy or at an important meeting) but not for long because after a while, I get all irritable and twitchy.

Here’s my list of all time favorite quirks.

1. Walking in between the lines of tiles in the pavement. I absolutely have to avoid stepping on the lines, even if I end up walking like a very uncoordinated gargoyle. Two small steps, then one large step, and so on. Depending on the size of the tiles, I modify my steps so that they’re just right. If I manage to complete the whole pavement line-free, I win!

2. Eating my fishball skin first before eating the meat. Same goes for Ferrero Rochers and those 9-layer cakes. I’m very systematic about my eating habits and one time, the husband took a huge random bite out of my 9-layer cake while I was meticulously peeling off layer by layer. Let’s just say that I was really upset at having my masterpiece destroyed.

3. Always going for the left side first. I brush my teeth from left to right. I wear my left shoe first. I always clean my left ear first. I cut my left fingernails first. Starting from the right just makes me very uncomfortable.

4. Counting my candy. This is so subconscious and most of the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I reach 25, by which time I’m all like “shoots, I’m doing it again, stop counting, stop, stop it!” I count every single m&m while I eat them and when I’m done, I count everything that’s left in the bag. Multiple times.

5. Singing in the shower. Seriously, I can’t help it. I don’t sing at the top of my voice because that’s just too weird, but I do it just loud enough for me to hear. And also, when the song is really groovy, I dance. Stop judging me.

The list is way longer than that but some will go with me to my grave because it falls under the bizarre-shit-nobody-should-ever-know category. Anyway, I’ve recently discovered that Tru has a list of very interesting quirks as well. Things like these:

1. He doesn’t eat soft food. He used to eat porridge and mashed up baby food as a baby but one day he just decided that it was totally gross. I think it gives him a weird feeling in his mouth and food he stays away from include mashed potatoes, chee cheong fun, porridge, and peanut butter. Yes, he hates peanut butter. I gave it to him once and he scrunched up his face and shivered like he had never tasted anything so foul in his life.

2. I’m not allowed face out when I’m patting him to sleep on my bed. That creeps him out big time. Every time I face away from him, he climbs over, grabs my face and tells me to “turn around” so that he can see me looking at him while he sleeps.

3. He’s got to have all his toys lined up beside him on the bed before going to sleep. There’s the precious blanket, Kirsten’s duck (good thing I have 3), his 3 care bears, his Playskool butterfly car, his giant Tweety Bird soft toy (that thing is almost as big as him) and his group of assorted bears. He gets upset when they’re not in their proper places and if one of them is missing, he screams bloody murder until it’s found.

Right now the quirks are still cute enough for me to go all googly-woogly about instead of screaming “What’s wrong with you??? Stop being so weird!!!” And if I ever do, that would just be me calling the kettle black, wouldn’t it? You know what they say after all, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.

how i pretend to be a cool mum, lists you should paste on your fridge, motherhood, side effects of motherhood

One of those cheesy monologues you probably don’t want to paste on your fridge. And by *don’t* I really mean *do*

You know what’s the one thing that I’m terrified of the most? Besides my extensive list of completely rational fears like being attacked by lizards, buried alive (because there is no way in a million years that I can punch my way out like Uma Thurman) and having my kids abducted by a kidnapping syndicate in Mumbai.

I’m talking about top of the list here, numero uno. It’s being redundant.

In the days of my youthful idealism, I was exactly like you. I wanted to change the world. I was planning to end world hunger or become obscenely rich selling a ton of useless stuff to people who probably wouldn’t need them just because I was that brilliant. Either one would have worked for me – I wasn’t picky about the details.

The truth is, being a mom doesn’t make it into the list of glamorous professions. I don’t care what they say on those overly-priced Hallmark cards on Mothers’ Day, nobody’s dream job is to be a poop-cleaning, booger-digging, frazzled, batshitcrazy chick up to her elbows in human excretions. Make no mistake, motherhood is noble and to sacrifice your own dreams for the kids is all great but it kind of sucks that 30 years down the road, all you get is “Congrats, none of your 3 kids turned out to be Hitler. Good for you!

And really, that terrifies me.

Knowing that I spent my best years cooking vegetables (that nobody wants to touch with a ten-foot pole), washing tiny onesies and cleaning up spilt cereal for the fifth time in a day. Alright, the kids will have a decent shot at a happy childhood and they may grow up to be Nobel prize-winning physicists, rockstars and Supreme Court judges, but then again, they may just as well end up as a struggling artist or a troubled delinquent.

So I’ll come out and say it. I don’t just want gratitude, it’s overrated. I want the kids to grow up knowing that their mom was brilliant, and not at folding laundry. I want them to be proud of me, to go to school and brag about how their mom wrote the new vampire series that outsold Stephenie Meyer. Something like that. I want them to know that there is no excuse for not going after their dreams, no matter how tough life gets.

I’m starting to think that being a mom doesn’t have to make you redundant. Its easy to get swamped by the responsibilities of having to care for tiny human beings and lose yourself in the process but come on, there’s got to be more than getting a pat on the back and a fugly Mothers’ Day card. (except yours, kids, they’re lovely)

Maybe we can still change the world. And even if I don’t, I will sure as hell try.

kids in motion, side effects of motherhood

Hey mom, I think Barney got caught in a nuclear explosion

Baby girl just discovered the wonderful world of kiddy rides, even without the actual riding, which makes it more like a kiddy seat. I haven’t had the need to slot in coins yet since she’s contented just to sit on the stationary rides and pretend. Ah, sweet ignorance, how I will miss you when you are gone.

In any case, the garish colors and the fact that Barney looks like he was caught in the aftermath of Chernobyl doesn’t seem to faze her – brave one, that girl. She was all like “Waaait a minute, is this Barney or is it not? All this thinking is making my head hurt.”

She was also happy that Tru wasn’t there to monopolize the buttons and driving handles because every time he’s around, he’s the default driver and she gets relegated to the passenger seat. This time, she had Thomas all to herself, without being nagged at not to disturb the train driver.

And then halfway through, there was this kid who ran up with a coin in his hand and I had to cover both her eyes and her ears so she couldn’t see the other kid’s ride actually moving. Because you know, kids learn awfully fast. The moment they see another kid’s ride moving and singing, Pandora’s box will be well and truly open and they’ll be demanding for a ride that moves.

I’m hoping that day doesn’t come so soon.

side effects of motherhood

I’m usually not this stabby

Ever since the husband went back to work after his week-long leave, things have been…intense. Right, what’s new?

I have to admit that for a while there, I was getting used to the good life. Not having to deal with 2 tyrants alone all day. To have somebody to split the poop duties with. Not feeling like I’m stretched to the max all the time. Waking up in the morning and going “LET’S PART-AYYY” instead of “somebody just put me out of my misery right nowwww”.

Ok, I may be exaggerating a little. I never feel like partying if I have to wake up before noon. Which reminds me, the last time I woke up after noon was more than 2 years ago.

In the past week, both the kids have been down with a nasty viral infection, which results in them being more tyrannical then usual. Middle-of-the-night screamy parties that go on FOREVER, food fights, actual fights, general crankiness, more of the same. I’m battling the flu myself and apparently faltering despite all that Redoxon-popping.

Plus, it’s extra crazy these few days because I’ve also got deadlines to meet now. Like real actual work, y’all, so obviously I can’t be slacking off on the job. Just that my job starts at 9pm when both kids are asleep, except now they take turns to scream in the middle of the night so it’s a wonder I get any work done at all. Or sleep for that matter.

Who was it that said parenting was tough? The guy is like a friggin’ genius.

But then there’s the other guy who said parenting is all worth it and I know it’s hard to see it when you’re in a stabby mood but that guy is like an ever bigger genius. Because after you spend all that time feeling sorry for yourself and whining about how your life sucks and you wished you were single and carefree and could sleep till noon everyday, and you want to yell at the kids for making your life hell, you turn to them and they’re doing this.

Touché, babies.

motherhood, side effects of motherhood, stuff best described as not safe for parents

Yes darling, you’re the apple of my eye too

Here’s a thought. Are parents allowed to have favorites? The politically correct answer is probably no because every kid is special and favoritism is BAD. But really, do parents have a secret preference that nobody else knows about?

I used to look at parents with multiple kids and one of them is often way cuter, funnier and smarter than the rest. He knows exactly how to make your heart melt into a gooey mush and then twirls it around his little fingers. When he grows up, he’s the classic overachiever – valedictorian, captain of the swim team, and the most popular kid everywhere he goes.

Then there’s the other kid. All whiny and screamy as a kid, then angsty and sullen later on and you’re like “OMG can this get any worse?” I mean, it’s normal to have more positive feelings towards someone who doesn’t scream at you all the time or makes you so crazy you want to eat your own spleen.

So, politically correctness aside, can parents have favorites?

After all, kids have their favorites. “I love daddy more because he lets me play computer games all day.” Or “I like mommy, she makes the best snacks.” We don’t expect kids to be unbiased and objective because it’s human nature to have preferences. When it comes to parents though, we are expected to love them EXACTLY the same. Is that even possible?

With two kids of my own, I constantly remind myself to be fair, even though I’m not sure what that really means. I try to divide my time equally between both kids and give them enough quality time with momma. I measure out equal scoops of ice-cream and give them equal portions of my affection, just to make sure neither one feels left out.

I try to love them with the same amount of love but I’ve come to realize that they’re as different as carrots and peas. Along the way, I find myself loving them differently. Not in quantity but in method. Tru is like an all-action boy. His hugs are intense but short. He grabs my face and kisses me but JUST ONCE IS ENOUGH, MOMMA. Truth be told, I really enjoy doing crazy stuff with him. Truett-time is like hanging out with the badass kid in class who makes everyone laugh all the time. And you know how much I like the badass kid. I married one.

Baby girl is the complete opposite. She’s the sweet girly girl who has tea parties with dolls. She loves snuggling and gazing into my eyes and leaning her head on my chest. Her hugs are generous and they often turn into long kissy sessions. Being with her takes less effort. I don’t have to worry that she’ll stab her eye with a fork “to see if jelly comes out“. She’s low maintenance and the epitome of chill, which I also really love.

Maybe when they’re a little older, and I have 5 kids to choose from, I may find myself closer to one of the kids. If I ever end up with that pickle, we’ve agreed that the kids must never know about it. We’ll have to be more careful in treating them just the same, even the angsty, sullen one. That being said, I really hope I don’t get an angsty one that drives me crazy. I’d like to keep my spleen, thankyouverymuch.