Chicken Motherfucking Salad

 

You know how some mothers who are older seem to remember everything as being "tough but wonderful" and "it was hard, but so worth it" and my personal favorite, "Oh, cherish these moments, believe me, they'll be gone before you know it."  

Shut the fuck up. That comment is just asking for a twat swat.

Here is a little story that I'll never forget.  That when I'm old and gray (okay, gray-er...fuck off) I'll think of it whenever I see a young mother and I promise you I won't harken back and wish it were me.  

Also, I feel as though I should mention that my husband is handsome, funny and loving.  But once you have children, you forget to notice any of that.  

Your partner is boiled down to this one question... "What did you do?" 

You can change your inflection in order to denote your feelings about whatever they may or may not have done, but the question remains the same.  "What did you do?"

There is way too much to do, and this grinning asshat on the other side of the bed had better be getting some shit done.

When my son was a newborn there wasn't time for anything.  My kids are only a year apart and my daughter wasn't even walking when we got home from the hospital, so it was really tough to get anything done.

So, one day when my son was 2 weeks old, I was desperately juggling the two and I remember my husband saying that he'd be able to help me right after he had lunch.

I should also mention that I had gained 70 pounds with each baby, but the sheer stress of having a newborn made that weight melt off.  That and not having the ability to sit down for a meal.  So, in my mind, he was going to choke down a bowl of cereal, or grab a banana, at the very most he was going to make a pb&j and inhale it while throwing a load of laundry in the washer.

Not quite.

In any case, I headed out the backyard.  Newborn strapped to my chest, and toddler toddling in front of us,holding both my hands, trying not to fall.  We were outside for about 7 minutes.  My son, naturally, poops, and my daughter, exhausted from being forced to walk when in fact, she can't, sits on the ground and begins screaming.

Over all this, I hear...

tink.  tink.  tink...

And in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, what is that noise?  But I'm trying to change my son on the ground and keep my daughters hands from strangling him.  

And still I hear..

tink. tink. tink.

Important to note.  I'm in a full body sweat.  With a bjorn. And two babies.  One of whom smells like a Haitian gas station bathroom.

So, I get most of the poop wiped off.  (Don't judge me) And attempt to get him back in the bjorn while simultaneously carrying my daughter.  Limp back in the house, peek into the kitchen and....

There he is.  Humming.  

That mother fucker was humming.

And that tink,tink, tink?

That's what it sounds like when the person you sleep with is chopping a goddamn Granny Smith apple for their chicken salad sandwich.  Chicken. Motherfucking. Salad. Sandwich.  

So, I say, "What are you doing?"

He says, "Making lunch.  Chicken salad.  What?"

And I say, "Oh, you're making lunch? You're MAKING LUNCH?"

Then he says "Don't say it like that.  I told you I was going to have lunch, what did you think I was going to do?"

"What did I think you were going to do?" 

(And through teeth clenched so tight, I cracked a crown, I continued) "I thought you were going to take a protein bar, unwrap it and jam in your fucking face like I've been doing 24 hours a day for the past 2 weeks. If you don't get in the game in the next 20 seconds I'm going to cut you from neck to scrotum and I'll never go to jail because there will be at least one woman on that jury that will fucking rejoice in your death after she hears about you making a goddamn chicken salad sandwich. "

I think he said something after that.  But my legal game-plan is to maintain that I more or less blacked out. 

But what I do remember is him scraping that apple in the sink and mumbling some nonsense about "sole custody."

"Sole custody."  Is that a threat or a promise, you son of a bitch?

Someday, someday... I'll take a drag on my long, brown, skinny cigarette take a swig of my filthy dirty martini, and thank my lucky stars that those days are gone. 

Cherish this?  You must be out of your fucking mind.

 

Mean Girl vs. Batman

There are things that you hope that your children learn from you.  And things that you pray to God they don't.  What I didn't realize is that there is some horrible shit that just gets into their DNA and there is almost nothing you can do to stop it.
Case in point, my son.  He is almost 3.  He is awesome.  Those aren't my words.  They're his.  He has this ever-present, shit-eating grin.
Take my truck?
I got another, no worries.
Push me down?
Hey dude, I get it!  It's the push down game! My turn!
Don't want to play with me in the sand?
Fuck it.  Your loss, loser.
My daughter is 4.  She is a beautiful, gentle soul who empathizes with everything from homeless dudes asking for money to the spiders that I make her father kill.
She takes everything so seriously.
If you ask her to scoot over, her bottom lip quivers.
Why don't you want to sit by me?
If you take the last cookie?
It's okay.  I guess I'll get one next year when Mom bakes.
If you tell her you don't want to be her friend?
Don't do that.  Please.  It'll take years off her life.
Shit hits this kid hard is what I'm saying.
I've always known these differences between them exist.  I see them play out every day.
Now, what you may or may not know about me (depending on what year we met) is that I used to have a bit of what some people might call an "anger issue".  I may (or may not) have attended anger management classes. Twice. I may (or may not) have been mandated by the court to do so.
Point being?  Before the intervention of professionals, this mom would cut a bitch.
But after motherhood, I've made concerted efforts to "use my words",  "visualize the after effects", and above all "breathe before reacting".
I thought I'd done a pretty good job of shielding my two precious little people from the bitch that dwells within me.
That all changed last week.
We were at one of those god-awful play areas in the mall.  You know, the ones that have all the climbing structures that must hide some sort of magnetic field that attracts undisciplined and/or contagious kids?
That place.
I had to go to Sephora, so I considered visiting the playspace beforehand a penance.  I sit here and watch them put their sweaty little hands where other germy kids have their sweaty little hands and then I get to buy a $38 lip gloss.  As Bille Jean would say "Fair is fair."
But this day at the play space was a special sort of awful.  There were a group of brothers there with their toddler sister.  The oldest boy was about 16.  He spent the majority of the time scratching himself.  Meanwhile, the girl.  Oh, the girl.  I know I already sound like a bitch, so I'm just gonna say it.
Dirty. Mean. Feral.
As mentioned, these places are usually full of these kinds of kids, so at first, I didn't even flinch.  But then I started noticing a trend. Specifically a trend of her kicking my son in the head.  Not hitting him.  Walking up to him, sitting down on the ground to get a good angle, then kicking her foot straight at his head.  I heard him say "Hey!  I don't wike that!"  And then "Stop it! I gonna kick you!" And right before he had to get a tetanus shot, I corralled them and we left.
That night at dinner, my son says, "That little girl was mean.  She kicked me in da head."
I say, "You're right. She was mean."
He says, "I bet Santa not gonna give her any pwesents. She's a meanie."
At this point, my daughter, who unbeknownst to me, had seen the whole thing at the play space, says "You know, I bet she's mean BECAUSE Santa doesn't give her any presents.  I think she must be sad.  Maybe WE should give her something, Mama?"
And I think to myself "Who is this kid?  How did she wind up with me as her mother? And when her real mother shows up, I'm hiding and keeping her."
But what I say out loud is, "That is a really sweet idea, honey.  What would we get her?  We don't even know her."
She says, "Well, she's mean.  And probably kind of strong.  I dunno.  Maybe she'd like a bat?"
My son thinks about this for about 8 seconds then adds,
"Yeah, let's get her a bat."
And for a split second I think that my awfulness has skipped a generation!
But then (my right hand to God) my son adds, "And then I hit her in the face with that bat! Meanie."
Blood is thick, man.  Real thick.