Momming Around

That Niggling Question

Posted on by Beth Hull

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she asks herself: “Am I raising a sociopath?”

Oh, you mean you’ve never asked that question? Never? So your kid has never said, with a sweet smile on her face, “That baby is crying!” And she looks, well, happy about it, or proud or something. Like she orchestrated the other child’s tears. And the look of horror on your face.

It wouldn’t bother me if this had happened only once. But any time there is a child crying, or even whining, in the library, at Target, the grocery store, a birthday party, anywhere, she says this. All creepily. She looks a little like Jack Nicholson when she says it (Nicholson in The Shining, Batman, whatever). And I put on my sad face, and say, “Yes, the baby is very sad. Poor baby.”

And Z just stands there, smiling.

So here’s a list of criteria for antisocial personality disorder (also called sociopathy), researched on that paragon of scientific truthfulness, Wikipedia, and how Z fits the mold:

1. Persistent lying or stealing. Do you have to go potty? No. Are you sure? No. Do you have to go? No. SHE GOES. Then there’s: Hey, that’s my DS! Leave it alone! Come back here! SHE RUNS OFF WITH DS.

2. Apparent lack of remorse or empathy for others. See smiling while other children cry, above.

3. Cruelty to animals. All I can say is, Poor Clark. Her tail will never be the same.

4. Poor behavioral controls. We’re talking about a two-year-old, here.

5. A history of childhood conduct disorder. Already in the making.

6. Recurring difficulties with the law. Two words: time out.

7. Tendency to violate the boundaries and rights of others. Um, yup. Not only were my boundaries violated during the sixteen months of breastfeeding, but there’s the constant skirt-tugging. And the hug-attacks on her little friends that often leave them crying.

8. Substance abuse. Her addiction to goldfish crackers counts, I think.

9. Aggressive, often violent behavior. She bit me today. Then she said, “Biting Mommy.”

10. Inability to tolerate boredom. Wow. It’s like the people writing this list actually know my daughter. Were they here yesterday afternoon? [Checking home for hidden cameras right now.]

11. Disregard for safety. She runs everywhere without even looking at the ground. She almost fell into the fish pond at the Butterfly Pavilion in Denver. She ran around with a fork before dinner last night.

Well, there you have it. I am raising a sociopath.

But she’s so freakin’ cute. And she’s my sociopath. And I love her so.

Out Damn Spot!

Posted on by Beth Hull

If I had any sort of ability with these pesky computer-type things, you’d be listening to the Jaws theme music right now. Or maybe the shrieking music from Psycho.

People are coming.

To my house.

I invited them, of course. If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a post today at all because I’d be busy barricading the doors and phoning the police instead of trimming the jungle outside and collecting piles of recycling and freecycling.

And since I invited these people, I should probably make something of an effort to make my house presentable. And if not that, at least I can attempt a look that isn’t offensive. As in, you know, clean a little. Or maybe you don’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how dirty this place was until I started cleaning it. (With my mom’s help of course. Otherwise, why bother at all because there wouldn’t be enough time to make a dent – a dent! – in the mess.)

We’re pig people. Disgusting pig people, living in filth.

We’ve been in this house for one year and eight months (and three days…easy to keep track because we moved on New Year’s Day). In all that time, I have never wiped down the outside of the microwave door. Blech. But you know, it’s not a high priority when one is simultaneously trying to keep a little (demanding) person happy, write a novel, and maintain some facade of sanity.

I could gross you out with further examples of my housekeeping negligence. But I won’t. I could also write out my rationalizations/justifications/whining-creations of why I don’t go to the effort to keep my house pristine and shining and golden.

But people are coming over, so I have to get my booty back upstairs to clean (with my mom’s help) so I can pretend I’m a great housekeeper/mother/everything-together kind of girl to a bunch of friends and family who know me better than that anyway.

P.S. There’s a Yappy #3 next door. I hope it’s just visiting.

Wish You Were Here!

Posted on by Beth Hull

This is a very quick post to let my Studio Audience (that’s you) know that the Ever-Suffering Mother (that’s me) and her Entourage (i.e. Husband, Z, and the in-laws) will be on vacation for the next week and a half. I thought of compiling a best-of series of posts to go up while I’m away, but it seems egotistical. And I’m lazy.

I also thought of writing a whole bunch of posts ahead of time and having them go up while I’m gone. But again.

Lazy.

So, miss me lots, and I will be missing you, and probably I’ll be going batty without my email and website for so long. Insanity only adds to my creative drive, though, so there’ll be plenty of good stuff when I get back.

Now, it’s back to the packing I’ve been so good about putting off.

Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Pee

Posted on by Beth Hull

Fantasy: The Ever-Suffering Mother sits on the couch with her NEW, BEAUTIFUL, FANCIFIED laptop, typing away at her Great Work of Young Adult Literature, putting on the finishing touches for her PUBLISHER (this is a fantasy, after all. Indulge me). As she types, she listens to the sweetest sound in the world: “Mamam! I went poop in the potty! I’m going to clean everything up now, wash my hands, and give myself a sticker! Don’t worry about anything. It’s all taken care of!”

The Ever-Suffering Mother sighs contentedly, shifts slightly to accommodate Clarkie, who naps peacefully on the Ever-Suffering Mother’s feet, and calls back, “Nice job, Sweetie! When you’re done, come in here to give me a hug before you finish washing the dishes and mowing the lawn!”

Here is our potty-training lexicon:

  • Go, go, go, go, GO!
  • Poop and pee go in the potty.
  • Tell Mama when you have to go.
  • Big girl underwear!
  • Just like Mommy and Daddy.
  • You may have a sticker after you wash your hands.
  • Good job, Z!

Your potty is covered in stickers. You have pull-up diapers. You even have big-girl underpants with some obscure (to me) cartoon character on them.

You tell me (sometimes) (when it is convenient for putting off bedtime) when you have to go.

So what’s the next step? What’s the next thing for a (lazy, often-inconsistent) mom to do? Am I supposed to keep on keepin’ on? Because if that means “keep on cleaning up pee in Z’s favorite spots in the house,” I don’t know if I’m ready for the Great Potty Training Experience.

Or is that “experiment”?

Everything with you, my precious, willful, sparkling daughter, is an experiment.

Any Other Name

Posted on by Beth Hull

She calls me “Mom Mom.” It’s kind of cute, I guess, but it’s what I called my grandmother. So it makes me feel like I should be calling jeans “dungarees,” complaining about the dry heat of California, expounding on the benefits of sleeping without underpants, and sending post cards from far-off places.

Mom Mom would absolutely love Z. As would my grandfather (plain old “Grandpa”) and Husband’s grandmother (“Mama Nona”), and so many other friends and family who have passed away. It gets me thinking, and remembering, and above all, hoping we can make these people come alive in our memories, so that she can learn about them too. I’ve never felt I had much of a heritage, because I’m a mixture of so many ethnicities no one ever bothered to keep track. Husband’s half-Italian, so we get a lot of through-the-generations-traditions from his side.

I think my “heritage” will have to come from the people I love, and I think I’ll need to remember them, find photographs of them, and tell Z all about them. I’ll need help from my family in remembering, but that’s what family is for, right?

And of course, we invent our own traditions and family culture as we go along, momming, writing, playing with our kids. It’s all (forgive the soft, poetastic description) part of the richness of life.

As far as my name, I won’t ask Z to call me anything different. But I’ve re-spelled my name to “Mamam” in my head. It has a European feel to it (“Maman” is French), so I can get on board with that. Especially if it erases those images of commando sleeping habits from my brain.