Pants On Fire

I’m a filthy dirty liar. I have been teaching my children lying is frowned upon, meanwhile I lie to them constantly. Sometimes it’s purely for my own sanity, "sorry honey, that toy is broken" or "yes, everyone in the world is going to sleep right now." Then there are the pity lies like, "your drawing looks just like a horse" and "yes, you might marry Joe Jonas when you’re a bigger girl." Although these untruths are innocuous, I’m starting to believe I’m doing my children a disservice.

I’m not advocating we discuss suicide bombings or escaped murderers at breakfast but why can’t we be honest about the simple facts of life? We are happy to show them pictures of our massive pregnant bellies and their post delivery gunky faces but then only allude to what really goes down. Maybe they should know if Troy sticks his penis into Gabriella’s vagina 9 months later we ARE all in this together. Being honest about sex isn’t going to increase the amount of teens getting pregnant it may actually shave a few off. Show a 16 year old a picture of a fourth degree perineal tear and I bet she thinks twice before engaging in those 5 shitty minutes with her boyfriend. Let’s be honest, sex doesn’t get really good until your mid-thirties anyway. I understand some may be fearful of what little kids will do with this information but I’m telling you, my son can’t even put on his own socks. I know we’ll never be unified about this issue but can we at least think of a better lie? Honestly, who was the asshole who came up with the stork? I made my own mother take a "Silkwood" shower before I let her hold my little bundle but I’m going to let a filthy bird carry my newborn in its beak?

In some cases we go to great lengths just to make shit up. Honestly, in this day and age Santa contradicts everything we teach our children. We tell them it’s dangerous to merely converse with a stranger yet one night a year we let an unknown adult male into our home while we sleep. Sure he brings gifts but he’s not an emergency contact. Don’t even get me started about the Tooth Fairy. At least Santa doesn’t come upstairs. We let this kooky freak right into the bedroom. Why is there a Tooth Fairy anyway? Why not the Toenail Fairy or the Umbilical Chord Fairy? I would have killed for a fairy to come, remove that nasty thing and leave a crisp $20 under my pillow.

When I try and tell the truth it usually ends up like a game of telephone. My very honest "stranger talk" ended with my youngest boasting, "if your best friend gets an injured puppy then she’s not a stranger and you eat ice cream." Why can’t someone write a very special Dora where she gets into a white van because they told her "Su Abula dijo que está bien."

Not long ago my daughter asked me when she’s getting a step-mother. I told her hopefully never. She asked why her daddy and I both have step-mothers and I froze. How could I tell her the truth about divorce? I don’t want her to know love falls apart or people can get so sick they die. In the end I guess I’m ok with lying. Besides, this will give me a leg up when I become a hypocrite too. That drug talk is gonna be a doozy.

This essay was featured on www.momversation.com

Delusions Part 1

I’m in a fight with my GPS lady. At first she was all, "Let me help you, Stacey. It’s ok directions aren’t your forte. You excel at other things. We’re in this together." She was totally accepting of my trust issues. If I wasn’t comfortable with her suggestion to go left she would immediately recalculate for me. She even understood if I gave Google Maps a booty call now and then, just in case. I finally started to let my guard down. Life was going in the right direction.

Lately though, she’s been kind of a bitch. The other day she recalculated me all the way to New Jersey and I was going to Westchester. This morning I think she tried to kill me. She knew I was alone in the car and she led me to an abandoned bridge. How am I supposed to take that? I’ve been ignoring the signs, literally. The last straw was when I punched in "home" as my destination and she was like, "really? How many times do we need to go over this?" That bitch switched over to map mode. If I knew how to read a map I would buy a fucking map and then I wouldn’t need your judgmental ass telling me where to go!

Honestly, this is what I pay her for. There are thousands of others who would die to tool around in a pimped out Nissan Murano shuffling children to and from school and activities. She is replaceable. OMG do you think she wants be with someone else? She can’t leave me. I have no idea where I’m going. I didn’t realize GPS stood for Giant Psycho Slutbag! How the hell am I gonna get to my playdate this afternoon?

Desperately Seeking

I loathe going to the grocery store. I’ve sent my children to school with frozen cocktail weenies and stale oyster crackers to avoid going to the store. I detest folding laundry and I’m a shit cook. I basically suck at being a "house wife." I’ve got the "wife" part down it’s the "house" that’s inferior. I‘m not gonna lie, I don’t really want to improve in these areas. Here’s what I propose instead: Polygamy. I’m not talking about your grandfather’s Polygamy. I’m talking about "Polygamy Light." It’s a watered down version born out of laziness and a ghastly economy. It’s less about procreating and more about helping me take care of my kids for free. It really does take a village. I see how happy those toothless, saggy old tribal women are. It’s because bitch’s got three or four hos doing shit around the village for her. She has one job and it’s to sit in front of a fire and sift rice. I want to sit on a straw mat and shuck something all day.

The idea of a sister-wife appeals to me on many levels. How great would it be if you could dash out for a mani/pedi and leave a note saying: "Dear sister-wife Alice, please fold the laundry, potty train little Jimmy and blow my husband." I could allow another woman to blow my husband as long as she makes dinner and goes down to the basement to get more paper towels. The rules of Polygamy Light are a little different. For one, first wife gets to pick all future sister-wives and she can't have kids. Most importantly though is the very strict No Holes or Hands Policy which husbands must abide by or all bets are off. Sister-wives are regularly serviced by pool boys or lifeguards. I see this as a win-win situation. It would be like the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Penis" or "The Joy Laundry Club."

I understand there will be naysayers and I’m not denying there are kinks but think about the benefits. Polygamy Light could significantly shrink the divorce rate. If your marriage is on the rocks take in a sister wife. Tell your first wife she doesn’t have to pick up your dry cleaning anymore and she has someone to watch Gossip Girl with and she’ll be good to go. For those of you wondering what to do if the situation is reversed you can practice "Polyandry Light" but that’s a different ball of wax. So, do you think I can put an ad on Craigslist?

The Great Equalizer

From a very early age we learn poop is a huge deal. Ask any new parent when the last time their cooing bundle shat and they will not only tell you when, but what it looked like. I documented my children’s movements like a jeweler appraising a diamond for cut and clarity. This may have rubbed off on them as they both got up close and personal with their excrement. My son took the more traditional approach by making his crib and wall a study in Monet. With my daughter it was more like an episode of "Law and Order: Special Feces Unit." I found her sans diaper in her bedroom holding a doll’s dress behind her back. When I went to draw her a bath I came upon a perfect little turd on top of the vanity. She said she had no idea how it got there. Needless to say it became necessary to duct tape their diapers closed before naps and bedtime. This made for an awkward moment each time we had a new sitter but was the only way to keep exploring hands out. I sent a very clear message, "No touch poopy. Poopy is yucky." It’s called shit for a reason.

When your child begins to potty train your life is ruled by poop. We read books about poop, sang songs about poop and my personal favorite were the videos about poop. If you haven’t seen "Potty Power" you are doing yourself a disservice. I prayed about pooping and world peace was pushed to the back of the line when it came to wishes. I was obsessed. The first time my child pooped on the potty I busted out a production number worthy of The Great White Way. I loved poop! As long as poop went in the bowl we were alright. I rewarded pooping on the potty with candy and stickers. I found myself telling strangers of our triumph and took pity on those who didn’t come out unscathed.

Currently, my children think it’s hilarious to call each other "Poopy, Poopyhead, Poopyface, and Poopybutt." I tell them to stop. I tell them it’s not funny, but it is. It’s fucking hilarious. Who doesn’t love a movie with a noisy shit scene or a fart in a crowded elevator? Let’s start being honest about our bodily functions. When did they become taboo? Why do we stop getting M & M’s for taking a dump? Shitting is the great equalizer. The book is true, "Everyone poops." Cindy Crawford ‘aint so hot when you picture her ass out sweating and rocking on the can. Why deny it when we fart?

One time a co-worker entered my cubicle right after I farted. There was no hiding what I’d done. As soon as she got three feet in she was gonna get smacked in the face with my gas so I told her point blank, "I farted." She appreciated my honesty and we had a good laugh. I’m not a complete heathen. I understand this isn’t ladylike and we need to have some rules. I just think we should loosen up a bit and not take shit so seriously. Later in life it won’t matter who sees us poop or who cleans it up. I’m just trying to bring us closer to world peace one dump at a time.

Hangover

My son turned 4 this past August. Unfortunately for him by the time August rolls around I’d rather have thumbscrews then participate in another birthday party. Don’t get me wrong I’m overjoyed he’s another year older and I totally want to celebrate his birthday. I just want to do it like the first time, drugged on a table. It’s not his fault he made an August debut. His father was the one who misunderstood, "wanna stuff the turkey?" It’s been a long year of Saturday sugar highs and Coxsackie filled play spaces. I’m tired of coercing my children to grab onto that fucking rainbow parachute and pizza, one of my favorite foods, has been ruined forever. I’m done with the bag of shit containing tiny toxic bubbles and crap tats. I am suffering from a serious birthday party hangover.

Gone are the days of yore when a hangover could be fixed by puking and napping. Having children has revealed a slew of new hangovers and these seem to really hang over and over. When I went a week past due with my 9 ½ lb baby I was introduced to the "pregnancy hangover." Let me get this out of the way right now. If you’re one of those women who felt alive and glowing while pregnant I salute you, with my middle finger. Not only did I throw up for 38 weeks with both pregnancies, but I was a walking list of "most common side effects." Everyday my body reacted like I drank from a giant water cooler made in Da Nang. Thankfully all it took was me pushing really hard and shitting on a table to cure that one.

Some hangovers are worse than others. I’ve pulled many "all nighters" during college and my career. The next day I had the caffeine shakes, hallucinated a little and smelled of BO and vending machine. I was always able to power through because, it was a one night thing. Nothing prepared me for "newborn hangover." I was chronically dirty, shaky, and cold. That cute little baby turned into a Guantánamo Bay prison guard every night for 5 long months. I pulled it together most days but I was holding on by a very short string. My solid, happy, sexually charged marriage was shaken to it’s core. The only cure for "newborn hangover" was time and my brother-in-law who took pity on us and volunteered to "do a night." Honestly people, save the onesies with cutesy shit written on them and "do a night."

The only hangover truly worth it’s salt is the "sex hangover." Even though your genitals feel like they went for a run in clogs and you smell of fluids and lube, you had fun doing it. Sadly, I don't have many of those anymore. Thanks kids.