Fun With Play-Dough

One of the most irritating things about being pregnant is the fact that every damn stranger in creation has an opinion about you and your belly.  Never mind that this is very much your child, that you are going to be making all the decisions, and that you are going to be responsible for it. While baby is still in your belly, it’s apparently everybody’s business.

This is known as the “nosy neighbor syndrome”, and at one point or another it affects all mothers-to-be. If you don’t believe me, just try walking out of a Starbucks with a nice Latte in your hand; watch what happens.  Wear high heels to work, or suggest Sushi for the next business lunch. Buy a bottle of wine, run a few steps to your car, or drop something at the supermarket and bend over.

Some moron will butt in and tell you “That’s not good for the baby”.

Maybe it isn’t, and maybe it is.  To these kinds of people, your opinion sadly doesn’t count; you were dumb enough to get pregnant, so now you are going to have to listen.

Don’t bother arguing with them, they just want to hear themselves talk and aren’t interested in whether you have a brain. The best thing to do is just smile and nod, while sipping on your latte, of course.

The worst kind of commentary comes from those women that have never been pregnant themselves. Especially if they are older, they have had a lifetime to think about how they would have done things if they had been pregnant. When you’re only imagining being pregnant, things are much easier. Watch out, the group that is almost as bad consists of women who don’ t really remember being pregnant because it was so long ago.

They’ve forgotten what it’s like, and have no sympathy for you and your diabolical craving for a piece of mercury laden fish or a bite of raw egg.

Then there are the men. The ones who drive their partners nuts by being utterly unreasonable will spread their wings eventually; either because their own wives kick them out, or because they refuse to ever get pregnant again. These men wander the streets, looking for anonymous pregnant women to pester.

“Let me carry that for you!” they yell, thinking you’ll tear an ovary because you’re carrying groceries. They’ll act insulted and hurt when you reach for your pepper spray, and they’ll say: “I was just trying to help!”

If you happen to work for one of these, please change jobs. If you only run into them now and then, you can handle them by kicking them swiftly in the shins.  Some of you may be related to such a man; just don’t visit for a while; you’ll be better off avoiding them.

If you’re worried about the OB-Gyn office; those nurses are so sick and tired of pregnant women that they wouldn’t start a conversation with you if you held a gun to their head.

Which leaves you with only one person to worry about: Your mother.

But that is a story for another time.

Remember when your children were newborns? You held them in your arms and stared at them adoringly; you made a solid promise to love and cherish them forever, nothing bad would ever happen to them, you were going to be the best parent you could be. Maybe you even cried a little. All was well in the world.

Now look at you, as you’re standing at the bottom of the stairs, yelling at your six-year-old to come down here right now or you’ll regret it!!!

The six-year-old in questions has just announced: You are the worst parent ever! I don’t like you anymore! She is right, you are indeed the worst parent ever, because you have refused to play that stupid Barbie movie for the third time today; for the simple reason that it’s half an hour past bedtime. This was very unreasonable of you, and you should be ashamed. In her eyes it is as unforgivable as a catholic priest cavorting with a hooker. What on earth were you thinking? You, believing for some time now that parenting is just too much of a freaking minefield, decide it’s not worth it and walk away, leaving her traumatized and alone in her room, crying her beautiful eyes out.

What happened? Your warm and cozy home wasn’t supposed to turn into a bloody battlefield, at least not until your child entered the teenage years. Unfortunately, here it is: the dirty secret nobody has told you about; the Bad six-year-old has arrived, and she’s going to stay for a while.

I came home from some much needed girl friend time the other day. When I walked into the house, my three-year-old happily exclaimed: Mommy! He was obviously happy to see me, and we had a nice little conversation. It went something like this:

“Hi-mommy-hi-mommy-hi-mommy”

“Hi Baby! Did you miss me?”

“…”

“Can you give me a hug?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I don’t like you.”

“What?”

“I don’t like you.”

This is my good child. My other child, who is also sometimes a good child, was waiting for me in the living room. While I was gone, she had written me a letter. I find it helps our relationship tremendously if I leave for a few hours now and then; there are many things my husband does not know how to do, and for five minutes afterwards, my daughter appreciates all I do for her.  Five minutes isn’t much, but when you have a six-year-old, you take what you can get, and you’re grateful for it.

The letter said:

“Dear Mom,

Today is March 1^st, and if you want I will stop being naughty. All you have to do is tell me. And I love you.

-Love, Isabella.”

Of course, this is hardly a binding contract, and I doubt we’ll make it for 24 hours before we have our next run-in. I will give her a dress she doesn’t want to wear, or I will suggest a ponytail when she wants braids, or I will tell her to finish her salad when she’s clearly in the mood for ice cream. Parenting is tricky that way, and you’re constantly being tested. You have to prove that you still love your child when she’s throwing a temper tantrum. You still have to love her when she’s kicking her brother just for the fun of it, or when she –for the zillionth time- gets a hold of your make up and wipes it all over the bathroom mirror. And, most importantly, you still have to love her when she starts talking back.

Don’t laugh at that last one until you’ve experienced it. A First Grader who talks back is a freaking force of nature.

It’s true, toddlers love the word “No”, and they will throw a hissy when you try to wrestle them in that striped sweater for the annual family picture. However, they are still small, and can be physically overpowered. It may take some time, and they may be crying in that picture, but they’ll be doing it while wearing the damn sweater. The six-year-old, on the other hand, is a loaded gun. All I can say is, seek cover.

And try not to make too many decisions for them; let them do stupid things.

As long as they don’t hurt themselves or anybody else, let it go. Wearing ballet shoes when there’s three feet of snow, refusing to eat anything for three days straight, and not keeping track of their toys until their favorite Barbie cannot be found anywhere, are things that punish themselves eventually.  You won’t even have to do anything; it’s that easy.

When you find out you are pregnant (especially if it’s the first time), it’s very common to run to the store and purchase every pregnancy book in sight. There is much to choose from; unfortunately, they are filled with advice you can’t really use.

I threw all of mine in the trash, so you’ll have to forgive me; I’m doing this from memory. What I found most annoying was the realization there were so many people in the world that knew more than me.  If you feel the same way, welcome to the club: this is the time in your life when even complete strangers have the urge to share their opinion, and you’re the least willing to listen. The books tell you what to eat, when to eat it; they tell you myths (Baby Blues for most women lasts only a few weeks) and outright lies: Morning sickness disappears after the first trimester.

Then they add the disclaimer that every woman is unique, and so is her pregnancy. That is a cop-out if I’ve ever heard one.

Well, thanks. So what they are really saying is: here’s what happens to most women, and it might happen to you, but then, it might not. You may be sick for three months, but maybe you will still be hacking up your lunch when your water breaks. You may start showing during the fourth month, but then, it’s entirely possible that people can’t see the bulge until you’re in month eight. You could develop hyper smell, or you could not. Maybe you will want only sodium-free foods; maybe you are tempted to have a salt lick installed in your bedroom. None of this is helpful to a pregnant woman who wants some answers. When I leave my house in the morning, I might get hit by a bus. Does that mean I should stay at home? 

Additional fun is to be had with the “What if” scenarios that apparently are a must for every self respecting pregnancy manual.  I remember one book that included one chapter for each month, aptly titled what can go wrong?

Excuse me?

Who thought up that brilliant idea? Look, pregnant women are paranoid by nature; they don’t need any help thinking up disaster scenarios. Think about it: panicking about whether the baby will be normal is something you can do anywhere anytime, it’s the one thing you can still manage even after six weeks on bed rest, when you’re as big as a whale, can’t see your own feet, and are contemplating selling your soul to the devil in exchange for thirty minutes of uninterrupted sleep.

(That thing with the devil doesn’t work, by the way; trust me, I’ve tried)

So why do pregnancy books continue to sell? Is it because everybody believes the hype about manuals being able to answer all questions? Is it because pregnant women get bored? Because, believe me, these nine months are looong, and boredom usually sets in around week seven. Having to pee all the time, not fitting in your normal clothes, and answering that hellish question “Do you have a name yet?” 5000 times all get old rather quickly.

I estimate that every pregnant woman buys an average of 3-4 books, which you have all finished before you’re even in your second trimester. You subsequently leave them lying around for another two months in the vain hope that your husband will read them (he won’t) and then you realize: I’ve spent $60 on something that is absolutely no help whatsoever.

If you are reading this and nodding, put them on EBay immediately, even if you haven’t finished reading yet. Then spend the money on something fun. Buy a body pillow. Buy two. Buy massage oil and tell your husband you will barf in his good shows if he doesn’t use it on you.