There are things in life that you think you understand because they are so mundane and routine. However, until you experience them first-hand, you don't REALLY know anything about them like the Masons or a Fraternity, jumping out of a plane, and of course, being a parent.
We have all been to Frat parties, done a beer funnel and woken up wondering why it's Monday when our last cogent memory is of Saturday but we don't really know the secret handshake or what happens when you are jumped in or whatever it is that one does to become a "brother". I've seen people jump out of planes and I understand what happens, but it's a far cry from abandoning all good sense and actually jumping out of a plane. Which brings me to being a parent. There are millions of people out there who are parents and in fact, my own parents are parents, so it's not like it's all that unusual and yet, who knew that I knew bugger all about being a parent. The worst part is that just as the whole Frat thing is cloaked in the utmost secrecy, so to is parenting; it's like all parents have taken an oath tantamount to the Mafia's Omerta. The truth is, if the innocent non-parents were ever let in on the secret, the species would end tomorrow.
It all begins with birth; an incrediby misunderstood and poorly discussed event. If anyone actually told you what happened, the species would end tomorrow (didn't I say that already?). I can forgive women their birthing Omerta because I know that they are in complete denial and they should be because what else in life will ever be as painful and, on some level, incredibly humiliating? And when I say painful, I mean that they should really develop a special word for the infinite and crushing nature of the particularly special pain that is birth. Aside from the pain aspect, let's not forget the indelicacy of the entire procedure and the fact that there are typically half a dozen people watching you do the most indelicate thing you could ever do. After birth, I was convinced that there was nothing more embarrasing, more painful, more grueling; I have seen hell, so nothing could possibly surprise me, after all, I HAVE GIVEN BIRTH, right? WRONG.
Birth is like playful foreplay compared to the act of rearing the little darlings. It was while Baby Girl was doing her best impression of the girl from the Exorcist in the middle of seeing "Surf's Up" because I wouldn't let her go barefoot that I realized that I have now officially morphed into that parent that I always looked at pittyingly while smugly thinking, "I'll never be THAT kind of feckless parent". BAREFOOT IN A THEATRE, she might as well have announced that she wanted to lick a door handle or stick her hand in a toilet.
Speaking of toilets, Baby Girl is now potty training, which, let me tell you, is not all it's cracked up to be because I am obliged to use the public bathroom. I have never considered myself a germophobe, but I break out in cold sweats at the thought of having to take Baby Girl into a public washroom. Having fretted over the fact that she seemed to be the last of her class to be in diapers, I am now wondering if any permanent psychological damage could result from putting her back in diapers, because as gross as changing them might be, it doesn't even rank in grossness compared with taking a two year old into a public washroom.
A typical washroom adventure starts with me using my most serious parent tone to tell Baby Girl that she is absolutely not, under any circumstances to touch anything, she of course nods very seriously as if she understands and then promptly drags her hand along the edge of the toilet seat or opens up the sanitary napkin bin. So, while I scream, "why, why, why did you do that?", she quickly whips all the toilet paper off the seat where I have laid it painstakingly so that I can sit her down and hope that her skin doesn't come in contact with the actual seat. It all ends with me close to tears and needing a stiff drink and her delerious with glee and turning the automatic hand dryer on and off.
Currently, I am being driven really, really crazy, like eye-twitchingly crazy, by Baby Girl's incessant, constant, never-ending, did I mention constant, movement. Even when totally exhausted, Baby Girl fiddles with her toes, stretches, rolls, fidgets, until I want to scream and jump out the nearest window because falling two storeys onto cold, hard, pavement, would be sweet relief from the constant fiddleyness. Like right now, we are on the bed watching Babar and Baby Girl is bone tired but she is putting her legs under the covers, then over the covers, then under the covers, then over the covers and so on and so on... I have been driven to such distraction that I am just waiting for the day that she understands the value of money because I will offer her $250 just to stop moving for 15 minutes, 15 blessed, movement-free minutes.
Having said all of this, I am clearly now going to be hunted down by the parenting Cosa Nostra or whoever is charged with guarding the parenting Omerta but I don't care because if I have to smile sweetly one more time and nod earnestly as a complete stranger at the supermarket remarks "aren't children a blessing?" I think that I might just spontaneously combust. It's not like I'm suggesting that you shouldn't be a parent or that ultimately it isn't rewarding and that the good far outweighs the bad, it's more like, don't be a parent because you think that it would be fun or you like dressing things up or because you think that it's going to save your marriage, because it will do the exact opposite. It will kill your love of dressing things up because the thing that you are dressing up, ie, the baby, will promptly puke up and ruin the cute outfit and it's not going to save your marriage, in fact, it is going to be the very thing that drives you both crazier than you ever thought you could be and long for the days when you thought that your marriage was failing apart because now you know, your marriage was a bleeding cake walk compared to being a parent.
But then it happens, there is a moment, a flash of pure brilliant beauty and Baby Girl leans her head on my chest and strokes my hand softly or plants a kiss on my cheek and says "Mommy, I love you". That's when it all floats away; the horrifying public washroom episodes, the public tantrums, the incessant jiggling, the poo, the irrational fixations, the refusal to eat anything that's not pink and it's like a good hair day, chocolate, new shoes, champagne, and winning the lottery all at once.
