Parenting is a customer service job, much like a flight attendant filled with passengers pissed off the plane is delayed on the tarmac, or a waiter who blames you because his steak not only took too long, but is overcooked, or worse yet, a sales person, at say, Bloomingdale's or Barney’s, where the customers essentially look down their noses at you, because after all, they have money and you don’t.
Now, I need to point out these girls are actually incredibly well behaved and responsible. But they have no respect for me; unless they want something.
“Oh mommy, what a lovely shade of lipstick you are wearing. You should let others see it.” The Things, as though planned, then sidle up to me and smile.
“Hey, we should go to Build-A-Bear today. That way people will see you. A total win-win,” they both squeal. My kids talk like that and I have no idea where they get these ridiculous sayings. Yesterday one of them said after I served her a banana split: “At the end of the day, mom, it’s all good.” WTF!
I digress, to this day; I will NEVER understand why there isn’t a hot line for parents.
“Yes, hello, since there is no escape hatch, and I can’t take drugs or alcohol as I would lose my little darlings to Social Services, and I don’t want to kill myself, can I just vent? I haven’t had a massage in months!!! Never mind a pedicure, hair treatment or facial. Therapy would be nice but who the hell can afford that? Plus if I had the money I would go to the Four Seasons and talk to strangers at the bar.”
When a woman sees my husband holding the hand of one of my daughters, or both, let’s say, at
Meanwhile my daughter, or both, could be chugging Red Bulls and playing with razor blades, not that he would notice. And he is a good dad! What I mean by that is he does his very fair share of cooking, cleaning, playing board games with the girls and does all the shit I refuse to do, like taking them to the zoo, water parks and so on.
In my world, because I had twins, a friend and I started a support group, a kind of email/phone chain: It went something like this:
“Rhonda, I am so suicidal, I would never hurt my babies, I hate my useless husband, my career is over… how did you get past the first 3 years!!!” or “Rhonda, I have been in bed for two days, the babies are screaming, I made sure they are fed, but I can’t move. I am a cow. How do you do this?” Here, I lie. I don’t tell them I basically road out a nervous breakdown for all those years, it would scare them. 3 years is a long time when your babies are 2 months old. Instead, I joke; “I was mainlining heroin. I will be right over, with some great espresso.”
We would sit and talk, my telling them it does get better, it just never ends. What I don’t say is it gets better when they are about 5.
I have by now seen approximately 10 new moms, many twin moms, with no clue they may be suffering from postpartum, end up in psyche wards, alcohol/drug treatment centers, sleepwalking naked down our street and the oddest was the mother who I found in her herb garden, face down, at 9:00am, drunk, kids in their cribs.
So why doesn’t this culture call it what it is? Indentured servants; for life. Sure, we love them, sacrifice everything, would take a bullet, but come on! Kids are a full time, thankless job that involves corralling, entertaining and constantly cleaning up, not to mention, teaching, guiding, helping them find their path (so we are also life coaches) and all of it is UNPAID! And you can’t leave. I do understand women that have actually. I could not, but I would never judge a mother who just took off and slipped down that emergency shoot never to be heard from again. God bless her.