23 Reasons My Kids Are My Best Friends

Not too long ago, I read an article by a woman explaining why her child isn’t her best friend. While I agree with a lot of the points she made, I was a little taken aback by one particular line:

“See, when I hear mom friends of mine refer to their infants, toddlers or even teens as their best friend, I can’t help but feel sorry for them.”

I have twin boys, and I’ve referred to them as my “best friends” plenty of times.

And I don’t feel like that makes me pitiful.

Don’t get me wrong, I have adult friends, too. In fact, I’ve also referred to my mom as my best friend. She is. So is my husband. And so is one of the women I ran cross-country with in college.

But so are my kids.

Maybe that makes me a Best Friend Whore. Or a Polybestfriendist. Or some other whacked-out term that I’m sure a few of the people reading this article will coin and crucify me with.

But guess what? I don’t care. I believe that you can have more than one best friend as well as different types of best friends. My kids happen to be a couple of mine. Here are 23 reasons why:

1. They never judge me. When they see me shamelessly spraying aerosol whipped cream into my mouth, or eating cream cheese spread with a spoon, their only criticism is that I didn’t offer them any first.

2. They know exactly how to make me laugh. Sometimes it’s a goofy face. Other times it’s a joke that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. And sometimes it’s just the sound of their laughter.

3. We tell each other everything. Me: “Mama is feeling really overwhelmed right now.” Toddler: “I made stinkies.”

4. They help me pick out my clothes. Every time I look down at my feet and see one green sock and one blue one, I think of their enthusiastic faces as they pulled them from my sock drawer. And I smile.

5. They know how to make me feel better. Just the other day I was having some body image issues and was crying while talking to my husband about it. Out of nowhere, my son ran up to me, said, “Mama sad,” and wrapped his little arms my neck. And not in the typical toddler-chokehold way.

6. We w(h)ine together. Toddler: (tugging on my pants) “I’m thiiiirrrrsty.” Me: (uncorking wine bottle) “Me too, honey. Meeeeeee too.”

7. We talk about boys (often while w(h)ining together.) Mickey Mouse, Elmo, Jake, Boots, Daniel Tiger. We’ve analyzed the best and worst qualities of them all.

Toddler: “Dora’s monkey has red shoes. I want red shoes. I want redddddddd!” Me: (popping open a bottle of red) “Me too, honey. Meeeee too.”

8. We can go hours without talking and the silence is never awkward. It’s called nap time. And it is glorious.

9. They think it’s funny when I fart.

10. We often match without planning it. Sweats, t-shirt, and no bra FTW!

11. We binge watch Netflix together. Confession: I kind of like watching Sofia the First. (It’s on Netflix now!) The theme song is catchy and it gives me the warm fuzzies when I see how she’s always got everyone’s backs in the castle. Plus, I find Cedric’s cynicism totally entertaining. Oh, and that high-and-mighty Amber bitch? Hilarious. Seriously, it’s like an allegory for the various parents you might encounter at the playground. If you haven’t streamed it yet, you should.

12. We’ve seen each other naked. I’m kind of responsible for bath time and diaper changes so…yeah. And it’s not uncommon for me to be startled mid-shampoo by an inquisitive little toddler peeking around the shower curtain.

13. And we are honest about what we see. Me: “Oh, bubba, looks like you’ve got a little rash on your booty.” Toddler: “Mama no wee-wee.”

14. Actually, they are honest about pretty much everything. Toddler 1: “Mama’s face…ewwww.” Toddler 2: “Hair! Lot of hair on Mama’s legs!”

15. They’re always there for me. Like…ALWAYS.

16. We dance like Meredith and Cristina in Grey’s Anatomy. And we are each other’s “person.”

17. They keep my secrets. They can’t even pronounce the words “passive aggressive,” so there’s no way they’re going to tell Mrs. ***** that’s what I called her the next time we run into her.

18. I have more selfies of them on my phone than of anyone else.

19. They do my hair for me. Peanut butter and jelly beat even the strongest mousse on a salon shelf. And who needs to pay for a professional haircut when your kid will just yank it out for you?

20. We have inside jokes. For example: “We’re going to sit quietly and look at books now so Mama can get some writing done.” HAHAHAHAHAHA.

21. They make me feel beautiful. Because whenever I look at their vibrant faces and marvel at the incredible things they can do with those amazing, miniature bodies of theirs, I remember that it was my body that made them.

22. They motivate me to be the best version of myself. Because I know that’s what they deserve.

23. I would do anything for them. If you’re reading this, and you’re a parent, I don’t think any further explanation is necessary.

 © 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Sammiches & Pysch Meds

A Translation Guide to Common Toddler Phrases

I love my kids fiercely. Truly, I do. I love them to the moon and back, and to Neptune’s known 14 moons and back, and to wherever the hell my sanity has escaped to and back. But as much as I love them, I often find myself being driven 50 shades of apeshit when they talk to me.

Basically, I’ve learned that you can’t take anything a toddler says at face value. Almost everything that comes out of their mouths has a hidden (usually vindictive) meaning. If doublespeak were a federal crime, my kids would be convicted felons. And I’d be their prison bitch.

I’ve come to refer to this way of talking as “Twat-dler Speak,” for reasons that will become increasingly apparent as you continue reading.

Spoiler alert: It’s not because I make a habit of talking like Tweety Bird.

If the seemingly sweet words spewing from your kid’s mouth seem to be spiked with sour undertones, chances are he or she is speaking Twat-dler. To save you the time and stress of trying to decode the perplexing language of a two-year-old, I’ve taken the liberty of translating a few of the most common Twat-dler phrases that I’ve heard thus far as a parent:

Twat-dler: I’m not tired.

Translation: I am, in fact, so exhausted that I’d probably pass out the moment my little head hits the pillow, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting you have thirty minutes to yourself to salivate over your DVR’ed episodes of Cupcake Wars while stuffing your face with store-bought Cosmic Brownies. So instead, I will force myself to stay awake and then proceed to take out all my crankiness on you.

Twat-dler: No, don’t need to go potty.

Translation: Of course I need to go potty, dipshit. I pretty much always need to go potty. But there’s no way I’m going to do it on that plastic little seat you forked the extra 25 bucks over for because it makes cool car noises. Screw the potty chart stickers. It’s much more rewarding to see the look on your face when I splatter it with shit during diaper changes.

Twat-dler: Big mess.

Translation: I just crapped myself silly, and you better get on that shit (literally). But don’t think for a second I’m not going to kick and squirm the entire time.

Twat-dler: All done! (said after pooping)

Translation: Bitch, please. I’m just getting started. There is SO MUCH MORE SHIT where that came from.

Twat-dler: All done! (said during a meal)

Translation: I’m actually still starving, but I refuse to give you the satisfaction of seeing me eat what is put on my plastic, segmented toddler plate. Instead, I will express my raging hunger in one or more of the following ways: screaming, whining, or chucking this delicious, painstakingly prepared meal you made on the floor, and then laughing maniacally while you clean it up.

Twat-dler: No!

Translation: Yes! Wait, no. I mean, yes!

Twat-dler: Yes!

Translation: No! Wait, yes. I mean, no! HELL NO!

Twat-dler: Night night!

Translation: See you in approximately six minutes when I’ll suddenly become (hungry, thirsty, convinced that my teddy bear is actually alive and evil like Lotso in Toy Story 3).

Twat-dler: I want to go outside!

Translation: Come near me with that bottle of sunscreen and I will literally eat your face.

Twat-dler: I’m sorry.

Translation: I will be repeating this offense again in approximately three seconds.

 Twat-dler: I’m hungry.

Translation: If I don’t get some fruit snacks in the next five seconds, someone’s gonna lose a nipple.

Twat-dler: I’m thirsty.

Translation: I want fruit snacks.

Twat-dler: I want crackers.

Translation: I want fruit snacks.

Twat-dler: I want chicken nuggets.

Translation: I want fruit snacks.

Twat-dler: This is yucky.

Translation: This is not a package of f*cking fruit snacks.

Twat-dler: I want fruit snacks.

Translation: I specifically want (Hello Kitty/Thomas the Train/Despicable Me) fruit snacks. And if you offer me any other kind, someone’s gonna lose a nipple.

Twat-dler: I want (Hello Kitty/Thomas the Train/Despicable Me) fruit snacks.

Translation: WHY ARE YOU STILL STANDING THERE?

Twat-dler: Please.

Translation: I really don’t know WTF this word even means, but you grownups are always rewarding me for saying it so I’ll play along. NOW FETCH ME THOSE FRUIT SNACKS, BITCH!

Twat-dler: Thank you.

Translation: You need to go get me more fruit snacks. NOW.

Twat-dler: I love you.

Translation: You are a total sap who allows three little words to brainwash you into submission, forgiveness, and just being a pushover in general. I OWN YOU, WOMAN!

Surprisingly, Google Translate has not yet added Twat-dler to its list of languages. Until it does so, you may want to print this out and stick it on your fridge as a quick guide for babysitters.

And make sure they know where you keep the (Hello Kitty/Thomas the Train/Despicable Me) fruit snacks. Unless they don’t mind putting the money you’re paying them towards nipple reconstruction surgery. 

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Sammiches & Psych Meds (under the title “What Your Kid Really Means When They Say…)

The Difference Between a ‘Sheltered’ Life and a ‘Simple’ One

It’s a running joke among my husband’s coworkers that we are a “modern Amish family.” The nickname has less to do with how we dress (I could not rock a bonnet; also, I’m not aware of any Amish who wear Star Wars T-shirts), and more to do with the fact that they mistake our simple life for a “sheltered” one.

I don’t consider my family sheltered. We own a vehicle (two, in fact), use cell phones (smart ones, even) and rely heavily on electricity (coffee maker = Mom’s lifeline). Heck, we even use that Interweb nonsense to keep in touch with friends and family via The Facebook. We are not socially reclusive, nor do we keep our kids on constant lockdown in order to protect them from the big, scary world beyond our humble home.

However, some of our choices—like staying home to watch movies on the weekends, or considering a trip to the playground a social outing—tend to be viewed as hermit-like in today’s go-go-go society.

We rarely go out to eat. We don’t travel much. We don’t have cable or Wi-Fi in our home. And the latest technological gizmos? Forget it. Our largest single annual expense is our cumulative grocery bill, because food is—you know—a basic necessity. We live simply—frugally, you might even say—not because we have to, but because we choose to.

I don’t believe that kids need to be exposed to a million different things, or own all the trendiest gadgets, in order to get the most out of life. Nor do I think that I’m an irresponsible parent for making our home their primary source of recreation and entertainment.

In my experience, when you’re constantly busy, you don’t have time to slow down and reflect on what you’re doing. You don’t have time to take the experiences you do have and weave them into memories that will last a lifetime.

The phrase “Less is more” is a cliché for a reason.

When I think back to my own childhood, I remember simple moments. I don’t remember the details of our annual Cedar Point trips or the expensive toys I got for Christmas, but I do remember digging for worms with the neighbors. I remember sitting on my mom’s lap as she read me Little Golden Books.

Like diamonds forged from coal, my most treasured memories are born of the seemingly ordinary and mundane, but they sparkle, and their clarity and value are undeniable.

Those are the kinds of memories I want for my own children.

Memories like these:

–Sneaking fruit snacks from the pantry when Mom isn’t looking and sharing them with siblings in an elaborate fort constructed out of blankets.

–Throwing a bunch of stuffed animals on a bed and pretending it’s a pirate ship. “Walking the plank” to land in a sea of pillows, while Captain Hook prods you with the clothes hanger he has shoved up his shirt sleeve.

–Brewing “witch potions” in the backyard: using a stick to stir water, mud, leaves and bugs in a plastic bucket while muttering random incantations—then seeing the look on Mom’s face when she’s asked to taste it.

–Using broken tree branches to draw creepy-looking characters in the gravel driveway.

Me and My Little Bro, circa 1999

–Staging picnics in the backyard, telling creepy stories over a campfire, and waging hedge-apple wars with the neighbors (then showing off the bruises like they’re battle scars).

–Putting on fashion shows while wearing Mom’s old bridesmaid dresses, and strutting down the hallway like it’s a runway.

–Playing marathon games of Monopoly with siblings on a snow day, then sipping hot chocolate topped with rainbow-colored marshmallows.

–Lying on the concrete while a friend traces the shape of your body with sidewalk chalk, and laughing hysterically when Dad sneaks around the corner of the house to spray you with the hose.

–Licking cake batter off beaters and begging for just one more bite of raw cookie dough.

–Setting up a sprinkler in front of the swing set on a hot summer day, or splashing each other in a cheap plastic pool in the backyard.

The Minions, circa 2015

–Turning the basement into a movie theater and personalizing brown paper “popcorn bags” with stickers and sharpies (and taking advantage of Mom’s free refill policy).

–Staging wrestling and boxing matches—Dad’s old socks serving as makeshift boxing gloves—and selling family members construction-paper tickets to the show.

–Picking out stacks of books to read on a rainy day, or going outside barefoot and dancing in the puddles.

–Catching fireflies in old iced tea jars and smiling when they light up inside the glass—then shrieking hysterically the moment one lands in someone’s hair.

–Taking long bike rides in the sunshine, and reveling in the reward of a well-earned slushy at the local ice cream shop afterward.

–Helping Papa plant his garden, even if it’s just an excuse to play in the dirt (because what kid doesn’t love playing in the dirt?).

The Minions and Papa, circa 2015

I don’t want my kids’ childhood memories to be a blur of fancy hotel stays, nice restaurants, itinerary-driven vacations or expensive birthday gifts. I want them to remember what it was like to really be a kid—to be able to find the uncommon in the common, the extraordinary in the ordinary, and the beauty in simplicity.

Because once you become an adult, life becomes unavoidably—irreversibly—complicated.

In my eyes, I’m not sheltering my children from the real world with the lifestyle we’ve chosen.

I am showing them all it has to offer.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on The Mid at Scary Mommy

21 Things to Do With Your Kids If You Want to Screw Them Up

It was recently brought to my attention by a few blog commenters that baking cookies with my kids is an unhealthy choice of activity. Actually, I think the exact word used was “destructive.” Basically, I’d shared a post recounting a “fat day,” on which the shadow of my eating disorder was being a particular bitch. Instead of allowing the critical self-talk to send me back into a spiral of unhealthy behavior, I’d chosen to focus my energies on bonding with my kids. I mentioned that we baked cookies.

BIG MISTAKE. Apparently, I wasn’t just baking cookies with my kids. I was setting a poor example for them by not “loving myself” or “taking care of myself and my body.” I was teaching them that it’s OK to ignore the inner critic inside of you, the one that tries to goad you back toward destructive behavior. I was letting them believe that — gasp! — it’s perfectly acceptable to eat a damn cookie every once in awhile.

Thank God someone pointed out my misguided thinking. I would hate to continue to set a poor example for my children. They should probably know that baking and eating cookies is irresponsible and could land them in the same position as those hyperbolically overweight humans riding around in hovercrafts at the end of Wall-E.

This refreshing revelation got me thinking about some of the other “fun” things I do with my kids, and how those activities might negatively affect them in the long run. It seems I’ve been parenting irresponsibly for quite some time now.

What can I say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions. And, apparently, cookie dough.

For those of you looking to join in on the destructive parenting trend, I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of ways to do so. Here are 21 activities you should do with your kids if you really want to screw them up.

1. Bake cookies. If you want them to be fat and lazy.

2. Take them to the zoo. If you want to teach them that captivity and bondage are amusing concepts. You might as well just start reading 50 Shades of Grey to them at bedtime.

3. Fly a kite. If you want to instill a disrespect for nature. What if it gets stuck in a tree? BOOM. Littering. Or, worse, what if a bird flies into the string, strangles itself, and dies? You’re basically raising animal abusers. Before you know it, they’ll be throwing plastic six-pack rings into the ocean to murder all the dolphins.

4. Push them on the swings. If you’re really stupid. I mean, whoa. You’re doing two taboo things here: (1) teaching them that it’s OK — fun, even — to push people, and (2) encouraging them to be “swingers.” Bullying and sexual promiscuity for the double-win.

5. Allow them to race their Hot Wheels down one of those plastic racetracks. If you want to bail them out of jail for reckless driving someday. On that note:

6. Hit up the McDonald’s drive-thru while you’re out running errands and split a milkshake. If you want them to think it’s cool to drink and drive.

7. Draw with sidewalk chalk. If you want to raise graffiti-loving hoodlums. If they’re not incarcerated for the reckless driving or a DUI (see above), they may end up in the slammer for defacing public property.

8. Build a fort. If you want to mold them into deranged sociopaths by encouraging seclusion and unhealthy antisocial behavior.

9. Take them to the library and let them pick out a few books. If you want to raise shoplifters.

10. Play dress up. If you want to lay the foundation for a life dedicated to sleazy identity theft.

11. Take them to a fast food place with a play area and allow them to hang out in the ball pit. If you want them to know it’s cool to play with someone else’s balls. IN PUBLIC.

12. Play a card game together. If you want them to end up in Gamblers Anonymous.

13. Play tag and/or hide and seek. If you want them to learn to hide or run away from their problems.

14. Start a (leaf, stamp, rock, etc.) collection. If you want to see them on Hoarders: Buried Alive one day.

15. Play with puppets. If you want them to think they have the right to speak for someone else.

Note: If you have a son and pretend it’s a girl puppet, you’ll be raising the quintessential anti-feminist, male chauvinist. You’ll also be implying that it’s perfectly acceptable to shove his hand up some random girl’s hoo-ha.

16. Exercise together. If you want them to develop an unhealthy exercise addiction and body image issues.

17. Push them in the stroller. If you want them to grow up to be lazy bums always looking for a free ride.

18. Play Simon Says. If you want to raise little dictators. Better yet, just change the name of the game to Adolf Says.

19. Plant a garden. If you want to inspire them to start their own marijuana plantation. You’ll want to really focus on the weed-pulling aspect.

20. Go for a bike ride. If you want them to join a motorcycle gang when they’re older.

21. Write a bitchy, satirical article exposing the ludicrousness of some random sanctimommy’s unsolicited advice. If you want to teach them not to give a f*ck about what other people think.  (This one won’t actually screw them up … I hope.)

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Scary Mommy

I Smile at My C-Section Scar

It spans across my lower belly: a thin line of translucent white, fringed with red, curving slightly upward on either end. It stretches and contracts with the gentle rise and fall of my breathing, widening like a smile.

And I can’t help smiling back.

Because when I look at this scar, I don’t see a flaw.

I see perfection. I see a portal to another world: a place filled with love, life, security—a nourishing utopia, where you formed your perfect little nose, your perfect little cheeks, the perfect little wrinkle between your eyebrows, all ten perfect little fingers, and all ten perfect little toes.

I don’t see deformity.

I see beauty. I see a tattoo that extends all the way to my heart and connects it to yours. I see your soul, your vibrancy, your life—carved into me.

I don’t see the mark of someone who had it “easy,” someone who “didn’t really give birth.” I don’t see inferiority.

I see a literal birthmark. I see the spot where they slit me open while I cried and prayed, hoping that I would hold your tiny living body in my arms when it was over, yearning to feel the warm touch of your skin against mine and the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat against my chest, sensations that I’d grown to know so well internally. I see the mark of quintessential motherhood.

I don’t see weakness.

I see strength. I see the jagged edge of love and fear, protruding from my skin like braille. It says life. It says perseverance. It says you and me—we’ll be together at the end of all this—whatever it takes.

I don’t see failure.

I see triumph. I see a battle scar, marking the ground where we fought—together—when you decided to come 10 weeks early. I see will and determination. I see victory.

I don’t see the cold cut of surgery.

I see the tender swell of life. I see a landmark, a historic site where you breathed your first breath, cried your first cry, opened your eyes to the outside world for the first time. I see the precise latitudinal line of where you went from simply living to being alive. I am forever marked by your coordinates.

I don’t see regret, or the disappointment of having a nontraditional birth. I don’t feel disconnect.

I see a property line, extending to my heart, where you first staked a claim, and where you continue to rule today. I feel the memory of the gentle tug as they lifted you from my body—your grasp on my heart never wavering— and the familiar pull on my heartstrings whenever I picture your fragile, red little body rising to meet me. I remember the warmth of your cheek against my lips, and I feel the unique, undeniable magnetism of a mother’s love. I feel connection.

I don’t see detachment.

I see intimacy. I see a doorway, housing the first chapter of your life, locking in the memory of every kick, every hiccup, every flutter of your tiny, miraculous heart. I see devotion. I see it etched in my skin like a signature on a contract, a promise of love and responsibility. A promise of motherhood.

So I will not be ashamed. I will not be made to feel inadequate. I will not feel insecure or embarrassed.

I will not drape a towel or wrap over my bikini line at the beach. I will not turn away from the mirror when I step out of the shower. I will not cover the mended flesh that brought so much beauty into this world.

I will not mask my pride.

I will not be told that I “had it easy,” or that I “didn’t do any of the work.”

I will not feel weak. I will not feel like less of a woman. I will not feel like less of a mother.

I will not allow the loose, slightly puckered skin surrounding this scar to make me feel ugly. Because it is beautiful, and I am beautiful, and you are beautiful.

I will not feel marred, or “butchered,” or broken.

Because I am whole, and it is this scar that has made me so. It is a poignant paradox, a line marking the spot where I was both ripped apart and put back together; and when I look at it, I will remember the day when you were both taken from and given to me.

And I will be grateful.

Because this scar made me a mom.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Mamalode

The Pain of Motherhood

Sometimes when I’m with you, little one—watching you, holding you, loving you—it hurts.

Sometimes it hurts to have this abundance of love—this all-consuming, overpowering, intoxicating and soul-crushing love—and not have a space large enough to keep it. It’s infinite. I feel it when you whisper “I love you, too, Mama” after I tuck you in at night and when you wrap your skinny arms around me. I feel it tingling in the tips of my fingers when they trace the soft line of your jaw, your head resting on my lap as you drift peacefully off to sleep.

And that time you pressed your little lips tenderly to my forehead? I think my heart almost erupted inside my chest.

Sometimes it hurts when I lift your little body up in my arms and realize that I won’t always be able to—that you won’t always want me to. It’s a pain of balance and a pain of paradox: The lightness of you in my arms is counteracted by the heaviness in my heart. You’re getting so big, so fast. And though I love seeing the little boy you’re becoming, I also miss the little baby you once were.

I miss your smallness.

Sometimes it hurts as I witness you break out of your tentative toddler shell. You explore your surroundings with a burning curiosity that fills me with both pride and a little heartache. The more of the world you discover, the less of your world I become. And while I am proud of your burgeoning independence—of your determination to play an active role in your own life—it pains me just a little to know you won’t always need me by your side to guide you through it.

There is a comfort in being needed.

Sometimes it hurts when I can’t find the words. I can feel them there, inside me, desperately trying to form, but there’s no language both strong and delicate enough to capture the essence of you. So sometimes all I can do is stare in silence, marveling at your tiny personhood, trying to memorize every piece of you, every movement, every intricacy:

Those tiny feet that carry you across the playground. Those miniscule fingers that artfully craft Lego trains and dig itty bitty tunnels in the dirt. Those bright, animated eyes that peep at me through the hole in your bagel at breakfast. That delicate little brow that furrows when you sit on the couch and flip through your favorite book. That nearly-imperceptible chip in your front tooth from the time you fell at the playground, a tiny flaw that somehow only adds to your perfection.

 Sometimes, I watch you, and it hits me: All those things—those things that make you YOU—are a part of me. You are a part of me. You—and all of your startling perfection—were born of me.

I live in your heart, and you in mine. Your soul was nourished by my own, and I will always carry a piece of it with me.

You have changed me in the most profound, complete, and beautiful of ways. You have altered my body, my mind, my heart, my soul.

And sometimes, little one, it hurts to love you so.

But it’s a beautiful kind of pain, and I wouldn't trade it for all the comforts and security in the world.

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Called My IVF a Sin

First of all, I never asked you.

You, who were raised Catholic (like me), brought up to believe in the healing power of love and sacrifice, do you know how much I sacrificed for these children? How many needles I faced? How many procedures I endured? How many times I went to the ER convulsing in unbearable pain? Do you know how many tears I shed?

You, who conceived your first child because you “forgot the condom that one time,” have you ever even considered what it’s like to walk the proverbial mile in an infertile woman’s shoes?

Do you know what it’s like when your body breaks the very heart it harbors, refusing to indulge its deepest desire?

Do you know how it feels to cry over another negative pregnancy test, only to dig it out of the trash an hour later, praying that a second line has magically appeared?

Do you know how much love contributed to the creation of these children? That they are born of the love between a husband and wife, between parental hopefuls and an imagined family, between a mother and the mere idea of her future children?

Do you think the fact that they spent an infinitesimal portion of their lives in a laboratory before I carried them changes any of that?

Do you know that every time I felt them move inside of me, my heart was filled with gratitude?

Do you know how my body nourished them? How we shared the same nutrients, the same oxygen, the same heartbeat?

Do you know that our hearts fall into that familiar, synchronized rhythm when I hold them close to me now? That our hearts still speak to one another?

Can you imagine how much I love them? How much they love me in return?

Do you really believe something that brings more love into this world could be a “sin”?

You, who said my cyst-ridden ovaries were just “part of a bigger plan,” did you ever stop to think that maybe meeting the miracle workers at the fertility clinic was also part of that plan?

If you saw a child hit by a car while running across the street, would you neglect to call 911, chalking the accident up to “destiny”?

You, who said it was immoral to use “any means necessary” to get pregnant, do you realize that most cases of infertility are considered treatable medical conditions?

If one of your loved ones was suffering from cancer that could be cured with chemotherapy, would you urge her to decline treatment? Would you tell her it’s wrong to fight fate, and that she should die prematurely, at the hands of a tumor, even though there are gifted and compassionate human beings who could help her?

You, who accused me of tossing out “unused” or “weak” embryos like trash, do you know that I refused to discard even the lowest medically-graded embryo?

Do you know that any embryos I didn’t have transferred back to me were treated with the utmost care, and that they are safe in a medical facility, tiny glimmers of hope with the potential to gift us — or another struggling couple, should we decide to donate — a beautiful baby?

You, who accused me of “taking life for granted,” do you know that I cried over every single egg that didn’t mature?

Every embryo that formed but halted in its development?

Every transferred blastocyst that didn’t “stick”?

Every blood-stained pad that meant my womb wasn’t enveloping the child I’d so desperately yearned for?

Do you know that I lit candles? Laid out prayer cards? Wept until I no longer knew what it was to have clear vision and dry cheeks?

Look at my children — my beautiful, vibrant, born-of-love miracles. Watch them light up a room and bring a smile to even the most somber of faces.

Listen to the way the word “Mama” dances off their lips, like a precious secret, a verbal love letter addressed to the woman who gave them life.

Watch them gaze upon the world with wide eyes, finding joy in the mundane, laughter in the silence, love in the emptiness.

See their eyes sparkle when I ask them if they want to go for a ride in the wagon. Watch them point out the airplanes overhead, mimic the sound of a passing train, laugh at the dandelion seeds that float through the sky and tickle their noses.

Hear the wonder in their voices when they catch a rare glimpse of the moon in broad daylight, their cries of excitement reminiscent of a barnyard, as they turn people’s heads with boisterous outbursts of “Moo! Moo!”

See them wave to the mail carrier, shout “Hi!” to the UPS driver, and smile at the garbage man.

Watch their brows furrow with genuine concern when they see someone get a “boo boo” at the playground.

Listen to them sing “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star,” out of key but full of life.

Let them take your hand in theirs. Feel their tiny, dirt-caked fingers embracing yours in a grasp of unadulterated trust.

You can call me a sinner, and I won’t deny it. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no saint.

I am human. I am flawed. I have made mistakes, and I have plenty of things to apologize for.

But being a mother is not one of them.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Scary Mommy

Why Dressing My Toddlers to Play in the Snow Sucks Major (Snow)Balls

Mother Nature must be menopausing this year. I mean, Holy Hot Flash, Batman. Talk about mood swings. First, she lulls me into a false sense of security by keeping the temps high and the grass green well into December. Then, around mid-January, just when I find myself hoping that—perhaps this year—I would be able to avoid the exhausting, yet requisite, process of putting snow gear on my toddlers, she pulls this shit: 

You can bet your bundled ass that the first thing my kids asked to do when they woke up to a world covered in nuisance white was go play in it. If there’s snow on the ground, the soundtrack of my life is reminiscent of the one from Disney’s Frozen, i.e., my kids incessantly belt out, “Do you wanna build a snowman?” until I can’t take it anymore and agree to accompany them outside, so we can all freeze our asses off make memories together.

Kids love snow. It’s a fact of nature. (See what I did there?) When I was a kid, my siblings and I jumped at the opportunity to have snowball fights, go sledding, build snowmen, impale each other with icicles, and use our prepubescent bodies to make awkwardly-shaped snow angels.

The thing is, my kids are toddlers right now. And getting toddlers dressed to play in the snow is about as fun as getting hit in the head with a Hot Wheels car—which is usually what ends up happening if I don’t succumb to their demands to play outside, where they’re actually able to burn off some of their endless toddler energy.

Here’s why getting my kids dressed to play in the snow sucks:

All the things.

Snow-play requires more layering than Kim Kardashian’s wedding cake. I have a hard enough time finding my kids’ socks (the ones I put on their feet, like, five minutes ago). Locating all the random pieces of their snow attire requires me to search multiple closets, dresser drawers, the van, the diaper bag, the spaces between the couch cushions, and (occasionally) the toilet bowl. It basically turns my afternoon into a live-action version of an I Spy book.

Can you spy all the things required for you and your toddlers to go outside? Spot the following items, before your kids lose their shit because they just HAVE to build a snowman NOW: snow pants, winter coats, thermal socks, boots, waterproof mittens, hats, scarves, and LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE. (Okay, who am I kidding? Like the coffee isn't always accessible.)

Toddlers have jellyfish limbs.

I can barely get my squirmy-ass kids in the tub, which measures approximately 1.5 toddler x .75 toddler. So trying to shove their writhing bodies into 50 relatively-fitted layers of clothing isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Or, in this case, a walk in the unappealing arctic tundra that our backyard has transformed into overnight.

Oh, and the thumbs of those waterproof mittens? Eff that. My kids don’t need thumbs. Penguins don’t have thumbs, and they do just fine in the cold. Besides, they don’t need the dexterity. We all know that I’ll be the one risking frostbite out there, forced to remove my own mittens in order to properly handcraft “our” snowman, while the kids flop around nearby, barking orders at me like caffeinated seals.

“Bigger! Bigger!” (Any bigger, and I won’t be able to lift its head onto its body.)

“It want some hot cocoa!” (Not a good idea, guys.)

“Why her butt look so funny?” (YOU BOYS BETTER BE TALKING ABOUT THE SNOWMAN!)

Come on, you think my toddlers built this bitch?

Murphy’s Law of toddler shit habits, as it relates to winter clothing.

This basically states that as soon as I finally have all that shit (see “all the things”) on my kids, they either (1) will tell me they have to shit (hopefully in less abrasive language), or (2) will shit. On the spot. Under the 50 layers of snow gear I just wrangled them into.

Either scenario requires immediate removal of said shit (literal and figurative) because I’ll either (1) have to change their diapers, or (2) strip them down layer by layer and plop them on the toilet, where they’ll proceed to waste even more of my time by belting out “Do you wanna build a snowman?” and taking an HOUR to actually shit.

#itsscience

It’s also #bullshit.

And then we’re right back to shoving jellyfish limbs back into all 50 layers of clothing.

By the time I’ve finally managed to get my toddlers snow-ready, we’re usually all so worn-out that we barely make it 30 minutes outside before needing to come back in for snacks and a nap.

Then I have to remove and put away all their snow gear, and by the time that’s done, they’ve usually crapped themselves again.

*Sigh*

Someone needs to tell Mother Nature to get her shit together, before this mama loses hers.*

*Note: When I started this piece, my husband was home from work due to snowy/icy conditions. And now—less than a week later, as I hover over the "publish" button—temps are creeping toward 40. Our yard is mostly mud, and the boys are mourning the death of their beloved snowman.

But I won't be fooled again, and I'm keeping all the snow gear within reach for that cold bitch's inevitable next mood swing.

I’m Not Ready to Be “Mommy”

Since the day my boys were born, I have been “Mama.”

I never felt like a “Mommy,” which is actually a little ironic, since that’s what I called my own mother when I was young. My mom epitomizes everything I believe a mother should be. It seems natural that I’d be eager to take on her title.

But for some reason, the moment the doctor pulled my boys out of my open abdomen—10 weeks before their due date—it was the word “Mama” that popped into my head. As I kissed the delicate red skin of their cheeks, mere seconds before they were whisked away to the NICU, I knew that’s who I was meant to be.

In their absence, I whispered it to myself like a quiet prayer. The word on my lips felt much like their skin had: soft, comforting, natural, perfect.

I fell in love with the word “Mama” the same way I fell in love with my boys: immediately and irreversibly. I loved its simplicity and its symmetry. That one tiny syllable—whispered twice—was a perfect analogy for the two new loves that had entered my life.

The word “Mommy” just didn’t have the same effect. When I said it, I felt tension in my face as my lips stretched horizontally, their corners drooping slightly downward on the last syllable. It felt forced. It felt unnatural.

And it sounded unnatural, at least to me.

“Mama” sounded like a lullaby, and “Mommy,” more of a kitschy theme song to an animated kids’ show. Maybe it was that long “e” at the end of it. It sounded hard to me, and it didn’t match the new softness my boys had created in my heart.

And so, the day they were born, I was, too. As their “Mama.”

As their Mama, I watched them grow from scrawny preemies into chubby cherubs. When they smiled for the first time, it was their Mama who smiled back.

As their Mama, I laughed when they learned to crawl by chasing my untied shoelace around the kitchen floor. When they made it all the way to the refrigerator, it was their Mama who cheered for them.

As their Mama, I gazed upon their tiny hands when they reached out for one another, their little arms closing the gap between their Rock ’N Plays. When they interlocked their delicate baby fingers, it was their Mama’s heart that melted.

As their Mama, I marveled at the innovative way they walked around on their knees—their torsos upright—scooting around as though in animated prayer. When they transitioned to their feet and took their first steps, it was their Mama who clapped with pride.

And when I finally heard them call me “Mama,” each in his own time, I couldn’t imagine ever being anyone else.

*

Now here we are: My boys are on the cusp of Threenagehood. Instead of walking, they’re learning to use the potty. Instead of first words, we’re celebrating letter recognition. Instead of soft coos and simple words, I’m listening to full sentences and (frequent) demands.

Instead of rocking them to sleep in my arms at night, I’m tucking them into big boy beds. Instead of falling asleep to the sound of my voice, they’re drifting off in fits of giggles, while I sit in another room, listening to their private chatter (literally) behind closed doors.

And instead of “Mama,” I am “Mommy.”

The first time I heard one of them say it was over breakfast. They were forking sliced bananas at their Cars foldout table, and I was walking out of the kitchen to use the restroom. As I left, the voice of my youngest trilled after me:

“Mommmiiieeeeee.”

At first I laughed. I’d never heard either of them use that word before, and its newness sounded off-kilter and unnatural, like a native English speaker saying “Hola” for the first time. Of course, toddlers believe anything that evokes laughter bears repeating, so it wasn’t long before my other son was saying it:

“Mommiieeee, more pancakes. Mommiiieee, more ’nanas. Marshmallow cereal, Mommiiiee!”

I thought the novelty would wear off once I stopped laughing, but it kept happening.

When one of them accidentally locked himself in a bathroom stall at the splash park: “MOMMY, help!”

At bedtime, as we were reading stories: “Sit on MOMMY’s lap.”

When they caught me “resting my eyes” for a moment: “MOMMY go night-night.”

When they walked out the front door for a boys-only playground trip with Daddy: “Bye, MOMMY!” (That one stung just a little more than the others.)

I have nothing against the word “Mommy;” I’ve just never identified with it. I don’t feel a connection to it. But I suppose one of the poignant inevitabilities of motherhood is that as your children grow older, your identity—and the role you play in their lives—changes right along with them.

I’m not ALWAYS “Mommy.” In fact (to my relief), the boys have—on their own—reverted back to using “Mama” as their primary way of addressing me. But sometimes (usually when they’re being silly, or acting particularly independent), I become, at least for the moment, “Mommy.” 

And I don't like it.

I know it sounds silly that I'm getting so hung up on such a minute linguistic change. It is—after all—just a word. One word. Not even one word. One syllable. One vowel sound.

An “ah” to an “e,” and—just like that—it feels like I'm losing a piece of myself, the piece that initially connected with them in that NICU, almost three years ago. 

Just like that, I can feel their babyhood slipping away, taking my Mamahood with it.

Far more than the flip of a calendar page, the shift to “Mommy” is making me realize how quickly they’re growing up, and how much we’re leaving behind.

I know we still have a lot of "firsts" to look forward to: The first day of kindergarten, first bike rides, first Little League games, first science fair projects, first dates and first kisses (oof...just typing that makes me cringe).

I plan to be there for all of it (minus, perhaps, those first kisses), whether it's as their "Mommy," or (eventually, I'm sure) their "Mom."

But as they—and the role I play in their lives—continue to grow and change, I hope they'll always remember that I was their "Mama" first.

40 Ways to Make Your Toddler Cry This Fourth of July

When you’ve got toddlers, the Fourth of July isn’t so much a “holiday” as it is one giant suckfest. For starters, the main event takes place after bedtime, so you’re basically extending your kids’ waking hours in order to subject yourself to hordes of mosquitoes at a firework show that you probably don’t really give a crap about anyway.

But you know what? It might even be worth the extra stress and exhaustion if you got to see your kids actually enjoying themselves. I mean, I wouldn’t mind spending a late night with my boys snuggled in my lap, their faces lit up with awe and the glow of the fireworks above us, while patriotic music plays softly in the background.

But it doesn’t work that way. Trying to legitimately celebrate the Fourth of July with kids under the age of four pretty much turns the day into one big toddler tantrum. It’s simple math, really:

Overtired Toddlers + Loud Noises + Sparkly Things They Aren’t Allowed to Touch = Tears + Screaming

If you don’t trust in the equation, here are a few real-life examples of things you can do or say to your munchkins to make them weep this July 4th:

1. “No, it’s not a ‘present’ holiday.”

2. “We’re celebrating America’s birthday, not yours.”

3. “No, America’s mom is not providing goody bags.”

4. Wrestle them into their car seats to drive to a family cookout.

5. On the way there: “Sorry, guys, I left Elmo in Grouchland in the DVD player at home.”

6. After they inevitably fall asleep three minutes before arrival, wake them up when you get to the cookout.

7. At the cookout: “Those aren’t bouncy balls. They’re melon balls, and you need to stop throwing them on the floor.”

8. Force them to wear sunscreen when they ask to play outside.

9. “No, you can’t poke your brother with the sparkler. I don’t care if it looks like it would ‘tickle.’”

10. “You can’t eat it either. I don’t care if it looks like ‘sparkly cotton candy.’”

11. “You know what? I think we’re done with the sparklers now.”

12. When someone mentions Uncle Sam: “No, he’s not coming to the cookout.”

13. “…and, no, he doesn’t bring gifts like Santa.”

14. Wrestle them into their car seats after it’s already past bedtime in order to drive to a fireworks show.

15. After they inevitably fall asleep two minutes before arrival, wake them up when you get to the firework show.

16. Hose them down with bug spray in order to save their dewy toddler skin from the onslaught of mosquitoes sure to be there.

17. As you’re laying down a blanket for everyone to sit on: “No, we’re not building a fort.”

18. When they look at you with betrayal and confusion: “It’s the Fourth of July, not the Fort of July.”

19. Pull out the bag of limited edition red, white, and blue goldfish crackers that you foolishly brought in an attempt to provide a festive snack for the firework show.

20. “I didn’t bring orange fishies. These taste exactly like the orange fishies.”

21. Forget to pack juice.

22. Pack the wrong flavor juice.

23. “No, you don’t get presents after the fireworks.”

24. “Stop scratching your mosquito bites.”

25. “No, I’m not spending twenty dollars on a glow stick that’ll entertain you for approximately 15 seconds.”

26. After caving and buying the damn glow sticks: “No, we can’t trade them for the blue ones.”

27. Warn them that the fireworks are going to be loud. Or:

28. Fail to warn them that the fireworks are going to be loud.

29. “No, I can’t make them stop the fireworks.”

30. “No, we’re not going home yet.”

31. “No, I don’t think there’s going to be an Elmo shaped firework.”

32. “No, we can’t watch Elmo in Grouchland on the way home. I already told you, I left it at home.”

33. After the grand finale: “The fireworks are all done.”

34. “Nope, still no presents.”

35. Wrestle them into their car seats for the drive home.

36. After they inevitably fall asleep one minute before arrival, wake them up when you get home.

37. While you tuck them in: “No, Uncle Sam’s not coming tonight to bring presents.”

38. “No, we’re not leaving out milk and cookies for him.”

39. “No, you can’t have milk and cookies right now.”

40. “Yes, the Fourth of July is all done.”

Let freedom ring? Ha. Not if you’re a mom to toddlers.

  Happy “Independence” Day, suckers!