Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Special Guest Writer: The Heir and (Non) Spare

You know how some days you think you’re all that, like you can do anything? I had one of those days recently. After reading what I call my “daily dose of parental humor”, RANTS FROM MOMMYLAND, I thought to myself, “I could so write this stuff. I’m snarky, brilliant and quite the wordsmith in my own right, not to mention modest.” (What? I like to talk myself up)

I called a friend to see if she thought I should submit a guest post to RANTS. “OMG, you’re perfect, what with all that wine you drink” she squealed. So, I pitched the idea to Lydia and Kate. They were like “Sure, why not? How bad could you be?” Awesome! They totally wanted me. Practically begged me. To stop stalking them. But, since there are days when they are both totally PMS'ing, they figured a backup plan couldn’t hurt. (If you’re reading this, please say a prayer for the Cap’n and McLovin, cause Lydia and Kate must have their little “friends” in town).

I sat down to pen my masterpiece when a state of panic kicked in. My hands started shaking so bad I almost spilled my Pinot. I said almost. What have I done with all that braggin’ and beggin’? After all, I’m about as qualified to write a post for RANTS as Paula Deen is to write an article for InShape Magazine. I don’t have any stories of domestic chaos about one kid screaming while the other roasts marshmallows over a bathroom candle.

Like an 18 year old boy in the heat of passion, for half a second I considered pulling out. But I had already bragged to my Facebook friends and received words of encouragement like “give me a minute to bask in your awesomeness.” I’m not one to disappoint my friends, certainly not my Facebook friends. They might stop sending me those daily invites to join fricken Farmville. Isn’t Facebook supposed to be like a real life conversation (only virtual) and without a commitment to waste more than 3 minutes of your life with a guy you went to high school with, but don’t remember? I would not send my real life friends a request to help me buy a pig, eliminate my neighbor with a machine gun, earn little rocks for my little rock pool, send a YoVille gift (WTF is YoVille?) or hit me in some online pillow fight. But, I digress.

Then it hit me. I could be the voice of the under-represented “MOS” Mommies of Singles. Cause, I have just one child. By choice. And it’s awesome.

So in honor of my all time favorite bloggers, I’m going to give it my best shot.

I don’t know about the rest of you MOS, but I’m amazed at the looks I get when I answer “no, we’re done,” in response to being asked when we’re going to have another child? Here is just a sampling of some of the dumbass comments made by actual friends:
  • “Don’t you think it’s selfish to have only one child?” – If by selfish you mean you wish like hell your grocery shopping, road trips, school pickups, mornings, noons and nights were 1/2 as easy as mine, then yes. I’m a wee bit selfish. To you.
  • “He won’t have anyone to go through your death with.” – This is a valid reason to have multiple children? “Honey, let’s make love and produce another pal-bearer.”
  • “But, doesn’t he get lonely?” – It’s not like we make him sleep in the garage and forbid friends. In fact, he had several stretches where he slept in our bed. He wasn’t lonely. My husband? He was lonely.
  • “When you go to amusement parks, doesn’t it suck that someone always has to ride the rides alone?” – This one totally got the Maude face. Yeah, I’m gonna go through another 9 months of the ever-expanding ass experiment just so I have a buddy on the Matterhorn. I’ll take one for the team and sit with a stranger. Or a character. Or a mongoose.
  • “My sister and I are best friends.” – Um, congratulations? My best friend is my best friend. I’ve spent more time over the last 33 years with her than with my actual sibling. Of course, he’s a boy. Cause my parents were too damn selfish to keep trying for a girl so I could have a BFF with the same bloodline.
What if us MOS made similar comments to MOM (mommies of multiples)?
  • “Don’t you think it’s selfish to produce a sibling for your child?” – Because he seemed an awful lot happier when he didn’t have to share his happy meal.
  • “They’ll fight over your estate.” – Before you’re even dead.
  • “Don’t they get sick of each other?” – Cause my brother was ready to kill me by the time I was 8. Seriously, he came pretty close once in what we now call “the unfortunate rocket-ride incident.” I have the scar on my bottom lip to prove it.
  • “When you go to amusement parks, doesn’t it suck that you have to spend $2000 just to get in?” – And, aren’t you afraid to lose one on Tom Sawyer Island?
  • “Does it bother you that they totally seem to hate each other?” – I’ve got one friend who, every SINGLE time we get on the phone to chat, has to interrupt the call at least 547 times to tell her oldest to take her sister out of the trash compactor.
I love being a MOS!!!  Especially to a boy. In my castle, I’m the princess and the queen. I share the grand master suite with my husband of 8 years, The Prince. Appropriately named after he proposed on a gondola. In Venice. Italy. To me. I’m not necessarily hard on the eyes, but can be a bit rough on the soul. A friend once gave me an embroidered pillow that reads “I’m not bossy. I just have better ideas.” She knows me very well.

Our 6 year old, lonely, ur uh, I mean only, Jonesy (Indiana Jones reference) and his Guinea Pig, Noodle, share a room down the hall. Jonesy hates the nickname Jonesy. We used to call him “Little Man,” but at 4’2 and 72 lbs, that just didn’t work for us anymore. In one of his few defiant moments, he protested “do not call me Jonesy anymore!” He proclaimed that he wanted a new nickname and announced it was to be “Bob.” I’m concerned about the functionality of the right side of his brain. But, what the boy lacks in creativity, he makes up for in utter adorableness. We continue to call him Jonesy. He’s over it.

Downstairs, in the mother-in-law suite, lives my father-in-law, also known as Pappy. He’s 86. And, he’s been living with us ever since we got married. He moved in while we were on our honeymoon. I KNOW! Our family is rounded out by our two large dogs who also sleep in the grand master suite. Sweet! I’m not sure who’s snoring keeps me awake most at night, The Prince’s, the dogs’ or Pappy’s—his room is directly below the grand master suite. My life is badass!

The snoring is nothing compared to the constant “shooting of cannons,” our family’s term for farting. I hate the word “fart.” And “toot” is so played. There are days when I feel as though I’m living with the monarchy of flatulence. Pappy, the king, cannot travel the 50 foot distance from our family room to the mother-in-law suite without powering his journey with those rapid-fire infractions that seem to plague old people. You know the ones. Where everyone, except the 6 year old, pretends they don’t hear them? Though Pappy actually has no idea his ass has turned into an outboard motor—it’s that regular. When he “takes his throne” you’d swear the castle were under attack by a sniper with a semi-automatic.

The Prince sleeps on the left side of the bed, always on his left side. And, because of his fantastic ability to frequently “shoot his cannon” in his sleep, I haven’t slept on my left side in 8 years. And Jonesy, the little heir to the throne, is now at the stage where he enjoys shouting a battle cry of “fire in the hole” then running up to his dad, lifting his leg, and not only shooting, but aiming his cannon. It’s stunning.

Don’t even get me started with the dogs.

I’ve taught Jonesy a lot of life lessons in the past 6 years, but none he’ll thank me for more than these two:
  1. Girls (including mommies, schoolmates, neighbors, girlfriends, grandmas, and wives) do not find the fine art of shooting ones cannon ½ as funny as you do. In fact, we mostly find it to be a gross reality that we must endure if we are to live with men.
  2. Girls never shoot their cannons. Even when you think you’ve heard or smelled something, you are mistaken. Never mention it. Just assume you are wrong. Since you’ll be a man, you’ll get used to being wrong.
I’m pleased to say that my life is much bigger than the crowded house of stench where I reside. I have a husband who truly adores me. Just me. We’ve made this amazing boy who lights every dark place I ever had before him. All by himself, no sibling required. And we share our lives with a lonely old man who fuels our son’s imagination with wonder, history and wisdom. LOL - I said “fuel.” And as for being an MOS, I wouldn’t have it any other way. So suck it, MOM! (not you mom, relax).

My life is badass!

A special thanks to Daisy B. for writing this awesome post. We are your biggest fans!
xo, Lydia and Kate


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