[Before you read this entry, if you haven’t already heard about what happened when Melissa from Suburban Bliss was on the Today show, check out the video, and read up on it here.]

A week or so ago we were putting Babs to bed and dealing with the required nightly whining. “But I’m not tired!” (Giant yawn.) “I’m the kind of girl that doesn’t need to sleep!” (Stumble YAWN stumble.) As always, we read her some books and gave her some kisses and tucked her into bed despite her sleepy protests. I had barely closed the door behind me when I heard her calling me back into her room. Opening the door again I saw that somehow, in the few seconds it took for me to leave her bedside and walk out into the hall, she had taken off all her clothes below the waist, stripped her bed of all covers, toys, and stuffed animals, and peed. Intentionally. When I asked her what the heck she was thinking, she told me, “I thought that if my bed was wet you would let me come sleep with you and Daddy!”

As a mother, you sometimes come across moments where you are at such a loss that you would pay any amount of money to have someone come and get your child through whatever incident transpired while you are somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. Eating chocolate. A calculated, pre-meditated bed-wetting is unquestionably one of those moments. I do not like cleaning up pee. I do not want to figure out how to explain to her, in a voice that is gentle enough so that she’s not shamed but firm enough that she knows I’m serious, that she cannot control where she sleeps by deciding to pee in her bed. But I have to. I’m her mother. And if I mess it up, I’ll be dealing with repeated episodes of calculated peeing, not to mention the fact that she’ll probably grow up with some kind of peeing complex and cost us thousands of dollars in peeing therapy. (However unlikely that outcome may seem to you non-parents out there, all mothers will tell you that we are constantly overwrought by the thought of how much therapy our children are going to need because of us.)

My point here is that no matter how small, annoying, mundane, or unsavory a task presents itself with our children, not only do we not have a choice whether or not to deal with it, but we aren’t just dealing with it to get through the moment. We are actively parenting during that moment to ensure that our children learn from this experience and use it to grow into a good person. And that, Ms. Viera, is why being a mother is nothing like being a babysitter. How dare you imply that my parenting is worth as much as a fourteen year old’s part time job. Finslippy and Izzymom have both articulated this better than I ever could, both bringing up what I consider to be the core issue here: that mothers are held to an impossibly high standard without ever receiving the respect that should naturally follow from achieving that standard. Why? Because other women are jumping on every opportunity to pick their fellow mothers apart.

I do not drink. And even so, I have absolutely no problem with a mother having a glass of wine at a playgroup, just as I have no problem with a dad indulging in a can of beer as the kids scurry around his feet while he watches the game. I have many reasons for this opinion, but I honestly don’t think that drinking vs. not drinking is what has gotten the internet up in arms about this interview. The fact is, one well-spoken and responsible mother was judged and attacked on national television by two other mothers, just because they don’t agree with her. There were no alternatives offered by Meredith Viera or Dr. Taylor when they gave their opinion that mothers need to find “other ways” to relax and socialize. No solutions were given to something they obviously considered a problem. And I think that’s because the point was not to present a rounded, well-informed piece of news. The point was to judge.

No wonder mothers feel isolated, alone, and unsupported. To become friends with another mother is to risk being cut down by her. And to be honest? I’m not sure I really want the “village” raising my child if the village is full of women like that.

When I was little, one of my dad’s favorite ways to get me out of bed quick in the morning was to look out my window and say, “It snowed last night!” Without fail, even if it was mid-August and I had slept with a fan on to ward off the heat, I would pop out of bed wide awake to see if it was true. (His other favorite way to wake me up was to hold a glass of water over my head and threaten to dump it if I didn’t wake up. Granted, I have never been a morning person, but I strongly believe that these early morning traumas contributed to my great need for therapy later in life.)

Living in the Northwest, our winters have always been wet and mild. I can count on one hand the memories I have of waking up to a white Christmas. On the rare occasions that we got a snowfall heavy enough to allow sledding, every child in the neighborhood would be outside as long as their cold little toes could take it. You had to pack every fun snow activity you could think of into one day, because you never knew if the snow would still be there tomorrow. Every yard would be littered with snow angels and the remnants of a furious snowball fight. Tracks from twenty different sleds led from the homes to the one tiny slope in our neighborhood that could be used as a sledding hill. A proud, dilapidated snowman held a frozen vigil beside every front porch. Snow was magical. Our world shut down completely, as drivers who were unaccustomed to snowy streets all decided to stay home, and schools closed their doors for the day. Everyone was cheerful and full of energy, and neighbors who we hadn’t seen or spoken to for months would be out in their yard calling greetings to the passers by. At the end of the day, I would fall into bed exhausted with red cheeks still burning from the cold and a belly full of hot chocolate. Nothing has ever felt so perfectly satisfying.

When the snow started to fall yesterday, I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to take the girls sledding and teach little Zibbit how to make her first snow angel. But I noticed some other thoughts creeping in that I hadn’t expected. I found myself praying for the snow to please please be melted in time for Babs to go to school on Monday. I mean, not only do I look forward to that little break, but I also pay good money for her to go to class!

Ugh. What a horridly adult outlook.

I was also concerned about driving safely on the slushy streets, and since my mom’s power was out my mind was fervently cataloging all the candles and extra blankets just in case ours went out too. In a way, I felt like the responsible mommy in me was betraying that innocent child inside who wanted nothing more than to run out and catch snowflakes on my tongue. The fluttery anticipation I remember feeling at watching the ground turn white when I was little was overshadowed by the obligation I felt to think ahead and prepare and make sure the kids’ noses were warm enough. The responsibility took away so much of the special magic of our first snowfall this year. As I nervously watched the temperature drop and the streets turn from slush to ice, I thought (not for the first time) that sometimes it really sucks to be a grown-up.

This weekend. It was hard. And last week. That was hard too. I’ve been dealing with a lot of no-fun emotional yuck, and on top of all that, Zibbit is 2 1/2. I shouldn’t have to say anything else. All I have to say is that she’s 2 1/2 and that should be enough to make you all say, “Oh, dude, we didn’t realize. I’m so sorry. How’re you holding up?”

When you have a newborn, everyone’s always asking you how things are going. Are you getting any sleep? How is the breastfeeding going? Are your stitches healing ok? Everyone is so concerned and willing to listen to your gripes about blocked ducts and colic. It’s such a shock, to your body and your way of life, to give birth. That tiny little person creates a massive upheaval in your schedule and priorities. It’s hard. And exhausting. Everyone tells you things will get easier as your baby gets older. And that is the meanest, most horribly malicious lie you will ever hear in your entire life.

I would like to find each and every one of those people who told me things would get easier, that we would adjust, and stick them in a room with this demon who used to be my child for an hour. Just one hour and they will be begging me for mercy, offering me money and diamonds and yachts, anything I want if I would please for the love of all that is good and holy just let them leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter very much. And I haven’t called for an exorcism yet. Although I’ve come close. The kid will not wear clothes anymore. She will not eat. She will scream bloody murder for chocolate every day at six am, and shoot death daggers from her eyes if you even so much as suggest a diaper change. She will also whack you in the eye with her binky if you ask her nicely to please stop licking your face and tell you to “leave me ‘lone” when you try to kiss her goodnight. She will demand that you read her a book while at the same time refusing to let you look at the page to see the frickin words. She will shriek like a dying raccoon when you put her into the bathtub and then double the volume when you try to get her out. And then, when you’re just about to throw yourself from the roof to make it all end, she’ll come to you out of the blue and give you giant sloppy kisses while telling you how much she loves you. I feel like I’m living with an alcoholic. The inconsistency is making me crazy. I never know what’s going to set her off. Am I enabling her when I let her wear nothing but shoes to bed? Is there an Al-Anon for parents of 2 1/2 year olds?

And don’t you dare tell me that things will get easier. I just might have to hurt you.

Every once in a while, Ammon and I will get into a discussion about whose job is harder. He always talks about how lucky I am to spend so much time with the kids, and that I don’t have to worry about making enough money to support the family. I bring up the fact that his job doesn’t include people hanging on his legs while he goes to the bathroom or throwing chicken nuggets at his head and screaming incoherently. His boss always tells him what a great job he’s doing. In fact, a couple of months ago he even got a raise and a promotion. My bosses like to show their appreciation by splashing me in the face with bath water and taking turns waking up before dawn.

I would kill for the kind of work environment he has. Can you imagine? He gets to eat lunch whenever he wants, without first taking orders from tiny irrational people who yell at you when you refuse to give them ice cream. He gets to spend time talking to people about interesting, intelligent subjects instead of asking them if they have to go potty or explaining the various alternatives for cleaning one’s nose other than picking it. I suppose that’s the very nature of being a mother. It’s a job filled with mundane, repetitive tasks, severe under appreciation, and no breaks. None whatsoever. I work seven days a week, on call twenty-four hours a day, and I don’t even bring home minimum wage.

So why in the world do I feel guilty about wanting to get away from it all?

It’s not like I’m asking for a month long cruise in the Bahamas (although hey, if anyone is offering, I’ll totally take you up on it!) I just need a night to myself once in a while. Maybe a weekend without any responsibilities. A few hours to go shopping alone so I can actually look at the merchandise instead of chasing two crazed little monkeys all over the store. But when I admit those needs to myself, I am always suddenly filled with shame and guilt. I mean, what kind of mother would want to get away from her precious babies, the people she loves most in the whole entire world? It feels like some kind of failure, like I just can’t take the heat. And as much as my head tells me that I’ll never be able to take care of anyone else unless I take care of myself first, I still can’t escape the whisper that crawls up my spine telling me what a terrible mother I am for wanting to get the heck out of here.

There are times when my kids just fill my heart with pride and pleasure. First of all, they are the cutest kids on the planet, and even when they’re grumpy they look beautiful. And sometimes I get a glimpse of what’s going on inside their sweet little heads, and I just can’t believe that I am the one they call their mommy. We went trick or treating at Ammon’s office on Halloween, and Babs was in sugar heaven. Most of the employees had already gone home, so the long hallways were lined with bowls of candy sitting outside empty offices. As she filled her bag, Babs looked up with this darling little mischievous look on her face and said, “It’s like stealing, and saying trick or treat!” Seriously. Who would not want to hang out with a kid who comes up with stuff like that?

I know that those cute moments are always sandwiched between moments of limit pushing and selective hearing, but again I hear that whisper telling me that if I was a “good mother”, the happy times would be enough to slide me effortlessly through those not so happy times. It’s not true of course, and it’s a stupid, irrational thought. I just have to figure out how to stop listening to it.

Although we barely slept and our spanking new, right-out-of-the-box parenting skills had yet to be broken in, I think that the first year was the easiest. So straight-forward, problems all so easily solved. The second year was physical. She tantrumed and flailed, bolted in parking lots and fought a winning battle against harnesses of any kind. Years three and four were achingly emotional, so many of life’s joys and pains freshly discovered and experienced. Independence was exerted, freedom was explored, feline mortality was heart-breakingly understood but not accepted.

And now, several months in, I’d have to say that the fifth year can be described in one word. One innocent little grouping of letters that doesn’t look like much, but packs a serious wallop. Attitude.

There are many demands. Much whining. It has been made very clear that Mommy has no earthly clue. She has aged ten years in a few short months and I am suddenly dealing with an adolescent that I thought I had ages to prepare for. She is so grown up, saying things like, “Why, thank you!” and “Daddy, could you please remove this strange-looking device from my pony’s tail?” But it is glaringly apparent that although we are needed for general chores and food preparation, we as parents are really only there to annoy her. “Mo-ohhhhhhhhm!” I hear several times a day. Feet firmly planted, tiny hands on non-existent hips, she is comically serious. But I do not dare laugh. It would only prove my ineptitude.

I would write more, about how I have decided to choose my battles and how it seems that the little one, terrifyingly, seems to be aging even more quickly than her big sister and already I have heard a small voice full of irritation calling out “Momeeeeeeeee!”…

…but it seems that the peaches are touching the strawberries on their plates and this is a serious issue that must be dealt with immediately.