Compelling theory, right? You can use it to explain almost any human or animal quirk.

Except that it all starts falling apart once you become a parent. Because about 80 percent of newborn behaviors would have caused the less sensitive parents of yore to put their babies out in the cold and roll a rock over the entrance to the cave, or simply eat them. Assuming that childhood development was roughly the same back in prehistoric times as it is now, by the time the kids made it to toddlerhood, perhaps only 40% of their actions would merit abandonment.

But a sick toddler, one of the most vulnerable creatures, wouldn’t inspire a modicum of nurturing in a parent who wasn’t sophisticated enough to realize that it was just a temporary state that would run its course in due time, and that what the little patient needed most was tender loving care. If Natural Selection really worked, modern sick children would sniffle quietly in the corner as they waited to recover, making adorably pitiful facial expressions. The horrible traits of whining and nagging and clinging and smearing snot would have been extinguished long before we started using tools or making fire. (Did I mention that my kids are sick?)

So the only viable explanation left is that God created us in his image, right? It follows, then, that God is super powerful, but doesn’t really know what he’s doing, much like the dude in “The Greatest American Hero.” He could definitely fuck us all over if he wanted to, and he still might, even if he’s trying to help. Just like a parent.

Next cosmological conundrum?

Sibling bonding starts early.

My son has always been a happy and smiley boy. His first smiles were huge, infectious and almost goofy. I knew right away that he was going to be an outgoing kid who would no doubt keep me on my toes. No one can make that boy laugh (and cry!) the way his big sister does. The sibling bond is strong with these two and it shows not only in the way they connect but the influence they have on one another.

I don’t discourage the interests of a child’s mind and I try to allow them to explore what they like rather than what I’d like them to like. I’m very open minded and encourage my kids to figure themselves out. You will never hear me say “Boy’s don’t do that,” or “Those are just for girls!” so my son tends to pick up on activities his older sister digs.

This has led to some hilarious moments that I haven’t discouraged and of course documented… which probably makes me the worst mother ever. If something hilarious happens I tend to jump for the camera first and ask questions later. I figure all the sleepless nights we are trying to survive, stressed moments, defiant tantrums that make us want to poke our eyes out are all payments for the gems I can capture.

My son may hate me and my camera one day or he may embrace his individuality… either way, he better watch his butt when he is in high school because I got this ammo:

Fierce Cheerleader: Lock Up Your Daughters

Big Sister's First Mickey Ears Look Adorable on Him

They Didn't Mind Sharing Dress-Up Clothes

He Rolls with Princesses

He Walks in Them Better Than Mommy

Fabulous Little Brother

And just in case my son one day finds this post I just want to say: Mommy loves you very much and always will. I warned you… now go clean your room.

There’s only one problem: they’ve started bringing home three dimensional “works of art”.

Three dimensional pieces do not fit in my accordion files and I’m left to wonder, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

What am I supposed to do with my daughter’s cat sculpture? You know… the one with the cracked left foot and ears that broke off while the cat made the treacherous journey from school to home. I can’t put that in an accordion file! I can’t throw it away, either, because my daughter spent several days creating this masterpiece and would drop to the floor and keen if I suggested it go to the great clay kitty condo in the sky. No, I’m stuck with the cat and it sits on the china cabinet, silently mocking my powerlessness.

What am I supposed to do with the “robot” my son created at robotics camp? It is basically a yogurt container with a small engine-like thingy inside and wires all over the place. It moves and vibrates and it will not fit in the accordion file! When I suggested to my son that we throw it away, he said, “But Mom… it’s a robot!” One kid’s “robot” is a parent’s trash. So, it sits on a shelf in his room collecting dust and angry stares from me.

What am I to do with the misshaped “bowls,” “serving plates” and “mugs” lovingly made for me by my kids? I can’t hang them on a tree, and you know what else? THEY WILL NOT FIT IN THE ACCORDION FILE!

It’s like the Island of Misfit Clay Shit up in this joint and I’m drowning in pinch pots.

I don’t know what to do. I could tell my children that they can no longer work with clay, maybe tell them we just found out that they’re allergic to clay and that their hands will fall off. Or, I could sneak into the school in the dead of night and steal all the clay.

What’s a parent to do? Do any of you have an answer, or are you all being mocked by clay sculptures of woodland creatures as you read this?

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This is getting confusing. I’m talking about granola bars, not my life philosophy. Though if I had an actual life philosophy it wouldn’t have high-fructose corn syrup in it. And it would be honey sweet. Just like these bars.

What were we talking about again?

Oh, yeah. The recipe.

Unless you live on Mars, your kid’s school is nut-free, right? And unless your kids are weird, they love granola bars, right? And unless you’re a crazy corn farmer, you’re a little scared of all the shit they put in those commercially prepared nut-free granola bars, right? And whether you’ve been too lazy to look it up, or you have looked it up and discovered every damn granola bar recipe calls for some kind of nut butter, you’re pretty sure that you either have to suck it up and give your kids the diabetes-death-in-a-bar commercial ones or wean them off the treats–and there ain’t no methadone for that. Right?

Wrong.

I can save you this torment with one word….

Dates!

No, I’m not asking you out. I’m talking about those moist, chewy, sweet, dehydrated fruit thingies that come in big plastic bins. I’m not sure how they appear in the wild; at the grocery store they are rather turd-like. But they taste good. Food that looks like turds often does. Funny that.

So instead of nut butter, you use pureed dates. The rest of the ingredients are gravy. Shit. Don’t take that literally. Dates and gravy will not make granola bars. Don’t use your blender much, do you?

Ingredients:

• 2 cups large flake oats
• 1/2 cup sticky rice flour (or any flour, but sticky rice is good cause it’s… sticky)
• 1 1/2 cups dried fruit
• 1 cup mixed seeds and grains (I used half black and half white sesame seed, but millet, flax, or even Rice Krispies would work)
• 1/2 tsp. cinnamon
• About 10 large dates (medjool are best)
• 1 tbsp. water
• 1/2 cup butter, melted
• 1/3 cup honey
• 1/4 cup molasses
• 1/2 tsp. vanilla

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Put oats on flat cooking tray and toast lightly. Toast seeds in a heavy pan over medium-high heat.
3. Mix all dry ingredients.
4. In a blender or food processor, pulse the dates with the water.
5. Add other wet ingredients to the date mixture and blend until gluey.
6. Mix wet ingredients into dry ingredients. You might need to add more oats or a little more honey to make the right texture (should be sticky and clumpy).
7. Press into a parchment paper-lined 8×8 baking tray and bake for about 30 minutes.
8. Let cool completely before cutting.
9. Send your kids to school bragging about their awesome mom.

Three Second Rule? Maybe.

1. The perky boobs I paid for. I mean, really! I nursed for almost 16 months (in your face, people who told me I couldn’t do it!).  Now my nipples look a little sad, it’s like they’re looking down in shame now that they don’t have a job. We’ve looked in the classified ads but the boob jobs available aren’t to the girls’ liking

2. My ass. Let’s face it, its gone and while some of you might think its a good idea, I need the junk in my trunk to meet up with a hunk (cheesy I know but, see blog title and bite me)

3. Attention span. The ability to walk out of a room and hold the same thought that was in my head when I entered.

4. My need to eat warm food. Because there’s always an emergency when I’m eating OR the kid wants MY food even though I put the same damn thing on her plate!

5. Fear of licking food that’s just hit the floor. Let me confirm, the 3 second rule still applies in the 21st century right?

6. My patience. It’s funny because I have tons of patience for kids, it’s adults that get on my last nerve now (really, heifer? You’re gonna just act crazy like that in front of me? Come on, son!)

7. My shame.  Although one could make a good case that I didn’t have much of this prior to the birth of my child.  But how could any be left after some dry humored doctor fondled my placenta (like really! Did you know they touch it and make sure things are “okay”? What in the hell are they looking for? An alien?)

I would like to have offered up a top 10 list but, let’s face it, I’ve also lost my ability to count (so that’s #8), my need to complete tasks (#9) and my giving a damn (#10!).  Make up your own explanations as needed, fill in the blanks as appropriate and remember item #10!

What did you lose after popping out a kid?

About the Writer

When not pretending she’s a freelance writer to her family and friends, Sili is busy rearing and shaping her 2 year old frog princess into a natural born leader (read: she’s bossy and she gets it from her mama).  Sili wants world peace and a good glass of wine. And, whatever those two things might lead to. Read more of Sili’s writing on her blog My Mamihood

If someone told me what I should be doing I would do the opposite. Just because.

Isn't that the face of a perfect kid? Yup, that's me. I've changed a lot.

Or if someone doubted my ability to do something, I would push myself to prove them wrong. Do you know what happens when you tell the teenage version of me that they can’t skateboard off the roof into the pool?

Thankfully my head narrowly missed the fate that my broken skateboard suffered.

But there were still many ER trips. Never let your 15-year-old own a razor sharp katana sword and not expect her to need stitches.

Some of this lingers. If someone says to me, “You should sit down!” or, “Here have my seat,” I will respectfully decline and stand.

Not because I want to stand but because I was told to sit.

There may be reasons why I’ve been single a long time…

My dad never knew how to deal with me when I was a kid… actually, he still doesn’t. I was his princess-turned-evil queen. The more he pushed me and tried to restrict me the more I would push back. He eventually gave up and I was like a feral child.

He used to joke with me that if I ever had kids then he would finally have redemption. He would say that payback of me having a child like me was going to be his only sweet victory.

He was disappointed when my princess spawn turned out to be the sweetest thing on the planet. She has always been the kid who will go out of her way to make people happy. She is the calm balance in my heart that I needed.

But, lately my daughter has been pushing limits.

She has turned in to a defiant nine-year-old with a side of crazy. Hormones, right?

She is still that sweet lovebug… but now we argue. She pushes back. She goes against me. The other day she gave me that head turn with the obnoxious eye roll that shocked me so much I thought I was going to crap my pants.

This isn’t my kid. She’s possessed!

Then my dad told me something horrible… he said that she was exactly like me and I was like him. It’s in the genes. The grin on his face made it clear that his payback was on the horizon. I’ve never seen such an elated expression on his face.

I’m so screwed.

This is eerily similar to every photo taken of me in high school. Except I had curly hair. Which somehow makes it worse.

There were two things I wanted to accomplish more than anything at sixteen: marry Keanu Reeves and have EVERYONE think I’m awesome at EVERYTHING. Hermione Granger meets Rachel Berry. So sad.

I competed in a state competition for French impromptu speaking and got third place in the whole state. My teacher told me that my third place ribbon was due solely to a lack of effort on my part and that it was very disappointing.

Dudes.

I spoke.

In French.

For fifteen minutes.

About what I like to do on Friday night or some crap.

And I was the third best at it among people who did that in the ENTIRE state of Florida.

AND I AM NOT FRENCH.

I just said, “I’m sorry” and went to my hotel room and cried the rest of the night. I would have very much liked to have been one of the kids sitting at the back of the auditorium of that competition proclaiming the utter bullshit of it all.

That girl who wanted to be good at everything grew into the woman who had to be good at everything, too.

Enter second child. Having that second kid threw everything out of whack. Maintaining a perfect house, hair, clothes, cooking, reading list (what? shut up.) would have entailed giving up sleep. Or sanity. Or one of my children. That seemed… drastic.

Epiphany: Rachel and Hermione? It’s okay to just hit “good enough” most of the time while being “absolutely great” at a few really important things.

My “good enough” today is getting the toddler to count to ten in (gasp!!) just one language. My “absolutely great” is sitting on the floor with him and building a city with a birthday cake building at the city center. “Good enough” is taking the clothes out of the dryer and putting them away… in the future. My “absolutely great” is respecting myself enough to curl up with a good book instead. Or catch up on reruns of The Big Bang Theory.

I might never make a Halloween costume or cross stitch a pillow because there are “good enough” alternatives out there, but if one of my kids (or husband) tells me they want to join the Peace Corps or become an investment banker, then I will love them and be proud of them and support them. I’m an Aiming Low Woman.

My God, I am the adult sitting at the back of the room proclaiming the utter bullshit of trying to do it all!

And I think that might the biggest “absolutely great” I have going on.

And as much as I want to be there, this does require me to, gasp, deal with Other Mothers.

I live smack dab in Batshit Central. I used to think everywhere was like this–you know, that I was the problem–until I recently read a quote in Philadelphia magazine that amounted to “Liz’s town is the pits and is filled with insane suburban parents.”

Walking into a cafeteria filled with 200 loons is a practice in, well, zombie apocalypse training. Basically, take Shaun of the Dead–when they pretend they’re zombies among zombies so they can get to the pub–yeah, that’s me.

Which is actually a funny joke.

What did the zombies get when they crossed the road?

Brains.

And that’s kinda what’s lacking when I enter the cafeteria.

All of them don’t like me. Which I am totally okay with.

The feeling is mutual.

“All of them” is not accurate. More like the ones who are always there don’t like me.

All suburban parents are not like this. It is seriously where I live. Everyone I tell my stories to–the stuffed squirrel in a cage, the mom who won’t let her daughter say vagina, the stalker, the woman who stands guard because her adopted son may be snatched by the League of Birth Mothers–is all: really? 

And I’m all: totally. 

You sign your kid up for a little thing called Girl Scouts in kindergarten and suddenly you know everything about everyone when you wanted to know nothing. And then you’re stuck feeling incredibly awkward while holding a bat debating who and which one is going to lunge.

I could, potentially, have to be prepared for the next nine years.

OMG.

Why didn’t someone warn me? Like, in a book: The Mamapocalypse: The Survival Guide.

A few bullet points on how to volunteer while simultaneously avoiding mombies would, I’m sure, have taught me all that I needed to know.

• Avoid direct eye contact
• Color coordinated velour tracksuits circa 2003 = be at the ready
• Confirm all emergency exits
• Do not say anything remotely Liberal
• Talk only in scrapbooking terms

Mombies are known to gather:

• Near stop signs at 8:15 am and 3:30 pm
• Once a month under the banner of the Parental Torture Association
• On a soccer field near you each Saturday; times vary

This is all very important stuff; it would have been incredibly useful BEFORE we entered the elementary years. The baby years were all nicey-nice preschool play.

Tonight, I sat down and met another new person. All I could think was: she looks nice. What crazy is she hiding? What would the survival guide tell me?

Be. At. The. Ready.

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