Tag Archives: parenting

Mommy w(h)ining: Is drinking while parenting OK?

In a recent story in the Washington Post, writer Janice D’Arcy asks if drinking while parenting is a good time or a problem. It’s an interesting question to ask, especially in light of recent books such as The Three-Martini Playdate by Christie Mellor and Naptime is the New Happy Hour by Stefanie Wilder Taylor, which imply that rearing children is such a buzz-kill, it’s easier (and more fun) to parent while buzzed. Incidentally, Wilder Taylor has now admitted publicly to an alcohol addiction, which was the basis for the story in the Washington Post. The message seems to be: if motherhood is driving you to drink, well, maybe you shouldn’t.

 

Author Christie Mellor has fun -- and a cocktail -- while parenting.

 

While I’m the first to admit that I like a good cocktail, especially a Perfect Margarita, I also usually consume just one. When the kids were younger (read: needier, more taxing) there were times we mommies would get together and have a couple glasses of wine while we bemoaned our new lives of diapers, night wakings and dislike for playing Sir Topham Hatt (of Thomas the Tank Engine fame) with our toddlers ad nauseam. I’m sure for most of us the need for group w(h)ining has waned as the children have gotten older (read: are potty trained, sleeping through the night and attending school full days). (Note: we never hit the bottle alone in the closet, a la Sue Ellen of Dallas — that seems to be some kind of line you really don’t want to cross.)

Surely, not every mommy who develops a fondness for Shiraz when the children are young turns into a raging alcoholic. And yet, as with so many motherhood issues, it’s a subject that draws an all-or-nothing debate, with people advocating abstention lest you dive headfirst into another bottle to self-medicate. It leaves us cocktail-friendly moms wondering: whatever happened to moderation?

In the January issue of Today’s Parent in a story called Confessions of a Merlot-loving mom, writer Lisa van de Geyn argues for just that. Relax, mommies, she writes. It’s OK to indulge from time to time, or even to have one drink a day.

So with New Year’s Eve approaching — and the prospect of two more weeks of non-stop parenting while the children are out of school — let go of any guilt you may have about drinking on the  parenting job. As long as you don’t overdo it regularly, don’t stress about it. Moms already have enough things to angst over on a daily basis; it’s no use beating ourselves up over the occasional journey to Margaritaville. Hiccup!

Christmas gift for sleep-deprived parents: Go the F**k to Sleep book

Last night my son woke up crying seven times in the night. Seven! How I wished I had a copy of Adam Mansbach’s best-selling, expletive-laced bedtime story on hand: Go the F**k to Sleep

Parents can relate to this eloquent bedtime rhyme of F-bombs, by Adam Mansbach.

 
Though at age four Bennett is a little old for nursery rhymes, at 3 a.m. (wake-up No. 5), my inner mean-mommy would have relished reading him these lines:
 
“The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest / And the creatures who crawl, run and creep. / I know you’re not thirsty. That’s bullshit. Stop lying. / Lie the fuck down, my darling, and sleep.”
 
Instead I sternly admonished Bennett for his repeated wake-ups, told him it was the middle of the night and to go (the f**k) to sleep. Except I didn’t drop the F-bomb, I just said it in my head. The problem is, if I swore a lot when exasperated, pretty soon my kids would start saying things like, “Where the f**k are my snowpants?” or “I f**king hate fish sticks!” So probably best to only fantasize about a middle-of-the-night F-bomb tirade.
 
Still, if you know some new parent zombies who can’t get their baby to sleep, give the gift of humour this year. And if you need a laugh, listen to Samuel L. Jackson reading the book on YouTube.

Parenting is a pain in the back

Today, as I hobbled into school to pick up my daughter, people asked me how my weekend was. It really sucked. Well, sort of. Why, you wonder? Follow:

My husband left Saturday morning for a week in Cuba with his brother and dad, leaving me alone with the two children. This wouldn’t have been a problem except that 15 minutes after he left for the airport, as I was bending over to help my son on the potty, my SI joint went out. I felt a twinge of sudden pain in my pelvis and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t stand up straight, walk without pain, or sit comfortably. Basically, the muscles all around the joint seized up to prevent further damage. The result: extreme pain and severely limited mobility.

This happens to me about twice a year and usually occurs because of something ridiculous. Last April it happened when I was bending over to pick up a bar of soap, a year ago it happened when I was bending over to grab a diaper, two years ago the pain hit while bending over gardening and three years ago it went out when I was bending over to put my son in his crib.

Clearly, I should find a way to live without bending over. The problem is that back pain and parenting go hand-in-hand as parenting is nothing if not a never-ending schedule of bending over. Get them out of bed (bend over), change a diaper (bend over), get them dressed (bend over), play horsie (bend over), pick them up (bend over), help them put on their shoes (bend over), cater to their every whim throughout the day (bend over backwards). It’s times like these when I wish all those predictions about life in the 21st century had come to pass: the hover cars, the metallic jumpsuits, the robots. This weekend I could have really used a robot to do all the heavy parenting lifting.

In the end I did what any modern gal in my situation would do: I hired the nanny from two houses down to deal with the rugrats in my feeble state. She played with them; I read. She fed them lunch; I napped. She took them over to play with her regular charges; I got through that stack of magazines. Except for the excruciating back pain, it wasn’t a half bad way to spend a weekend.

I learned that, in the next couple weeks, should I ever want some time to myself — and fob off the children on my relaxed, newly-tanned hubby — I need only bend over to grab a diaper, and fake the SI thing. Bet I’d be pretty good at it.