Raising Hell

I live with a horrible secret – I am not a fan of kids. Some days I am not even a fan of my own kids.

I never really envisioned myself as a mother. Sure – I thought about it and even wrote elaborate stories with my friends detailing our future husbands, the houses we lived in and our imaginary litters of kids. In retrospect, I believe it was because that’s how we were programmed. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage”. A school-yard song implanted by those before us mapping out the steps to take along our journey. The same song generations of women had skipped to on the playgrounds before us. It’s what we do. Or so I was misled to believe.

Growing up, two of my sisters would babysit for the neighborhood families. I took care of the animals when their people were away. Now that I think about it no one ever asked me to baby sit. My mother has told my sisters, never me to my face, that I lack a single, sentimental bone in my body. I have also been told I have one feeling and it sometimes can be found in the bottom of my foot. Maybe they all knew something I didn’t. Sometimes I wish one of them would have told me. Regardless of who is talking shit to my face or behind my back, kids were never high on my “Must Have” list.

Imagine my surprise when I got pregnant at 19. Yes – I was taking the pill but was also taking antibiotics for a sinus infection. I joke I should have named her Amoxicillin. Once I found out I was gestating a human, I did what my grade-school recess programming told me to do. I got married and decided to name Baby Amoxicillin “Kaylin”. I thought she might struggle in kindergarten learning to spell Amoxicillin and I didn’t want her to start her education behind the 8-ball. Which is most likely what I would have been doing had I not got pregnant and married by my twentieth birthday. Fast forward and I know without a doubt, having her at a young age saved my life. I live to tell this horrifying tale of motherhood with two more children added to our brood and still married. Although NOT to the same husband. (Oh, Come On – You TOTALLY saw that one coming!)

However, this Hallmark-meets-Hot-Topic version of a happy and cohesive family unit has one thing that is still missing. My maternal instinct.

I must have ditched that day they were handing them out and gone to the beach. Or maybe I left it in my other pants, that I accidentally donated to Goodwill because they were actually mom jeans I had bought before I tried them on and discovered they didn’t fit right and I hate returning clothes. Maybe Big D threw it out after I had one of my homicidal, why-can’t-you-pick-up-your-fucking-socks?! episodes and he was panic-cleaning to save his life. Lots of important things get thrown out that way. Like 3 months worth of birth control pills, the mail box key, and the hermit crab named Peter, who may or may not have been dead already.

Yet, despite my lack of desire to bake cupcakes (or anything for that matter) for class birthday parties or dote over my off-spring with every breath, my anti-helicopter approach to raising children has thus far produced three fiercely independent young ladies. We must be doing something right. Big D and I marvel at the vast differences amongst our girls and enjoy watching them bumble and weave along their paths. We lean in and listen closely, encouraging each of them to follow their destinies. To not plot their charts by what routes we took but more by what speaks loudest to them. Hopefully, this way they can become familiar with and trust their inner voices and follow their bliss. Unless those inner voices tell them to hack up someone into tiny bits and feed those pieces to pigs because it’s harder for the FBI to trace. In which case they would have inherited that gene from me and then I must admit I am an epic failure at motherhood and insist you disregard anything I may have to say and you should probably alert the authorities to have my “mom card” pulled immediately before I cause any more damage to another human.

Still, you will never hear or see me gushing over babies or playing peek-a-boo over the partition with the ankle-biter in the next booth at a restaurant. For the love of all things holy, I just want to enjoy the meal I didn’t have to prepare, in peace and without some creepy, life-sized Chucky doll peering at me. I would rather shoot myself in the face then have to attend a baby shower and I have never volunteered to help in my girls’ classrooms due to my overwhelming aversion to small children in large groups and my propensity to swearing.

I am just not G-rated. Hell, I push a PG-13 rating on my best days.

Backstage Pass – VIP Exclusive

Smart, Sexy, Fierce – In no particular order. That is how I roll. Married for 13 years to a local, Celtic-Punk Rocker and coordinator of chaos to our three daughters, three dogs and two beta fish. After years of hearing “You’re so witty. You should write.” here I am, naked (not literally) and fearless. Exposing all of my trials and tribulations with you. I am a foul-mouthed, painted lady with a sadomasochistic POV. Should you be more of a lily-white sissy la-la, I won’t be offended if you redirect yourself now. This is not the guide you are looking for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

To be a Rock Wife, one does not have to be married to a rock musician. One must merely be the force that holds it all together. The rock. The fixed asset. The comfortable chair. The warm body – you get it. By the way, if you feel you resonate with more of the latter, please log off now, schedule an appointment with your hairdresser immediately and get in touch with your inner sex kitten STAT! I’ll be here when you get back and you and your husband can thank me later.

I am fortunate enough to have married a man who can not only handle the many states of my insanity, but also rocks the shit out of a bass guitar and looks damn sexy doing it. I mentally divorce him every other day for some insignificant and completely fabricated reason or another and I tend to pick fights with him, but mostly because the make up sex is mind-blowing! No one knows me as well as he does and in my ice-cold, black, heart no one can love me like he does. Madly, passionately and without reservation. So what if I have to reserve a date night three months in advance due to his band’s schedule. He’s living his dream and I am happy to stand front row, tits out (again, not literally), and watch him be the Rock Star he is.

Coordinating chaos (AKA parenting) has been my biggest challenge. I find a wicked sense of humor, an ability to improvise on the fly and a few (ok – several over the duration of many child-rearing years) shots of whiskey essential for good, solid parenting. With my first-born (now 19 years old) I read every “What to Expect” guide published. I consulted at least three different sources for any topic I was second guessing myself on. I phoned my mother, grandmother and sisters before making a decision. Every hair on her head was combed and in place, her outfits perfectly coordinated and her backpack stylishly accessorized to go with her patent leather mini doc martens. By the time our third daughter came along, we were fine with leaving the house with her dressed as a dragon wearing two different shoes. “Whatever works for you, Babe – Just get in the (damn) car!” Each one of our daughters required a different approach and I am convinced my multiple personalities were key in cracking this code. Despite who people perceive us to be, our two youngest still get rave reviews from each of their teachers and the oldest is a full-time college student, part-time employee and intern as a budding graphic designer. No juevie stints, no expulsions from school for profanity or fighting or stealing – just intelligent, polite, well-rounded, super cool kids. So far. Knock on wood! Pretty alright for the guy with a mohawk and his tattooed, potty mouthed wife!

I hope this guide can serve as a “How To” or a “What Not To Do”. You can print it out, roll it up and smoke it if that’s what blows your skirt up, although I don’t recommend it. It can be a validation for those of you that feel like you were not cut out for any of this “til death do us part” or “motherhood is the best job ever” bullshit that’s force-fed to us every way we turn or it can be somewhere you go to sip your coffee and have a giggle at my expense. I’m winging it – throwing it against the wall to see if it sticks. If it doesn’t one of the dogs will get to it before I clean it up anyway.

Hope you enjoy the show.

Horns Up, Lovers!
V.

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