>Judgment Day

“My husband still expects me to get dinner on the table every night,” one of my mom friends snorted shortly after we’d both had our first babies. “He needs to understand that it’s just not going to happen anymore. This baby takes up all of my time!”

I often think about that conversation as I make dinner with a four-month-old on my hip, a three-year-old wrapped around my leg, and two teenagers taking up all the counter space as they prepare their latest fad diet snacks (right now, it’s scrambled eggs, thanks to South Beach) in the closet-sized spot that we call our kitchen. Suddenly, the days of one baby seem ridiculously easy. Even two kids wouldn’t be so bad. Add two teenagers to the mix and you’re in iron woman territory.

Still, I try to fit in with the other young moms of of one or two small kids. I host a playgroup, attend library story times and keep a shortlist of mommy friends to meet at the YMCA swimming pool. But I always feel a little funny listening to their kvetching about potty training (You think potty training is hard? Try doing it while nine months pregnant in a bathroom booby trapped with training bras, used Clearasil wipes, and True Lash mascara smeared on the mirror!) or their two-year-old’s whining (Whining? You’re sick of whining?! You realize, don’t you, that you’re talking to a woman with two teenagers?!) or the expense of raising a toddler (Oh girl, please. Don’t even go there).

Of course, I keep my running mental dialogue to myself. Plenty of women have it much harder than I do, so the last thing I want to do is add to the litany of frivolous complaints floating above the subdivisions and suburban coffee shop chains of America. I’ve become quite good at faking a sympathetic smile and I’ve learned all the proper things to murmur in response to their heartfelt bitching. But what I’m really doing is wishing they could be me for a day. I think it might shut them right up.

Or maybe not. To hear them talk, I’m the one living the life of luxury. “You’re so lucky to have teenagers,” they say. “They must be so helpful.” And I always smile and nod, because my girls are awesome. They’re sweet and they stay out of trouble and they love their little brother and sister and they’re two of my best friends and life without them wouldn’t be half as fun. But let’s be honest. They’re teenagers. And the words “teenager” and “helpful” just don’t go together without a third one thrown in: “money.”

I do, however, have babysitters pretty much whenever I need them. And I’ll be honest, a really good, boozy date night goes a long way toward making up for a day spent scrubbing toddler pee off the carpet and spit-up off my favorite shirt. So maybe I shouldn’t judge my friends so harshly. Maybe I should remember the days when caring for one infant seemed to test the very boundaries of human endurance. And maybe I should kindly offer my friends the babysitting services of my stepdaughters so that they can have a night out on the town, too.

And then maybe there will come a time when neither of my girls can babysit their little brother and sister because they’re already committed to watching the kids of my friends and I have to sit home on my beedonkadonk rather than dancing the night away in some swanky nightclub…

On second thought, I think things are fine just the way they are.