Third Person Narrative--Momrepus asks "WHY?"

There’s someone standing behind you in line at the grocery store. He seems normal enough and starts talking to you. Fine. You’re pleasant and polite and then…he mentions “Joe”. Joe loves this. Joe does this for a living. Joe can’t stand it when people do that. You’re wondering if you know this Joe, or if this guy thinks you know Joe. This guy…what the hell was his name again?

Suddenly, you’re hit with it—that sick feeling in your stomach reserved for dark alleys and darker still parking lots. Your heart beats a little harder in your chest as your voice squeaks, “What’s your name again?”

He looks confused and upset. “Joe doesn’t like when people don’t listen to him,” he warns.

Alright...dramatic but I’ve always hated this. And, personally, the creep factor squashes anything Fear Factor can dream up. So why, WHY, do parents do this? Why do we talk about ourselves in the third person?

“Mommy will be right there, honey.” “Please don’t hit Mommy.” “Where is Mommy’s nose? Yes! That’s Mommy’s nose—you’re so smart!”

When did this happen?

A good friend of mine came to visit and, as she was leaving, she turned to me and said, “You know, my son did that, too.”

“Did what?”

“Referred to himself in the third person. It’s that damn Elmo. Once I stopped letting him watch Sesame Street, he stopped doing it.” Okay, it may not be that simple for all of us but, hey, if we never refer to ourselves as, well, ourselves, how will they learn? And while it may be easier for children to learn in the third person when they’re itty bitty newbies, two and three years old is old enough to learn proper grammar.

It took a week. “Oh, YOU want some more peaches? You say, ‘I would like some more peaches.’” (And, while you’re at it, get that “please” in there). It was a week of loud, drawn-out first and second person narrative but we survived, and our son is talking goodly. We’re so proud.

Ew. How UnMommy-like of You

In response to Crystal’s writing prompt, I will say this:

Two friends, crackers, cheese spread, wine. And baby was not napping.

Let’s see…he sat in his highchair too long (because we were sitting at the table) and ate too little (because I couldn’t make up my mind—fruit or veggies). He sat in a wet diaper, which he NEVER does when we’re home. He got into things I wouldn’t dream of letting him near because I was talking and only watched him out of the corner of my eye. I had only one hand on him during those times when I probably should have been holding him in a mommy death-grip. I forgot his nuk when I brought him up for his nap. And his toy box didn’t get opened once—he played with Pat’s shoes and Janet’s tattoo…oh, and the cord that was lying around from the video camera charger. I think I may have gotten a picture of him doing one of those things. We also put a bottle of wine on his highchair and thought it was too funny not to take a picture of. Please, you must agree…

And, you know, I had a good time. So did the little guy. I say…not sure he needs a toy box. Not sure at all. Thanks J & P!

P.S. My (fantastical) friends brought this wine over for me and we laughed (a little too heartily) but, as a novelty wine, we thought, "It's gonna suck." Just an FYI...it's really not bad.

Martyr Moms

No one likes a martyr…

Not even the kids you are supposedly giving up your life for. Neglecting yourself to serve your kids will only lead to resentment, bitterness, and a shoddy appearance—which, frankly, nobody likes, either—including you, let’s face it. And your kids, you know the ones to whom you are devoting yourselves wholeheartedly to the detriment of all else, will have little if any respect for you. So not only will your roots be showing, your fingernails chipped and cracked, your belly flopping and boobs sagging, but you’ll have kids who’d rather go to Jimmy’s house because his mom is “cool” (and, “hate her”, pretty). But is she really all that or does she just take care of herself? And before you bitch to your other martyr, supermom friends that Jimmy’s mom, and all those other moms who seem slightly more put-together than your average bear, have “way too much time on their hands”, let it be known that most of those moms beg, borrow, and steal that time. They have been known to kill for it, on occasion. Letting yourself go in the name of taking the best possible care of your children is bunk. You cannot give if you don’t receive. Let me repeat this kernel of wisdom: You cannot give if you don’t receive. You’ll have nothing to give. Think of it, if you must, as going to the gas station—something martyr moms do a lot as part of their never-ending chauffeuring duties—you need to refuel in order to keep going.

Take the help that’s offered, use that spa gift card and get a facial, splurge and go relax with a nice massage, buy yourself something you’ve been secretly coveting (and never mind Susie’s new doll that she “sooo wants” that it may sit among her 25 other dusty dolls that she “sooo wanted” a few months ago). To hell with the kids (for a day or two each month) and make your time all about yourself. Think “Me. Me. Me!” and you’ll do just fine.

Hey, love the new haircut.