Sweet Dreams, Sweetie Pie!

There were many things I dreamt about before my boys were born: cuddling sweet-smelling infants, rocking them to sleep, watching their snuggly selves dreaming in their lovely Beatrix Potter-themed bedroom. I was psyched for swimming lessons, reading time and afternoons spent building block towers. Motherhood was going to be a wonder, more soft-focused than a Hallmark Christmas commercial, and just as heartwarming. Yes, folks. Simply put, I was delusional.

It only took nineteen hours of labour and three months or so of next-to-no sleep to figure out that all that stuff in the Johnson & Johnson commercials was baloney. Gauzy images of clean babies sleeping peacefully while their parents gaze at them fondly from the doorway? Who MAKES these things? It can’t be anyone who’s actually been a parent.

Did you know that sleep deprivation has been categorized as a method of torture? Apparently, Guantanamo Bay personnel use the“Frequent Flyer” system, where the prisoner is woken up every three hours, around the clock. Please. Three hours! By the time Spencer was three months old, three straight hours of sleep would have been the equivalent of a lazy Saturday in bed with unlimited back massages, care of Channing Tatum. Three hours…Pah!

By rights, those J & J ads should show a baby in a food-stained onesie slumped sideways, asleep in his highchair, with his mother crawling on her hands and knees towards the bathroom, praying for him to sleep long enough so she can have a two minute shower. As usual, I digress…

What I’m trying to say is that I had a fantasy of what motherhood would be like, and like most things in my life (high school, university, marriage), the fantasy was nowhere near the reality. Forget the sun-dappled afternoons spent baking sugar cookies and playing Snakes and Ladders. Motherhood regularly took me into places that were dark, smelly and stuffed with dirty socks. Still does. It’s not like there isn’t room for the nurturing, tender moments I thought I’d share with my children. It’s just that those moments seem to be constantly interrupted by tidal waves of testosterone. Which I guess is what you can expect with three boys.

Currently, my eldest is fourteen, more hormonal than a “Stars and Strollers” matinee. The twins are nine and it seems like their favourite pastime (besides playing videogames and watching Spongebob) is finding new and interesting ways to cause each other pain. Really. One of Cooper's New Year's resolutions was (and I quote) "not to hit Finn...as much."

(A Word About Twins: If I had a dollar for every mom who told me her kids were only “X” many months apart, and that it was“just like having twins”, I would be set up for a nice steak dinner. For the record, nothing is “just like having twins”. Except maybe having triplets. )

Two weekends ago, the boys decided we should have a “Deadliest Warrior”marathon. For those of you who actuallyhave a life, DW is an hour-long show with episodes called “Vlad the Impaler vs. Sun Tzu” or “Shaolin Monk versus Viking”. Each warrior is rated in terms of the killing power of his weaponry. The best part of this shindig? (And by “best”, I mean the most gut-churning.) The weapons are tested out on ballistics gel torsos and heads that have “bones” and blood in them. The squishier and more brain-splattered the episode, the better.

Let me tell you: at NO point in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” do they tell you that the best quality for any new mother is a strong stomach. Never mind the poopy diapers and the vomit: you’d be surprised how queasy you get when watching a broadsword decapitate a fake viking. Tarantino flicks have less gore.

Now, no doubt you’ll say “Hey Jo. Why watch this stuff if you don’t like it?” And I’ll tell you: My boys like it. Those loud, dirty, crazy boys of mine; the ones that drive me crazy with their yelling and running and jumping and allergy to soap and water. They like it. And even though it isn’t what I was expecting, if it means I can spend time laughing with them, I’ll take it. Every time.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Johnson & Johnson.