A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

"Really? Is 'Momzilla' the Best You Could Do?"

It's been a while since a Momzilla chronicle has graced this space.

I sincerely hope the events that follow do not disappoint the legion that is the Fans of Momzilla (Make a little noise, peeps!  You know you want to!).

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As a certified smartass person, it befalls me sometimes to be the annoying person who goes, "Well, actually..." and proceeds to tell you the story of how the Caesarean section is probably not really named after Julius Caesar, whose mother actually bore him and lived a long life (sorry, Juanita-- we all have our crosses to bear, right?), inasmuch as his name seems connected to the surgical procedure.

Yes.  Smartassiness never won people friends --even as it won them arguments or, conversely, won them a richly-deserved meal of foot.  In mouth, for the slow ones in the crowd.  However, as much as  I know smartasses by being one, I have very seldom encountered someone whose brand of I-know-better-than-you-ever-will is more toxically pervasive than a Momzilla I recently encountered.  For reasons of public safety (my own) I cannot divulge some of the more salient aspects of our conversation(s!), but suffice it to say that when every single statement you utter toward a person --even those that weren't even remotely directed at that person-- is roundly challenged and revised, you might just be a Momzilla.

Confused?  Allow me:

1. When one says hello, it is customary to reply with a "hello."  It doesn't even have to be friendly.  Replying with some answer regarding how you're out there, yes you, with the kids, because they need fresh air, it comes off as a little redundant.  And creepy.

2. When one makes a harmless remark to children about how they are, indeed, getting wet while playing with squirt guns, replying on their behalf that, "Of course: THAT's what they're for" with a little sarcastic laugh seems a bit rude, doesn't it?

3. And providing detailed instructions on the operation of a toy that a two-year old can figure out in 20 seconds flat TO ME is really a bit... um.... I'm going with "over the top."

4. I'm not even going to get into the comments of the sort of, "Is it spring yet in your neck of the woods?" replied with "Our spring is nicer and milder than this spring here."  If you really find your interlocutor so irritating, monosyllables are the way to go.

So yes.  I've stared in the unfriendly, fearsome maw of the Know-It-All Momzilla, and I gotta say:

1. It ain't pretty,

and,

2. OH HIGHER POWER, DON'T LET ME BECOME THAT PERSON!!! WAAAAAAH!!!

Just Call Me "The Mom With No Name"

She doesn't know she's been named my Arch-Nemesis in my head.  For that matter, she doesn't really know me nor I her.

But I know, and she knows,  and she knows that I know,  that she is a consummate Momzilla-- several types rolled into one.

The greenness of her scales has shone through her velour jogging suit and fake tan, and though she has her back turned to me, I can see her Momzilla-Action-Eyes-In-The-Back-Of-My-Head™  eyeing me with reptile distaste.

I narrowed my eyes and looked away.  I hadn't come to deal with her.

She thought differently.  She was and is, after all, a Momzilla through and through.

Her next move-- calculated, predictable-- reads straight out of a Momzilla Training Camp Playbook:

She starts the dreaded Coo.

________

For those of you not familiar with The Coo, it's very basic:

Whenever a Momzilla wants to highlight just how good a mother she is, how nurturing and sweet and kind, and how much she loves the little children, she will address them in the most schlocky and condescending manner known to man-- a syrupy sweet mockingbird song wherein she repeats everything the children around her say and adds small, sensible PSAs as remarks.

The Coo goes something like this.  I have placed tildes (~) around certain words for emphasis.  These are places in the dialogue where the Momzilla pretends little birds are alighting on her hand and singing her virtues, à la Disney Princess.

Child: I like trucks.

Momzilla: Ooooh! ~Trucks!~  Yes!  I ~Like~ trucks too!  Aren't they ~Wonderful~ and ever so ~Big!~?  And they are so very ~Useful~ too!

Child: (crashes trucks): TRUCKS GO BOOOM!!!!!!

Momzilla: Oh well, boys ~Will~ be boys!  (brightly picks up remains of toy).

Child: Want cookie.

Momzilla: (hands child cookie) Cookies are ~Delicious~, but maybe you should also have a celery stick because they re delicious AND ~Nutritious~ too.

Child: NO CELEWYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!! (cries)

Momzilla: No celery it is!

Because, after all, isn't a Momzilla a child's best friend?

Note: This tone of voice is only to be used to address other children-- never to be applied to the Momzilla's own.
_________

Back to our Momzilla at hand, though, I notice that as she goes through her Snow-White-Cavorting-In-The-Woods routine, she can't help but keep a steady eye on me.

I, who just stepped into her turf for five minutes and who isn't even talking to her.

I, who tried saying hello, actually, but only got a cold rebuff.

I, who is getting tired of this weird one-upmanship game every time we coincide someplace.

I, who knows as well as she does that her act is bullshit.  That she doesn't care a whit about other kids who aren't hers, and so should stop trying to parade herself as Mother Teresa in front of a stranger she can't be bothered to show proper courtesy to.

_________

I'm on to you, Green Monster.

The aphids are first, though.

Five Momzilla Ladies (Whee!)

Sometimes you have to marvel at the beautiful animal that is a momzilla: they are a never-ending source of surprises.  They are indefatigable in their overmothering.  I see a few momzillas I've known and.. er, known, and I can only think of a destrier in the heat of battle.  (sometimes all too literally)

_________

Momzilla one attacked at IKEA recently.  While a friend of mine and I were enjoying the luxury of an uninterrupted coffee, a woman with an overburdened stroller and a couple of overdressed children who looked afraid to breathe pulled up and sat unbearably close.  And by "unbearably close" I mean that we could see that she needed to get her roots touched up, and that we were sitting in a nearly empty dining room --this being a Monday early afternoon.

From her harpy-like perch, she could see her children --whom she was joylessly yet efficiently shepherding through lunch-- and other people's children. 

"I'm sure your mommy wouldn't like you standing there," she chided Herr Meow.  He was standing facing me, on a ledge that was about six inches off the ground.  Did I mention he was facing me?

"Little guy, I'm sure your mom-mmmmmmy would not think that was safe."

I realize she's not making eye contact.  She is waiting for me to pick up the cue.  I panic: is this ledge really so dangerous?  It must be.

"Come here, Herr Meow," I chide.  "That's probably not such a good idea."  He frowns, detecting mommy fallacy;  this had been a good idea 30 seconds ago.  I can't blame him and turn a blind eye to our belle of the ball.

I shouldn't have bothered: not five minutes had passed before she'd glommed onto another set of kids with the same annoying line.  And I say, thank goodness for that.  The icy stares from another mother seated farther away directed at our momzilla were enough to gladden my heart.

__________

Momzilla two is pervasive-- it's the mom who thinks her toddler's legs don't work, or something of the sort.

Pay close attention: you may see this particular mom pushing around a child who looks old enough to shave.  She will most likely have some scary-sounding stroller and might even own some even more scary sounding diaper bag with a name like "the MotherShip" .

She will claim that she always needs to be prepared and the stroller just always makes things easier.  Always.

She will blame it on the weather or on the fact that her child just loves to run away.  "He's such a little exploooorer and I can't keep up!" she may coo.

But she'll be damned if that kid is ever going to set foot on a dirty city street.  This momzilla has a vendetta against asphalt, and she is out for blood.

__________

Momzilla three: the guiltmaker.

This momzilla is a master at deflecting blame.  Her child --a person who is usually a complete stranger to her (this would be her guilty little secret, but shh!)-- is never to blame for any of his outbursts or attacks or childish/childlike behavior.

Since she doesn't want to raise a child who will be weak-willed and forced to bend the knee and say he's sorry (apologies are for wimps!), she makes sure that her child gains self-esteem by having others to blame.  Anything will do: a weak-willed husband, whimpering and apologizing on the child's wake will do, for instance.  Sometimes sugar or nerves can be excellent villains: "Please excuse little Hero for gouging Calliope's eye last Thursday: she's rather violent when she's been fed a whole banana on account of the glycemic index of the particular fruit YOU FED HER being so high."

Anything will do-- except admitting she or her child were ever wrong.  Being wrong= not momzilla-worthy.

Being wrong=not a momzilla option.

_________

Momzilla four: the "you're doing it wrong" momzilla.

I know she's made her appearance before; what's more, this is classic momzilla behavior but it bears repeating because YOU WILL MEET AT LEAST ONE STRANGER LIKE THIS.

You know you're in the presence of untainted momzi-genius when you

* are handed a kleenex without an entreaty or an explanation, and upon examining your child you espy a shy half-moon of a booger, barely poking out.
* have a complete stranger tug at your baby's hat/socks/pantleg/waistband in an intrusive way, as if to say, "the baby would have DIED of pneumonia had I not been here to tug and pinch at three millimeters' worth of skin."
* are given counsel on how the child should not be held/burped/handled/told that way
* you are told, as an adult, to mind your manners in some belittling way by someone old enough to be your mother.

_________

Momzilla five: the "I-can-do-it-all" variety.

Let's face it: we're all fallible, gullible, irascible and on occasion, impossible.

But not the ICDIA Momzilla!  She can do it all-- better than you, even.  Unfortunately, you're not making things easier, lump of flesh that you are.

She *would* be able to do things better if you, for instance, got out of her way and understood that she is a very busy person --even if her 3:00 pm conference call is a euphemism for "watching Oprah while reading Johanna Lindsey."

She realizes you apparently have a life too, but hers is fuller and better than yours and although she'd never tell that to your face she will drop what she believes to be inconspicuous hints as to the reasons why she rocks the socks of the world.   And her kid is the best, of course.

She is humble and may even walk with her lord --whoever He may be.  She may drop the ball horribly and she could leave her kid behind at the park, but someone will always pay (see Momzillas three and four for M. O.) because she can do it all.  It's just people who get in her way, sometimes.

And aren't we all just human, after all? *bats eyelashes*

(except for Momzillas, who are touched by a little bit of The God, of course)

(and The Crazy)

The Agony Of Momming It All

The other day I was trying to describe a particular type of Momzilla which I encountered while riding the train at Busch Gardens.  This is not a particular type which only hangs out in kiddie-type attractions, mind you-- it's just that these two happened to be carrying on their weird charade right in front of us.

And by charade I mean "this really weird alpha mom ritual that is so indescribable and commonplace you'll probably roll your eyes before you get to the end of this entry and stop reading altogether."

_______

One of the mothers was overly tanned and bejeweled and ponytailed and thin.  Her ponytail was what I shall refer to as the Town & Country ponytail-- the one that you see in the understated socialites as they nonchalantly smile from the pages of some social do.  She had an immaculate white visor on, too.  And honestly, visors are those things that I can't imagine anyone actually going out and buying, let alone wearing, unless they are golf pros or 67 years old, but there you are.

The other one had "sensible" written all over her face.  Though her hair was up in a simple ponytail as well, on her head it looked practical and, again, sensible.  Sneakers, sensible.  T-shirt, sensible.  Skin, very fair and possibly coated in SPF 50-plus.

Their children were between them, in more ways than one.

Town & Country ponytail kept on raving about something and hugging her two children --and the other mother's child-- close to her, playfully pointing out things I couldn't quite make out.  She was going to cuddle those kids and they were going to like it, dammit.

Sensible ponytail would periodically straighten out her child and then the other two --as if invisible yet nefarious cold drafts would surge in the 90 degree stillness and give any or all of them pneumonia.  She was going to coddle those kids and they were going to like it, dammit.

Both of them would take turns speaking, but their conversations were disjointed, as if the children were such porous buffers that any and all words were absorbed by them, never to reach the other mother's ears.

Back and forth they pretend-bantered and their bits of conversation trickled in: snippets about birthday parties --and how best to plan them-- and playdates --and how to handle those best.  Then came some tidbits about school and possibly field trips --and, naturally, how to deal with those as well-- and then maybe a focus on the park, and which way it was best to go from one place to another.

But they never once seemed to be talking to one another: their conversations seemed directed at whoever would be willing to listen, if such a thing was indeed possible within the open confines of a trolley ride.   It was as though actually listening to each other and what they had to say would render them null --like waves out of phase, which when they encounter each other they become a flat line and cancel themselves out, as if they had never existed.

______

When the train stopped at the Stanleyville station, they somehow managed to agree on how and where to go.  It seems that wherever they were going, the skycab would go faster.  They grabbed all their brood and gear and off they went, alternately demonstrating the proper way of conducting momly business and eyeing each other askance, hoping that they were doing it better than the other one.

I cannot begin to imagine what sort of exhausting friendship that must be, where you're always supposed to be, do, say, look and love better than anyone else.

Then again, I have been there before -- maybe not as a mother who mothers too much with her friends who friend and frenemy too much, but certainly as someone who gets into a Sisyphean contest with another friend over boyfriends, grades, looks, other friends, etc. 

All I can still think about is the exhaustion of it all.  And also, the wish that no one should have to encounter that sheer madness of not just having to mother the world, but also having to top another version of oneself.

What those mothers needed was someone to coddle and cuddle them, in turn.

And perhaps, a change of hairdo: maybe ponytails are evil.

Attention, Mothers.

I'm starting to realize the seductive power of letting your identity take a backseat to your child or children: namely, you get some MAD ATTENTION when you're with kids. 

Let me add a few adulterated examples to illustrate my point:

Grocery shopping without kid(s):

*  Arrive at grocery store by whatever means your fancy takes you
*  Go through own list or walk through aisles in as much formication as you may find necessary.
*  Defiantly push asshole's cart which is blocking your access to your necessity.
*  Assert in your mind that citron honey is a necessity.
*  Roll your eyes when bitch with the slingbacks tries to cut ahead of you at the deli counter.
*  Push past person who clearly has sixteen items and is trying to beat you to the "15 or Less Fewer!" aisle.
*  Grab gum, water, chocolate bar at impulse-buy aisle. 
*  Realize a little too late that the chocolate bar pushed you to sixteen items. 
*  Smirk.
*  Schlep groceries home by whatever means you can.

Grocery shopping with kid(s):

*  Arrive at grocery store in car clearly designed to haul provisions to Foreign Legion.
*  Check purse for snacks, water, toy.
*  Systematically avoid aisles with temptations.
*  If venturing in such aisles, premeditate the attack and announce you will buy treat of your own choosing. 
*  Make a beeline for whatever samples are available, as child has inhaled snack.
*  Issue myriad heartfelt "pardon me", "excuse me!" "so sorry" and "my mistake"-type sentences any time your child says something loud/obnoxious/hysterical, yet inapporpriate/way too loudly.
* Wait for five minutes while the nice lady in the slingback pumps coos and flirts with child.
*  Get stopped way too often because people want the child to say hello or goodbye or want to ask you how old he/she is.
*  Realize child has torn/eaten list. 
** Bonus: share with complete stranger that this has happened.  Enjoy mirthful exchange of stories (or rarely, stunned silence)
*  Start again.
*  Explain to child why it's not such a good idea to sit on the cart.
*  Watch child dangle like monkey from cart and climb another cart.
*  Finally, attempt to ward off the balloon temptation.  Fail.
*  Load child up.
*  Load groceries up.
*  Realize that CPS might come get you if you leave child in car while you return grocery cart.
*  Have inner struggle where you weigh the cosmic karma involved in leaving the shopping cart far away vs. leaving child in car.
*   Optional: angel appears out of nowhere, asks you how old child is, makes small talk, takes your cart.

See?  Whether positive or negative attention, you get far more attention if you have one  munchkin trailing behind you (or two or three or..).  I mean... it's like attention whore paradise!

Disclaimer: I did not just call you a whore.  I said, "attention whore". 

Different.

_________

Another example?  Oh, you humor me too much, ladies and gentlemen.

Going for an autumnal walk without kid(s):

* Check weather.
* Dress accordingly.
* Grab keys and wallet/purse/whatever you use, jeez.
* Open door.
* Leave.
* Come back, invigorated, exhilarated, serene.
* Optional:  Cautiously place your collection of perfect mottled leaves on the counter, knowing that you'll find it in the same spot and in the same arrangement when you're ready to do tasteful collage to decorate a room.

Going for an autumnal walk with kid(s):

* Check weather.
* Check again and grab extra clothing --whether it be for warmer or cooler weather.
* Grab camera just in case child does something worth recording.
* Realize child ALWAYS does something worth recording.
* Grab extra memory card.
* Bundle child up.
* Bundle self up.
* Grab stroller/sling, umbrella, extra diapers (if applicable), snack, flashlight.
* Grab Elmo/object of child's true love and affection.
* Go outdoors.
* Realize that you want child to experience thrill of walking through the crunch of dead leaves.
* Unleash child.
* Watch as they walk through delightful crunch of autumn leaves for 27 seconds.
* Watch in horror as child takes off running toward oncoming traffic.
* Run after child.
* See other people also react to child.
* Yell all manner of threats at child.
* See little poophead stop short of the curb, turn to look at you and laugh butt off.
* Feel fire shooting out of your eyes.
* Fend off well-meaning people's questions about child's well-being.
* Be told how cute child is.
* Overhear comments about how people either miss or do not miss my child's age.
** Bonus: have stranger assume your boy is a girl or your girl is a boy.
* Grab child and attempt to finish enjoying walk.
* Ignore whines and cries and bawls emerging from child, who thoroughly enjoyed walking --like you thought he/she would-- and is not enjoying being restrained as much.
* Roll eyes. 
* Answer more questions about how old your child is.
* Smile.
* Wheel self and posse back home.
* Unload "stuff"
* Realize you didn't take one picture.
* Take picture of your now sleeping angel (if applicable)
* Reach for the stiff stuff.

See?  I'm telling you.
Having a child is like money in the attention bank!  But I guess the larger question is, Are You Ready For That Attention Jelly?  And furthermore, can you as nothing more than a mere mortal, stand that much attention?

__________

After rereading this list however, I must say that a prescription for Valium (or generic equivalent) should definitely be issued by the state when one has had a baby.

Thoughts?

___________

Pee Ess:  How do you like my words of the day?  Didn't I make you think weird thoughts?

The Mom Who Wasn't There

Kiddie park dynamics are one of those topics where people are usually thusly categorized:

1. The childless masses (or "child-free" if they so prefer), don't really give a rat's ass.  And really, why should they?  Once a public area is overrun with tiny people who don't have a control over their bodily functions it's pretty much ruined for anyone who's seeking quiet, peace, or relaxation. 

2. The dog-walkers, whether childful or childless, encounter their own risks at parks.  For one, if the dog *looks* cuddly, odds are that someone will try to pet it --asking optional.  On the other end of the spectrum, there will always be the cranky and maladjusted dog in perfect placement to provide a child's first --and most indelible-- experience in doggie fear and loathing.  Either way, if I had a dog I would be asking, nay DEMANDING that my neighborhood had a doggie park because dogs and kids don't mix as well as people think they do.

3. The parents of small children regard the whole park structure as one enormous and daunting petri dish, where their precious [insert number below 12]-month old will surely get dirty and die.  Granted, these are usually the first-time parents (though freaky multiple-children parents can, well, you know, be freaky too.  Just less likely so), but you can just tell by the way they hold those kids aloft that they are doing some sort of paranoid series of algorithms to take in the amounts of spit, poop, fungi, abandoned tissue paper and partially chewed leaves that their precious ones will encounter.  I had a big problem with my algorithmic calculations: I avoided the park altogether for Herr Meow's first six or seven months instead.

4. The parents of older children view the park as a godsend.  A place with fences where the little and not-so-little ones get to run around, burn off energy, make friends, scream all they want, and where they don't have to watch them like hawks 24-7?  Sign me up, coach!  I mean... what is there not to love, right?

This is where the Dun-Dun-Duuuuuuuuun! music gets cued up and you know you've entered More of Momzilla chronicles.

Normally, these four categories of people flit in and out of the park and follow some rules, which are understood from the get-go:

a) Thou shalt watch thine kids, or at least pretendeth to watch them.
b) Thy kid shalt keep its hands to itself or otherwise I will stand sheepishly around until thou realizeth that thou, as Neanderthal kid's parent, need to step in and intervene with thy child's behavioral problem.
c) I shall intervene if it is mine kid who needs a Dr. Phil intervention; but just for the record my kid is nicer than thine, and he did not mean it.
d) Refereth to commandment rule a) over and over again, sister: watch thy kids, or at least pretend to do so.

This is common sense and most people will help everyone stand around and have a pretty decent time at the park-- sometimes you will not see your kid get in trouble, but someone will and they will kindly tap you so that you can control your offspring.  It is a fine system and tends to work well.  I won't get into the weird pockets of frat-boy dads who stand around ogling anything that moves-- especially the odd cute nanny; or the bitchy alpha moms who don't say hello to anyone and who  are always keeping an inventory of their kids' toys so that no one can play with or feel comfortable around them, thus creating a nice little toxic pocket of untouchability around themselves; and I won't go into the West African or Central American nanny posses who huddle together and try to avoid eye contact.

Generally the park is a nice place to go.

Unless a parent breaks Cardinal Rule A.

________

A few days ago, what with the days turning nicer and nicer and thus the populace being pushed out of doors in a gleeful feels-like-end-of-school thrust, Herr Meow and I found ourselves at the park.  I was standing around watching him and trying to scan the other mothers for signs of life, niceness, and an underlying sense of mordant élan vital, when I saw two little boys in the following sort of dialogue:

Nicely Groomed Child Holding Thomas the Tank Engine Toy:  No.  It's mine.  Go away.
[child walks away]

Dirty-Faced Child With Shorts and T-shirt in 50-Degree Weather: I WAS PLAYING WITH IT FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRST!! IT'S MIIIIIINE!
[runs fiercely behind in pursuit]

The two kids artfully dodged Herr Meow, who was engaging in his favorite game of Watching The Older  Kids Do Stuff Because It's The Awesome.  They kept on at it, circling the main play area, and their dialogue didn't change much.  At first it was kind of cute and innocent.  But after a couple of passes, I saw the mother of Nicely Groomed Child --who was keeping a hawklike eye on both children at this point and started talking to her.   She was very nice and we talked for a bit, so I asked her if what Dirty-Faced was saying was, indeed, right.

"No, not at all.  My son brought that toy from home.  Let me tell you: this is the last time that Thomas makes it to the park with us!"

We chatted a little longer, and observed as Dirty-Faced's temper escalated-- he was still in hot pursuit, following the other child relentlessly.  At one point, he soliloquied:

Dirty-Faced Child With Shorts and T-shirt in 50-Degree Weather: I AM GOING TO GET YOU!!!! WHERE DID YOU GO?  WHERE DID YOU GOOOOOOOOOOO?  I WANT THAT TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY.

The charming toddler only needed to say "Here's Johnny!" , really. 

At this point, both Nicely-Groomed's mother and I were seriously looking around for the mother of Dirty-Faced but no dice.  If she could hear her son's freaky screaming and carrying on, she was really trying hard to ignore it.  And obviously she was not at the other end of the playground, where she could see her kid trying to grab this woman's child as he went down the slide.  Finally, about five minutes later --and five minutes is an eternity when you think your child is going to get jumped by a tiny psychopath--  this goofy-looking mother appeared and scooped up the kid, covering him with kisses and whisking him away.

So to recap:
- Goofy mother OBVIOUSLY didn't see her kid's psycho behavior
- Because she left him all by himself in the playground (SHE LEFT?!)
- And so when she arrives, she rewards him for being a little psycho
- Because she WAS GONE when he was being a little psycho, wasn't she?  GONE!

Now, granted, nothing happened to either party.  No one was hurt and the toy never left Nicely-Groomed's hands-- he stood up for himself without resorting to pushing or punching, and I think that's great.

But what about Dirty-Faced?
Who will tell him that you are not supposed to chase other people for their toys?  Who will tell him that you're not supposed to lie?  And who will tell him to clean his face up and put on a sweater because it's cold?

Doesn't Dirty-Faced deserve a mother who will be there for him, even if it is to punish him for being a little freaky boy?

Am I being a Momzilla in this case, or is this reasonable?

_______

P.S.: Happy new masthead to me!  Thanks MadSector!

Go, Go, Momzilla Claws

Herr Meow is very fond of the slides at the park.  As a matter of fact I am shocked to see how at such a young age, he is fearless in his approach and enjoyment of them --something I attribute to that insouciant recklessness of men and their testosterone.

____

As far as I am concerned, I don't think there is such a thing as a "correct" way to go down a slide after children are of a certain age and mobility (although I found a correct way to go down a water slide and a correct way to slide into a base).  I know that some parents like to teach their kids to slide stomach-down and feet-first because if they try to do it like big kids (feet-first, sitting up), they are not as stable on account of their big heads and tenuous neck control.  However, ever since we've been going to the park, Herr Meow prefers to do it big-kid style.  I will not lie: a couple of times he did lose his balance and conked himself on the side of the head a little, but he was more shaken than hurt and he wanted to go back down ASAP anyway.  And I was right there, to prevent any horrible accident where somehow he'd end up going over the edge on account of his huge melon.

I am not sure if at this point you think me a horribly irresponsible parent, or if you're nodding your head in agreement.  I'm kinda hoping you're doing the latter, but one parent.... nay, a MOMZILLA, bitchily made sure that everyone knew that SHE had written the book on how to slide down a slide.

_______

The park on Friday afternoon is kind of a mob scene: loads of parents who normally don't spend much time with their kids are trying to show the world that they do know the children by their first name, and they are eager to hobnob with the parents who are there all the time.  There is still a small amount of nannies doing the rounds and reminding us all that there is no evil parent like the I-see-them-on-Saturday-or-maybe-Sunday-only parent (which is something for another day); but for the main part the parents that hang out on Friday afternoons tend to be a mixture of genuinely nice everyday people, and territorial look-at-me types.

Enter Momzilla, stage right.  She is of a certain age-- the kind of age that the careless observer who suffers from foot-in-mouth disease could earnestly call the grandmother.

She is busily supervising a toddler --a very cute girl, but who looks like she's resenting a little the lack of freedom.  She is also seemingly supervising a couple of older, lanky, tomboyish girls who are trying their damnedest to run younger kids off the slides. She is intent on teaching her toddler how to go down the slide, but in doing so she is chiding the other mothers and nannies who are also putting their kids on the slide.  I am absorbed in Herr Meow's happy face: he's climbed all the way up to get to the slide and has a big grin on his face, ready to go down.
He motions me to help him get in position and I wedge myself near the top.  He sits his bottom down and slides feet first and happy, giggling and squealing as he hits the smooth curve near the floor.

The Momzilla has watched this, as her child was tentatively at the top of the other slide (these being twin slides) but had not slid down.  She positions the child in the above-mentioned position and loudly proclaims, "THIS IS THE WAY THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO GO DOWN THE SLIDE."

The nanny whose charge --a gorgeous, porcelain-eyed two year old who was playing hide and seek with me and my son-- had been going down the slide big-boy style, suddenly switches him around and nods.  Two other mothers follow suit, humming yesses and nodding sheepishly.  I feel a cold reptilian eye on me, but when I look up she is smiling her tight lizard smile, beaming down on her converts.  And her children, presumably.

______

A little later, Herr Meow makes it back up to the top of the slide.  He means to go down, but there is an aggressive young lady swinging off the top bar like an undernourished gorilla.  She makes Herr Meow nervous, and he decides to go down the other set of stairs. 

"Now girls, you're scaring the little ones away," our dear Momzilla lamely chides.

She smiles her tight lizard smile.  I don't smile back, but instead grab Meow père et fils, and off we go.

I'll get you next time, Momzilla.  Next time.

Momzilla How-Tos

Here are a few tips for Momzillas in the making; I have learned much from those I've known, and I figured that for those who would like to become them, this is a good place to start. This could possibly be a New Year's resolution, come to think of it! So without further ado, I present to you,

How To Be A Momzilla Without Really Trying
(okay.. maybe a little)

1. Make sure people understand that your child came out of YOU. This can easily be accomplished by bringing up your birth story often and mentioning your vagina euphemistically. If you had a cesarean section, you can still mention the ole vajajay, but make sure you also talk about "the scar" in detail. Bonus points to you if you had a harrowing birth story. And extra bonus points are awarded if you manage to bring the story up every time people are eating. Nothing says Momzilla quite like the minute details of how many times the nurse screwed up your epidural, just how much you were screaming to have the baby taken out of you, or just how big your mucus plug was while the linguine gets cold.

2. Once you've established that you GAVE BIRTH TO A BABY --apparently not a common occurrence, given the glazed looks that people give you every time you launch into your birth story-- you must establish that YOUR CHILD is... well, how shall we say this? There is no other way: your child is simply the most precocious, bright, beautiful being in existence, and everyone can plainly see it. Brag about that fact often, even when your child is fast asleep and the most precocious thing about him or her is the actual date of birth.

3. If there happen to be other children around --and this is a downside to associating yourself with other mothers and/or potential Momzilla soulmates-- be sure to act with a syrupy condescension toward those little inferior souls. They can't help it if their mommies don't spend hours coaching them through activities so whenever they are instructed to high-five they give a ten and ask you to keep the change. Be sure to use your scary-witch-face-disguised-as-sweet-baby-voice, so you can point out that Baby Edgar NEVER cries when nice people play with him.

4. If, for some irritating reason, the little mongrel you have a playdate with is ACTUALLY precocious, do not panic. He could be much older than his mother claims he is, or just a very short Russian spy. Gently but firmly undermine every single achievement of that baby's and feel free to make outlandish claims if the situation gets uncomfortable. For instance, if said baby managed to walk at 10 months while your own walked only until month eleven, cite sex differences, height-to-weight ratio, activity levels and Canadian studies to support why it's best to learn to walk later --ideally at 11 months. If all else fails, just call any and all comparisons not in your favor "unfair." Rest assured that whatever is good for the Bible is good for you-- unless your child is bound to be the victor in said comparison. In that case, you're just pointing out a happy truth.

5. As usual, keep yourself well infomed so you can correct anyone and everyone as the need arises. Did someone just say that chocolate is not ideal for babies, even at 12 months? Please! Chocolate? It's been confirmed a health food, and plus little Madison loved her first taste of Easter bunny at four months! Diaper rash is a sign of allergy? Keep your own battle with the A+D ointment to yourself as you assure other mothers that diaper rash can only ever be caused by a fungus because other mothers don't change their babies' diapers often enough. Show pictures; argue; scoff mildly; perfect the one-eyebrow raise; invent more Canadian studies if you must, but drive the message home: you are the mother and you ALWAYS. KNOW. BEST.

6. Have a husband? Make sure you tell charming tales that illustrate in rich detail who truly wears the pants in the household-- something that says, "I am friggin' Rosie the riveter and I have to feed Urkel his pablum because he can barely find his mouth!" Hone your craft until every single item referring to your husband has the effect of a voodoo castration ceremony of sorts. Nothing says "I'm a mom who moms too much" better than an emasculated husband whose only role in the family is that of domesticated stallion.

7. Think diaper bag: don't just restrict yourself to the basics, please. Sure, the average mom carries diapers, wipes, a couple of toys, maybe hand sanitizer, possibly a changing pad, and some snacks and calls it a bag. But not you: oh no! Make sure that, even if it weighs an additional 10 lbs., you carry a fully stocked pantry in that thing. Keep snacks that are age-appropriate all the way to college-- this is a great way to display one-upsmanship in a "subtle" way, when others' kids start ogling your child's stash! Keep extra diapers in two sizes. If you can swing it, a box of Kleenex and an extra large bottle of Purell also give off that je ne sais quoi of germophobia that is so charming.

I know that there are far many more Momzilla lessons begging to be committed... er... to paper, but this will have to do. Enjoy your last gasps of 2006!

The World Was Never Safe, In The First Place

Until now, I thought that the case was closed on Momzillas-- they exist, the rest of us get overmothered and suffer. Rinse. Repeat.

That was it-- I would sight Momzillas, tell you guys about it. Many of you would stare blankly at the screen; others of you would nod in understanding; all would find something amusing, hopefully, and life would go on.

Life does not go on. People: GRANDZILLAS EXIST.

_______

Do you know what a Grandzilla is? Grandzilla, for my purposes: grandmother + momzilla.

It's a Momzilla who, unfortunately for mankind, not only allowed her offspring to "grow up" but to actually SPAWN as well.

It is a frightful combination of the inherent smugness of the grandparent --forgivable in most circuits because everybody knows that grandparents are the Bearers of Stuff and the Human Automatic Teller Machines-- and the inherent smugness of the Momzilla, She Of The Insatiable Mothering.

So you can imagine that being in the presence of a Grandzilla yields hours of incessant cooing; of assurance to anyone who should listen that said Grandzilla's grandchild is definitely THE MOST BEAUTIFUL/SMART/FUNNY/GORGEOUS/ADORABLE/INCREDIBLE child who ever lived; and of snide remarks as to how SHE would raise that child, given the opportunity.

The Grandzilla will resent most attention not specifically paid to her grand-offspring, and will try to bully and alienate with saccharine gusto-- often by scaring the crap of any other child within a five-mile radius just by threatening to hold the poor unfortunate "rival" child or children in her talon-like grasp. This is a cunning strategy so as not to appear completely heartless.

The Grandzilla, true Momzilla that she is, will realize that as much as she loves her offspring, her offspring have made ill choices --such as the people they've chosen to spawn with. This means that the Grandzilla will try to micromanage every single decision her children and children-in-law try to make regarding HER bundle(s) of joy. Sometimes this will be welcome, as Grandmother seems to be so delightfully eager to babysit while Mommy and Daddy go out for a nightcap.

Sometimes Mommy and Daddy might return from said nightcap to discover the locks have been changed and the trail is cold.

_______

Beware the Grandzilla, people.

She is heartless.

Chided By Momzilla, Limbs Still Intact

When enjoying a lovely autumn day, you never think you'll be attacked by a Momzilla.

But then again, no one in that sleepy New England town thought they'd have Jaws coming either.
_____

Yesterday we were invited by some friends to take a little day trip through Virginia wine country.

I must confess that in my Californian self-centeredness I really didn't think that grapevines could grow successfully in any other part of the country. I even remember making fun of some Hudson river wineries with the Monsieur just because... I dunno honestly. Something about a conversation resembling an old Pace Picante Sauce commercial where it goes along the lines of,

"Hm. Interesting wine. Where is it from?"
"Oh, you know. New York State."
"NEW YORK STATE????"

Lynching ensues, as it ought.
_______

But regionalistic hilarity aside, the three wineries we visited were quite lovely and had some nice wines, actually. I think my favorite was Linden Vineyards, mostly because they had what I thought were some creative wines, and which made me a little homesick for possibly the awesomest winery in the land. The downside was the fratboy atmosphere, but I guess it was Saturday.

In between making our rounds, we stopped at a cute restaurant where we were graciously and politely served and where everyone fawned over the baby, as is proper.

As we were settling into our table --perusing menus, draping napkins, arranging the seat cover over the high chair (<---which always gets us loads of compliments, btw) and getting baby's food out we suddenly heard a shout ring out, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Startled, the whole table stopped and looked around.

"DO NOT PLACE THE BABY SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE TABLE! NO! NO! NO!"

Honestly, I'd never been told "no" like that, so plaintively and so many times in a row. Now I kind of know how Herr Meow feels.

The Monsieur and I looked at each other and then looked a little more carefully.

Sure enough, if Herr Meow were to suddenly lose neck control (something he's mastered thankfully since his third month of life) and lurch forward very, very, VERY fast he would risk getting his little noggin or an eye impaled onto the evil yet buttery smooth maplewood table.

"I used to be [insert type of alert emergency personnel that wouldn't be so neglectful as to place HER child in that horrid kind of immediate danger] and I have SEEN horrible things like you would not imagine. PLEASE! Move the baby away from the table! NOW!"

Honestly, as I write this I still don't quite know what to think. On the one hand, I am now far more aware of the dangers of edges --despite getting a crash course on the dangers of sharp baluster edges when Herr Meow was first learning to pull up. Sometimes it is a parent's onus to battle complacency, because it's easy to think that just because something hasn't happened to your child yet, that it never will. And so when it does, you are hit with both the fear and the devastation of seeing whatever that was happen, and knowing that you could have somehow prevented it because you maybe saw it coming.

But on the other hand --apart from having different fingers-- I feel a little outraged. If I were a hair more neurotic, I would really be freaking out over all the possible times that my child could have cracked his skull by my apparent negligence more than I already do. I really resent having a stranger lecture me on dangers that I honestly feel are not truly imminent dangers for my child (because somehow she didn't seem to mind that he was not buckled into his high chair at that point in time, for instance; and she didn't bother to ask me if I was going to feed him uncut hotdogs or let him play with my razor or shove unpopped corn into his nose).

I think she may have scared even herself with her own zealousness, because she was very quiet the rest of our time there. And I think it was best that way.
______

Anyway. Happy October, y'allz! And remember: I chronicle Momzilla encounters so you don't have to.