Ketchup Is A Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves

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9780984716524: Ketchup Is A Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves
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"A book about motherhood that will make you nod with recognition, while simultaneously reminding you to schedule a hysterectomy." -Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess

"With the humor of Bombeck and the warmth of a best girlfriend, Robin O'Bryant gives every mom permission to not be perfect. The chapter on road-tripping with three tiny children and a flu-stricken husband was one of the funniest things I've ever read. Pour yourself some "mommy juice" and enjoy meeting Robin and her "chicks." -Celia Rivenbark, NYTs best-selling author of "You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl."

If you don’t have anything nice to say about motherhood, then... read this book. Robin O’Bryant offers a no holds barred look at the day to day life of being a mother to three, running a household and the everyday monotony of parenting.

It’s not always pretty but it’s real. Whether she's stuffing cabbage in her bra... dealing with defiant yet determined daughters... yelling at the F.B.I... or explaining the birds and the bees to her preschooler... you’re sure to find dozens of humorous and relatable situations.

From the creator of Robin's Chicks, one of the South’s most popular blogs on motherhood, misunderstandings and musings, comes a collection of essays that will not only make you laugh and cry, but realize that you’re not alone in your journey.
Sit back and relax, pour yourself some “mommy juice,” throw a fresh diaper on your baby and deadbolt the bedroom door to keep your kids out... because once you start reading you'll be too busy wiping away tears of laughter to wipe anybody's butt.

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About the Author:

Robin O'Bryant is a writer and stay-at-home-mom to three daughters born within four years. She finally figured out where babies come from and got herself under control. Robin survives the hilarity of motherhood by making fun of herself in her self-syndicated humor column, Robin's Chicks and on her blog by the same name. Visit her site and learn to: breastfeed behind your back*, how to talk to your daughters about man parts, and how to write a gold fish obituary. She tweets compulsively as @robinobryant and over shares daily on Facebook as Robin Wiley O'Bryant. Come point and laugh. *Only applies to lactating women with a DD cup or larger.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Birth Control? Yes, Please
I should have been on the beach with my kids, building sand castles and frolicking in the ocean. (Okay, yelling at them to stop eating sand and getting sunburned.) I should have been packing a picnic to enjoy in one of hundreds of parks in the Charleston area, a picnic my children would have totally ignored while they cried for another child’s Happy Meal, but still. I should have been at our neighborhood pool, providing first aid the teenage lifeguards were incapable of rendering themselves while praying one of my children didn’t poop in the pool. I should have been anywhere but where I was—sitting on the toilet doubled over with stomach cramps.
I was eleven weeks pregnant and, ahem, a little backed up.
I was stuck on the toilet as my four-year-old and two-year-old had free rein of the house. The amount of destruction Aubrey and Emma are capable of under adult supervision is astounding, but I was going to be here for a while, and they were running rampant through my house. I was so consumed with my stomach cramps that I didn’t even have time to be properly terrified at what was probably going on in the next room.
My legs were just starting to go numb from loss of circulation from sitting on the toilet seat for so long when Aubrey, my oldest, came running into the bathroom.
“Momma, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to go potty, Aubrey.”
“Ohhhhh, it’s taking a long time, huh, Momma?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you need help, Momma?”
“No, honey…” I trailed off as another wave of stomach cramps and nausea swept over me. Aubrey saw my pain as an open door and yelled, “Mommy, can I have some candy?”
“If you can reach it in the pantry you can have whatever you want.”
She ran out of the room as fast as her little feet would carry her, before I could change my mind, and I heard her yell to her sister, “Momma said we could have candy! Come on, Emma!”
What the hell had I been thinking when I decided to have another baby? It always seemed like a good idea until the nausea hit, which for me usually starts the day I pee on a stick and continues twenty-four hours a day until I hit the thirteen-week mark. My morning sickness had gotten progressively worse with each of my pregnancies. And now, I was pregnant, in charge of two toddlers, and even the slightest movement made me want to barf up my toenails. My husband was at work, all of my family was a good ten-hour drive away, and since we had recently moved again, I didn’t have a single friend I could call. Not one I could discuss my bowel habits with, anyway.
I had never dealt with this particular pregnancy symptom before, and I was at a loss. I had tried everything I knew to do as a nurse … drinking fluids, eating prunes, taking stool softeners. I knew what the next step was, and I was horrified. My husband and I have been through a lot together, but we are definitely a “poop with the door closed” kind of couple.
This pregnancy had brought me to a new low. I yelled from my throne for one of the girls to bring me the phone and dialed my husband’s number.
“Hey! ’Sup?” he asked cheerfully.
I started sobbing as I uttered words I never thought I would say to the man I love. “I need you to bring me an enema.”
I couldn’t believe I had actually said the words out loud. But there was no way I could load two kids into car seats and wrangle them through a pharmacy to purchase what I needed. I waited in the bathroom while Aubrey and Emma sat on the edge of the bathtub eating Pop-Tarts and staring at me doubled over on the toilet.
I heard Zeb’s car pull in the driveway and almost cried again when he opened the bathroom door with a bag from our drugstore in his hand.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
“Yes, take your kids and let me be sick by myself. And please, please don’t ever get me pregnant again,” I said. I snatched the bag out of his hand, pushed all three of my family members out of the bathroom, and locked the door behind them.
There are a lot of things I said I would never do when I had kids. I swore I would never say, “Because I said so,” “Don’t you make me pull this car over!” or “You just wait until your daddy gets home!” I would never “let myself go,” have petrified French fries on the floor of my car, or wear pajama pants to the grocery store, and I would never, ever drive a minivan. The only one of those things I’ve stuck to is not driving the minivan, but it’s not by choice. I fantasize about my own minivan on a daily basis, complete with automatic sliding doors, enough cargo space to haul a dead body (you never know, right?), and stale fries on the floor.
I used to think I wanted four kids. This was, of course, before I had one and realized how much work was involved. I was convinced at eighteen years old that I would have four perfect little stair-steps, all exactly two years apart; two boys and two girls. (And, yes, I was a little type A.)
I heard people talk about how hard it was to be a parent, but I babysat all the time. Being a babysitter and being a mom are practically the same thing, right?
I thought I knew. I had no idea. The thing you can’t explain to someone who doesn’t have children is how constant being a parent actually is. It is more than twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week … if that’s even possible.
Children, toddlers especially, have boundless energy with which they can torture their parents. Hell, if all I had to do all day was color, watch Blue’s Clues, eat a snack, and nap, I’d have boundless energy, too. But, no, I am the one getting out the crayons, trying to keep my children from consuming crayons, picking up broken crayons, and putting away the crayons. (And while I’m on the subject, why don’t those folks at Crayola either add some vitamins and minerals to their product or make them taste bad? My kids love eating them, and I’m tired of telling them no and having to buy more. Put up or shut up, Crayola. Fortify them or make them taste bad. This isn’t rocket science.)
Unless you want your children to be completely stinking rotten, not only do you have to tell them no on a regular basis, you have to mean it and to be ready and willing to back it up. All the energy they conserve while napping, snacking, and playing is ammunition to defeat us, their parents, who have been busy behind the scenes keeping the house from falling apart. Even though you are exhausted, you have to win. Once you have thrown down the gauntlet and made a rule, if your child breaks it 200 times in one day, you have to correct them 201 times.
Now, I’ll be the first one to admit to occasionally ignoring bad behavior. If my two oldest are in another room, making a mess without cleaning up one they have already made, and I am actually getting something done, such as cooking dinner or doing laundry, I may have occasionally pretended I couldn’t hear them so I could finish the task at hand and dealt with their bad behavior after I was finished. You say, “Lazy parenting.” I say, “Priorities, priorities, priorities.”
I do deal with the behavior. I just act shocked when I walk into their room, like I didn’t realize what was going on. I also recognize that I can’t keep this up forever because they will eventually figure it out. But for now, a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.
And have you ever attempted reasoning with a toddler? Even explaining to them why their behavior is wrong can be exhausting.
“But why, Momma? But why?”
I have tried and tried and tried to be patient, to be an attentive parent, to answer each “why” with love and long suffering … to avoid the phrase I detested so much as a child: “Because I said so.”
“GIRLS! Quit jumping on the bed!”
“Why, Mommy, why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“Why, Mommy, why?”
“Because you could fall and break your arm or your neck or impale yourself on the posts sticking up out of the footboard…”
“Why, Mommy, why?”
“Because you are jumping on the bed…”
“Why, Mommy, why?”
“Because you are being bad. Stop. Jumping. On. The. Bed.”
“Why, Mommy, why?”
It’s unfortunate, but it really is the only phrase that can stop one of these maddening conversations in its tracks.
Another thing I knew nothing about was the selective hearing children seem to experience as they enter their preschool years. Anything you say to another adult (especially regarding another adult) can be repeated verbatim by your children. Anything you say directly to your child must automatically be repeated—at least twice.
“Emma, stop unrolling the toilet paper all over the bathroom,” I’ll say clearly, standing less than fourteen inches away from her.
“HUH? What you said, Momma?” she’ll ask with one hand cupped around her ear and leaning in … as if she actually cannot hear me.
Their selective hearing will often lead to my wondering if I actually spoke out loud or if I was just really concentrating on what I was going to say.
“Test one, two … testing … is this thing on?” I’ll say as I pretend to check a microphone, which usually leads to zero response from anyone in my house and occasionally makes me think that they really can hear, but I apparently don’t know how to make words come out of my mouth.
I just didn’t realize B.C. (Before Children) how much work it takes to maintain some sort of order in your house. You are constantly cleaning, battling for good manners and good behavior and refereeing fights between siblings, trying to teach values and spend quality time with each child and your spouse. It is exhausting. (Quick soapbox moment here for you “animal people”—having a pet, even a dog, is not the same as having children. Case in point: you can lock your “baby” in a cage or take it outside, lock the door, and ignore it for a few hours. Parents cannot, unless we would like a cage of our very own.)
Even with all of this, when I was pregnant with my third child I still wasn’t sure I was “done.” After I had my second child, I didn’t feel like our family was complete; it felt like someone was missing. And, to be honest, I was worried I would be sad when my baby-making days were over. My husband was satisfied with his three daughters, but throughout my third pregnancy I speculated about what would happen if I wanted another child and my husband did not. I had looked forward to being pregnant and having babies my whole life and wondered if I would be depressed to say good-bye to those days and begin a new chapter with my family.
All my concerns about wanting more children quickly vaporized when I was introduced to life as a mother to three. As soon as I held Sadie Plum in my arms, I knew my whole family was present and accounted for. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as all the pressure and expectations I had placed on myself for so long faded away.
I began the cleansing process of giving away maternity clothes and baby items as Sadie outgrew them. The idea of getting into shape and finally being able to replace my very dated wardrobe was intoxicating. As soon as a pair of pants or a shirt was deemed too large for me, it immediately went into my giveaway pile.
Things at my house were crazy but fulfilling. I loved being a mother to my three daughters, but I was still quite positive my baby-making days were behind me and smiled at myself in the mirror as I took my birth control pill every night.
Until one evening I stumbled into the bathroom to take my pill and couldn’t find them. It was a Friday evening, and I was exhausted from a week of entertaining my children in the summer heat. I dug around in my drawer and in my jewelry box, just in case a “little helper” had stashed them somewhere, before I finally gave up and decided to go to bed and look for them in the morning.
Of course, the next morning I was woken up as Aubrey, my four-year-old, and Emma, my two-year-old, wrestled for the spot next to me in my bed and, in the process, almost threw me onto the floor. It was two days later when I finally remembered I still hadn’t found my birth control pills and began frantically searching my bathroom.
I called a family meeting.
“Everyone in Mommy and Daddy’s bathroom RIGHT NOW!”
Aubrey and Emma walked calmly into the bathroom, followed by their sweet daddy.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Aubrey and Emma were in our bathroom the other day playing with my makeup, and I haven’t been able to find my birth control since then…”
I didn’t have to say one more word. My husband transformed from a laid-back, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy to a drill sergeant.
“You will find Mommy’s medicine and you will not STOP until you find it! Do you understand?”
Aubrey spoke up. “Oh! It’s okay, Mommy, you can do it! Just be very patient and keep on looking.”
My husband said, “I don’t think you understand. No one is leaving this room until we find Mommy’s medicine.”
“Oh,” she replied.
As soon as Emma realized this was not a test but serious business, she opened the cabinet and plucked my medicine from its hiding spot.
“Here you go, Mommy!” she said proudly.
I couldn’t have been happier to see those pills if I was stranded in the Sahara and someone offered me a Cherry Limeade from Sonic—one of those route 44 ones, the ones that are big enough to swim in. It might be time to start researching other birth control options. They couldn’t find and hide an IUD from me … could they?

Copyright © 2011, 2014 by Robin O’Bryant

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9781250054142: Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves

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Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2014

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