I know this because Iâ€™m girl, because I have two girls, and because almost any given day of our lives could be comparable to a Nicholas Sparks novel turned into a Lifetime movie morphed into a Tori Spelling autobiography. In short? There is never a deficiency in feigned illness, the ever-present threat of emotional damage, and more fake tears than a Lindsay Lohan court day.
Regardless, living with this many girls can really do some damage to your psyche. My eldest child lives her life like Kristen Chenoweth (every day is another excuse for a musical), and talks so much that itâ€™s hard not to begin to tune her out. As much as I want to focus on her every word, when sheâ€™s performing plays tentatively titled â€œIâ€™m The Princess, Who Marries The Prince, To Get The Unicorn Back From The Witchâ€, you start going into autopilot mode.
Sometimes my husband comes in the room and proclaims, â€œCan you not hear her? How can you not hear that?â€ First of all, when youâ€™re about 60 minutes in to the â€œToddler Monologuesâ€, a newfound form of defense mechanism kicks in (letâ€™s just call it motherhood survival mode) and you begin to filter the information that is heading your way with rapid fire. Anything with the words â€œexplosionâ€, â€œbloodâ€ or â€œthe baby just ripped up your $50 billâ€ makes it through, and anything involving â€œSuite Lifeâ€, â€œsparklesâ€ or â€œwhen I grow up Iâ€™m going to be a fire fighting queen who lives at the circus and designs clothingâ€ gets the boot.
Of course, for every chocolate covered neurosis my daughters throw my way, they certainly know how to sweet-talk. More often than not, girls know exactly when to turn on the charm (in a way that my husband could only dream about). As my eldest child tells her dad heâ€™s the most handsome man on earth (while simultaneously expressing it through the beauty of sign language), she is batting her eyelashes and flashing her dimples in perfect synchrony with her slow slide towards the nearest pint of ice cream.
The resident man of the house, however, is almost always met with an onslaught of â€œDo I look okâ€™s?â€ and â€œDo you think I look pregnant in this?â€ He thinks this is because women are just innately insecure, but what men donâ€™t seem to realize is that once youâ€™ve had your skin, cartilage and skeleton stretched, pulled and rearranged for nine months (prior to pushing a small human being out of your innards), we have earned the right to feel as insecure as we please.
How would a man feel if he had hormone induced hair loss, breakouts you canâ€™t treat with chemicals, cellulite in places you didnâ€™t know were humanly possible and lived the better part of your post-partum months as a living chew toy? Itâ€™s safe to assume theyâ€™d garner up a little more sympathy towards our never-ending girl drama (at least once he realizes that stretch marks are like David Hasselhoff jokes: theyâ€™re not going anywhere).
Despite the fact that men simply donâ€™t understand why women are so darn emotional, I often donâ€™t understand my daughters either. Itâ€™s like they live life to a constant extreme, bouncing back and forth between manic depression (when they get a stain on their Fancy Nancy sneakers) or profuse elation (especially if they realize that mommyâ€™s $100 facial cream looks gorgeous Pollock style on the wall).
And just when I feel like screaming â€œpick an emotion and stick with itâ€, I remember how lucky I am that my children can express themselves to begin with. A year ago (as my infant lay dependant on tubes and wires in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) or months after (when she was diagnosed with seemingly progressive hearing loss), I worried that weâ€™d never be able to communicate like a normal family again.
Yes, to some people, â€œnormalâ€ might not be defined as talking with your hands, or tolerating the intense dysfunction that comes from raising girls, but to me, itâ€™s the biggest blessing in the world. Every time the baby has an emotional meltdown, Iâ€™m thrilled she is healthy enough to do so. And every time the girls create more sisterly turmoil than a season of Charmed, I count my blessings that they are both here with us to torture one another some more.
So the next time we find ourselves exhausted, depleted and worn out from the constant noise overload that is motherhood, I suggest we take a second to think about the mothers whoâ€™s kids canâ€™t express themselves, canâ€™t discuss their feelings, or worst of all, are saving their chatty conversations for another day in heaven.
If you pass by my house most days of the week, you will likely hear screaming, crying and piercing melodies from the latest musical production in our living roomâ€¦ but I donâ€™t care. If you have a problem with it, you can stick in your earplugs or head the other way.
Because what might sound like unbearable levels of girl drama and emotional outbreaks to youâ€¦
Sounds like music to my ears.
Bailey Vincent Clark is the Editor-in-chief, author and founder of Makeover Momma. She hosts Makeover Momma TV on Tuesday (7 PM/EST & 4 PM/PT), and has a weekly column on Friday: “Getting Friendly With Makeover Momma.” If you would like to ask questions, submit concerns or simply chat: please email firstname.lastname@example.org.
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