So when did torture become our preferred past time? The Christmas season has created the ideal, amplified version of this mommy-masochism, in order to allow me to finally see clearly how my Outlook Calendar can really be read as a script for a horror film. Let me explain. I can faintly remember a time when my free time, was…well, FREE time! Those days are dead. Now, my every “free” moment is imprisoned by crucial kid classes (This Parks and Rec class could be her only hope in discovering her path to greatness!) and vital scout sessions (Without Daisies,my child will surely become a loner or a characterless serial killer!) and those critical sports teams (Regardless of the fact that both of her parents are gross-motor challenged, she COULD be a future Olympian. How could I deprive her of that opportunity?). And those few, precious remaining voids, are then swiftly crowded with that essential “Family Fun Time” (which really has very little to do with actual fun for the elder members of the fam). You see, when I add these seemingly delightful events to my calendar, I do so with visions of laughter and fulfillment. But in reality these family fun events are better described as a dangerous combination of Olympic sport and psychological thriller.

Here is what I mean. This sport requires experience and training. After far too many children, I have finally learned that regardless of the age or size of your children, you should ALWAYS bring a stroller (a double if you have it). Now, while the sheer fact that you bring it, will likely result in you pushing around an empty threat, this is still my recommendation. First, it gives you a place for the massive amount of survival gear (i.e. loveys, snacks, jackets, that thing they found on the floor of the car as they got out that they HAVE to bring or they might die). Second, it is a socially acceptable way of imprisoning your rebels, if threat arises. I would much rather be THAT mom with the questionably old kid confined to a moveable Time-Out, than I would be THAT mom with kiddos pulling rank on me. Here are some actual quotes lifted from a recent rebellion while joyfully looking at seasonal lights: “Off the lawn! Off the porch! No, that is not yours! Get your hands off of that! Hands off of your sister! Hands off of your brother! Hands to yourself! No, that is not what I meant! Hands out of your pants! Fingers out of your nose! Once again, hands off of that! It does not belong to you!” Sorry for the little germ surprises my kids just left you. And if you don’t bring along the rolling reserves, you will inevitably end up with some sort of major meltdown or catastrophic injury or some other reason why you have to then become an actual pack mule/juggling circus performer, specializing in the ability to balance 3 tantruming children, 6 stowaway toys, a 12 pound diaper bag, and the random leaves and trinkets they have found along the way.

And then, when you finally get to the oasis you intended to (somewhere you have tricked yourself into believing is fun, and would likely NEVER choose to go pre-children), you will inevitably smell that dirty diaper, in an attempt to ruin your forced family “fun.” So what do you do? Do you go all the way back? No way! You’ve come too far for that. So you totally make the “P.U.” sign and look around with disgust whenever you enter crowds, to ensure nobody thinks it is YOUR kid that is poisoning the surrounding air.

And then, of course, we decide that we need to take a photograph to prove to our friends and families (or maybe just to ourselves) how much fun this whole circus really is. Here is the scene: “Look at me Zoe! Zoe? Zoe? Now look at me Mia! Mia? Mia? Now look at me Wesley! Wesley? Wesley?” Insert irritating buzzing sound intended only for infants, in hopes that it will entice all three subjects to momentarily glance in your direction for a flash. It does not. However you did win the laughter of passersby. My new favorite technique is to then lie. Some favorites are “Look what mommy has for you,” when in fact I have nothing. That usually gives me at least a few seconds of eyes searching in my direction, with at least a look of hope. Another favorite is just screaming in terror, “Ahhhhh!” While this will likely not entice smiles, at least I can see enough of each of their little terrified faces to at least be able to identify them as my own. However, the funny thing is, I always look back at these photos and (having deleted the stills of mid-action fist fights and cries of terror) find myself being tricked into these false memories of such “happier times.” So thank you digital age…for allowing me to slip into a constant, present depression, by preserving a lie from the past, to lift onto a pedestal.

So have I finally learned my lesson? Of course not! Because as much as I complain about these trials of parenting, when it comes down to it, as moms, we are genetically programmed to spoil the heck out of kids, to sacrifice every ounce of our sanity, to bring love to those little life-suckers with every “free” moment we have left on earth. Because there is something about your child’s smile or laughter that is like the greatest drug known to man-kind, and as a result, you are like a hopeless crackhead for your kids. Because I freakin’ love my little monsters, and seeing their devilish little eyes twinkle at fake snow-soap being power fanned all over their nicest, water-stainable jackets is the closest thing to bliss I can possibly imagine. Admit it moms!