Motherhood. It starts so lovely. There is a party with cake and favors and pink balloons. Then someone comes up with a dumb game about nursery rhymes or the colors of baby poop, and your closest family and friends “oooh” and “ahhh” over the sweetest little clothes you’ve ever seen. (Of course, they are only there because you went to their baby shower and they don’t want to be talked about at the next family reunion or office party. It’s called mommy payback, which is similar to the “eye for an eye” concept but it’s “a present for a present” thing. And we keep track.)

Next comes childbirth, which is kind of gross but beautiful, and then…voila, you’re in the club. No fees, no by-laws and no training. The great thing about it is that there are books, magazines and blogs all dedicated to understanding motherhood. They talk about how to be a better mom, a less-guilty mom, a time-saving mom and mom with a tighter butt.

But where are the articles that explain being a mom? The ones that could translate what we really want and don’t want from life. I mean, there are millions of articles explaining the misconceptions of marriage but where are the ones that say it’s okay to not like making dinner every night until you die? Where does it say that it’s okay to not find your life’s meaning or purpose in doing three loads of laundry a day and loading dish after dish into the never-ending water box next to your sin?

I want my kids to understand me. I want men to accept me. I love being a mother to my kids but that doesn’t mean I love serving them, that I yearn for them to soil clothing throughout the week for my big 10-load payoff by the weekend, or that I secretly love putting them to bed while screaming “teeth, pajamas and bedtime!” at the top of my lungs for an hour while I toil over the carnage left from dinner.

The Top Misconceptions of Motherhood (In no particular order, besides the fact that these bother me the most.)

1.We like to hold things. Everything, really. I can be anywhere and my children seem to think that I need to hold things. Bags, used gum, sparkly Dixie cups in the shape of a heart, baseball glove, half-eaten hot dogs, jock straps, used tissues or broccoli that doesn’t taste good. Anything.  The more the better. I’m not happy unless the weight of things in my arms can somehow counter-balance the weight of my growing rear, because as soon as I get home I’m eating a Danish. Why? Because I’m a human hanger and I yearn for more.

2. We like kids. People think that because I “have” kids that I “like” kids. No. I don’t. I like mine but that’s about it. And the only reason I can really stand mine is because when they were little they were cute and grew on me. Like puppies. I don’t know other peoples kids. I have never seen them be cute or say nonsensical gibberish that I will somehow translate into “I love you mom—more than dad.” We eat that crap up. To me your kid just seems annoying. And dirty. Why do other people’s kids seem dirty? Am I the only one that thinks that? Maybe. But truthfully, I do not like your kid. Frankly, some days I don’t even like mine, but like most parents, when I see your kid I’ll pretend and put a nice smile on my face and say “wow, he is a special kid.” I’m lying.

3. We are not bothered by throw up. What?! No. It’s gross. Honestly, that is the one thing that I feel bad about. My mom was great. She would stand by you, rub your back and tell you everything will be okay. Nope. Not me. I can’t do it. The minute I hear it I just want to get sick. I usually end up going over to them (because I feel so bad), holding my nose with one hand, rubbing whatever part of their body is closest to me and saying, “It’s okay. Mommy’s going to go get Daddy.” I feel bad. I want to be that mom, but I’m not. I’m usually the one screaming, “Get the bucket! Get the bucket!” But they never have the bucket. Where is the damn bucket?

4. Moms know things. My kids ask me questions all the time. Some stuff I know, other stuff I’ve decided just to make up. I found it’s just the best for everyone. I used to say “Mommy doesn’t know, but you know what? We’ll look it up when we get home.” But we don’t. By the time we get home I’ve got laundry to do and dinner to make, and I can’t be bothered finding out when Santa’s birthday is or what kind of bird is in the neighbors’ yard. The answer is June 25. Six months after Jesus’ birthday so that he doesn’t steal Jesus’ thunder and there is no way that Mary will make them share a birthday cake like grandmom did to Mommy, Aunt Michelle and Aunt Nicky when they were kids. It’s great. The key is to make the answer so ridiculous that there is no way they can Google it and find out if you’re lying. If it’s a math question, the answer is always π (pi). If it’s a color, make it chartreuse — no one knows what color that really is anyway, and if it’s a bird in the neighbor’s yard, it’s a “wytusi”. Don’t ask.

5. Moms prefer homemade presents. Alright, I actually do like the homemade ones. Those are the ones you cherish. The ones you save and show them when they are 18 years old and talk back to you. But seriously, throw me a bone once in a while. Work something out with your father. A Dunkin’ Donuts gift card wouldn’t kill you. Save up. Shovel some snow. Rake some leaves. Give a woman something to live for.

Don’t judge me. You know you’ve thought all this before, you just can’t say it. But I can! So kids, no more spitting the food you don’t like into my hand, and parents, if your kids are annoying don’t bring them around me. I could explode at any minute. Throw up? Well, you know my thoughts, and if you hear my child talking about where babies come from and the answer involves Fed Ex, go with it. I’ve got a system here...and it’s working.