Mommy Wants A Drink

If You Talk to My Little Kid About Sex, I Will Find You and Hurt You.

2011-09-01T06:54:00.000-07:00

My eldest daughter recently turned six. Here's a conversation we had in the car the other day:

ME: Look at that lady, five kids, oooh that's too many.

KID: Maybe I won't have any kids.

ME: That would be sad. No Halloween costumes, no dance recitals, no summer camps?

KID: Well, whatever, Mom, it's not as if you get to get to CHOOSE how many kids you get.

Hmmm. This might have been what they call a "teachable moment." But hell if I was going to make my first delicate foray into Birds & Bees Land when the kid's ballet class was scheduled to start in eight minutes.

I am not of the "tell little kids blatant lies about sex" camp. Nor am I of the "show your toddler a medical textbook about copulation" camp. I am more of the "little kids should be given as little information as possible on a need-t0-know basis" camp. Hence my daughter's slightly inaccurate belief that babies just "happen" to a person.

Other still-preserved misconceptions of my daughter's: Babies come out of mommies' bellies through "zippers." You can thank my VERY CONVENIENT three-time C-section scar for this one. And another: Babies are born only to people who are married. Very "red state" of me to let this one stand, no?

But what can I say-- I want this kid to have a CHILDHOOD. A LOOOONG childhood. And an INNOCENT one. Ideally, one that is free from YouTube videos and sexual knowhow and pink feathers in her hair (I recently lost the battle on that one thanks to a friend's birthday party) (I now refer to it openly as her "stripper feather") (she doesn't know what a "stripper" is but I hope she gets from my tone that it's not a word typically associated with the Ivy League) (yes she DOES know what the Ivy League is, damnit!).

I know that the time is going to come when I kick myself for not educating the kid sooner. Like, when she comes home from school in panicked tears because some classmate on the playground told her that babies come out of vaginas and she's all traumatized and shit. (Then again, maybe this will go over her head, too-- I am really breaking from the pack here and still allowing my kids to use the adorable word "cooch" instead of the ugliest-word-in-the-world "vagina." Query, then, as to whether a schoolyard education would even faze her at all. Ha! Foiled again, sexually-well-informed childhood-stealers!)

Look, my (irrational?) fear about little kids' sex education is just like my (irrational?) fear of technology-- that once you let it in, it's a bell that can't be unrung, and it has the potential to change everything. Once my precocious little girl understands that a penis enters a vagina.... UGH I can just imagine the stunned look on her face when she hears those words, and I imagine that all of the color (read: INNOCENCE) will instantly drain out of her flushed cheeks. Not that sex is bad, of COURSE not... but it's just so completely incompatible with the notion of childhood. And with my 6-year-old *already* foregoing trips to the toy store in favor of trips to the shoe store, can you blame me for throwing my entire body weight against the door that GROWN-UP-ED-NESS is so forcefully trying to blow down? Is it wrong to want to shelter her from the adult world for as long as I responsibly can?

I'm a GO BIG OR GO HOME kind of person. Once I give the sex talk, I'm probably gonna give it to all my girls at once... and I'm probably gonna distribute birth control pills at the end of it. And in light of the fact that my youngest daughter is only three, perhaps you can understand why I'm stalling a bit.

2011-08-09T16:32:00.001-07:00

I expected that being a good parent would often mean standing alone.

No, you can't stay out past midnight. No, you can't have the car keys. No, you can't have a $200 pair of jeans.

What I didn't expect is that the standing alone part would start so young. My kid is SIX.

No, you can't have an iTouch. No, you can't have unfettered access to the internet. No, you can't ask the Tooth Fairy to leave you a $20 bill, just because you have a friend who did.

Was it always this way, where the indulgences of adulthood commenced their siren song on the KINDERGARTEN playground? I don't know... my memory is foggy about my own childhood... the only struggles I remember were over when I could get my ears pierced (so far, my daughters' earlobes are intact) and when I could get a private landline telephone in my bedroom (ahahaha landline). But historically accurate or not, I feel that our children are much more jaded than we were, and at such a tender age. Not that it's their fault-- every kiddie tv program concludes with "Ask a grown-up and go to www dot..." Every elementary school classroom comes equipped with its Mean Girls and its designer clotheshorses. Every iPhone seems limitlessly loaded with children's video games, PERFECT for entertaining little ones on long flights.

And yet, there my husband and I sit, wearily suffering in our crowded airplane seats, trying desperately to keep 3 children under 7 entertained with good old-fashioned coloring books, stickers, and snacks.

Sometimes I ask myself: ARE OUR KIDS REALLY ANY BETTER OFF?

So WHAT if we were to let them screw around on PlayhouseDisney.com, or NickJr.com, or PBSkids.com after school? So WHAT if we were to indulge them with the occasional designer duds or Tooth Fairy windfall? So WHAT if we were to give each of them an iTouch, at least for long trips or waiting rooms or rainy Saturday afternoons?

Part of me wants to give in. Part of me knows that the "research" on children and early access to technology is inconclusive; maybe one day it will be proven that kids who exist primarily in a virtual world end up SMARTER and more mentally NIMBLE than those who exist primarily in the tangible world. Part of me has grown impatient with drafting scavenger hunt lists, and playing boring board games, and negotiating over how many pages are to be read before bedtime. Maybe kids do just FINE with greater access to technology, money, and other adult fare.

But even as I write that... it doesn't sound right to me. A six-year-old doesn't NEED a 20-dollar bill from the Tooth Fairy, any more than she NEEDS designer jeans, any more than she NEEDS access to the internet. I actually do, for the most part, BELIEVE the party line that I routinely deliver around here: If we let you do all the grown-up stuff NOW, then what will you have to look forward to when you're older??

And yet I'm exhausted. Already! Exhausted from trying to stand by my principles; exhausted from trying to raise my own kids within the basic structural framework in which I was raised. Because this is not the 70s anymore, and it's no longer just a question of how many hours a kid spends in front of the boob tube each day. Today a parent has to do this tedious calculation of hours of tv + hours of internet + hours of text message + hours of instant message + hours of Farmville. And then we have to worry whether there is ANY hour left over for homework.

In the end, I think I struggle not because I don't believe in the uphill battle I'm waging-- I do-- but because I feel like it's a battle I am DESTINED TO LOSE. At *some* point in the future, I am going to HAVE to give my daughters a computer... a cell phone... money to go to the mall; and I can't help but feel that THAT is the moment when I lose them. Because truly, when given the choice between Facebook and Physics 101, what conventionally-wired teenager could EVER possess the self-restraint to make the "right" choice? Would *I* have been able to resist it, if I were a kid in this day and age?

And so I question myself. And then I feel guilty. And I worry that I'm asking too much of my girls, or denying them too much. And I dread the inevitable, when technology plants itself squarely in the center of our family room and preempts our low-tech human interactions.

And then I go check my Facebook account.

Hmmm.

What do *you* think? Is the Apple computer also YOUR family's forbidden fruit? Or am I just making life harder than it needs to be?

Sex in the Suburbs

2011-08-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

And this, ladies, is our life.

(Note: This link may be NSFW.)

www.AskMinnieVann.com

THE PRICE OF PEACE.

2010-09-29T08:57:00.000-07:00

Ok. So here's an embarrassing thing I did tonight.

It was getting late. On a school night. My husband was out of town on business. I was trying to wrangle three small children into their respective beds. We were nearing the finish line. I could see the light.

Dinner done. Bath done. Time for pajamas!

I opened the drawer full of sleepwear. Being that all three girls are roughly the same size, it's a nightly free-for-all, where every kid gets to select an ensemble that matches her mood. It's a fun routine!

Except for tonight. When war broke out.

Over the stuuuuuuupid Minnie Mouse 2-piece schmatte, no less, that no one ever gave a rat's ASS about before this night.

The sound of high-pitched screeching prompted me to spin around, at which point I see my 2-year-old attempting to forcefully strip the garment off my 3-year-old's body, and, as you can imagine, much agitated hollering from both ensued.

I was on my last nerve already.

This was not helping.

THEY WERE TRYING TO KILL ME!

I got down on the floor with them. "WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?... OR THIS ONE?" I begged the 2-year-old, flinging pajamas out of the box to no avail.

"THEN JUST GIVE HER THE PAJAMAS!" I ordered the 3-year-old, pleading at her with my eyes to no avail.

"OK, THEN GIVE HER ONE *HALF* OF THE PAJAMAS!" I countered, and finally hit a somewhat rational chord with my somewhat rational 3-year-old, who stopped howling long enough to remove the pajama pants and hold them out defeatedly to her little sister.

"NO, WANT THE SHIRT TOOOOOO!" wailed the decidedly less rational 2-year-old, face turning beet red and snot and tears consuming her face.

My aggravation was turning into panic.

LOOK AT THE TIME!!

And so, in a moment of pure desperation, I stood up and announced flatly:

"FIVE

DOLLARS

WHOEVER

GIVES

THE

PAJAMAS

FIRST."

And the 3-year-old, God bless her, recently coveting a bottle of electric pink nail polish in CVS (and mistakenly believing that 5 dollars would buy her 5 nail polishes, I later found out), couldn't get out of the damn pajamas fast enough. The 2-year-old, meanwhile, too amped up to take real pleasure in her victory but still oblivious to the power of the penny, finally stopped crying.

And just like that the crisis was over.

Peace was restored.

I wasn't going to have to run away from home! (tonight.)

So I ask you...

*not* whether it is morally inappropriate to pay off toddlers with cold hard cash (because I already know the answer, and believe me when I tell you I DON'T CARE), but simply...

*WHY* didn't I think of this sooner?

Summer Slacker.

2010-09-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hello.

Still here.

Just took the summer off.

Not because anything terrible happened.

Just because I got lazy, or overheated, or caught up in silly things that seemed important at the time but now I can't remember.

But I think of you!

And I am coming back. Soon. We're just in the middle of a move, and changing schools, and I kinda feel exhausted to my core, even when I have just woken up...

Can't wait to talk to you.

Normal Day.

2010-06-23T22:25:00.000-07:00

I have been having a terrible time with my 5-year-old lately.

She seems to be desperately stuck between two worlds: on the one hand, she can carry on a sophisticated conversation about a very mature subject to the point that you forget you're talking to a kid; and on the other hand, she has taken to extremely babyish meltdowns over the most trivial (in my opinion) things (i.e., my telling her that she's taking too long washing her hands and needs to hurry up). Whenever she crumples to the floor, loudly wailing and dramatically quivering her bottom lip, I find myself exploding onto her with frustration. HOW CAN YOU BE SUCH A BIG GIRL AND SUCH A BABY AT THE SAME TIME?

And yet.

Sometimes, when the kids are finally all asleep, and the house is quiet, and I have a minute to reflect on how stressed I was that day, and how many times I caught myself yelling at the kids, and how I at one point resorted to sitting outside on the front steps so that the kids wouldn't see me crying with exasperation.... I realize that I don't really have anything to be upset about at all.

The "problems" of my day are ones that many moms, who find themselves in far, far more dire straits, would kill to have.

I have two friends whose children were recently diagnosed with significant medical problems. Those women have had their worlds turned upside down. I experience their pain, for fleeting moments at a time, through their anguished status updates. And then I go back to pulling my hair out because my three children can't stop tattling on each other for five minutes.

And that's more than a little bit crazy.

So I have been moved to revisit these two little nuggets of wisdom, the first one brought into my life by, if I remember correctly, www.ThePlanetPink.com, and the second, by www.TheElmoWallpaper.com. The video clip is a few minutes long but I don't think you'll regret taking the time. And even if you've seen it before, I find it still makes an impact, even upon repeat viewing.

The next time, then, that I find myself sitting on the doorstep gritting my teeth in what feels like madness, I hope I will remember these messages, and go back inside and hug my kids. 'Cuz even when a normal day absolutely SUCKS, it's still a normal day, and for that I need to be more grateful. xo.

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so. One day, I may dig my nails in the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want more than all the world--your return.

-Jean Irion

Guess the Baby Face Couldn't Last Forever...

2010-06-18T09:30:00.001-07:00

Well, it finally happened.

I was checking my reflection in the overhead visor of my car today when I spotted it.

My first gray hair. Right near my temple. Glistening in the sunlight. I was tempted to yank it, but I decided to leave it there. Still not sure why. I think it's because I love to torture myself?

Now I know that, for many of you, this is not big news. Some of you have been dealing with gray hairs for a while now, and from you, I don't expect sympathy.

But I am a newcomer to this world of old lady follicles. And it's not a place I'm finding particularly comfortable.

Combine this recent discovery with the other harsh realities I've been dealing with of late:

...the sudden appearance of thin little lines at the corners of my eyes, and across my forehead, that don't go away even in the complete absence of any facial expression...

...the slow but steady erosion of whatever breastesses I once had, a sacrifice not in vain due to their nothing-short-of heroic efforts in feeding 3 children for 3 years, but a crippling blow to my self-image nonetheless...

...and the dogged insistence of my unrestrained belly to keep puffing out to its 3-month pregnant dimensions, regardless of the fact that no further pregnancies are forthcoming.

So here I am, wrinkly, both puffy and flat but in all the wrong places... and now with a gray hair.

If this is what I look like two months short of age 36, I shudder to think how the wheels will have completely fallen off the wagon some thirty years from now! Will I be a raisin with legs??

Yeeeyikes.

All recommendations for eye creams, hair dye, and girdles welcome in the comments section below.

Kindly take a moment and help ease my transition into OLD.

Your Kid Sucks. Accordingly, You Suck, Too.

2010-06-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

I have a kid finishing up Pre-K this month. (I can hardly believe it's only Pre-K as I write that; the drama lately has been so much more suited to junior high.) And if you've been reading this blog since it's humble beginnings, you already know that this child o' mine had a bit of trouble at the start of the year trying to gain entry into the "cool crowd" of the class. (Again, it's Pre-K, people. Sheesh!)

But as the year progressed, said cool crowd ultimately agreed to associate with her--occasionally-- and within reason. My kid was only invited to one playdate (and we reciprocated with exactly one playdate; I wasn't about to go out of my way to impress these two little snots), and sometimes she would still come home to report that she had been left to play all by herself at recess. For the most part, however, I thought my kid had established a pleasant rapport with the 5-year-old powers that be.

Until last week.

At which time Kid got into the car after school and announced: "[Mean Girl A] and [Mean Girl B] got into big trouble at school today!"

"Why?" say I, silently thrilled by the news.

"Well," Kid continued, a little less enthusiastically, "[Mean Girl A] pushed me off the swings and [Mean Girl B] scratched my arm and both of them were laughing at me so the teacher made them come and apologize and we all had a big group hug."

"I TOLD YOU THOSE KIDS WERE JERKS!" I reflexively sputter, and then wonder if perhaps I could have handled this differently. Oh well.

Now, this swing-pushing-and-arm-scratching sucks in its own right (*especially* when I came to find out that the very next day, my own kid JOINED the Mean Girls in teasing someone ELSE! aargh, classic peer pressure! already!)... but it is particularly uncomfortable in light of the fact that-- geez-- I really liked the mommy of Mean Girl A.

*Liked.*

See, I'm incredibly efficient in my dealings with people. You cross me, your whole family has crossed me. You cross my kid, you've crossed me. *Your* kid crosses *my* kid... well, then, it's ON, bitches!

It used to be that Mom of Mean Girl A [MOMGA, henceforth, for ease of reference] and I would pass each other at school pickup and exchange meaningful friendly words. When I had a crisis vis-a-vis the teachers' presents I was supposed to organize, she was the one I trusted for guidance. And when I had to fill in as field trip chaperone, she was the mom I hoped to get paired up with.

But now? Ugh, I can hardly look at the lady without being overcome with emotion.

ANGER: You let your kid hurt my kid!

CONFUSION: Weren't my kid and I good enough friends to you both??

and

LOSS: You were my favorite mom from the class! I loved you best! And now it's all RUINED!

Query: Am I the only one who is reduced to the maturity of a fellow 5-year-old in this situation? WHY can't I be an adult here, and acknowledge that MOMGA is *not* Mean Girl? It's not like *MOMGA* showed up on the playground and pushed my kid off a swing. Just as it's not *my* fault that, the next day, my kid, for all intents and purposes, bullied some other innocent. And yet...

Am kinda dreading the end-of-year class party on Thursday. I will *literally* be able to make eye contact with only two people in the entire room-- the teacher and my own child-- since half the parents think I screwed up the teacher presents (ah, Class Mom, the great unsung hero of the suburbs! a truly thankless job!), two of the parents are MOMGA/Bs, and at least one of the parents (the mom of the child who MY kid teased!) has every right to give me the stinkeye.

At this rate, I'm as likely to get my ass kicked on the playground as my daughter is.

Mother of the Year strikes again!

No More Teachers, No More Books, No More Peace and Quiet.

2010-06-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

A lot of my mommy blogger friends and Facebook friends have been posting about the onset of summer vacation.

A concept that strikes fear into the hearts of many a mother.

Like, if you think *weekends* with three little kids trashing the house are bad, how 'bout a THREE-MONTH WEEKEND.

Now, in fairness, I do send my kids to day camp for a large chunk of the summer. How families cope with summertime in the absence of day camp is truly BEYOND me. And to those parents, I offer you my highest admiration, praise, and sympathy.

But even for a mommy like me, who does get to ship her little ones out the door from 9 until 3 many a-summer's day, I am still experiencing this last week of school as if every child-free hour is ticking down my doom. So what can we do, as moms who would desperately like to maintain some semblance of composure this season, to minimize the pain?

Well, let's break it down.

If you ask me, the problems with no school are: NO STRUCTURE, NOT ENOUGH ACTIVITIES, SIBLING WARS, and STIR CRAZINESS.

Alright, so let's knock each one off one by one.

1) NO STRUCTURE. Ok. What makes the school day manageable is that there's a reliable routine. Get up, get out, do your after school activity (if applicable), come home, watch the minutes on the clock crawl agonizingly towards dinnertime (wait, what?), eat, bathe, sleep.

Alright, so what if we create some kind of reliable routine for non-school days? Like, we need to be dressed by X time, we are going to do a craft at X time, we're going out for lunch at X time, we're going to have quiet time / nap time / study hall (the goal is little NERDS, people) at X time, we're going swimming (UGH, so much effort!) at X time, we're doing board games (bored games) and puzzles until dinner.

Aargh, that sounds good on paper. I just don't know if I can carry it out. The idea of having an "activity schedule" sounds too much like homeschooling. But who are we kidding, whenever the kids are at home for extended periods of time, we moms are on the clock. So hey! we might as well get all the granola props of giving ourselves the title "homeschooler." Bring on the equivalency exams! We are officially crunchy now!

2) NOT ENOUGH ACTIVITIES. Alright, I'm fantastically guilty of spending my husband's hard-earned cash on child-related junk that I hope will buy me some calm in this house. I have an entire cupboard stockpiled with connect-the-dot books, coloring books, just-add-water painting books, paints, canvases, sticker books, etc., etc., etc. Now, there are a few problems with this approach: First, it wastes money that my husband is slaving to earn (I buy almost everything on sale, but still). Second, it SPOILS the kids rotten-- why would they work toward stickers on their good behavior reward charts, when they're being littered with small presents all week long? And third, it creates, I think, an unhealthy reliance on the material stuff. I hereby challenge myself to coming up with more kid activities that don't require me to BUY anything. Especially now that eldest is a very capable reader, I guess I should be writing out (impossible-to-complete) scavenger hunt lists and the like. (Btw, IDEAS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME. Come on, show off what a better parent you are!) Hey, maybe I could tell the eldest she has to teach the 3- and 2-year-old kids to read. *That* would take up some time, cost nothing, *AND* appeal to the mini-dictator in her... :)

3) SIBLING WAR. Another headache for me, quelle surprise. Having 3 girls aged 5, 3, and 2 is the best of times (when they're playing nicely) and the worst of times (when they are battling to the death over a toy that appeals to all 3 of them equally). In fact, the competition between the kids has reached new heights when it comes to the eldest and her books: heaven help us all when she declares, "I will read to the little kids now!" because the inevitable effect is all 3 of them demanding to be the designated reader. (Am very grateful that we discovered the series of monkey books by Jez Alborough-- they are picture books with a few simple words that my 3-year-old is able to read aloud-- they make her feel like she's a contender.) (HERE ALSO: SUGGESTIONS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME for very basic books that the 3-year-old can conquer.)

Ok, so what if I attempted to deal with this tension by giving each of the 3 kids a certain exclusive job that only SHE can do. For example, right now the 3-year-old knows that, after my eldest is off to school and before the little one wakes up, it's her job to take my shopping list around the kitchen and mark off anything that we're running out of (I added little drawings next to each word to help her out). Maybe the eldest could be in charge of organizing the art supplies (ugh, that will keep her busy for all of 2 minutes) and the baby could be in charge of picking up the clothes on the floor (and, when there aren't any, I will throw them all over the floor just to give her something to do) (sounds reasonable). THEN, when I see that war is about to break out, I could happily announce that it's time for all the kids to do their designated jobs. This is admittedly a stupid idea but I will try it. Perhaps I'm underestimating the power of distraction.

4) STIR CRAZINESS. Well, folks, this is your big ticket item right here. The best part about school (other than the education, blah blah blah) is that it gets my kids out of the house, gives them a change of scenery, and allows them to revel in the company of people who are not genetically related to them. During the summer, it's just a WHOLE LOT of family time. Time that is, I think we can all agree, most enjoyable in finite segments that have distinct starting and ending points. So what to do with the prospect of family time that goes on for weeks on end?

Well the obvious answer is to get the kids out of the house. Which means that I may have to tackle my irrational fear of public play areas (those ball pits! GERMS!) and other people's houses (what if their kids had been secretly sick recently? GERMS!) and the public pool (I heard that one kid got warts from the pool! GERMS!) and suck it up.

Summer "vacation" (ahahahaha) also means that MOMMY MUST FORCE HERSELF TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE ON A REGULAR BASIS. This is my downfall right here: I get so wrapped up in obsessively entertaining the rugrats, sometimes it doesn't dawn on me that *I* haven't been outdoors with an adult destination (and by this, I mean the supermarket, which is as close to adult entertainment as I dare to imagine) all by myself in days and days and days. Sometimes even a solitary drive around the block is the difference between holding it together and completely losing my sh*t. Somewhere in the house, this reminder should be put up on a plaque-- WARNING: A DRIVE AROUND THE BLOCK MAY CAUSE TEMPORARY SANITY.

So there you are: the solutions to all of your summer woes. Homeschooling... scavenger hunts... designated chores... and separate playdates for both the kiddies and the mommy.

And because I fully expect that all of these suggestions will result in an EPIC FAIL, check back here soon to hear all about how I went ahead and lost my sh*t anyway. :)

LUST: LET'S DO THIS THING.

2010-05-17T03:13:00.000-07:00

There is a blogging challenge going on at Momalom (http://momalom.com). The idea is that the authors of that site give a list of topics, and all of us readers are supposed to blog about a certain topic on its designated day; then we go check out the other blogs and comment and generally support each other and the mommy blog community.

I wasn't going to participate in the challenge, not because I don't have the time or the motivation, but because I find it very difficult to write about a subject when I'm not specifically inspired to do so. How could I pen a compelling entry about "Happiness," for example, when I didn't feel anything particularly pressing about being happy that day?

But today's assigned topic is "Lust." I, like a lot of other curious onlookers, I'm guessing, popped over to Momalom to see what smutty, juicy morsels had been offered up.

And to say I was disappointed is an understatement. It's actually more accurate to say that I was a little bit appalled.

I only had time to skim through a handful of posts (see my earlier entry for an explanation as to why I am a little pressed for time / preoccupied today), but of the ones I was able to review, the majority of them were written on the topics of... LUST FOR FOOD! and... LUST FOR CLOTHES! and... LUST FOR CARTOON CHARACTERS! Now honey, forgive me for showing my true trampy colors, but I don't think *cartoons* is what the good lord intended when he came up with the word LUST.

No, kids, he meant LUST-- SEXY LUST, PASSIONATE LUST, WET AND SWEATY LUST. Maybe my fellow moms got understandably confused because, let's be honest, there's not a ton of wet and sweaty lust to be found in the places where we mommies tend to hang out.

But why not just *say* that, then? Why *pretend* that this challenge was asking you to describe your lust for stilettos, sleep, success? (No actual offense intended, of *course*, to anyone who wrote about shoes or cartoons or burritos. I get that we're all just doing the best we can, and some of us don't have the time, the inclination, or the constitution to write about LUST in its Biblical, sweaty sense.)

But girls, I've got the time. I've got the inclination. And I do believe I was *born* for a challenge like this.

See, what *I* think of, when asked to expound upon the topic of "lust," is this: That nervous quivering that takes hold of your loins when you spot the object of your unrequited (but not deterred!) affection. That first kiss that is absolutely ELECTRIFYING, one that you feel all the way down to your toes. That passion that overcomes you, when you *finally* find yourself alone, in a darkened room, embraced in the arms of your desired one-- a passion *so* consuming that your kisses leave bite marks and your fingernails leave scratches.

How long has it been, ladies, since you've scratched up someone's back?

Well I'm not afraid to say it: It's been a damn WHILE, gang!

I've been with my indescribably wonderful, considerate, devoted husband for more than 10 years now. And ok: we don't scratch up each other's backs anymore.

Now we care for sick children in the middle of the night. We stay up late putzing around on our computers, side-by-side. We lay in bed and laugh about funny things that happened to us a decade ago, and revel in the shared history that allows us to do so.

But no, we don't scratch up each other's backs. We're MARRIED, for chrissakes. The reason there's a stereotype about married couples not having sex anymore is because, very often, it's TRUE. And for GOOD REASON. We're busy, we're tired, we're stressed. We're worrying about the money, the house, the kids. We're not TEENAGERS anymore. We're OLD. And we're not on a third date, when you stupidly can't keep your hands off each other, when you devour each other's kisses like you're starving and your beloved's lips are your salvation.

I mean sure, we do have the occasional roll in the hay: civilized, respectful, and highly satisfying. We know the lay of the land, we know what we're supposed to do, we genuinely enjoy those stolen moments we have together.

But would I say we are LUSTING for each other, 10 years in?

No, doll. We're not lusting for each other. Get over it.

What we do have, however, is a million times better:

We love each other. Profoundly. Maturely. Seriously.

And if you think that sounds like the short end of the stick, then I'm going to assume that you've never been in the kind of love I'm talking about. In which case maybe you'd be surprised to hear that real, nuanced, grown-up LOVE-- like the one between two married people who have stuck with each other for many years and plan on sticking together for tens and tens of years more-- totally kicks LUST's ass.

Why? Well, because LUST is soda pop. It's bubbly and it's delicious and it's refreshing and it's really, really yummy.

It's also mostly air.

And it can't sustain you for long.

No, strong families are not built on soda pop, any more than they're built on lust. I'd even go so far as to say that LUST *belongs* on the back-burner of a long-term relationship. In my humble opinion, lust can survive and flourish in one of two environments: (1) a new relationship, where both parties' hormones are in thrilling overdrive and the novelty is absolutely intoxicating; and (2) a dysfunctional relationship, where one party feels inferior, or unfulfilled, or unappreciated, and the dynamic is so imbalanced that the neglected party utterly aches for the kind of affection and attention he or she deserves.

In other words, lust just wouldn't work in a relationship where both people feel loved, and appreciated, and fundamentally desired; and where the sex is, at least as a matter of principle, always available-- not as the hallmark of conquest, but as an expression of that love. After all, there'd be no point in LUSTING for something that's always available to you, now would there?

To this point, I read recently that, per some "scientific" study of brain wave activity, after 10 years together, 90% of couples no longer experience the physiochemical spikes that characterize the first exciting stages of a romantic relationship. (Translation: We don't get turned on just by standing close to each other anymore.)

At first I was bummed out by this article-- I took it to validate my waning libido as an empirical fact. But then, after pondering it for a while, I was encouraged by it: the study asserted that what I was experiencing wasn't unusual, and it also wasn't a harbinger of doom for our relationship. No, it only meant that we were moving from one chapter of our story to the next. And I think *both* of those chapters (the new, thrilling one; and the familiar, comfortable one) have their distinct perks.

So you know what I do these days? I satisfy my lust for LUST in other ways. I sometimes bat my eyelashes at the handsome waiter. I occasionally exchange flirty email messages with guy friends on Facebook. I often read erotica online (preferably gay erotica, not sure why). All of these things get my blood pumping, and they make me feel sexy, and they put racy thoughts into my head again, a space where otherwise only thoughts of milk money and field trips and pediatrician appointments would reside.

And then I take that lust home to my husband. Where I belong.

Her Hummingbird Heart.

2010-05-17T00:29:00.000-07:00

I am worried about my little girl's heart.

Not in the puppy love sense. In the anatomy sense.

My rational self keeps saying that that the markedly fast pace, the subtle irregularity, the occasional missed beats in a wonderfully active 3-year-old are nothing to worry about.

My irrational self had me up in her bedroom, on four separate occasions during the night, crouching over her sleeping self with a stethoscope I found in the girls' doctor kit trying desperately to convince myself that I was imagining all these things.

Well, the pediatrician just now confirmed that yes, these things do exist.

But no, they are not a reason to panic.

He is sending us to the cardiologist later this afternoon for follow-up more, he says, for my peace of mind than for any pressing medical reason with my daughter.

But my god, how my own chest hurts today. I feel like my skin has been removed and that even the slightest breeze sends painful currents skimming through my body. The rawness that accompanies a fear for your child's health is a sustained torture like no other.

I will continue to tell myself that it's nothing, that everything is fine. But at the same time, I look at my 3 children, and I ponder all of the millions and millions of misfortunes that could potentially befall them, and I wonder how many more agonizing days like this are still in our future.

And I'm not entirely sure my heart can take it.

* * * * * *

UPDATE: The EKG was normal at the cardiologist's, and I have been instructed not to worry anymore. Ha.

In the meantime, I am breathing a massive sigh of relief, and thanking everyone for the profoundly kind words of support. xo.

Housekeeping.

2010-05-16T03:03:00.000-07:00

Hi...

I finally got around to adding a "blogroll" on the left. Please check out these other fantastic blogs when you have a minute.

On that same note, I'd love to build a larger audience for Mommy Wants A Drink (more readers means more posts from me; I cannot bear the thought of letting people down). So if you have your own blog, and would be kind enough to add a link to *my* site, then please let me know and-- provided your site doesn't advocate the abuse of puppy dogs or something like that-- I'd be happy to return the favor.

May our blogs go forth and prosper. And in doing so, save the sanity of us all. xo.

Can You Say "Santa Claus" With a Straight Face? Thank Goodness I'm Jewish and Don't Have to Try.

2010-05-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

I am existing in this very short window of time where I am the mother of a one-, a three-, and a five-year-old (the eldest turned five at the end of April and the youngest turns two in a couple of days). Today I took my kids to see a Barney Live! show.

What was cool was observing how the three-year-old was so completely in the zone. She was the perfect audience member at the *perfect* age.

The one-year-old (it seems unfair to call her that, considering how grown-up she tries to be and how close she is to two, but bear with me for the purpose of the illustration) was a little too young: she was attentive and quiet throughout but slightly more interested in the rainbow flashing lightstick I purchased for her on the way in. The five-year-old was trying her best *not* to be enjoying herself; being mostly convinced that what she's seeing "isn't real," she subtly stopped whenever she caught herself singing along. (If she had had a cell phone, you can bet she would have been forcing herself to text message through the whole thing so as to minimize the temptation.)

But the three-year-old... ah, sweet innocent youth. I loved the way her eyes lit up when Barney appeared on the stage... and how she nearly jumped out of her seat every time the first few notes of a recognizable song began to play... and how she enthusiastically called out to the characters whenever audience participation was requested. It was far more enjoyable to watch her than to watch the highly annoying purple dinosaur lumbering back and forth across the stage. (Side note: I tried my best to find a photograph online of the guys who have voiced Barney-- Bob West and Dean Wendt-- but came up with nothing. I have morbid curiosity; can you help?)

As we were leaving the auditorium, the eldest daughter turned to me and asked, point-blank, and with the tone of a cynical teenager, "All that stuff was fake, right, Mom?" And oh, how the internal struggle was set off once again! I AM INCAPABLE OF LYING TO THE CHILDREN, even when it's all in the name of fun.

"Shhh!" I dismissively replied, gesturing conspiratorily towards the little kids and then quickly changing the subject. Dodge and weave! Dodge and weave! For me this has always been the most palatable approach:

When my mom died, and my eldest asked where Nana is now, I said, "I honestly don't know." (She then went behind my back and asked my dad that same question; he later told me, "I panicked! I said, 'New Jersey'!")

When she wondered aloud how babies get out of their mommies' tummies, I calmly explained that some women have zippers in their bellies that can be opened up for just that purpose and then closed again. (I even flashed her my c-section scar so she wouldn't think I was bluffing and ask someone else.) (as we know she has a tendency to do.)

And when that same child grilled me about the logistical feasibility of the tooth fairy, I simply answered her question with another question: "Well you like MONEY, don't you??"

This is all well and good... but it's also kind of a bummer. Because you're only three years old once!, and when else in your life could you possibly co-exist in a world with things like actual fairies and talking dinosaurs? (I'll sidestep the inevitable sh*tstorm that would befall me if I went on to include "God" and/or "Heaven" on this list.)

Fortunately for my girls, they have their grandfather. An irresistibly charismatic man who has zero qualms about telling innocuous lies to the kids.

As a happy result, we have domesticated "purple worms" that live in our backyard, magical potions that cure any imaginable injury or illness, and special occasion chocolate ice cream that can be safely consumed at night despite Mommy's assurances that sugar right before bed causes nightmares. (Hey! Look at me! I just found a lie that I'm capable of telling my kids!) (Then again, it's hardly a fun lie, so I assume I don't get credit.)

I'm truly grateful for my dad's influence in this regard. Because I really *want* the girls to believe in Barney! (Just as I honestly *want* them to believe in heaven, etc., etc.) Life should have as much magic and joy as possible, damn it, and I suck for not being able to tell the whimsical tales with a straight face.

Bad, honest, Mommy!

Then again... it just occurred to me... maybe I *haven't* screwed up their only opportunity to experience talking dinosaurs? I guess in college there's always drugs. ;)

Personal Assistants Need Not Apply.

2010-05-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, so maybe I am in the practice of reposting comments to the blog; I'm about to do it again.

I've come here today to pen the third and final installment in the Debbie Downer Chronicles: rounding out the unhappy pair of Ineptitude and Shame is... (drumroll please)

GUILT.

Yes, gang, my SAHM-ity is currently plagued by this lovely triumvirate: ineptitude, shame, and guilt. In fact, the guilt is probably the baddest beast of them all.

Guilt?, you say. Over not actively using your legal education? Over not knowing how to cook? Over allowing someone else to clean your toilets?

No. Those things make me feel guilty for rare nanoseconds, and then I just scarf down some dark chocolate (I've got secret stashes all over the kitchen for the sole purpose of emotional eating) and that frivolous guilt magically disappears.

Rather, I have Starbucks guilt.

Guilt which has been thrown into a harsh and unflattering spotlight by another noteworthy suggestion from the comments section. I give you, in reply to my "Shame" post, this excerpt from my new friend Anonymom:

"have you considered hiring a personal assistant? or could your housekeeper help with the errands/repairs/etc so you can have some time to wash your hair/trim your nails/see a doctor/get a massage (imagine?!?!)/get your head straight? i have a friend (no kids) who doesn't work and has a cleaning woman and 2 assistants. this, as you can imagine, is infuriating and completely beyond my comprehension. but you're in a different position! she found her assistants on craigslist. you can hire someone to free you up for 3-4 hours just a few days a week. apparently there are many retired/unemployed women who don't have to work but would like to make a little money on the side. maybe something to consider."

For those who know me personally, and know of my current living situation, I'll pause a moment for you to stop laughing and collect yourselves.

For those who don't know me personally, suffice it to say that my housekeeper is, in essence, the best personal assistant in the world. I mean, ok, she doesn't actually do my errands for me (she doesn't have a car), but the fact that I can comfortably leave my kids in her care at any time of day or night means that I effectively have all the freedom in the world.

It's what I do with that freedom that is causing me grief.

And it more or less all comes down to Starbucks.

In the community where I live, it's as if Starbucks is a land populated solely by women. Women without kids on them, but who all appear to be of childbearing age. Women who are often decked out in tennis attire (and not just the ornamental kind, either). Women who come in groups, women who sit alone, women who are smiling and chatting in the middle of the morning and who appear to be ACTUALLY ENJOYING THEIR CUPS OF COFFEE.

And this, I tell you, makes me extremely uncomfortable.

It's a lot like I feel about religion: I WISH I could believe in God! I WISH I felt the way religious people do!

I WISH I could get that goopy mushy feeling from prayer and trust that everything is gonna be okay!

Applied to The Starbucks Problem, it goes something like this: I WISH I COULD SIT IN STARBUCKS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MORNING AND DRINK A FREAKING LATTE WITHOUT OBSESSIVELY LOOKING AROUND TO SEE IF ANYONE I KNOW IS GOING TO RAT ME OUT TO MY HUSBAND.

(Who, incidentally, would probably be *thrilled* to hear that I was sitting in Starbucks in the middle of the day drinking a latte in peace. But that's beside the point.)

You see, the dilemma is not that I need a personal assistant to free up some time for me to devote to myself. The dilemma is that I have *plenty* of time for myself, in theory... I just can't bring myself to enjoy it. Hence the guilt.

You know what would be AMAZING? If my average weekday morning looked like this:

9 am - drop kids at school.

9 - 10 am - go to gym, run on treadmill, lift weights.

10 - 11 am - shower (with shampoo *and* conditioner instead of a utilitarian 2-in-1! unheard of!), get dressed, properly dry and flatiron hair, and apply a little makeup. (ahaha, I know, this is where it starts to sound ridiculous) (no, who are we kidding, it sounded ridiculous at the gym part)

11 am - 11:30 am - grab items at grocery store.

11:30 am - 12:25 pm - sit at Starbucks, read newspaper, sip latte. (Alternative scenario: Sit out by the pool, weather permitting, read book.)

12:30 pm - first child pickup; begin afternoon feeling rested and centered and calm.

The only problem with executing this plan?

NOT SURE I COULD LOOK MY HUSBAND IN THE EYE AT THE END OF THE DAY.

I mean, my husband is a guy who would *kill* to get to the gym more than once or twice a week. He hasn't physically sat down to read the newspaper since 1998. The only times I've ever seen him sitting poolside with a book were on the two short vacations we've had in the past 5 years. And he works, *intensely*-- oh, I don't

know-- maybe 16 hours a day.

So how unspeakably COLD would it be for me to plop myself down on a chaise lounge and thumb through a book at 11 am? Or get a manicure, for no particular reason? Or take a tennis lesson, just for the purpose of bettering myself? (I do, admittedly, take the occasional power nap mid-morning. But they only last 10 minutes and I justify them on the basis that I am preserving my physical health when I am feeling run down.)

In other words, I may not actually *have* a high-stress, high-income job right now... but for some crazy reason

I FEEL COMPELLED TO SUFFER AS IF I DID. Otherwise I think I'd feel like a freeloader, a barnacle, a disgrace to my radical feminist beliefs.

Which only goes to illustrate how seemingly hellbent I am on sabotaging this whole SAHM experiment. Cuz really, if played correctly, this SAHM thing is a CRAZY GREAT GIG. Relatively free mornings, relatively free nights, and only really heavy lifting in the afternoons and evenings. And yet, here I am, perpetually rushing around in the malls while the kids are at school, searching in vain for that perfect birthday present / school project supply / show-and-tell item... running myself undeniably *ragged* just so that, when my darling husband drags himself through the door at 10 pm, we can COMMISERATE about how hard *both* of our days were. So that he won't feel like he's pulling all the weight alone. (So that he won't wise up and realize that I am-- by definition?-- taking advantage of our situation, just by virtue of the fact that I am not working in an office while he is??)

My resigned conclusion: either I am The World's Most Empathetic Wife, or I am The World's Most Enthusiastic Glutton for Punishment. You make the call.

Meanwhile, I'm off to the party store: the goody bag bubbles I bought don't properly match the goody bags.

And in the highly twisted parallel universe where I reside, these things matter. :)

Ah, The Shame.

2010-05-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm not in the practice of reposting comments to my blog entries (though if I were, I would repost and give a huge thank you to "Anonymom," who sent me such a lovely Mother's Day greeting that the warm fuzzies are still rattling around in my brain, I don't know you but I love you), but today I have to make one exception.

Yesterday I posted about how this SAHM thing is making me feel like I'm cracking up. That the sound of crying and whining and general toddlerhood is giving me a permanent headache. That I need to figure out a new outlook on life, and quick.

I received the following comment, from Anonymous, in reply:

"based on your last few posts, it does sound to me like you are reconsidering your choice to be a SAHM. worth thinking about more... there are lots of interesting things you might do (apart from law) that would still allow you to be a great mom."

And for the rest of the day, I was absolutely gutted.

Now, lest Anonymous feel put on the spot and never comment again, let me say that I WORSHIP the people who leave comments on my blog... your wisdom *inspires* me (again, I'm talking to you, Anonymous who took her kid's pacifiers away and "feels like an asshole every day since")... and your heartfelt encouragement *moves* me (Anonymom, Al, hk, ASL, etc., etc., etc.). I hope that my responding to your comment, Anonymous, in no way discourages you from expressing your opinions here in the future. Because without you guys, I am just talking to a keyboard.

But yes, I heard that comment replaying in my head for hours. "Based on your last few posts... does sound to me... reconsidering your choice to be a SAHM..." Now you ask-- why, exactly, did this comment throw me for such a loop? Well, I think it's because:

(1) I was horrified by the notion that my last few posts have come across as so blatantly negative. I mean, yes, I wrote about how I sometimes feel like an idiot... and that I'm wasting my education... and that I have no life outside of the kids and that the kids are making me mental. (Wow, other than "negative" there's really no other way to spin those sentiments, is there.) But to me... those posts were nothing more than benign venting against what I thought was the obvious backdrop of I LOVE BEING A STAY AT HOME MOM. (Again, upon reflection I can see how that message was lost to my readers.) I love being a SAHM *not* because of what *I* get out of it (headaches, aggravation, self-doubt, you know the rest), but because of what I *hope* my children are getting out of it. I love it because I love them, DESPERATELY, and because-- just as with breastfeeding-- whether it ultimately turns out to be "the best" thing for my children, it certainly can't hurt them. I think.

(2) The comment made me feel like a huge SAHM failure. As in-- what if "Anonymous" is a perfectly happy SAHM? Someone who doesn't get frazzled by the sound of 3 small children trying to out-shout each other, someone who takes legitimate pride in the cleanliness of her house, someone who feels content and fulfilled by the SAHM experience and never second-guesses the choices she's made? For her-- this mythical SAHM heroine I've imagined-- to tell me, "Hmmm, sounds like this gig isn't for you anymore"... well, I felt incredible shame. Like, why can she do the SAHM thing with such ease, while I am over here doing it with immense struggle?

(3) Even if Anonymous is right... and it *is* time for me to abandon ship (see how I look at it as a matter of abandoning my post? my CHILDREN?) and go back to work... I have no idea how that would work, logistically. In fact, every day as I pull up to the school for 2:30 pickup and observe a flood of parents coming through the doors to collect their children, I think to myself, "Don't any of these people have jobs? And who would collect their children if they did?"

The general structure of my weekday, currently, looks like this:

8:30 - drive the two small children to school.

9 - noon - ERRANDS, GROCERY STORE, etc.

12:15 - pick up youngest child from school.

1:30 - pick up middle child from school.

2:30 - pick up eldest child from school.

3 - 5 - drive various children to various after school activities (i.e., ballet, swimming, theater, gymnastics).

So my question is, if both my husband and I were working, WHO WOULD DO ALL THIS MOM TAXI STUFF? Seriously. I'm asking. How do working moms do it? Is the idea to hire a nanny who could do all this driving for me? (And on that note, do you know how nervous I get at the prospect of letting someone else drive my children in a car? CAR ACCIDENTS, people! I worry about them!)

and finally

(4) I hardly have a handle on my life as it is... and this is WITHOUT a job. The list of Things I Should Be Doing Right Now Instead of Blogging includes, but is certainly not limited to:

- sew up the hole in eldest daughter's school uniform (got caught on a nail or something)

- wrap gift for child's birthday party we are attending this afternoon

- register new cat's microchip

- call grandmother

- send MANY, MANY overdue wedding and baby presents

- schedule children's dentist appointments

- fill prescription to remedy my month-long cough

- wash hair

Notice how the personal hygiene doesn't even *occur* to me until item #8? Do I sound to you like a person who is ready to reenter the workforce??

You see, then, how Anonymous's comment got me a little worked up. Not because she said anything wrong or offensive in *any* imaginable way... but because she called me out on my own bullsh*t.

Therefore, thanks to Anonymous's clear insight, I've decided it's time to put up or shut up. Either I need to make peace with my SAHM status or I need to give it up. Either I need to recapture the joy of this job or I need to look for joy in another job. Because life is short... and because a miserable mom can't be better for the kids than a cheerful nanny. (*Not* that I'm miserable!)

You know, until yesterday I think I never appreciated how truly fraught with emotion the decision to go back to work must be.

Moms who have already done it: I salute you.

On The Brink.

2010-05-04T22:50:00.001-07:00

It wasn't a good morning.

And not because it started off with me tripping up the marble staircase as I was running to respond to a daughter's summon, followed by my dropping a dining room chair on my foot a few minutes later.

No, it wasn't a good morning because I fear that my children are turning me into a loony person. A crazy-bag-lady-type who talks to herself. That wild-eyed Navi woman from Avatar when she first sees the Marine guy and hisses at him.

It occurred to me today, as some child or other wailed "mommeeeee" for what felt like the 18th time in an hour, that the sound of kids crying must be like Chinese water torture. In the beginning (the first few months... years) you think, this isn't so bad. But then, when you turn around and realize that just over 5 years have passed, and that more or less EVERY SINGLE DAY of those 5 years has been littered with the sound of crying / whining / screaming (the only exceptions being the cumulative 7 days of vacation that my husband and I took, and the 4 glorious weekend trips that I managed to take all alone), it dawns on you that you have absolutely lost your marbles and didn't even notice it.

My threshold for tantrums has become dangerously low. And this is not a good thing when I have a child turning 2 next week. But whereas a few years ago, I could hear the tantrum launching and be able to talk myself into a zen-like calm which would enable me to respond rationally... now, as soon as I see some child of mine screwing up her face into that horrible visage of impending noise, I feel my blood pressure zooming up towards the heavens. My fuse is insanely short. My voice is always on the verge of hollering at someone. My headache is never far away.

In other words, I feel like I'm on the brink of cracking up.

The answer is not to spend less time with my kids... it can't be... because I already ship them off to school for several hours a day. That should be enough time for me to center myself, right? And the answer can't be to get help with the kids... because I have help with the kids. And the answer can't be to get more sleep... because, surprisingly, I have been forcing myself to go to bed earlier these days. (Note: The answer may very well be EAT HEALTHIER! and GET SOME EXERCISE!, but I am too upset to want to hear that right now. I am venting. The point is not to make things better. Being constructive takes away all the fun.)

Sometimes I wonder if all the INCREDIBLE luxuries that my husband has bestowed upon me in an express effort to make me happy (namely, a housekeeper who cleans and even helps with dinners) (I know, I know, you have every right to DESPISE me for having a housekeeper, but if it makes you hate me any less, please understand that she's only temporary; we are not a "housekeeper" kind of family under regular circumstances) have actually worked against me. Is it possible that I would feel *less* crazy if I was busier... with the house, the laundry, the food? Does the fact that I have no major obligations *other* than the care and entertainment of my 3 small children allow their moment-to-moment drama to take on disproportionately major significance in my world? Would I care less about someone screaming, "Mommeeeee! The baby hit meeee!" if I was paying attention to a burning pot roast or a singing iron or a leaky mop? (see how, even in my imagination, I'm no good at housewivery?)

I honestly don't know the answer. I mean, it seems counterintuitive that more work would equal less stress... but maybe I don't have enough on my plate, and so the little things seem like big things? Maybe, just as "the work expands to fill the time," kid-related aggravation expands to fill the space where legitimate aggravation usually resides? Maybe if I had more high-quality stress (yes, folks, I've gotten to the point where I rate my stress) in the place of empty stress (like calories), I'd at least feel more productive at the end of the day?

Maybe I need to... gasp... go back to work??

(But how could I justify that decision to the 1-year-old, when her eldest sister got to have me home until she started kindergarten? Don't I have to give each child equal time? Otherwise don't I risk scarring one or all of them for life?)

Ah, I'm sorry for unloading all of this onto you. You, who probably *does* have a pot on the stove and a pile of laundry that needs folding. You, who is probably cursing me *and* my temporary housekeeper. Which you have every right to do. I guess I'm just telling you all this in the hopes of triggering some epiphany. So far what I've learned about my situation is this:

1. I don't exercise.

2. I don't eat healthily.

3. I don't have anything going on in my life, really, outside of the kids.

4. I *want* to spend time with them-- I honestly do!-- but I often find myself getting overly worked up over their (entirely age-appropriate, as the main culprits are 1 and 3 years old) misbehavior.

5. I want to make things better.

Ok. So, having reread this list, I'm now going to end this blog post and go cook myself an egg. That's healthy, right? And then I'm going to take some Advil to get rid of this headache.

And then I'm going to take the clothes off the treadmill.

That's enough self-improvement for one day. :)

Post Script from the Idiot.

2010-04-22T00:26:00.000-07:00

Post Script to my recent entry that SAHMotherhood is making me a moron.

Note: this is not going to be a retraction. While some of my other entries could very much have benefitted from a mandatory cooling-off period (hello, bit I wrote about how I've stalked my exes on facebook, my husband really enjoyed you), this entry wasn't one of them. I stand by everything I wrote about being a SAHM, harsh as it may have come across (I'm talking to you, 3 people who voted "You Suck!" in the corresponding blog poll).

No, what I wanted to say is this. I may be a bit embarrassed by my "job" as a SAH mom on occasion, and I may worry that being a SAHM is turning my mind into mush...

but I am hella good at my job.

So what if, as we speak, my husband is sitting on the sofa reviewing important, small-fonted documents pertaining to an international negotiation, while I am on the floor painstakingly wrapping 15 small presents so that each of my 3 daughters will have a cheerful little surprise to wake up to on each of the 5 mornings my husband and I will be traveling next week. So what if the pre-K teacher gently suggested this morning that perhaps my eldest daughter is bringing in *too* many fun little show-and-tell related items to share with the other kids in the class (today, for example, per the week's theme of "Spheres and Cones" I sent her in with a jar of perfectly round marichino cherries and a box of empty ice cream cones). So what if my former neighbor once exclaimed to me, in the midst of a text war over something entirely unrelated, that she is "sick of making excuses for [me] to the other moms" (referring to my habit of bumming around in the sand pit with the kids while 99% of the other parents sit in the cafe area, sipping mid-afternoon lattes and half-heartedly looking on).

No, screw all those latte-sipping people. I am a million billion times better at my present job than I ever was at my "real" job. I take my children's happiness and well-being (mostly, happiness) VERY. SERIOUSLY. Yes I spoil them with presents ("What's the point of doing Chanukah?" my husband teased me last year as I was setting up the menorah. "In this house it's Chanukah 365 days a year." Sure I get a little shaky at the thought of going away on a mini-vacation without them in a few days, because there is absolutely NO WAY that I could transcribe all of the valuable information in my head into a single packet of information for my babysitting father to review (and annotate, and ask intelligent follow-up questions on, if he knows what's good for him) (there WILL be a test before I leave for the airport). And true, I hardly ever experience an actual deep, restful sleep-- nor have I for the past 5 years now-- because half of my brain is always, *always* tuned into the nearly imperceptible coughs and murmurs and rare but critical "Mommy?"s coming forth from the baby monitors in the middle of the night.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that yes, there are some days when I look in the mirror and am disappointed by what I see-- a person who looks more like an underslept teenager than a 35-year-old woman, a person who wonders why she became an attorney when she knew all along that being a SAHM was truly what she wanted, a person who eyes her husband with maybe a little jealousy in the morning as he is pulling on his fancy work clothes. But there are other days-- today is one of them-- where I think that, if my occupation were an actual paid position, I'd be on the damn cover of Forbes magazine. Every year. I hold my mothering to an extraordinarily high standard, and you know what? Who cares if I don't get written up with all "Exceeds Expectations" on an annual review. (Though I'm so proud of *you,* Stallion/Love-God/ Honey!) I don't need any person of authority to tell me that I am doing an awesome job and that I am raising the bar and that I "add value":

In my office, I *AM* the freaking value, baby.

So yay for Mommy. Today I am holding my head up high.

What's In My Bag.

2010-04-20T00:03:00.000-07:00

I think this is how grown-ups play Tag.

I have been "tagged" by my old friend college Kathryn at the lovely marburyvmadisonave to reveal the contents of my bag.

And so, in the spirit of the game, I've emptied my purse and taken a photo of the contents. Here's what we've got:

(1) wallet. Actual Coach, as opposed to the knockoff stuff I usually have on me. Then again, I got this wallet off ebay, so maybe the label's integrity has already been irreparably compromised by virtue of that inelegant transaction.

(2) phone. You can't see it, but that's a mini replica of Adam Lambert's Rolling Stone cover as my phone charm. You wanna make something of it? I'm fiercely loyal to my teen idols. (wait, what, I'm not a teen? and neither is he?)

(3) camera. Have three. Keep one on me at all times. (Would take photos with the iPhone my husband gave me, but I loaned it to my dad, who seemed to be getting much more pleasure out of it. I like my camera. And my phone. Separate entities. Thank you.)

(4) sanitizer. Am a hypochondriac.

(5) tissues. Have three young kids.

(6) cough drops. Can't get rid of this cough, had it for a couple weeks. Was fine with it until a neighbor just told me that her husband's lingering cough ended up as pneumonia. Thank you for that, neighbor.

(7) headache pills. See #5.

(8) Bonjela. My stress over our upcoming vacation without the rugrats has caused me to develop a canker sore on the inside of my lip. Hey, you asked.

(9) lip balm. Am obsessed with it. Read somewhere that chronic use of lip balm causes lips to stop developing their own moisture. Can confirm that, as I would sooner put cooking oil on my lips at night, before going to sleep without anything on them.

(10) pacifier. I HATE PACIFIERS. But am too much of a p*ssy to take them away.

(11) barrettes. From a recent kid party. Nice goody bag item, no?

(12) pipe cleaners. Needed to carry 11 large treat bags into school yesterday for daughter's in-class birthday celebration. (Official party over weekend was spa-themed and girl-only; didn't want boys to feel left out and/or uninvite daughter from future birthday celebrations out of spite.) Used pipe cleaners to bundle bags for ease of transport.

(13) Pooh wrapper from cake plates at said in-class celebration. Not sure why the wrappers got to come home after the party. Also not sure why, after taking this photo a minute ago, I put this obvious garbage back *into* my purse.

(14) camera memory card. Purchased in anticipation of upcoming vacation, see #8.

(15) ballet slippers. Stashed in there for 1-year-old who accompanies older sisters to their ballet class and sometimes goes bananas if she, too, is not ballerina-attired.

(16) Barbie shoes. Evidence of dropping off real live Barbie doll at bakery a week ago where she was then incorporated into a real live cake for weekend birthday celebration. (Baker took the doll but gave me back the dress and shoes. Dress has since been returned to the doll, shoes remain confiscated as a potential choking hazard.)

(17) USB stick. From when I printed personalized photo party invitations at Kinko's. Loving me some more ebay purchases. (Nine dollars for the .jpg design is a bargain, you should check it out.)

(18) yo-yo. Distributed, for reasons unknown to me, at 3-year-old's after school sports class. Took it away when she wasn't looking, so as to avoid the inevitable mind-melting frustration that necessarily accompanies a 3-year-old trying to operate a yo-yo.

(19) mini-DVD tape. Spare for birthday party.

(20) child's sequin ring (which is, incidentally, too big to fit any child I've ever known). From Claire's. Where all of my husband's disposable income ends up. Hey, if he didn't want 3 little girls, he should have delivered me some Y chromosomes.

Ok, so what have we learned here. That I'm a hoarder, I guess. That I'm into cameras. And that, apparently, sanitizer doesn't work.

Your turn, Mama of the brilliant theelmowallpaper! xo.

Dodging the ER Bullet.

2010-04-19T00:18:00.000-07:00

I had a kid emergency the other day.

Not a life-or-death kid emergency, THANKFULLY. Just a minor emergency. But an emergency nonetheless: my 3-year-old dislocated her elbow.

(By the way that's *not* an x-ray of her actual elbow above; however, now that I've seen that photo I think my post-traumatic stress disorder has just kicked in again.)

My daughter has a "history" of this injury-- 2 times before-- and both previous times had landed us in a hospital emergency room. But the elbow had been fine for long over a year now, so we assumed that the joint had firmed up just as the pediatrician told us it would by around age 4. In other words, we got careless and stopped thinking about it and stopped putting people on notice about it.

I wasn't there when it happened. And my husband was traveling in another country. Here is the text of the email I sent him later that night, modified only insofar as the names have been changed to initials ("S" is our 4-year-old and "M" is our 3-year-old and "I" is M's friend).

* * * * * * * * *

Honey.

First, let me say that M is fine. But we had a little crisis today.

Both S and M were invited to playdates this afternoon. So I brought M to I's house and S to A's house and headed to the mall to return a dress and the kids' library books. I was testing out long-range camera lenses in the store you recommended when my phone rang. I answered and could hardly hear I's mom over the sound of M wailing. I's mom said that M had gotten hurt, something about her arm, and I said oh my god it's her elbow put her on the phone, but when she put M on the phone all I heard was horrible sobbing and gasping. I must have caused a scene in the store yelling into the phone, "M can you hear me?? M can you speak??" It was very scary because I was at least 15 minutes away and I knew that M was losing her mind. I started running out of the store, calling my dad and asking him if he had access to a car to go pick M up but he didn't, so now my dad was a wreck. I drove home like a lunatic and pulled up just as I's mom was in the driveway laying M in my dad's arms. I pulled up on the sidewalk and saw the limp arm and the kid's beet red tear streaked face and my heart just broke. I knew the elbow was dislocated and I knew that I had learned (in theory) how to fix it in my first aid class last year but my brain didn't feel like it was functioning and I was so, so terrified of doing it wrong and putting the kid into agony. I held her in my arms on the driveway until she stopped wailing, as she was obviously much calmer just having me with her (not great for my comfort level re: leaving for our upcoming vacation, but anyway), and I asked if she wanted me to fix her arm or let the nurse do it. (I had already called the ER on my way home to tell them we were coming.) She was sobbing that she wouldn't get in the car. I was about to attempt to fix it myself when I chickened out cuz she was already in so much pain, it seemed. But she got hysterical when I tried to get her to the car. So, with my dad there for moral support (actually, he was begging me to tell him how to do it, but I didn't know how to explain it; I just thought I had it somewhere in my head, and knew what the end position of the arm had to be), I sat in front of her, turned her arm palm-up (against her wailing), and brought her hand to her shoulder (while holding the joint with my other hand). I thought I heard it click back into place, but now she was wailing so loudly that I started to second-guess myself. I went to put her in the car to the ER but then decided that no, I was sure I heard it go back in. So I repositioned it again just to be sure, and this time it was clear that the elbow was back in the joint and the kid was just freaked. So I took her inside and got her set up on the sofa in the office and my dad ran out to get ice cream and apple juice boxes (per M's request) but she was still refusing to move her arm. That is, until I suggested that she paint my face. At which point she took her injured arm, picked up the face paints, and happily scribbled all over me. The end.

* * * * * * * * *

There is no funny punchline to this story. I share it with you only because I'd like to encourage you to take a pediatric first aid class if you can. At the time, I wasn't sure I was retaining the information (a lot is covered in a short amount of time), but my experience the other day goes to show that the stuff does stick, even if you're hazy on the details. That first aid class I took allowed me to quickly take away my daughter's pain, and it spared both of us a traumatizing trip to the emergency room. And one day, heaven forbid, maybe it would help me when faced with an even bigger emergency.

Now go thump on the chest of a featureless dummy! You can tell them I sent you. xo.

p.s. Upon reflection, am very embarrassed that I addressed my supremely macho husband as "Honey" in the above message. Terminating use of that emasculating nickname, effective immediately. From here onward, will refer to him in correspondence only as "Stallion" and/or "Love God." Apologies all around.

Ode to Unemployment.

2010-04-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

I know what I’m supposed to say here.

I’m supposed to say that being a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) is the hardest but most fulfilling job I’ve ever had. I’m supposed to say that I don’t at all feel like my education was wasted, because my law degree is part of what makes me such an effective and insightful parent. I’m supposed to say that it’s great knowing that I have my credentials to fall back on, or go back to, if and when I ever decide for whatever reason that my time as a SAHM is coming to an end.

But screw that. I was never one to toe the line and I don’t see any point in starting now.

The truths are these:

(1) I love, love, love being a SAHM, on many, many levels; and I am obsessively devoted to my three extraordinary, scrumptious little girls. Being a SAHM was something I always wanted for myself and for my family, and I feel tremendously fortunate that my husband’s job allows me the privilege. Full stop. But being a SAHM certainly does not give me that same sense of accomplishment that I gained from, say, taking a witness deposition. Rather, with SAHM-ness, the experience is much more “Thank God I survived today” as opposed to “Look at what I got done today!” There are no obvious benchmarks, no productivity markers, no end-of-year bonuses. I mean, sure, I take huuuuuuuuge satisfaction in my four-year-old’s ability to read books at a six-year-old level, and I am enooooooooormously proud of how exceptionally well-adjusted all three of my daughters are in social situations. But on a typical day-to-day basis, I have nothing tangible to SHOW for my considerable time and effort. Or, the tangible things that I *do* have to show for them are, frankly, INANE. (See, i.e., the gigantic paper Easter bunny that I, as “class mom,” was required to construct for my daughter’s school Easter celebration.) (And our family does not even celebrate Easter.)

Now lest you be fooled into thinking that I actually *enjoyed* the five years I spent working as an attorney, let me quickly disabuse you of that notion: for the most part I despised it. Going to law school was never my idea (thank you, overbearing parents), and to placate them I intentionally only applied to the three highest-tier law schools I thought I had zero chance of getting into (thank you also, Ivy League, for lowering your standards so as to accommodate little ol’ me). I spent just about every day as an associate doing the absolute MINIMUM I could do to avoid a billable-hour apocalypse, while at the same time charming the pants off every partner (not literally) (but I never rule anything out; there’s no such thing as a normative morality) so that he/she would not notice that I was only barely doing the job. So no, it isn’t the work that I miss—it’s just the quantifiable nature of the work that I miss. My husband closes deals. I just deal.

(2) I am 99% positive that being a SAHM is a gigantic, embarrassing, ethically objectionable (per my own, non-normative moral code) waste of my education. I have a freaking top notch pedigree, for crying out loud. The reality is not lost on me that there are people on this earth who would do anything—ANYTHING—to secure a seat at either of the Ivy League schools I attended. People who have remarkable resumes by age 17, astronomical SAT scores, tear-jerking sob stories. And yet, for reasons forever unknown to me, I was given those seats. So that I could get my world news from Perez Hilton. And visit my Facebook profile an average of twenty times a day.

Hey, I’m not saying that there isn’t an advantage to being intelligent. There are, honestly, a bunch of really good parenting decisions I’ve made (teaching my kids basic sign language at 12 months of age, for one, which gave them the invaluable gift of self-expression while not stunting their speech development) that I believe can be directly attributed to my willingness to seek out and critically process information. But good lord was it really necessary that I take out several HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS of dollars in student loans (all of which are still relatively intact; hello, minimum monthly payments!) and become an attorney (took and passed the bar in 4 different states!) just so that once in a blue moon I could enlighten my Mommy and Me class with some obscure reference to the theories of Piaget?

Nope, I’m wasting my education, I’m pretty darn sure of it. And I have massive guilt about it, too. Maybe law schools should make every female candidate sign an oath (worthless, admittedly, other than for its effectiveness in propagating said guilt) vowing upon admission that she will continue to practice law after giving birth instead of just sitting back and letting her smarts atrophy while all the male associates move robotically down the assembly line toward partnership?

(3) I am not at all convinced that I could go back to lawyering, even if I had the desire. Not because of any psychological or emotional hang-ups, mind you (ask me, on a bad day with the girls, like when one of them has just spent 45 minutes screaming directly into my eyeballs for no intelligible reason, whether I would work for FREE and the answer would be yes), but because I have the sneaking suspicion I have turned into a certifiable idiot. Too many episodes of The Wiggles, perhaps; but the idea of having to sell myself in a job interview as a dependable, functional adult absolutely makes me cringe. Now as you’ll recall, I was never a rising star in my law firm to begin with; but before having kids, at least on paper I was as competent as the other associates of my year. At this point, however, I—having zero poker face—fear that I’d immediately blurt out: “Treat me as if I just graduated from law school yesterday. A really crappy law school. In fact, treat me as if you’re only hiring me as a favor to my dad. And speak slowly. I’m new to this planet.”

Ahhh, this bums me out. All of the above bums me out. Because I worked hella hard to get those Ivy League degrees (don’t you just bet Michelle Obama and I had eerily similar days today?), and now I take my toddlers to the playgym in the middle of the workweek right alongside a bunch of women who never really bothered applying themselves to school at all. (Note: I actually have no idea what those other women do; they could be astrophysicists for all I know; it just makes me feel better about myself in a very juvenile way if I think of them as intellectually inferior middle school dropouts.)

And if you want to take this to a really existential level of crisis, riddle me this: By virtue of the fact that I have given birth to only daughters, haven’t I only condemned the whole pointless cycle to start all over again? I mean, I plan to lean on them academically just as my parents leaned on me (what? it’s my God-given right to repeat all the parenting mistakes my own mom and dad made)… only so that they, too, will ultimately discard their hard-earned law/medical/graduate degrees in order to stay home and breed with the rest of the middle school drop-outs?

So there you are. I am a very smart person who is very much in debt because of some very prestigious degrees that become more and more obsolete with every passing day.

Feel better about YOUR life choices yet? J

Facebook: The Closest We Are Gonna Get to Virtual Reality

2010-03-13T20:25:00.001-08:00

So I am about to have my very first blind date on Facebook. (I know *they* spell it as facebook, trying to be all cool and nonthreatening, but that's just a silly marketing ploy so I'm going with Facebook.)

As in, someone who knows me is trying to set me up as Facebook friends with someone who doesn't know me. Not based on the fact that we need anything from each other-- a friendly face in a new city, or help with a job interview, or anything tangible like that-- just based on the hunch that this person and I would enjoy each other's company. Virtual company.

And this pulled into focus for me how absurd our social lives have become as a result of the Facebook phenomenon. By virtue of this person accepting my third-party-orchestrated friend request (fingers crossed! butterflies in stomach!), I will instantly be granted access to a complete stranger's life story. Where she lives, who she's married to, photographs of her great-grandmother's 90th birthday party. I will be able to read about her favorite tv shows, the kind of music she listens to, and what animals she has in her imaginary farm or whatever. This seems... strange. Feels like I'm a cyberstalker. Am hoping she's not 13. (Then again, unless she posts the year of her birth in her profile, how could I possibly know that.)

But maybe she and I will hit it off, become avid pen pals, and one glorious day, even meet in real life. This is not a wholly far-fetched possibility: I "met" the wife of a college friend via Facebook a few months back, and now not only is she someone I exchange very frequent messages with, but she is also one of my most dedicated commenters here on this blog, thank you, I love you, hk! (And yet, if I passed her on the street, I would have no freaking idea who she was.) (Don't blame me, her profile pic isn't a super close-up.) This is an example of the good things that can come of Facebook and its insistence that the whole world become one big happy file share.

There is, of course, a dark underbelly to Facebook. Very dark. You know, that dark underbelly which is presently being cited in 20% of all divorce petitions these days. (You think I'm kidding.)

Yes, friends, we're talking about the old flames.

Once upon a time, when a romantic relationship ended, it ended. You licked your wounds; you made an inventory of the mistakes you made; you moved on. Maybe once in a while that person's name crossed your mind and you thought to yourself, "I wonder what ever happened to X?" But that was about it.

Well obviously those days are over.

Now, out of your 300+ Facebook friends, 5 of them are people you slept with, 2 of them are people you still dream of one day sleeping with, and 1 of them is the person who facilitated your introduction to Zoloft. In other words, as a result of Facebook, every single one of us is now in some stage of arrested development.

I log onto Facebook as a 35-year-old (it's not as old as it sounds, really). I see a status update from my college boyfriend and I morph into my 19-year-old self. I see a new photo album from my high school boyfriend and I morph into my 16-year-old self. I notice a change in status by the guy who broke my heart into a million zillion pieces ("Single" has become "In a Relationship"?!?!) and my whole freaking day is ruined. Trust me, this is not productive behavior, NOR is it what God intended when on the 8th day he created the internet.

Relationships end for a reason, and most often, someone comes out of that relationship hurt. It is not beneficial for said hurt person, therefore, to be able to go online and scrutinize, in excruciating detail, every picture ever taken of an ex's current love interest. She's not even pretty! I hate her big boobs! See how she's clutching his arm here? She's so possessive, I never would have done that! Kinda works against the whole "moving on" aspect of life.

In fact, I am no stranger to full-on Facebook delusions. I once friended an ex innocently enough, but when I saw that he was still unmarried, my fantasies instantly took on a psychotic life of their own. Does he think about me? Should I call him? Does he need closure from me before he can begin a new relationship? (Never mind that the relationship itself only lasted a few years, and it ended more than 15 years ago. I am just that unforgettable.) (it's the delusion talking, see?) Is it possible that he is... STILL WAITING for me? IS MY WHOLE LIFE A BIG MISTAKE, AND I SHOULD DITCH THE HUBBY AND THE KIDS AND START A NEW LIFE-- the life I am SUPPOSED to be leading!-- WITH *HIM*???

So you get how this is unhealthy. By not allowing past relationships to exist IN THE PAST anymore-- now EVERY FRIENDSHIP, RELATIONSHIP, ASSOCIATION YOU'VE EVER HAD HAS BEEN MADE *PRESENT* AGAIN, thanks to Facebook-- it forces us to hold up everything in our REAL lives to the virtual mirror of the Facebook world. Sure, I *could* go out to lunch with that actual human being who lives around the block... but no, I'd rather sit on my sofa and exchange email witticisms with my bestie from junior high (she's funnier). And yes I *see* that my real life husband is sitting at the kitchen table, having a coffee and reading the paper and probably wondering if I'm coming over to join him... but I *can't*, I'm in the middle of composing a right-up-t0-the-line-of-appropriateness flirty email in response to a message from that GORGEOUS one-night-stand from '94. I mean, HOW F*CKED UP IS THAT?

There is no grand moral to this story, I'm only calling us out on this insanity that we've all bought into. (Correction: All of us except my husband, who thinks that a Facebook account would represent to the world that he has FREE TIME, which he does not.) (Though as a result of this post, I would not be surprised if any minute now he becomes Facebook's three-millionth-and-first user.) And I will leave you with this clip, which is so impossibly awesome that it makes me feel less bad about allowing my 21-year-old-self's broken heart to be broken all over again every time I check the ex's status only to see that he's still in a relationship with someone else,

that thoughtless bastard.

TO MY HUSBAND: THE FOLLOWING POST IS SUPER BORING. WHY NOT SKIP IT AND MOVE ON.

2010-03-12T08:53:00.000-08:00

Ok. Let me just tell my husband at the outset that this topic was NOT my idea. It was the idea of "Anonymous." And because I asked for blog ideas-- nay, *begged* for ideas-- it would be downright RUDE for me not to oblige kind Anonymous's request.

The mother-in-law.

Let's do this thing.

Some people have great relationships with their mothers-in-law (MILs). I actually can't think of any of them offhand, but I know some people do.

I even bet that some people are as close-- closer!-- with their MILs than they are with their real live mothers. (Again, can't think of any right now, but I'm sure those people do exist.)

My relationship with my MIL isn't that kind.

Now before my husband breaks out in a cold sweat, or someone from his hometown thinks about forwarding this post to the MIL in question in a hateful attempt to further sabotage our relationship (I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, PERSON WHO IS CONSIDERING FORWARDING THIS TO MY MIL, AND I *WILL* ARRANGE FOR TERRIBLE THINGS TO HAPPEN TO YOU IF YOU GO THROUGH WITH IT), let me just say that my MIL is a very, very, VERY nice person. As in, so nice that even if given all the time in the world, you couldn't possibly think of anything unkind to say about her.

She just happens to be the EXACT POLAR OPPOSITE of me.

And this makes for some utterly excruciating moments. You have no idea.

See, whereas my MIL is soft spoken, polite, and understated, I tend to be loud, crass, and out of control. As a completely random example, a few years back I went through a short phase where I was affectionately calling everyone a pussy. Based on the look of abject horror on my MIL's face, I think it's safe to assume that she never went through this phase. (Ok so MAYBE she was looking horrified because I ONCE called my HUSBAND a pussy, IN my MIL's presence, long story but TRUST me he was being a pussy, ha!) I like to be the center of attention; my MIL tends to let others speak. I enjoy picking fights with people, just for the mental exercise of a debate; she apparently keeps her opinions to herself. So again, it's not that there's anything UNLIKABLE about my MIL... she's just not at ALL the type of person that *I* usually hang out with.

And that's the funny thing about MILs (and family-in-law in general). One day this person is just someone you make noncommittal small talk with when she comes to visit her son at grad school, how was the drive up, blah, blah, blah; and a few official signatures later, you're supposed to be calling her "MOM." As in, the same moniker that you use to address the person who CARRIED YOU IN HER BELLY FOR NINE MONTHS before GIVING YOU LIFE. Like, "Hi Mom! Great to see you! So tell me, do you have any siblings?" Am I the only one who finds something, I don't know, unnatural about that?

Fortunately, it appears that this disconnect has not gone unnoticed by my MIL. Whereas it would only add to the discomfort if I was over here, wondering why I am from Mars and she is from Venus, and she was over there needlepointing a BFF throw pillow for me; my MIL seems well aware of our differences. I know this based on her selection of greeting cards, which she very thoughtfully sends on a regular basis: somehow, WITHOUT EXCEPTION, she manages to find the one card that EXPRESSLY addresses me, right there in capital letters on the front of the card, as her DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. "Happy Birthday, Daughter-IN-LAW!" "Happy Flag Day, Daughter-IN-LAW!" "Happy Anniversary, Son and DAUGHTER-IN-LAW!" I mean, this otherwise positively unassuming lady never passes up the opportunity to remind me that she is extending a Hallmark sentiment to me ONLY BECAUSE SHE IS LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO. Never fails to make me smile. (In disbelief.)

But ya know what? I am not, not, not, NOT complaining. No, REALLY. Because I know that there are many, MANY less desirable versions of MIL out there: the Meddling MIL, the Oedipus-Complex MIL, the Are-You-EVER-Going-to-Make-Me-a-Grandmother??? MIL, etc. So PLEASE don't take away my Water-and-Oil MIL. She's well-intentioned, she doesn't interfere, and good golly, she's one heck of a nice lady.

Meanwhile I, as evidenced by this post, clearly am not. Wah-wahhhhhh.

p.s. You *must* read the comments to this post. There's someone on here who is WAY more funny than I am. Get ready to smile.

Stay-at-Home Dads: The NEW American Hero

2010-03-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

Dude. Who ARE these stay-at-home dads who are reading my blog?

And why do I have a major CRUSH on all of them???

Let me say this: Any guy who can pull off the stay-at-home dad thing is HOT. I don't care what he looks like, or how adequately or inadequately he performs his duties. There is something absolutely irresistible about a guy who is comfortable taking on this historically "female" role in this day and age.

It's hard enough, as a woman, to give up a paying job in order to take care of the kids. We have to endure the condescending tone of working women who assume we are high school drop-outs; we have to feel like teenagers on an allowance when spending our "husband's" money; we have to look at ourselves in the mirror each morning and wonder what the HECK we are doing with our lives.

But at least we have biology, and tradition, on our side.

For the guys-- GOODNESS-- it must be an exponentially steeper climb. All of those ancient stereotypes about Man as breadwinner, hunter, warrior... well, those all have to be hugely revised when the guy has a burp cloth over his shoulder. (Again, HOT HOT HOT.) Not only do they have to learn, presumably, an entirely new skill set (not a ton of guys were babysitters as adolescents, I would guess), but they have to deal with the same patronizing glares that we do, ONLY MULTIPLIED BY A ZILLION. Being constantly subjected to ignorant people's snap judgments of the stay-at-home dad-- What, are you too lazy to get a job? You're ok with having your WIFE support you? Do you watch football all day while the poor kids are left to their own devices?-- must be a HUGE FREAKING HEADACHE. And yet these guys seem so cool with it. How do I get ME some of that mojo?

I ran in the same circles as a stay-at-home dad once. His name was Eric. He was, inarguably, adorable. And what's more, he was always pretty relaxed. Sure, he would momentarily lose a child once in a while, and maybe his kids weren't quite as decorated as some of us hair-accessory-prone moms might have liked, but he was getting that sh*t done. Three kids. Working wife. Functioning household. I occasionally fantasized about being seduced by him (as did, I have to assume, EVERY OTHER MOMMY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD). In fact, part of me thinks that the adoration of his female admirers is what made him so good at his job: he didn't want to disappoint a loyal fan base. And who can blame him. Ah, the hidden bonus of the stay-at-home daddy job: LOTS of desperate housewives.

So to all of you stay-at-home dads out there, bravo. Knowing how hard it is being a SAHM, I can't begin to imagine the depths of crap you have to put up with as a SAHD. Thanks for paving the way for future generations of righteous working women.

We salute you. And we fantasize about you. Keep up the good work.

If You Love Me, You Will Watch This Clip.

2010-03-11T08:41:00.000-08:00

Oh how this guy's bits on his daughters make me laugh.

Watch this and you may never be the same. But in a good way.

(I think of this clip EVERY. TIME. one of my kids is blabbering away in the back seat of the car, a few decibels short of what I can fully hear, and I am going back and forth in my mind as to whether to even bother with the obligatory, "What did you say, honey?")

Enjoy!

p.s. If you want more Louis C.K., this comedy special is called "Chewed Up." He kills it.

Exactly How Smart Does My Kid Have to Be to Justify the Death of My Career?

2010-03-10T22:59:00.000-08:00

If you're a stay-at-home mom, and you're anything like me, then you live in a constant state of wondering whether all this time spent in your pajamas is worth it.

As in, what, if anything, am I giving my child that he or she could not be getting in day care, other than a few months' reprieve from the ubiquitous snot nose that comes from being around other toddlers six hours a day?

And what am I *supposed* to be doing with this child, other than hoping that this episode of Barney can entertain him/her for a few more treasured minutes so that I can check email/Facebook/TMZ/SportsCenter (enjoy the shout out, stay-at-home-dads!) in peace?

Well, friends, I'm not sure what I think about these questions (or rather, I do know what I think about these questions, but I have to tread carefully here, because I do NOT want to piss off all of my friends whose babies ARE in day care, and seem perfectly brilliant). So how 'bout I just tell you the formula that, so far, has worked for me:

Kid is born.

Kid spends 3 straight months in Fisher Price Aquarium swing. (Yes! Is HAS to be that one!)

Kid gets schlepped around in Baby Bjorn for a while.

Kid watches a lot of tv (yeah, I said it).

Kid turns one.

Kid gets put into nursery school at 14 months.

Kid is way smart.

I take full credit.

Now comes the nature/nurture issue. Would my kids be doing just as well in nursery school if they'd been put into day care at 12 weeks?

I gotta tell you... I kinda think so. I mean, the anti-tv propaganda abounds these days, telling us that letting babies watch tv will turn them into pod people... but heck, we had the tv on in the background for most of the time that my children were infants, and if my kids are pod people, then they're the most clever damn potatoes to ever come forth from a human womb. And the PSAs want to intimidate us into reading books to our children on a daily basis from the time they are 9 months old or whatever... but to date I have not instituted a nightly reading requirement in this household, and all 3 of my kids seem to have developed a healthy interest in being literate all on their own.

Nah, I'm starting to think that a lot of what's going to happen to our children has already been predetermined by their DNA: that if they're going to be smart we just need not get in the way of the smart, and that if they're going to be dumb we just need make sure they are as attractive as possible. (I'm kidding! slash, I'm not kidding!)

If this is true, you ask, then why the heck am I sitting here in my nightgown singing the ABCs for the umpteenth time when I could be sitting at a desk in an air conditioned office, listening to the glorious sound of coins dropping into my piggy bank?

Well it's a fair question, to be sure. I'm actually not entirely convinced that being a stay-at-home mom isn't more for the *mom* than it is for the kid... you know, it brings US great comfort to know that we've got those little munchkins within arm's reach (because heck, no one knows how to soothe / stimulate / discipline my child better than *I* do!).

And clearly, I'm not an advocate of keeping those rugrats at home TOO long, since I practically CATAPULT them out of the house on their 14-month birthdays. (What's so magical about 14 months, you wonder? Nothing. It's just the age when our local nursery school starts enrolling kids for the full-morning program.) (But I have to say, I have received many, many compliments on how well-adjusted my girls are, socially, and I am positive that this can be chalked up to early nursery school.)

So how can you make the most of your stay-at-home time, in order to minimize the odds that you will one day look back on this career-less period in your life and think, I COULD'A BEEN A CONTENDAH!... ?

Well I will offer you this one word of advice, in all seriousness (ASIDE from recommending that you keep your tv on all the time, because not only does it promote early speech development, SAYS DR. ME, but it also keeps YOU from not completely losing your sh*t out of boredom)...

ASK YOUR BABY QUESTIONS.

All the time.

Questions like, What color is this? Where is your nose? What's your name? How many dogs do you see?

I wasn't even aware that I was doing this until a friend once said to me, rather accusingly, "Why are you always TESTING that poor kid?"

Then, once I started noticing that I was doing it, I only did it more. Because it ENGAGED the kid. It got her thinking. I wasn't talking DOWN to her just because she was a baby, or ignoring her because all she wanted to do was eat her feet; I was having a CONVERSATION with her. And I've come to really, and truly, believe that interacting with a kid like this gets those cute little baby synapses firing.

And for those of you who sacrificed your potentially lucrative careers to stay home with your kids and they STILL turned out to be dangerous felons? Why not start a blog about your heartache! At least then you can entertain the rest of us who are sitting here in our pajamas. Not a total loss. :)

Mr. Clean Don't Live Here Anymore.

2010-03-10T04:41:00.000-08:00

Why is it that a clean, tidy house and I must be natural enemies?

Here's a demonstration. I am sitting at my husband's desk in our "office" right now. I am going to look around and tell you what I see. There will be no exaggerations.

On my husband's desk (from which he frequently works from home; in other words, it's not purely ornamental) are the following items:

- boxes of business cards (appropriate!)

- a ream of white paper (appropriate!)

- a stapler (appropriate!)

- stacks of business files (appropriate!)

- giant white fairy wings, about 3 feet across, made of feathers (umm...)

- a "New Baby Congrats!" collage made by the kids 2 months ago for a neighbor (umm...)

- a huge pink tin of the girls' necklace beads (umm...)

- 2 bottles of children's cough medicine (umm...)

- a flashlight (umm...)

- a newspaper from January 22, 2010 (kind of appropriate?)

On the floor:

- a printer (appropriate!)

- my husband's shoes (appropriate!) (although untidy, sure)

- a breast pump, last used in November 2008 (umm...)

- a stack of empty kids' DVD boxes (umm...)

- 2 empty suitcases (umm...)

- a pile of doll clothes (umm...)

You get where I'm going with this. If I wanted to, it would probably take me all of 20 minutes to put all of these questionable items back in their appropriate places. But here's the problem: I DON'T CARE.

Which, objectively, is not good.

It's a character flaw, I admit it. I don't care about being tidy. I can look at a room filled to the brim with clutter (all the rooms in my house are presently candidates) and not see anything wrong with it. I mean, yes, I often can't find my stuff (case in point: WHERE THE HELL ARE THE DIAMOND EARRINGS MY HUSBAND GAVE ME; PLEASE LORD DO NOT LET ME HAVE THROWN THEM AWAY BY ACCIDENT), but I've made peace with that reality. It's just the cost of a non-tidy person doing business.

But even I will concede that sometimes it's kind of appalling. Not SO appalling that I'm going to do anything about it, mind you.

This is not news. My claim to fame used to be my minivan. On any given day, it would contain:

- seats

- a steering wheel

- 3 kiddie car seats

- bags of chips, cookies, orange puffs (some unopened, some opened)

- countless DVDs (for the fold-down DVD player that continues to bring me indescribable joy and in-transit peace)

- water bottles, in various stages of fill

- clean diapers

- maybe ONE hidden dirty diaper (pee only! how sick do you think I am!) (and they're easy to miss!)

- a clean change of clothes for the kids

- a set of clothes that had been sullied, and changed out of, long ago

- pacifiers (covered in crumbs, no doubt)

- many, many pairs of kid shoes (is it MY fault that the rugrats shed their shoes as soon as their bottoms hit those seats?)

- magazines (for those long carpool lines at school) that I have read, and reread, and reread...

- etc., etc., etc.

But so what? It made sense to me. It MAKES sense to me. It jibed with my lifestyle and philosophy (which is, when dealing with multiple toddlers, YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU'LL NEED OR WHEN YOU'LL NEED IT). It didn't bother me. In fact, the only reason it's not *still* my claim to fame is that I now have a housekeeper who has figured out how to get the vacuum plug to reach the driveway.

It does get a wee bit uncomfortable, though, when I notice that my husband has to maneuver around the breast pump to open certain drawers in his filing cabinet. (And no! He doesn't dare clean up the office himself! I would have a fit and accuse him of misplacing all my stuff!) (ahaha I'm so evil.)

So today's question is: Does the stay-at-h0me mom have an OBLIGATION to keep her house neat and clean, even when she is *convinced* that neat and clean IS HIGHLY OVERRATED?

I am ashamed to admit that my slacker attitude is not even limited to the housekeeping arena. I never learned how to cook proper meals for my husband and me because I DON'T CARE ABOUT EATING. No, I mean it! I HONESTLY don't get why a person would spend an hour making a pasta dish, when such things COME IN CANS, and humans have INVENTED THE MICROWAVE. And I'm not a hypocrite: you will never find me bitching about how there's nothing to eat, because BREAKFAST CEREAL IS APPROPRIATE FOR ALL OCCASIONS, and as long as I keep on buying milk, we have all the ingredients.

Now before you call Child Protective Services, rest assured that I am not feeding the children breakfast cereal for dinner. No, for those growing bones I break out the Kraft Mac & Cheese (don't hate, it's awesome), or a gigantic salad (which qualifies as COOKING!), or I heat up (AGAIN, there are appliances being used) the leftovers of whatever healthy eats my husband cooked for himself the night before (hey, he who cares about nutritious food can make nutritious food. I'm not blockading the kitchen door).

Now in case there's any confusion, let me just say that my untidy house and underutilized kitchen are NOT the result of laziness. I AM NOT LAZY! (stop laughing, I'm not.) I just have some slightly unorthodox priorities. While many women are standing over the stove, I'm cataloging literally tens of thousands of photographs for our scrapbooks. While countless moms are dusting the bookshelves, I am scouring the toy stores for the PERFECT I-Can-Read books for my newly literate 4-year-old. While innumerable parents are planning weekly menus, cleaning out closets, and moping up cat vomit (we have 2 cats; one will eventually gobble up the other's puke) (don't blame me, blame cat gluttony, and it's an efficient system), I am surprising my kids' classrooms with Munchkins, babysitting a friend's newborn so she can get some rest, and desperately trying to get back on top of my ever-growing list of overdue baby presents, wedding presents, engagement presents, and the like. I promise you I am NOT watching soap operas, getting manicures, or taking leisurely naps during my 3 precious child-free hours each day!

So as for my question, if I could step outside of myself for a minute I guess I'd say that yes, a stay-at-home-mom does have an obligation to keep her house at least *somewhat* neat and tidy.

Good thing I married a guy whose definition of "somewhat" is very, very generous. :)

p.s. To Anonymous with the 11-month-old son: This one's for you! Thanks for single-handedly getting me back in the saddle. And, as always, thanks to "Al" for the unending encouragement. Sending love to you both.

Housekeeping

2010-03-09T08:18:00.000-08:00

Hey there. How's tricks. Whadja think of the Oscars? I thought Alec and Steve were pretty charming, actually. Does that mean I'm getting old?

So... remember that first post, where I said that these first few entries would be something of an experiment, and the degree to which you got involved would determine the degree to which I bared my soul?

Well, my husband probably thanks you, but, you kinda didn't get all that involved. Which is not to say that you didn't read along (I have the StatCounter to prove it), or that you didn't care about the mini mommydramas I was dealing with (my Facebook inbox saw a sudden surge in activity)... but... with a few precious exceptions (THANK YOU, HK!) (and also the person who wrote that she took away her kid's suckers and now feels like an asshole every day, which still makes me laugh, sympathetically), you didn't really put yourselves out there in the comments section or anything, which would have allowed me to respond publicly, and continue or broaden the conversation. Of course I don't blame you-- you told me that you didn't have time, and that you were concerned about anonymity, and I get that-- completely-- but it kind of leaves me in a strange place. I want to keep talking, but I'm a little bit talking to myself. Without you guys a dialogue is impossible, and I'm already running a little light on monologues. In other words, by making the focus of this blog "mommy issues," as opposed to a diary-type thing in which I account for the mundane happenings of my daily life (take my word for it, my days are not so interesting), I may have set this sweet little site up for failure. There's only so many broadly relatable "issues" I am contending with on any given day.

Thus the absence of recent posts. I have a few things in draft form... like a cheesy account of our Valentine's Day... but nothing seemed honest enough to publish. Cuz I take your time very seriously, and I'm not about to jeopardize your trust by wasting it.

Sooooo.... if there are any topics that YOU are dealing with, please feel free to comment below... heaven knows I would be thrilled for an idea that inspires me to write. (Two of you have asked for a post about how far apart siblings should ideally be spaced, but I genuinely don't know how to address that, other than to warn you from personal experience that THREE KIDS IN THREE YEARS IS PROBABLY A MISTAKE.)

Otherwise, if you guys keep quiet, then I probably will too. Until I have something really pressing that I need to tell you. So if you're interested in what happens to this blog, then maybe sign up for an email subscription so you don't have to check for random updates? Or not. Whatevs. I'm pretty chill.

Anywhoosle, I have some episodes of Weeds to catch up on (my latest obsession), and my husband is traveling in Romania or something like that so I can watch without risk of interruption, and I think housekeeping posts should generally be as concise as possible because heck are they boring. But hey, drop me a line if you're dealing with any crap that perhaps I'm dealing with, too... and maybe we can get this show back on the road. Or not. I'm feeling very Jeff Bridges / The Dude right now. It's all good.

Rock it out, my sistahs. Talk soon. xo.

At Least It Wasn't "I HATE YOU"...

2010-02-18T09:12:00.000-08:00

Well, that was awful.

My kid just told me, for the first time ever,

"YOU'RE A BAD MOMMY."

(Temporarily ignore the fact that, at the time of this utterance, I was in the process of dunking her in the bathtub fully dressed. As if *you've* never done that.)

Before today, the most searing insult she had been able to muster, in her innocent little 4-year-old brain, was "You're not my friend anymore!" or-- worse!-- "I'm never going to give you a book from my room again!" Neither of which fazed me much (I have adult friends who better appreciate my crass sense of humor, and I also have an Amazon.com account).

But this-- this all-encompassing summary judgment of my parenting ability-- well, it upset me. For real. Even though I knew that the kid was just tired, and embarrassed (she was, after all, being bathed with her clothes on) (hey, she should have heeded my first seven requests that she get in the tub, what did she think was going to happen), and, um, four years old.

For some reason, though, just the fact that this mean little thought would even OCCUR to her made it somehow true.

Now you're saying: Hello, this is the 861st blog post I have read about mommies feeling bad when their children declare their hatred for them, snore; and also: Hey, lady, you were bathing your kid WITH HER CLOTHES ON, there's actually a relatively strong case to be made that you ARE are a bad mommy.

But it just made me wonder (I miss you, Carrie Bradshaw!!), why are we so quick to believe the bad stuff and so cavalier about the good stuff? Is it a woman thing? Or just a mommy thing?

Like when my in-laws are visiting. My mother-in-law could deliver an 8-minute monologue about how clever the eldest child is or how polite the middle child is or how well-behaved the little one is... but as soon as it even LOOKS like she is CONSIDERING saying SOMETHING to the EFFECT of "X child is a bit rambunctious / melodramatic / cheeky" or WHATEVER, I have to freaking retire to the bedroom and sob silently into my pillow for an hour, micro-analyzing every parenting decision I've ever made and wondering which of my missteps could have warranted such a heartless evaluation. (See how I can do that? Turn an observation of the KID's bad behavior into a negative commentary of MY parenting skills? Isn't that a neat trick? Quite useful for people with too MUCH self-esteem.)

And I do this not just with my own critiques: whenever attending a parent-teacher conference, I have something of an out-of-body experience when I hear myself opening with this line, "Hi, thanks in advance for the compliments, but can we just skip to the problem areas?" It's like I'm physically uncomfortable with being told that my children are smart or attentive or whatever, and I just want to rush into the part where the teacher says, "Oh, ok, well, it's really minor BUT..." so that I can have something to obsess over on the ride home. WHAT'S THAT ABOUT? Why must I always be WORRYING ABOUT SOMETHING?

I know I'm not a bad mommy. And I know the kid didn't fully understand what I was talking about when I hugged her tightly before bed and told her that she had hurt my feelings, and that I have sacrificed everything in the name of being a good mommy, and that I hope that she will be a little more careful in expressing her frustration in the future.

But I also know that, as the kids get older and learn how to intentionally wound me with their words, the insults are going to get much, much worse. (Just think! I'll have THREE TEENAGE GIRLS in the house at the same time! Might as well tear my heart out now and save myself the trouble!) In other words, I have fair warning of what's coming and plenty of time to strategize against any such verbal attack.

The question is just whether-- by definition-- it's always going to hurt. Sigh.

Cell Phone Tower Update.

2010-02-02T10:49:00.000-08:00

OMFG!!

ALL THE TRUCKS AND CRANES AND EQUIPMENT ARE GONE!

???

!!!!!!!!!

When Nowhere Feels Safe.

2010-02-01T03:28:00.000-08:00

Something upsetting happened to me this morning.

I was sitting at the dining room table, sipping a cup of coffee and enjoying the sudden quiet of having shipped the last rugrat off to school, when the doorbell rang.

At the gate stood a woman I didn't recognize. She introduced herself as my neighbor (you can tell we *don't* live in a very borrow-a-cup-of-sugar-y area). Then she promptly launched into what sounded like a practiced speech: Have you noticed the cranes that have been positioning themselves behind our houses? Do you know what they are for? Well, they're for the cell phone tower that they're planning to build. Right here on our block. And do you know how unsafe those are? When I lived in London, the same thing happened, and a cell phone tower was built in my neighborhood, and suddenly kids started being diagnosed with leukemia. Do you want to see the research? My husband is printing it out right now. You have little kids, I've seen them. Do you want to join me in trying to stop this development? Here is the number for the community management company. I have forced them to stop temporarily by telling them that I wanted to speak to the engineer. There is going to be a meeting at 10am, they've told me. We must not let this tower get built.

By the time I shut the door behind her, my stomach was in a knot. My own mother died of a rare cancer that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and she was diagnosed with it 4 months after moving to a new neighborhood. The doctors estimated that her tumor was 3 months old. A 4-year-old girl on the same street also died of cancer about 6 months after my mom did.

In other words, if that lady was looking for someone to be on Team Overreaction, she'd rung the right doorbell.

I was instantly on the phone with the community management company. I threatened to go to the newspaper. I told them that every parent on our street was prepared to form a human chain in front of the designated construction area (too much?). I demanded that someone call me back by the end of the day to inform me of the meeting's turnout.

Four hours later, I called back again.

I was told that the project was probably going to continue, that it had been in the planning stages for the past 3 years.

I requested that the owner or president of the company contact me within the hour. Otherwise they'd be reading about me in the paper tomorrow.

We'll see how that works out for me.

In the meantime, when I went to pick up my eldest from school a few minutes ago, I saw, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME, that there is a cell phone tower IN THE PARKING LOT OF HER SCHOOL. How had I driven past it for the past 5 months and never noticed it? And more importantly, HOW WAS I EVER GOING TO SLEEP AGAIN?

Now, if you're considering doing a casual Google search on the words, "cell phone towers" and "safe," let me save you the trouble. The propagandistic search results are nothing short of terrifying: "DEATH TOWERS," and "The Menace of Cell Phone Towers," to name a few. The lists of cancers are breathtaking. And the legal situation grim: when people have tried to fight the cell phone companies, one article states, the cell phone companies always win.

Which brings you up to speed on my current state of thinking, which is a frantic mix of anxiety, despair, and rage. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my rational self is waving its arms and shouting, "But what if the towers are actually safe?", and yet I can't hear it above the din of the more hysterical thoughts pinging about in my brain.

Let me just say that, generally, I am not the kind of parent who lives in a panic. I do NOT give the kids only organic; I do NOT stock the house with "all natural" cleaning products; I do NOT oppose the children getting their vaccines. Because generally, I trust that our government IS protecting us from the kind of toxins that would aggressively kill us (conspiracy theorists are pissing themselves with laughter right about now), and I believe that giving in to the Fear Mentality puts a mother at risk for becoming a walking, talking basket case. One who doesn't see the joy in life because she's always looking up to see if the sky is falling. I didn't want to be one of those people. I DO not want to be one of those people.

And yet. Am I not worrying enough? Should I have noticed that cell phone tower in the school parking lot ages ago? Should I be printing flyers and papering my neighborhood at this very moment, instead of writing to you? We playfully tease one of my best friends for not allowing the teachers at school to draw happy faces on her children's hands... but maybe ink seeping into delicate little girl skin is nothing to laugh about?

So many mommy roads lead me right back to my ever-present theological crisis: If only I believed in God, I could just say to him: Hey Lord, please keep my children safe from radiation and cow hormones and ink poisoning. Or, if you do decide to make any of them sick, please make sure they get a front row seat in heaven.

But I don't, not really. And so the buck stops with me. Me and the neighbor lady. The two of us against the cell phone company. Which is probably just going to put the tower up anyway. Probably, the only thing that will come of it is that I will give myself an ulcer from worrying. And that neighbor lady will move.

I feel like I am doing so much to take the best care of my girls, all day, every day. I devote my life to it.

And get somehow, today it doesn't seem like nearly enough.

Pre Pre Pre Pre Pre Marital Counseling.

2010-01-23T19:34:00.000-08:00

I have a friend named Lucy.

She is kind of-- forgive me, Lucy!-- obsessed with the idea of getting married.

She tries on a lot of white dresses. This, in turn, leads her to stare in the mirror and worry about her weight.

She talks all the time about the guy she plans to marry (problem is, I'm not sure he feels the same way about her, ugh).

She refuses to accept the idea that maybe she simply hasn't yet met Mr. Right, or that it's perfectly ok to *not* get married.

Oh, also: Lucy is five.

WHERE DOES THIS COME FROM, AND HOW DOES IT START SO EARLY??

My own daughters have been similarly affected by this curious phenomenon. The 3- and 4-year-olds often request to watch our wedding video (and dwell on the getting ready part, I guess it's a stealth way of getting in some professional makeup instruction?). The 4-year-old goes on at length about the boy she considers to be her future husband (hello, A!) and dismisses me out of hand when I suggest that maybe she's a little too young to start planning a registry. And while I appreciate the important teaching moment that presents itself when I spot two of my daughters dressing up in bridal attire simultaneously ("Hey, are you two girls marrying each other? Well of COURSE two girls can marry each other, as can two boys! You MARRY the person you LOVE!"), it troubles me that weddings already feature so prominently in their projections for the future.

I honestly have no idea where all this is coming from. I don't think it's just that they interact with their own married parents every day; we hardly walk around the house pimping our matrimonial status like newlyweds. Nor could it be originating in the much-maligned princess stories, because, while our household is certainly not immune to the ATTACK OF THE KILLER DISNEY MARKETING CAMPAIGN (yes, we have princess *everything*), I've held off on telling them the anti-woman, first-meet-the-man, then-live-happily-ever-after stories that accompany each character (in fact, my 3-year-old recently told us she overheard someone at school talking about "Snow White and the Seven Skurfs") (smurfs with biker headscarves?). And I'm sure they're not getting it from movies, because our viewing habits generally revolve around Mary Poppins and Hi-5 / Wiggles / Barney dance numbers. Not a lot of bouquet-throwing there.

What else could it be? The kids have only attended one wedding (in which they were flower girls) (seized with such sudden stage fright that it was necessary for the bride and groom to EACH CARRY ONE OF THEM DOWN THE AISLE, creating the appearance of long-hidden love children to befuddled distant relatives who had flown in for the occasion, I almost DIED). And sure, our costume box does boast a few plain white dresses, but it was entirely the girls' idea to turn their ballet tutus into bridal veils. So what gives?

Perhaps the marriage mentality is just so completely OUT THERE in all the cultural cues that I've become desensitized to it. When my eldest and I peruse the tabloids over breakfast (is that wrong?), we are quick to ooh and aah over the celebrity wedding spreads. And when one of our family friends gets engaged, I guess we do make a big fuss over celebrating the milestone-- maybe to the point that the girls have come to believe that getting married equals joy, praise and attention? Hmmm.

Ok, well, putting that aside for a moment: Why does it make me nervous that the preschool set is so passionately marriage-minded?

I think the reasons are twofold:

One, I worry, as all parents of girls do, about the pressure on kids to be sexually precocious; I am always surprised that romantic physical contact between boys and girls even occurs to children of this age. My neighbor told me that when she recently chaperoned a field trip for 6-year-olds, the kids were pretending to HOOK UP in the back of the bus (hence the need for chaperones, I guess!!). Famously, my own parents were summoned into a teacher conference to discuss my kindergarten self's insistence of smooching all the boys (it should have been obvious THEN that I would be trouble later on). And this very afternoon, a teacher had to interrupt the gym class to rescue my 3-year-old daughter from a little boy who was trying to pin her down and kiss her. I wonder, then, if all the hype over marriage, which at this age seems to suggest one boy and one girl pairing up (note to self: read "Three to Tango" to the kids more often), only furthers the children's curiosity as to what they are supposed to do *after* they've paired up? Do I need to start my girls now on "Why would they buy the cow when they can get the milk for free?"

Second, I am concerned about the self-esteem issues that immediately flow from the idea that marriage is mandatory. At what point does a little girl realize that she is pretty, or not? That finding boys who want to date her (and eventually, marry her) will be easy, or challenging? At what point does she begin taking steps to making herself more attractive to the opposite sex: sucking in her tummy, batting her eyelashes submissively? And at what point does she start feeling bad about herself when she realizes that there are other girls who are prettier, thinner, and more confident? Is there any way to stem that tide... or at least postpone its impact?

I know there are things we do, as a society, that expedite our daughters' evolution from sexually ignorant to sexually aware. I mean, heck, one of my earliest childhood memories is being "married" at age 7 to a kid named Kevin on the way to day camp: the bus was extravagantly decorated with wedding bells, and some kid puked (too much champagne) so we had to pull over and abandon the matrimonial vehicle in favor of a decidedly less-celebratory van. On Valentines' Day, schools encourage our kids to draw big red hearts and talk mushily about love. There is no shortage of Barbie dolls decked out in full bridal regalia; is this bad? What's ultimately more hazardous about Wedding Day Barbie: the rib- (and soul-) crushing dimensions of her waist, or the symbolic white of her polyester dress?

My concern over little kids trying to make sense of adult themes doesn't end there, no: we have not only toddlers & marriage to contend with, but also its evil stepsister, toddlers & divorce. I found myself in a real ethical bind this summer as Jon and Kate, hosts of the girls' former favorite show, tore each other to shreds in the public colosseum. How was I to respond when my 4-year-old said to me, "Hey Mom, who's that skank in the magazine with Jon?" (slight embellishment). Was that my cue to delve into the mature topics of mid-life crises and famewhores and the reckless abandonment of wedding vows? Or should I have just stuck to, "His friend, honey"? I chose the latter. Not because I don't think my eldest could absorb the idea of people getting un-married, but because I didn't want her first exposure to divorce to involve the parents of kids her age, didn't want her worrying that it could happen to us.

I guess the upshot of all this introspection is recognizing that my daughters' interest in becoming brides is probably no passing fad, and therefore the onus is on my husband and me to continue to provide them with as many positive, egalitarian demonstrations of matrimony as possible. In fact, as I sit here and contemplate the societal implications of a 4-year-old who is already waiting for someone to put a ring on it, I find myself doing this little mathematical calculation: My eldest is four. I got married at 29. This means, if she's anything like her mom, she's got another TWENTY-FIVE YEARS before she walks down that aisle. For all my daughters' sake, I desperately hope that marriage experiences a rebirth during that quarter-century: that, by the time she finally says, "I do," gay marriage is as widely-accepted as "opposite marriage" (it just never stops giving, Miss South Carolina), and that the sobering trend of divorce in this country has been reversed. Because while my daughters' current view of marriage is unrealistically simple and rose-colored, I actually kinda hope it is something they don't outgrow: a little child-like optimism and whimsy might be just what the ol' institution needs.

Our Poor, Poor Husbands.

2010-01-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

It's not easy being a stay-at-home mom to a bunch of young children.

It's also not easy, I'm pretty darn certain, to be the working husband of a stay-at-home mom to a bunch of young children.

Here's a typical day in the life of my man, with only the slightest bit of interpretation on my part:

Wake up at 6:30. Shower and get dressed and eat in a hurry because Child #1 needs to be dropped off at school at 7:30. Go directly into office, which involves an hour-long commute. Spend the day furiously juggling marathon meetings, conference calls, deadlines, incompetent subordinates, vicious office politics, and the like. Try like heck to get out of the office in time to spend a few minutes with the kids before they go to bed, but end up idling in gridlock traffic instead. Wander tiredly through the front door only to find wife intensely typing away on her computer (oh no! she's blogging again!) and try to smile. Smile quickly fades when it is met with a glare. Wife launches pointed interrogation as to the explanation for said bedtime-missing. Retreat into office with a turkey sandwich when it becomes apparent that wife's bad attitude hasn't yet peaked. Spend next three hours working determinedly on a project that could have been better managed back in the office. Await the all-too-predictable appearance of wife in the doorway right before bed, sulking and apologizing and wiping away tears. Accept apology and give weary wife a hug. Drag self up the stairs at midnight, cursing silently for allowing another day to slip by without going to the gym, and fall asleep before wife is done brushing her teeth. Meanwhile, back down in the kitchen, the Blackberry vibrates intermittently all through the night...

So now you're saying, hey lady! how 'bout you be a little nicer to this hardworking man? Would a kiss hello or a home-cooked meal be too much to ask? (For those who know me personally, ha, ha, I know.)

Of course you're right (she says, peacefully reflecting on the situation in the rare calm of the late evening). I mean, it is hardly the case that I'm looking to trade places with my husband: he not only has a high-stress, high-intensity, high-stakes job, but he ALSO has to perpetually worry about putting food on the table for an awful lot of mouths, AND he has the ever-present guilt about whether he is getting in sufficient quality time with his wife and kids. It's as if no matter how many hours he spends with his work *or* with his family, it's never enough for either. Job stress + money stress + family stress = no thank you.

And YET!-- in the thick of the action, when at *least* one child has been crying for the past two hours, and I haven't remembered to eat anything since breakfast, and I'm still wearing the t-shirt I slept in the night before, and toddler bedtime is rapidly approaching, and there's no sign of my husband even though his text from late morning *assured* me he would be home to see the kids... well, at that point it's harder for me to appreciate the long day he's had. In fact, I even get a little (more than a little) angry at him.

Which is terrible! I'm evil! I know!

So WHAT exactly is it that I am angry about? It's not as if I didn't *ask* to be the full-time caregiver to 3 young kids-- I did!

Here are a few possibilities I've been considering, in furtherance of my New Year's resolution to be less of a total NIGHTMARE to my hubby when he comes home at night:

POSSIBILITY ONE: I am jealous that my husband gets to leave the house every day, even if it is just to go to work.

Oh, how I miss putting on nice clothes. And stopping for a coffee on the way out of the house, standing in line with all the other responsible adults of the world. I miss my office, which had a door, that could be closed. I miss my secretary, who answered my calls and made me feel much more important than I was. I miss high heel shoes. I miss lunch breaks. I even miss vending machines.

Also potentially inciting jealousy: the idea that a person's routine can substantively VARY from one day to the next. For the past five years, each of my days has more or less resembled the one that came before. The notion of regularly interacting with different people about different subjects in different venues: crazy!

POSSIBILITY TWO: I resent that, even if he has also had a total CRAP day, at least he just got some cold, hard cash for it.

This one isn't entirely fair, because I am blessed enough to have married a man who actually considers the money HE makes to be OUR money. Which gets me, because I'm not sure, if the roles were reversed, that I could ever be so equitable. ("You bought *another* pair of boxer shorts? What was wrong with the ones you already had? Do you think I am MADE of money??")

But still, even if he sees it that way, it doesn't mean that I can. No, it just feels *wrong* somehow to buy him a birthday present of any significance, like: Hey honey, I just threw away some of YOUR hard-earned money getting you a gift that, if you had actually wanted it, you would just have gone out and purchased yourself! It also makes it hard to treat myself to anything frivolous; I feel like I have no right deducting money from the stack when I'm certainly not presently adding any. The consequence is that I buy sweaters at the same place where I buy eggs, and then fly off the handle when my husband comes home with a new coffee maker.

POSSIBILITY THREE: I assume that he is having-- dare I say it-- fun? at work.

Ok, so my memories of corporate life aren't all happy ones; the mind-numbing work assignments in combination with the unrealistic expectations of superiors are one reason why I hung up my jersey in the first place. But even when the rat race got really brutal, I always had a friend somewhere down the hall who would fake a conference call in order to run down the block with me for an emergency ice cream cone. And what about the ubiquitous office crush? It was such a self-esteem-boosting indulgence to have a harmless flirtation going on with the guy who brought me the photocopies or whatnot. These days, I'm lucky if my barrista makes eye contact with me.

POSSIBILITY FOUR: I'm in way over my head here, and I miss having him around as my backup.

Awww, the sentimental choice. But no less valid: I struggle with my husband's business trips not because the afternoons are materially all that different from when he's just at the office-- they're not-- but rather because I NEED him to put me back together at the end of a kid-saturated day. And when he's gone for even the smallest period of time, it's like I have lost my ability to decompress before heading back into the trenches the next morning. It's also why I look forward to the weekend: it means that I will have a teammate, an ally, a set of familiar hands into which I can place a screaming child and not feel bad, or like I should be offering someone a raise. My husband is my sanity, and when he's stuck at work, or on a three-hour conference call out in the driveway, it's as if no one's got my back.

* * *

Ok, so now that I'm sitting here thinking about it, I'm noticing that none of these reasons actually justifies the grief that I often give my beloved husband when he comes through that door. Especially because there is a perfectly obvious foil to each of my 4 theories:

(1) I could go back to my corporate job whenever I wanted-- it's not as if I married a caveman who's insisting I remain barefoot and pregnant;

(2) My husband has never, ever tried to limit my spending, even when I come home with armfuls of new Barbie shirts for the girls (they were on sale!);

(3) My husband definitely works more than he plays at the office, not to mention the fact that I'm certainly no stranger to sneaking off to a lunch date with some of my mommy friends;

and (4) Even when he's traveling, he will *always* step out of a late dinner meeting to take my phone call in the event that I need to bitch and moan and sob about how vile the children have become in his absence.

So now that all of my proposed explanations have been debunked, where does that leave me? Being a (former) lawyer, I *should* be able formulate a compelling defense!

Well, it's a bit pitiful, but I guess all I'm left with is this:

Being a stay-at-home mom to a whole mess of little kids depletes a person of her most basic human resources, to the point that she's frequently left feeling chewed up in a way that makes rational thought quite difficult. In other words, even on my WORST day in the office, I was never subjected to a prolonged, eardrum-shattering scream right in my face; nor was I openly humiliated in public; and certainly no one ever sh*t on me (literally). No, work stress was of a completely different nature: it was mostly a cerebral experience, a mental exhaustion.

Mothering, by contrast, is a wholly VISCERAL experience. When my baby wails, I feel gripped to my core; when my toddler falls, my body lurches; when my preschooler mouths off to me, I feel profoundly betrayed. Surely my job never affected me on such a deep, personal level: it was only a job, after all, and if things got really bad I could always just quit! and find another one. This is unlike parenting, where the project never ends, you can never walk away from it, and its success or failure has repercussions that extend far beyond a bonus or an annual review.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my corporate job was challenging, absolutely, but it mostly just took place in my brain. Full-time mommying, on the other hand, penetrates every part of my body: my back and shoulders are sore from carrying around the children, my stomach hurts from enduring yet another supermarket tantrum, and my head is spinning from having again forgotten to eat. When my husband comes home, therefore, it is not a reasonable woman waiting there in the foyer to greet him, no-- it is a feral mama bear, one who has spent the whole day putting every ounce of her energy into protecting and providing for her young. And that bear isn't much for conversation.

So where does that leave you, the overworked, undervalued, overextended and underslept breadwinner-slash-husband?

I guess the only advice I can offer you is this: Don't give up on us. We just need a little more time. This mothering thing is harder than we expected. And we truly don't *mean* to take our frustrations out on you; it's just that the kids are too cute to stay mad at (and-- let's be honest-- their little minds are not sophisticated enough to grasp the full, crippling impact of a 4-hour silent treatment, so what would be the point). In our heart of hearts we DO appreciate you (SO MUCH)... we DO acknowledge that none of this would be possible without you... and we DO realize that you need a nap just as much as we do.

Just don't expect one to be offered anytime soon. xo.

My Favorite Things, All of Which Are More Important Than Oprah's.

2010-01-18T21:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when I'm having a particularly drama-free day with the kids, I think to myself, "Thank GOODNESS I have X; otherwise I don't know how I would survive."

And the urge becomes very strong to make sure that all of my other mommy friends know about X, lest their days be any less great.

So here we go: I present to you the The Top Ten Child-Related Items This Mommy Could Not Live Without. (I do expect that, having identified these treasures, they will promptly begin flying off the shelves à la Oprah's Favorite Things. So Target, consider yourself warned.)

NUMBER ONE. Clearblue Easy Fertility Monitor.

Ok, if you don't have kids yet, or know someone who doesn't have kids yet but wants them, then this item is a MUST. It goes without saying that lots of us are waiting until we're in our 30's to start having babies, and it also goes without saying that the anxiety kicks in pretty quickly when the magic doesn't happen IMMEDIATELY. This ovulation monitor is fantastic and is far superior to low-tech pee sticks, if you ask me. I didn't have a fertility problem but simply assumed that I did (see, i.e., earlier post about my impressive hypochondria), and this little puppy worked wonders. It's a little pricey but absolutely worth it.

NUMBER TWO. A lactation consultant.

This one is harder to pre-order on Amazon (ba-dum-bump!) but is essential for new moms nonetheless.

When I was preggo for the first time, I simply took it for granted that I would be breastfeeding my kid. Never mind the fact that neither my husband nor I had been breastfed (and both went on to achieve reasonable professional success), I was convinced by all the (unfounded? hmmm) propaganda that breastmilk was the only choice.

And then, in one of life's many little surprises, I became the proud owner of a kid who wouldn't "latch." (Just think! before kids, that word suggested to me a brass door closure, and now, forevermore, it will call to mind a neglected nipple.) My desperation was profound. And because I am nothing if not stubborn, I still refused to give the baby a bottle of formula. The result? I pumped breastmilk every day, many times a day, throughout the night, in parking lots, etc., for 12 loooooooong months. (You cannot imagine the crisis that ensued whenever we lost power during a thunderstorm: we would be frantically hauling precious bags of frozen breastmilk out of the freezer and over to the neighbor's house as if they were organs being rushed to donation.)

The second time around, I got smart. I wasn't leaving anything up to chance. We hired a lactation consultant who was to meet me in the hospital as soon as Baby #2 was born.

And I have to tell you, it was the best $60 per hour we ever spent. Our lady was not much in the way of bedside manner, but somehow, SOMEHOW!, she got that little peanut to latch. She visited me for instruction a total of 3 times in the hospital, and by the time we were discharged, wouldn'tcha know it I was a breastfeeding mom. She was even prompt in returning all subsequent phone calls re: how to deal with engorgement, clogged ducts, and other such Things You Didn't Sign Up For (zzzzzexy!).

Hired her for Baby #3, too. Breastfeeding was, for me, a powerfully rewarding bonding experience that I would not have traded for the world. And for that I give credit to the lactation consultant.

[HONORABLE MENTION FAVORITE THINGS: (1) The My Breast Friend nursing pillow. Firmer and far superior to the Boppy, I found. Also (2), the Medela Pump In Style, even though that name is ludicrous, there is nothing stylish about pumping. Utilitarian, maybe, but stylish, no.]

NUMBER THREE. Baby Signing Time DVDs, Volume 1 and Volume 2.

Ok, if anyone asked me to name the single greatest child-related invention known to man, I think I would say the Baby Signing Time DVDs. (A.B., if you're reading this, thank you endlessly for turning us on to them!) There are a whole mess of them available, but here I'm referring to just the 2 introductory DVDs for babies. They are ALL. YOU. NEED.

Now, for those who have no experience with these little plastic miracles, you might be thinking to yourself, "Sign language for babies is a stupid fad," or "Who has time for that?" or "Teaching sign language to babies will only DELAY THEIR SPEECH DEVELOPMENT!"

Well I am here to tell you that all of these sentiments are mistaken.

When our first daughter was about 12 months old, it became obvious that she could understand just about everything that we were saying to her. But of course, she couldn't speak back to us in any intelligent way. And let me tell you-- the smoke coming out of her ears from frustration was visible a mile away. The poor little thing clearly wanted SO BADLY to tell us what she wanted or needed-- food, or a drink, or to get out of her highchair or whatever-- but only had generic screaming and crying with which to communicate. It was hard to watch, and we were stuck in a miserable marathon of charades. "What do you want? Apple? Milk? Do you have a headache? WHAT?"

Then, one wonderful day, after we expressed to a friend that our child's head was on the verge of popping off due to stunted-communication rage, he told us about these DVDs. And they revolutionized our lives!

In fact, the one sign-- "all done" (waving two hands, palms out)-- was, unto itself, a game changer. Our daughter frantically signed "all done" whenever she sensed the tide turning in a direction she didn't like: when she was being lowered into her car seat but wasn't in the mood for a ride; when we took the first step up the staircase to put her down for an undesired nap; when she was finished with her mushy carrots and was contemplating hurling them onto the floor. I can't tell you what a relief it was to finally be having a dialogue with our kid!

As for the concern over delayed speech, well, of course I can only speak from our own experience; but we started all 3 girls on the DVDs at their first birthdays (the movies consist of catchy songs featuring fellow toddlers, which babies can't resist), and all 3 of them were early talkers. In fact, interestingly, instead of opting *not* to speak in favor of using signs, each of them began using words in *conjunction* with their signs. They began asking for things by saying, "Peeeese," while simultaneously rubbing their chests in the sign for "please." Soonafter, perhaps with the kid not even noticing, the signs fell by the wayside, and the speech stood on its own. (The only time we see a sign these days is when our 2o-month-old gets busted doing something truly naughty; she'll hang her head pathetically and *sign* "sorry" instead of saying it. Too cute.)

The DVDs cost around $50 and I swear by them. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back!

NUMBER FOUR. The Fisher Price cradle swing.

In our house, newborn babies go directly into the swing, do not pass GO, do not collect $200. My infants *lived* in them, for just about every daylight hour, the first several weeks of their lives. Then after that, they continued to nap in them until they were about 3 months old. (My baby nurse, rightly or wrongly, informed us that one way to unscramble an infant's day and night body clock is to put her in a different place for daytime naps than she goes for nighttime sleep.)

It's was a sad day when we finally had to pack up the ol' girl after 3 plus years of dominating our living room and thank her for all her hard work.

NUMBER FIVE. Brookstone Tranquil Moments Junior.

I'm not a great sleeper. So I think I had begun using these white noise machines even before the kids came along (I have no idea how people fall asleep to the sound of their spouses' stomachs digesting dinner). But these have also proven really valuable for the kids' sleep habits, even more so once new babies rolled into the house.

I was always paranoid that one kid's crying would wake up another kid. Put one of these beside each bed/crib and voila! they are lulled to sleep as if on a calming airplane, and any noise coming from their restless siblings becomes a distant din. (I'm so completely dependent on them, in fact, that if I ever forget to bring my Brookstone with us to a hotel, I turn all the radios on to static. The housekeepers must think I'm a moron who couldn't figure out how to turn the dial.)

NUMBER SIX. Ear thermometer.

Ah, the ear thermometer. We use Braun (pictured above). I'm absolutely positive that they're not as accurate as the, um, alternative, but let me tell you, the relief you gain from not having to make that unpleasant acquaintance with your baby's bottom far outweighs the small margin of error you risk (that said, I'd always recommend that you go the traditional route if the information is critical). (Some good advice if you do need to go there: lay the baby across your lap on her tummy) (good luck).

NUMBER SEVEN. Video monitor.

I'm a big fan of audio-only baby monitors; I feel that they are a small price to pay for having kids who don't go wandering around the house during the night seeking your bed as a viable alternative to their own. Our rugrats know that they should stay put unless there is a real emergency; all they need to do is call us if they need anything and we'll magically appear.

There is a short window of time, however, in which I think a *video* monitor comes in handy, and that is when you are trying to teach your little one to self-soothe (there's that WORD again! I told you it was hot-button!) and sleep through the night.

With our first baby, I was having a really hard time ever letting her "cry it out." It seemed to me Ferberizing kids put them at risk for insecurity and abandonment issues (probably not true, or else Ferber wouldn't be a household name), so I went in to calm our daughter during the night for longer than was necessary. But at her 11-month birthday, I decided I needed to break up with her, at least insofar as our middle-of-the-night dates were concerned.

Letting her cry it out didn't take as long as I expected (probably around 3 nights?) but it felt like an eternity. The only thing that saved my sanity, I tell you, was that video monitor. With it, I could reassure myself that she was screaming *not* because she had climbed out of her crib and clumsily dropped herself onto the floor, breaking each delicate bone in her body, but merely because she was pissed that I wasn't showing up for our scheduled rendez-vous. In fact, there were times over those 3 nights when the video monitor saved me from ruining an otherwise successful run: just as I was about to throw open her door in a heroic act, the video monitor informed me that she was already lying down (as opposed to standing up and rattling the crib rail), which always meant that the tantrum was gratefully coming to a sleepy end.

Once all the kids were sleeping through the night, we kept the audio but ditched the video component, and now just continue to enjoy the soothing sounds (or not) of every nocturnal cough and sneeze (which is still better than your spouse's dinner digesting, I maintain).

NUMBER EIGHT. Exersaucer.

I thought these were great for the 4-to-6 months-old crowd. They fold up for storage in between kids, and there are always new accessories that you can snap into the toy sockets. Bet you could sneak a shower in the time your kid can entertain herself.

NUMBER NINE. Stand-out movies: "Elmo's Potty Time" and "The Letter Factory."

My daughters all loved this one, especially the part when the kids scream out different words for "pee" and "poop." Elegant. But effective. For the 18-months+ group.

We encourage our kids to watch this movie by making it the only one they are allowed to watch on Mommy's computer (and lord knows, everything tastes better when seasoned with forbidden fruit). You may feel like jumping off a cliff by the way the song gets stuck in your head ("The A says Aaah! The A says Aaah!"), but you'll be impressed by how quickly your kids learn the sounds and get the concept of reading. Good for age 2-3.

NUMBER 10. Water Wow! (punctuation intended)

Oh, Water Wow! books, how I love you.

These brilliant little inventions have entertained our kids for hours and hours. I don't know how exactly they work, but they are small, 4-page cardboard books with black and white pictures. When the kids apply water (discard the flimsy water pens that come with the books; in our house we use PAINTBRUSHES), the color magically appears. Ten minutes later, the pages have dried, the color disappears, and the books can be used again. Genius! And perfect for travel. I think there are more than 20 titles available now; go right to ebay for the greatest selection.

Ok..... so there's my list. Phew!

Now it's your turn: what essential items did I miss?

Sibling Rivalry: I Make It Up As I Go Along.

2010-01-18T08:08:00.000-08:00

I am an only child.

Who now has 3 children of her own.

All of whom were born within the same 4-year period.

This means that: (a) there is a lot of sibling rivalry under this roof; and (b) I have no CLUE what I'm doing here.

Again highlighting my parental ignorance, I once assumed that sibling rivalry would first come into the equation when the children reached 7, 8 years old. I thought to myself, before that age there's nothing much to be rivals over, right?

Wrong. While I was fortunate enough to have spared myself the jealous rage that I've heard many older children experience when a new baby is introduced to the household (my kids were either 18 months or 36 months old when they became big sisters-- too young to have any reliable memory about the solitude of their lives up to that point), the peaceful cohabitation was woefully brief. By the time my older daughters reached 3 and 4 years old, respectively, sister war could erupt at any time, and over the NUTTIEST things. It wasn't Mommy's attention or Daddy's lap that they were fighting over, no-- it was WHO OPENED THE FRONT DOOR FIRST! and WHO GOT INTO THE BATH FIRST! and WHO WAS SERVED GRAPES FIRST! and you get the idea.

This was even *after* we'd learned our lesson the hard way and begun purchasing all toys, clothes, bowls, etc., in duplicate (now triplicate!), thinking that a multitude of identical material goods would cut down on the hysteria. Nay, what we didn't anticipate was that the real issues of pride were tied up in the *intangible* rewards (for instance, the highly-coveted responsibility of being allowed to press "play" on the remote control, sometimes prompting the non-"play"-pressing sibling to boycott the movie altogether, which manifests true stupidity if you ask me) (then again, I'm not a sibling, so maybe it really does ruin the film?).

Months of trying to reason with the little buggers proved utterly fruitless ("Why are we ARGUING about this? Don't you people GET that IT! DOESN'T! MATTER!"), and so, like a character in Lord of the Rings, I was forced to make up new rules, from scratch, that would hopefully introduce harmony into this completely uncivilized population I had wandered into. (Resist my attempts at martyrdom, by the way; I'm sure there are universes of books written on this very topic for this very age group; I've just decided that it's more important to keep abreast of Runway and Idol than to actually learn from the experts about how to do my job.)

So after several trial-and-error attempts that yielded mostly errors, for now we have placed this household under The (Made-Up) Law of "SPECIAL DAYS"-- and so far, gosh darn it, it's working! The strategy: On odd days of the month, it's Child #1's SPECIAL DAY. On even days, it's Child #2's SPECIAL DAY. (Don't ask me about the two potential consecutive odd days at the end of a month, we'll cross that bridge when we get there.) If it's YOUR SPECIAL DAY, then heck! party like a rock star! Whenever there's a question of doing something FIRST, you WIN! Whenever there's a movie that needs to be selected, you DECIDE! Whenever there's a dispute over who gets the PINK plastic bowl for fruit (god only knows how we ended up with 8 purples, 2 yellows, and 1 treasured pink), it's YOURS! Furthermore, when it's YOUR SPECIAL DAY, you are the proud holder of these illustrious titles: FIRST to get in and out of the car, FIRST to open any door, FIRST to be served meals, and FIRST to get tucked into bed! (One of those is a trick! bwahaha.)

Now before you rush out and implement SPECIAL DAYS in your own home, I should warn you that it is a policy not immune to abuses, no. My eldest daughter tends to confuse SPECIAL DAY with EVIL DICTATOR DAY, meaning that she occasionally tries to relegate her younger sister to just standing in the corner watching while she eats ALL the snacks and chooses ALL the books and hogs ALL the arts-and-crafts materials. So there is a certain amount of police work that is required, sure. But I have to say, overall it's really helped. In fact, nothing's funnier than overhearing this exchange between the sisters:

"LET ME HAVE IT!"

"NO, IT'S MINE!"

"Get off me!"

"Stop it!"

"It's MY day!"

"No, it's MY day!"

[thoughtful silence]

"Wait, was it your day yesterday?"

"Um, no, wasn't it yours, 'cuz you told me I could get out of the bath first even though it wasn't my day?"

"No, that was the day before yesterday, right?"

"I don't know, let's go ask Mom whose day it is."

"Mommmmmmmmm!"

And usually, by the time I pretend to hear them calling me, they've forgotten what they were fighting about in the first place.

See? Turns out I know exactly what I'm doing.

Mother Goose? Meet Mean Girls.

2010-01-17T08:31:00.000-08:00

I wouldn't have believed it had I not observed it myself:

In Pre-K, there's a POPULAR crowd.

Wait, I need to rephrase this to ensure there's no confusion: Apparently, there are 4-YEAR-OLDS... who are COOL.

And that, by definition, means that there are 4-year-olds who are NOT cool.

I'm worried that my eldest daughter might fall into the latter group. And I'm worried that I'm worried.

It's a time-old riddle, one that will certainly not be answered here, but I'm forced to trot it out again regardless: WHAT MAKES CERTAIN KIDS POPULAR AND CERTAIN KIDS NOT?

If we were dealing with high school, there would at least be clues: The cool kids are slutty. The cool kids wear provocative clothes. The cool kids have cigarettes. The cool kids go to parties without parents. The cool kids drink, they smoke pot, they cut class. The cool kids have an air about them that makes the uncool kids just so totally and constantly aware of their lower rank.

Think back: as a teenager, there was never any confusion about whether you were popular or not; you knew. In fact, I can almost tell you the *day* when I made that near-inconceivable transition from the Nerds to the Popular crowd: it was the day that the captain of the soccer team took an interest in me. Soonafter I became his GIRLFRIEND, and bam! I was one of the popular kids. It was a lot like I imagine an apotheosis would be.

But here there are no cigarettes, no tattoos, no piercings, not even any fancy clothes that the rich kids could wear to make the less rich kids feel inferior. IT'S Pre-FREAKING-K. And there are UGLY SCHOOL UNIFORMS. And yet! I knew from DAY ONE which kids made up the popular crowd of that classroom. How is that possible??

You're thinking: Easy! It's the pretty girls and the obnoxious boys! All the other kids are intimidated by their beauty and their ADD!

But no, your theory fails. Because here, the popular crowd consists of 2 girls (though there is no shortage of spazzy boys in the class), and while yes, one girl is cute and blond, the other girl is a shrimp who is, um, decidedly not cute. What gives?

I had high hopes for my eldest daughter when the school year began: her assigned seat was at the blonde's table, and they seemed to be getting on well. More positive indications rolled in when the shrimp invited her over for a playdate. This is good!, I thought. It's not necessarily that I wanted her to be "popular," per se (in fact, I will COMMAND her to be a Nerd in high school, how else can she expect to get into a good college)... but rather, this was her first experience in "the big kids' school" and I wanted it to be great. I wanted her to have lots of friends and to gain confidence and to just generally love every minute of being four.

Then last night. I was tucking her into bed. And she said, in a quiet voice, "Mommy, do we have a list of kids for my 5th birthday party yet?" "No," I replied exhaustedly, "it's 4 months away." "Ok," she said, "well then let's make a list and let's take [Shrimp] off of it." I gasped, silently. "What happened? I thought you and she were friends." My eldest whimpered. "It's just that she's been so mean to me lately, running away from me and laughing at me and not letting me play with them."

And there it was: the decision was in. She had tried out for the popular clique, and she hadn't made the team.

I was sad. Still am sad. Not sure why. I guess because even when the popular kids are dumb, or skanky, or smell like smoke all the time, everyone wants to be one of them, right? Because the popular kids are the deciders. The ones who can make you feel like you're a star or like you're a shadow. And it's rotten and I wish it was otherwise but it's real and it's not going anywhere.

I just had no idea I'd be dealing with it in Pre-K. Sigh.

This Sucks.

2010-01-15T01:58:00.000-08:00

O, my children, what have I done?

I first gave you the plastic nub because I couldn't bear to hear you cry... and now I worry that I have put a whole lot of tears in *both* of our futures.

In other words: By letting you hold onto your pacifiers for so long, have I committed my first major parental screw up?

It's an understatement to say that I was never a fan of pacifiers. I hated seeing toddlers running around the mall with those plugs stuck in their faces. I contemplated a picket line in front of the maternity ward whose nursery attendants gave our firstborn a pacifier without our written permission. And I breathed a magnificent sigh of relief when I saw that same firstborn child soonafter stick her thumb contentedly in her mouth: a thumb-sucker, just as I was! No stupid plastic panacea for us! Even our baby nurse-- a luxury that we afforded ourselves just once, thank goodness, since I was ready to fire her about 3 hours into her 5-day tenure-- congratulated us on having borne an infant so intelligent as to be able to immediately "self-soothe" (HOT-BUTTON PARENTING TERMINOLOGY if ever there was some).

But then baby #2 came along 18 months later, and baby #3 just 18 months after that, and in the midst of it all we were caring for my own very sick mother, and suddenly the two new babies who apparently weren't as intelligent in the art of self-soothing (but exceptionally intelligent in all other areas, of course!) forced me to make a very unpleasant choice: succumb to the pacifier, or risk a long-time-coming nervous breakdown.

So I went out and bought a few of the stupid things. And I felt dirty, like I was finally giving in to a meth addiction that I had managed to stave off for quite some time. I couldn't even bring myself to call them "pacifiers," "pacis," or worse, "binkies" (I was sufficiently embarrassed even without the baby talk, thank you very much). No, in my house, we were to call them "suckers." Which in my mind gave them a pink, sugary sound, like delightful confections that the wee ones just couldn't resist.

Appropriately, my second child adored her suckers. The only time we *ever* put her to bed without one planted firmly in her mouth was the 3-day period that our house was cruelly overtaken by Hand-Foot-Mouth Disease (cue the shivers running down your spine, mother friend); the poor child's tongue was so swollen that she had to settle for pitifully rubbing the suckers against her cheek instead. And I didn't mind the suckers back then, because they brought her comfort, and what mom doesn't want her child feeling comfortable.

My third child also fell promptly and deeply in love with her suckers (after she, too, failed the initial thumb-sucking trial period). In fact, it was one of her very first words: "Suck-a, suck-a," she requested, in a voice so comically tiny it seemed to come out of a cartoon character. How cute!, we thought.

Well, it's not so cute anymore, as my middle daughter turned 3 in October, and the reign of the suckers doesn't seem to be coming to an end ANYTIME soon. In fact, her nighttime ritual revolves around a delicate process of lining up her 8 suckers (not 7, not 9; 6 regular suckers + 2 that are attached to little stuffed animals; 6 go on the left side of the bed and 2 go on her pillow; don't stray from this format or else there WILL be a problem), and sometimes when I peek in on her during the night, she is holding onto those horrible plastic placebos like they are her lifeboats in a storm.

Meanwhile, the third child has just passed her 20-month birthday... which *maybe* makes her the perfect candidate for sucker-confiscation?? (Mommy asks, shuddering at the thought.) Old enough that she doesn't technically *need* them anymore (so say the parenting books) (then again, what is more critical than the need to feel comforted??), but not so old that she could actually *do* anything to retaliate against me for abducting them? (other than to bring me literally to my knees with guilt, but I guess that's what Zoloft is for.)

Of late I have tried broaching the subject of sucker-abandonment with the older one... but it's a terrible position I here find myself in, because I am about to exercise overt discrimination against her toddler drug of choice. I personally sucked my thumb until I was eight (8) years old, never had to wear braces of any kind on my teeth, and don't consider myself particularly orally fixated as a result. In fact, legend has it that I contentedly sucked my thumb throughout my elementary school years until the morning my dad presented me with a cheery ultimatum: quit the habit or else be fitted with a draconian headpiece made of fishhook-like devices that would dangle menacingly from the roof of my mouth. (Wait, was that wrong?) And in a move of still-celebrated ingenuity, I immediately took it upon myself to fashion a makeshift "cast" out of tissues and Scotch tape that I would apply to my thumb each bedtime, hence freeing myself of the monkey on my back (and saving my thumb from being shred to ribbons, so I thought). Accordingly, I have always assumed that I would do the exact same thing with my eldest daughter: let her suck her thumb in peace until the time comes to traumatize her over it.

And yet while the thumb-sucking doesn't bother me, I simply can't stomach the egalitarian notion that the thumb's rubber counterparts-- a.k.a., the physical embodiments of my greatest parental failure to date-- could potentially be in our lives for another half a DECADE. Especially now that the 3-year-old was recently subjected to wholly uncalled-for (completely justified) ridicule when she absent-mindedly wandered out of the house and into our front yard, mid-afternoon, sucker in place and on full display. "You still use a pacifier??" the neighbors' kids taunted, and my heart sank to my kneecaps. Your first public shaming, and the shame is more rightfully mine!

So suddenly the pressure is on. I have a crisis of conscience whenever either child gets tired or injured or car-intolerant and pleads for a sucker. Is it too late?, I wonder. Instead of pot, will my girls have a brown-bag stash of suckers hidden in their college dorm rooms? Will they have white ones tucked in their garters on their wedding days? Will they move helplessly from one oral addition to another-- pacifier, bubble gum, cigarettes, gross chewed-up pen caps, etc.-- for all of their misguided lives?

Please, if you have experience with this topic, help me out. Tell me what to do with my innocent 3-year-old who has been unknowingly led down the primrose path. (But be gentle with your suggestion to have the Pacifier Fairy come pay us a visit... I have already floated the idea, and I accidentally rolled my eyes in the middle of the explanation. WHY do I have such a hard time lying to my kids, even when the benefit clearly outweighs the immorality of it?) And while you're at it, please also tell me what to do with my little cherub of a 20-month-old, who stands underneath the sucker drawer in the kitchen with her arms upraised as if she is waiting for Mother Theresa herself to lift her off the ground....

Thanks in advance. And I GUESS if you also want to share some wisdom about the perils of long-term thumb-sucking, MAYBE I'll listen to that, too. But I won't be happy about it.

Catastrophic Earthquakes, and Other Things That Terrify Me.

2010-01-13T21:26:00.000-08:00

Oh christ, it's happened again.

Another cataclysmic act of mother nature has left tens of thousands of people dead.

I thought these things were supposed to happen but once every hundred years... and now, they seem to be happening again and again, only a few years apart.

I can't even bring myself to look at the pictures of the bodies lying in the streets; I feel as if my heart might implode. My skin is already so thin when it comes to my ever-present fear of being able to protect my children, and I avert my eyes as a means of self-preservation.

But what do I say when, as happened this morning, my 4-year-old asks, "What are you guys talking about, Mommy?"

My poker face is non-existent, so it's hard for me to lie. Further complicating my role as mother is that I don't *want* to lie to my children: I want them to know that they can trust me to provide accurate information. I want to set the precedent that I am honest with my kids, so that one day, when it really matters, they will be honest with me. (This is why I'm getting stuck on the Tooth Fairy-- but that's a subject for another day.)

So I told my 4-year-old that every once in a while, in certain parts of the world like California, the earth sometimes shakes, because there is rock under the ground that is moving around. (Not at all scientifically correct, I'm sure, but I was trying to make this-- wait for it!-- "age-appropriate.") And in a part of the world called Haiti, I told her, there was a very big shaking of the ground, and it has caused a whole lot of damage to a whole lot of buildings. She seemed satisfied with that answer and went back to humming a song she learned in school and looking out the car window cheerfully. (I left out the 100,000 dead people part; don't answer a question that wasn't asked, I figured. Call it a lie of omission, which is definitely not a real lie.)

But I was left unsettled. Because I know that, as my girls get older, the questions will get tougher, and the answers will need to be more elaborate. And how can I look into my darling, precious, trusting children's eyes and tell them that sometimes, the earth shakes, and every building falls, and people-- mommies and daddies and children and babies-- die?

I don't really believe in God (I say "don't really" because there is a part of me that truly *wishes* I did, even though the idea goes against every rational thought I've ever had). But I don't know if a belief in a supernatural steward would make my job as a parent easier or harder.

SCENARIO ONE: GOD. Mommy, what are you guys talking about? Well, kids, a lot of people have died in an earthquake. And when I say a lot, I mean more people than you could count. And that's very sad, especially because some of them were probably crushed by buildings and others probably had to watch those people being crushed by buildings and there was probably a lot of screaming and for the few people that survived, their lives are effectively over anyway and they will never for one second stop thinking about what horrors they saw. So they would probably be better off if they had died, too. But the good news is, all of those dead people have gone up to Heaven! And they are happy now, and they are all reunited with their families, and they are not in pain any more. They are with God and God is great! But Mommy, why did God let those people die in the first place? I don't know, honey. It's God's plan, and we can't understand it. We just have to have faith that God knows what He is doing.

[Ok, that sounds like the biggest bunch of BS I've ever heard, honestly. And I wasn't even trying to be snarky, it just happened. Let me try another approach.]

OPTION TWO: NO GOD. Mommy, what are you guys talking about? Well, kids, sometimes nature does crazy things. And some of that craziness is probably the fault of people, because for many many years, people haven't been taking very good care of the planet, and our bad behavior is probably messing up things like weather and ice and oceans and things like that. So every once in a while, things happen in nature like earthquakes and tsunamis and hurricanes and floods, and sometimes nature causes buildings to fall down and lots of people can get killed by the falling buildings. It's very scary and very sad when this happens but I don't want you to worry about it because the chances of something like that happening to us are very very small. Chances are, we will live long and happy lives. But just to be on the safe side, please try to be happy every day, because everyone just gets one life, and it's very important that we appreciate all we have while we're here.

See, this explanation also sucks, and would definitely leave my chicken-sh*t eldest daughter complaining that she can't go to bed for the foreseeable future because she's convinced that an earthquake will indiscriminately strike during the night. But at least I can imagine getting through it without choking on the words, as I might in the first scenario.

Does this mean that I plan on raising the girls to be atheists? Not necessarily. In fact, I *hope* that they learn a faith in God, either from me (if they can see past the uncomfortable smile that appears on my face whenever I talk about religion) or from elsewhere (like from their dad, who I think still believes, bless him, despite my cold-hearted efforts to convince him otherwise). I *hope* that they have faith because the world can be an utterly terrifying place, and how could any person NOT want their children to believe that (a) it's all going down according to God's plan (which includes even the child molestations and the runway model decapitations and the genocides, I have to assume); (b) all the good people are ultimately rewarded for their goodness and all the bad people are ultimately punished for their badness; and (c) we will all live happily ever after on a cloud one day, for all of eternity, eating our favorite foods and watching our favorite tv shows and just generally giggling ourselves silly. How could any parent deny a child this existential safety net? Conversely, how could any parent coldly tell a child that bad things-- unimaginably bad things-- sometimes happen to perfectly good people, just by random chance?

I was a philosophy major in college. My mom died recently and at a very young age. I have never witnessed a miracle (in the biblical sense, like frogs raining from the sky. Of course another school of thought dictates that I witness miracles every second of every day: my heart beating, and the existence of my children, and the sunrise... but this just reminds me of the line from that brilliant Bill Maher movie "Religulous" in which he accuses some guy of having "a very low bar for miracles"). For these 3 reasons, I am rather disinclined to believe that there is a Heavenly Father who is watching over us and smiling down upon us and who intended for the Haiti earthquake to happen.

But then there are 3 other reasons-- my 3 impossibly precious little girls-- that make me hope like hell that I'm wrong.

Toddler Discipline and Other Jokes I've Heard

2010-01-12T22:11:00.000-08:00

If you're one of those people who's going to tell me that your toddler doesn't act out and/or responds favorably to discipline, then let me just go ahead at the outset and call you a liar.

See, I have been exclusively studying these wild animals (toddlers) for almost 5 years now, and I have come to the well-researched conclusion that they are uncontrollable acts of nature. As in, you'd be more likely to get a tornado to sit on your "Time Out Dot."

I've read the books and watched the Supernannies. I've heard about "coming down to their level" to speak to them in a non-threatening manner and I've attempted to remain cool in the face of confrontation.

Problem is, that kind of kumbaya advice only works for two kinds of parents: robots and yoga instructors. For the rest of us-- those of us whose blood feels like it's boiling as we watch our 3-year-olds writhe around on the floor while they are screaming like raccoons in heat-- OVER SOCKS, no less-- it's like asking us to put our hand into a fire and hold it there. The urge to react-- for me, at least (and my shortcomings are many, so perhaps this is just one of them)-- becomes impossible to resist. I MUST raise my voice, I MUST lift the maniacal child up by the back panel of her shirt (it's always a little rush when I hear the fabric tear just a smidge, means I'm getting my point across), I MUST drag her into a room where I can indelicately deposit her and invite her to scream to her little heart's content. It's not my fault: the crazy in her brings out the crazy in me.

Now I can already hear your harsh judgements seeping through your computer screen and spilling out into my living room... you're telling me that we have to remain in control, that we can't respond in anger, that by losing our composure they WIN! But sister, I've heard it all before, and I can assure you that you're wasting your time. I have learned the SECRET, and it has nothing to do with one minute per one year of life, Jo Frost.

NO, the secret (can you believe I'm about to share it with you? get giddy!) is THIS:

IT DOESN'T FREAKING MATTER HOW YOU RESPOND. YOUR ONLY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVAL!

Yeah, I said it. You can do Time Outs, you can act as if the tantrum isn't happening, you can call the kid names (my personal favorite is Biggest Baby In The World, as in, "Right now you are acting like The Biggest Baby In The World"). DOESN'T MATTER. The trick is, they are going to OUTGROW the tantrums ALL BY THEMSELVES, and-- provided that you didn't do any permanent psychological damage to them during the toddler years (spanking may or may not fall under this heading, I'm not sure and haven't done it; but I can reassure you that mild pinching is just fine)-- they are still going to grow up to be fully functional, semi-productive members of society (or not, but that has more to do with their DNA than your reward charts).

How do I know this with such certainty, you ask? Well, I know it because I witnessed it with my very own bespectacled eyes.

My now-4-and-a-half-year-old daughter was once one of those rabid hyenas depicted in the photograph above. At 3 years of age she melted down always and often, to the point where I once was famously driven-- in a blind rage-- to TEAR DOWN and TEAR APART all of the lovely and beloved posters that adorned her bedroom, much to the petrified kid's abject horror. (In retrospect, perhaps this, too, would fall under the category of permanent psychological damage? Hmmm, I guess one day in therapy we'll find out.) I had tried ignoring the offensive behavior, I had tried rewarding the good behavior, I had tried Time Out corners. And nothing was working: she would still, without warning and for the world's most inane reason (i.e., being asked to get in the bathtub, etc.), ABSOLUTELY. LOSE. HER. SH*T.

And then it dawned on me in a glorious epiphany: These kids are no more capable of resisting the tantrum than I am to pretend I'm not hearing it. Toddlers are, I have come to discover, simultaneously highly sophisticated and highly unsophisticated creatures: At age 3, my daughter was as likely to paint a gorgeous sunflower on a blank piece of canvas (which I still have hanging on our wall) as she was to have an apoplectic fit over the color of the sweatshirt I'd laid out for her. And trying to reason with her while she was mid-meltdown was as futile as trying to reason with someone in the throes of an epileptic seizure; there was nothing that either of us could do other than wait it out, and grip each other gratefully when it was over.

Now, by stark contrast, that same kid is 4 months away from turning 5 and is, with a few minor exceptions, remarkably well-behaved. She is articulate, funny, and frequently praised by her teacher for being a stickler for following the rules. Now does this sound like a child who was raised in anarchy? Ah, but she was!

It is this wisdom that guides my interaction with our present 3-year-old. In a heartbeat she can morph from impossibly sweet and delicate nymph fairy into lunatic running screaming from the asylum, to the point where I'd swear she wasn't even my kid (or at least, I'd be actively wishing she wasn't my kid). And yet a few short moments (read: 15 interminable minutes) later, she is returned to us, confusedly shaking her head in disbelief as if she'd just been dropped back down to earth after an alien abduction.

Does my newfound insight mean that I don't get mad, or have stopped yelling at her when her head starts doing 360 degree rotations? Of course not! As I explained, I'm no better at controlling myself in the heat of the moment than she is, and I'm done apologizing for it. So we both screech at each other with reckless abandon, momentarily surrendering to THE TANTRUM control of our dignity and our bodily functions, somehow instinctively knowing the backs of our (adrenaline-addled) minds that This, Too, Shall Pass.

*NOW* do I get my own tv series, ABC?

Boobs.

2010-01-11T22:25:00.000-08:00

Ok, I can't wait for anyone to notice that this blog is here, I just have to say this.

My post-baby boobs are absolutely tragic.

I didn't start out with wowsa knockers, mind you. No, those belonged to my mom and, even more bodaciously, my grandmother (it's as if they are being phased out of my bloodline in a cruel Darwinian prank). But they were OKAY; they got the job done. I could hoist them satisfactorily in a push-up bra and feel confident in their perkiness. And while I always joked that one day I would purchase a pair of killer ta-tas, I was never SERIOUS.

Then one day, after breastfeeding three children in rapid succession for a sum total of three years, I woke up to discover that the saddest, most pathetic little things had taken up residence on my chest.

It's not just that they are smaller than they were before kids; it's that they look... depressed, like their dog just died. Forget the Pam Anderson superpowers they were magically endowed with during the first week post-partum-- I knew that such awesomeness was only temporary (hence the many, many Hustler-type photos that I took of myself in the mirror). But I expected that they would at least *resemble* the boobs I had before. And yet these new boobs appear to have simply lost the will to live. What am I supposed to do with them??

Well of course I have two options: keep them or trade them in. Neither option is terribly appealing, for the following reasons.

OPTION ONE: KEEP THEM. Ugh. They embarrass me. I tell my husband that the current state of my post-baby body should bring him great reassurance in my fidelity, as this is hardly the physique that screams out STEAMY EXTRA-MARITAL AFFAIR. I even contemplated the notion of only presenting them to Husband dressed in cute, non-removable lingerie... but (a) it's hard to find cute lingerie that also boasts rock-hard cups to disguise boob flaccidity; and (b) it might embarrass me more to suddenly start wearing clothes in the sack after ten freewheelin' years. Like, Hey honey, it's all downhill from here, that's the last you've seen of those tittays, hope you took a lot of mental snapshots while you had the chance! We're too young to start hiding from each other... aren't we?

OPTION TWO: BUY NEW ONES. This doesn't totally appeal to me either, because: (a) they cost money; (b) they require surgery; (c) they necessitate those awkward introductions ("Hi everyone, look what Husband got me for my birthday!"), and (d) they would surely launch my pre-existing hypochondria into heights never before imagined. As in, Can't lie on my stomach to sleep, they'll explode! Can't wear a sports bra, they'll explode! Can't run after the kid who is scrambling into traffic, they'll explode! Not to mention that I *already* suspect I have foreign substances slowly and silently leaking toxins into my body, just by virtue of the fact that I'm not *presently* in any pain, therefore something MUST be festering SOMEWHERE...

So you see, I'm kinda stuck. Further adding insult to injury? My post-3-baby belly seems to have found a happy equilibrium at just around the 4-months pregnant mark (I almost dropped dead of mortification recently when the school nurse-- a NURSE!!-- patted my belly at school drop-off and asked if we were expecting again) (the NURSE!, a person who is medically trained to diagnose physical symptoms on sight! aaaargh!!).

I guess what all this means-- at least for now-- is that I will keep the boobs I've got, continue to perform Superman-like costume changes behind the closet door, and pray like heck for a visit from the boob fairy just like I did when I was eleven. Bitch owes me! and fortunately for her I'm a very forgiving soul.

Let's Begin: Mommy Wants A Drink.

2010-01-11T08:44:00.000-08:00

Hello there.

I'm the Mommy of this blog. I have three little girls, aged 4, 3, and 1. Here's a story that I read to them recently:

ONCE UPON A TIME, Mommy was hot! She had boyfriends-- lots of them! She wore makeup and heels and wiggled her bum when she walked!

[turn the page]

NOW, Mommy washes her hair every 6 days. She lives in ratty t-shirts, all of which, the kids know, happily double as snotrags. She only puts on makeup when she has to, even though she often looks in the mirror midday and is more than a little bit horrified by the very pale, wholly disheveled, slightly overweight image that stares back at her...

Wait. Before you click away, dismissing me off as just another cog in a million-pronged wheel of cranky motherhood blogs, let me offer you this incentive:

Once upon a time, Mommy was smart, too! I graduated from an Ivy League university and an Ivy League grad school. I even worked as an attorney for 5 years (before I threw away all of that expensively educated grey matter in favor of the worthless mush that presently occupies the space between my ears). So the hope is that, while the motherhood songs remain the same, perhaps here you can find them sung in an entertaining tune.

As for the title of this blog, it's worth noting that I am presently living in a house with absolutely no alcohol in it. Which doesn't prevent this thought from occurring to me, several times a day: THE CHILDREN ARE DRIVING ME TO DRINK. Good lord, does Mommy want a drink. My problem is that I want a drink, on average, about 55 minutes into any given morning. You know, when the first kid melts down over an ill-fitting t-shirt or a supposedly crooked pigtail or a scooter that some other sibling is riding. I think, aaah, how nice it would be to dash into the kitchen (or garage or broom closet or whathaveyou) and down a nice long swig of cheap pink wine (pink, of course, because everything in this godforsaken girl-overrun nuthouse is pink). But I don't, because that's a bell I think can't be unrung. And also, once you break the seal on drinking just to get through the day with the rugrats, I think you are officially In A Very Bad Way. Thus, I just fantasize about that drink... while I listen to the not-so-soothing sound of my blood pressure ratcheting up, and up, and up...

I promise that everything that appears here won't be all doom and gloom, however. I intend to also write about the good stuff that happens within these 4 walls... the reasons that I stay home day in and day out, coloring princess pictures and bandaging phantom injuries and scooping processed noodles out of cans. As for how honest I'm going to be here... well... I honestly haven't decided that yet. I mean, I know what I'd *like* to do here: I'd like to spill my guts about the hot-button Mommy topics such as marriage after children, and school politics, and teaching religion, and playdate nightmares, and the constantly-changing dynamics of mommy friendships... I'm just not sure if anything good could come of that (and more likely would just land me in a whole lot of trouble, with my husband and my friends and my playdates and my kids' schools) (and God, of course, who I'm quite certain has nothing better to do than surf the 'net). So we'll see. We'll see how the spirit moves me, and how safe this space becomes. I guess it will further depend, in part, on *you*... how honest *you* decide to be with your comments, and whether this space turns out to be a monologue (I'll be more guarded) or a dialogue (I'll show you mine-- first!-- if you show me yours, afterwards). In fact, maybe you could suggest some topics that you'd like to see discussed... just so I know that you're out there?

Ok, I've just finished half a box of Snackwells Creme Sandwich cookies (they're healthier than Oreos!) (aren't they?) while writing this so I should step away from the computer before I consume the remaining nine. Thanks for listening, and here's to a mutually-satisfying future of bitching and moaning together! xo.