Your Kid Sucks. Accordingly, You Suck, Too.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. :)