Run Patty Run

So my friends, here's the skinny. I have to come clean. I have to share with you in the honest hope that my personal trials, frustration, and anguish can help you understand yourself, and thus, my dear, dear compatriots, save yourself! 

This weekend,  I lay in bed, with tears of laughter leaking down my face, as my four-year old stood at the foot of the bed, half-naked, with her curly head stuck through the arm hole of her t-shirt, I had a shocking and terrifying realization--I'm not myself. Something in me has changed. That core, fundamental thing that made me, me, it's, well, not gone, exactly. More just, bent. 

But what? What had caused this shift in my consciousness? When did it start? Could it be reversed? Would I reverse it, if I could? This, clearly, was going to take some brain power. The kind of brain power that can only be fueled by coffee. So up I got, put on a housecoat that looks only moderately less ragged than Osama Bin Laden's beard, untangled the t-shirt on a now furious, hysterical pre-schooler, and afixed my thinking cap. This was a question that was burning to be answered. I would get to the bottom of this issue. I mean, I was at stake!

After several cups of brain-builder (which, roughly, translates to 6 cups of coffee) I had a revelation, a breakthrough, an epiphany (and, honestly, some intense caffeine shakes)--I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Yes! Stockholm Syndrome!! The amazing disorder in which normal, healthy, intelligent, and moderately attractive people, when taken captive, begin to identify with, and grow sympathetic to, their captors. I'm the Patty Hearst of parenthood!

I see the pattern now: we are quietly, happily, and freely going about our lives, planning to do things, and actually having the time to get them done. Eating in restaurants, going to the theatre, peeing in complete privacy, and, well, simply put, enjoying our lives. Then suddenly, there they are! These small, sleepless, loud, aggravating people. They burst in to our lives and homes surrounded by mess, and they make themselves at home. It's all so clear now. 

We instantly become captive to these demanding, squalling, insistent little fungi. They may as well be holding a gun to our heads. We're trapped in the house, held hostage by these tiny tyrants. So what do we do? What can we do? We fall prey to Stockholm Syndrome. We start to relate to them, to empathize with them, to understand them, and I dare say, to love them. They recreate us in their image, and we're lost! We used to wake when our bodies told us too (when we'd had enough sleep--remember?!! Remember having enough sleep?! Sweet Jesus, what a dreamy notion), now, we wake to their military-like precision--6:30 a.m. on the dot! We used to watch intense, dark, and sometimes sexy foreign films, now, the only exposure we get to world culture is through Dora the Explorer (Hola!), and that girl is about as sexy as potato (though the monkey's not bad). We used to feel a sense of control over our future, now, we can't even get control of our hair!

So when, after 20 years of parenting, as I'm lying in bed, watching my youngest, naked from the nipples down, struggle with a piece of clothing, in a scene so comic as to be sitcom worthy, the blindfold is pulled from my eyes and I can see what's happened--I really have been kidnapped, and I've learned to live with it. I've learned to think and feel and relate to my knee-high captors. In fact, some days, (once, a couple of weeks ago, and maybe tomorrow) I've learned to love it. 

Who knew that these grilled-cheese-eating-dirt-behind-the-ears-nose-picking terrorists were such masters of psychology! 

I've been inculcated, my friends, but you don't have to be (well, actually, at this point, there's probably nothing you can do. If you're reading this and understanding even a third of what I'm saying, you're in too deep). You could try to fight the Stockholm Syndrome. You could be difficult, and fight the take-over. You could hold out for the cavalry to come and liberate you. But really, resistance is futile. Once you've invited them in, it's all over. Just roll with it baby. I mean, yeah, we've lost ourselves, our personalities, and, mostly, our will to live (with out Thai food), but maybe, just maybe, if I could get one of those cute hats and jumpsuits like Patty, it wouldn't be so bad! 

Happy Father's Day Mom

So I don't have a father. I mean, strictly speaking, I have a father. But honestly, sperm donor is a much more adequate description, though cliched. He physically left when I was about 3 years old, but from what I can tell, he'd really left a long time before then. 

I saw him once, again, when I was 18. And I called him to tell him I was pregnant, with my third child. After that, nothing. He has said, in no uncertain terms, that he doesn't give a rat's ass if I'm alive or dead, something along the lines of, "You're not my child." 

So I don't have a father. Instead, I have a mother. She was it. She was my all in all. And, while she may have wobbled in some of the elements, she stuck the landing. 

So this post is to say Happy Father's Day to all the moms doing it alone. Happy Father's Day to all the single moms struggling to raise their kids, make ends meet, and have a life. Happy Father's Day to those amazing women who find a way to be both parents to their kids. 

But most of all, Happy Father's Day to my mom. You done good girl.

The Motherhood Conspiracy

I'm a mother, so naturally I believe in conspiracy theories. I mean, come on....there's no possible way there was a single shooter in that library annex. And, find me someone in the western world who didn't think that those first American moon landing photos looked like they were taken on a Hollywood back lot? I dare you to try to convince me that Kentucky Fried Chicken doesn't add some kind of ingredient that makes it irresistible? And really, the world is round? I wanna know who perpetuated that doozy? 

But easily, the most shocking, yet under reported and least discussed conspiracy of them all is, "The Motherhood Mood." Some one, some where (I don't want to point fingers or name names, but my investigations have led me to believe that this destructive dialog was started by someone with a penis) created a myth that really pisses me off: mothers are all deliriously happy to, first, be pregnant, then to give birth, and finally, to have our lives, our thoughts, our hopes, dreams, needs, and desires eternally altered. In short, we aren't allowed to say we're angry, disappointed, lonely, frustrated, sad, or just plain pissed. We've been robbed of our right to the honest expression of our feelings. We've been made into the Stepford Moms. 

So I'm going to shatter the conspiracy, at great personal risk (in fact, as I sit here typing, I expect the CIA or CSIS to break down the door, unplug my keyboard, and slap my hand.)

This myth is so deeply entrenched in our psyches that our greatest oppressors are ourselves, and each other. Woman against woman (and not in the porn mud wrestling pit way, either. This is worse). We find little ways to diminish each other--we judge each other by our children's progress. Come on, you've been there. When one of your sisters, or friends, or even your mother says, "Frankie's not potty trained?! Oh. Too bad! I'm so lucky! Jocelyn was completely trained  by the time she was 19 months. Oh yeah...even night-trained. She was so easy! Are you giving him stickers? Oh, well, I'm sure he'll do it someday." 

Or, we judge each other's decision to stay home or work. This can be cruel and particularly vicious. Some how, if I decide to work, I must be making the statement that my needs are more important than my kids, and that being at home isn't good enough for me, and that I think I'm more enlightened than a stay-at-home mom, thus it threatens women who decide to stay at home. Alternately, if you decide to stay at home, you must be making some comment on my commitment to my children, and how much of a better mother you are for sacrificing everything you need for your kids (and you never complain because that would undermine your position). It also must suggest that my working somehow threatens you and makes you less valuable to society. 

Or, what about, when we get together and we rake our eyes over each other to assess hairstyles, fashion, manicures, and tan lines--and that's just after we've checked out each others kids. My critical eye hasn't fallen on the mom yet! What kind of stroller do you push? What's your opinion on cloth or disposable? Do you have them in soccer, guitar, gymnastics, painting? And are you coaching or teaching any of these activities?

What's happened to us? Why do we do this to ourselves and each other? Who robbed us of our voices and why aren't we fighting to get them back? Every one else, every one else, on the planet whines, snivels, and cries about their jobs and their responsibilities--from my kindergartener to the President of the United States. But not us moms. Any expression that things aren't just 100% super-peachy-keen-super-awesome-fantastic and we're letting the world down. It's a conspiracy I tell you!

When I express my dissatisfaction with being a mother, a working mother, a working mother and wife, people are shocked and horrified. I once told my mother-in-law that while I loved my family deeply, they just weren't enough. They simply didn't complete me. She just sat there in horror looking at me as if I'd just grown a third boob. 

I want to say, without fear of reprisal (from other moms or some secret CIA agency): 

• Why don't men hear a sick child during the night? 
• Why does the responsibility for dentist appointments fall to me? 
• If I have to tell him that he needs to pick up diapers on the way home from work, I might as well just do it myself! 
• I'm angry that my husband can walk away from the house and our family, and not worry that things will get done and people will be taken care of. 
• I want to weep and pummel my husband (not necessarily in that order) when, at 3:00 AM I have to (again) tell him that no, he can't actually put the pillow cases and sheets full of  vomit straight in the washing machine, while I'm sitting with a 4 year old who's puking in a bucket (and all over me). 
• Why does gender define the household chores? It makes me crazy that vagina=cooking and cleaning toilets and penis=snow shoveling and washing the car. 
• I'm lonely and tired, and I hate that I have nothing of my own!! Nothing! 
• I can't bear being responsible for everything! The weight is too much. Sometimes I feel so heavy from everyone's expectations that I can barely move my limbs.
• I just wanna take a pee all by myself--no company, no interruptions, no fingers under the door, and no frantic knocking shouting about how bad they gotta go. Just me, my bladder, and a People magazine!

So every mom, every where, throw off the shackles of this conspiracy! It doesn't make you a BAD MOMMY to say, "Today, I was a bad mommy, and, yah know, it wasn't too bad!" Or, "Oh, just screw it! If I have to go to one more f#*&ing PTA meeting I'm going to hurt somebody." Or, "You work out, I work in, what the hell, we both work--let's get drunk!" Or better yet, "Honey, if you have kids and can manage to brush your teeth in the morning and get the little beggars to school less that 15 minutes late, you are the Martha Stewart of parenthood! Good on ya! Now go congratulate yourself with a scotch!"  

Wipe that frozen, icy Jesus-I-love-every-single-little-thing-about-my-life smile (that doesn't reach any where near your wild trapped-in-this-life eyes) off your face and let's overthrow this conspiracy. The Stepford Moms may have great hair, but girls, nice hair won't give you a tenth of the satisfaction you'll get when you tell your husband that you hate cleaning the goddamn toilets, so for the rest of your parenthood together, every Saturday he can clean those greasy receptacles and make sure the kids get lunch, 'cause you'll be at the car wash for two hours (because, that's just how long  it takes!). 

The Dry Season

How I miss my husband. Back in the day, way, way, back in the day, we used to be good friends, and man, did we have fun together. We'd go hiking, camping, climbing. We'd do crosswords together stretched across the living room floor, read the paper together on Saturday mornings, mix each other dirty martinis, with 7 olives each, go dancing at least once a week and drink jugs and jugs of sweet, tangy Sangria, and have crazy foreign film festivals in the bedroom, eating Chinese, Vietnamese, or German take-out on top of the blankets.  

And we had sex. Did we have sex! Mad, delicious, breathtaking sex. On the covers, under the covers, standing up, sitting down, in the shower, in the bath, the kitchen, the basement, the living room floor with the curtains open. Once, twice, and during the film festivals, sometimes five times a day. Just watching him walk, seeing his legs or back or stomach made my heart (and parts somewhat lower) clench and ache. I wanted to touch him all the time. Even doing the dishes together was sexy. The promise of wet hands and soft soapy bubbles.......

Now? Yeah. Now. Not so much. 

Now? It's been a dry coupla seasons. The closest I get to spending any of the precious time we used to have together is watching him hike a screaming preschooler to her room for a time-out, or seeing him cornered at the kitchen table doing math homework, or when he's downing a cup of scalding coffee before running the next kid to the next lesson. And film festivals? At best, it's Finding Nemo with take-out pizza, and 5 twitchy kids. I only catch a glimpse of my still sexy husband as he's carrying a load of laundry downstairs, or reading a bedtime story, or drying off some little, chubby body, that's not his own (damn, damn, double-damn! Toweling off was always one of my favorite spectator sports!) 

And as far as sex, were lucky if we get to do the silent, three-minute bump-and-grind once a month. Under the covers. In the dark. And way, way past bedtime. Now, I know what you're thinking! It's pretty shocking. I can hardly believe it myself....we're SILENT! 

Absolutely silent sex. No heaving, heavy breathing. No gasping, panting, swearing, imploring, or grunting. Just tight-lipped silence. In fact, I think we might both hold our breath the entire time (we may not get a lot of exercise, but these monthly trysts are certainly increasing my lung capacity). We bonk in fear that, 1. the kids will hear, and 2. the kids will hear and subsequently wake up and ruin what might be an adequate nights sleep! And as any sane mother knows, sleep before sex, sleep before sex!!

I just wanna throw off the shackles of motherhood (and throw the shackles on my husbands wrists). The damn kids not only took my body, took my time, and took my money, they took my groove thing!!

So, I'm going to employ a tactic I've noticed has worked very effectively for my children. When in a particularly sensitive location, like, a parent-teacher interview or the Christmas concert or a birthday party at McDonald's, for instance, I'm going to have a world-class, eardrum-shattering tantrum:

I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!!!! EVERYBODY AT WORK HAS A GROOVE THING!!! I WANT ONE TOO!!! I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! I WANT IT BACK!!!! YOU SAID!!!

I'll let you know how it works for me. And if you happen to find yourself in the same locale as me when I am implementing my plan, please, for my sake, and the sake of all of us, and your future ability to get jiggy with it, join in. Our future sex lives depend upon it!

Attack of the Killer Muskrats

Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!!!

I know. I know! Stay-at-home parenting is the hardest, most thankless job on the planet, and stay-at-home mom's deserve the $130,000 odd dollars a year for everything they do. I know. I know! 

I have a solid 12 years of the job myself! I did it all, and often all alone.

So when I went back to work, about 8 months ago, it was purely because if I had to volunteer one more time at pre-school, go on one more play date with a mom I could barely tolerate, exchange brownie recipes one more time, or be scorned by some group of anal, twittering woman at the Mommy and Me Club, while their precious little gnats terrorized one of my kids, one more goddamn time, I was going to commit a highly dangerous and likely illegal act (I had fantasies of running around pell mell punching every single well-groomed, pasty-smiled mom right in the nose and relishing the veritable blood fountain I'd created). In other words, I went back to work to save my sanity, and prevent future jail-time.

But, here I am, at work, with crushing deadlines, a psychotic boss, and more hours of overtime than I'll be able to fit into one day, and I know that when I get home I'll still have to do the "housekeeping, cooking, laundry, driving kids around, and managing the household."

My life's a mess (Literally. I mean, you should see my dust bunnies. No. Not bunnies. These babies have graduated from dust bunnies to dust muskrats. In fact, if I don't vacuum, I sure that one of these days, one of these monsters is going to consume my 4 year old.)

Now, the obvious question is, "What about your husband? Doesn't he help?" Well, yeeeessss. Kinda. He's a good man, and I love him, but he can't even fold a dishtowel. He burns or spills nearly everything he cooks. And it takes him roughly three hours to sweep and wash the kitchen floor, during which time, if anyone, anyone makes a move toward the kitchen he gets agitated and the mop start twitching and the speckles of moisture start to fly (some from the mop, but most from his heaving jaws! Which, needless to say, creates more of a mess for me to clean up--plus it takes the rest of the day to help the kids recover from their post-traumatic mop disorder.) 

I know the debate is hot and heavy--working moms versus stay-at-home moms. Each group staunchly in their corners, defending their right to do the job they think serves them and their family best (it's the one's that try to tell me what's best for me and my family that really get my blood boiling. Not that I'm cowed! When your kids wake up Saturday morning and cry because it's not a daycare day, you feel pretty comfortable that the preachy-holier-than-thou-stay-at-home-mom-moms, or vice versa--I've been on both sides of the debate--don't have a sturdy leg to stand on). However, I don't want to wade into those waters right now (I'm too damn busy!), but sister, let me tell you. It ain't easy being a working mom either. 

Even though my brain is fried, and dinner is fried, and the vacuum will be fried (when I finally try to tackle those muskrats lurking under the furniture and behind doors), I value my ability to forge a life for myself. And really, with me as their mother, one way or another, whether I stay home with them, or work, their going to need therapy, at least this way, I'll be able to pay for it.

Say What??!!

So, wanna hear a regular conversation I continue to have with people? All people. People I know but haven't seen for a while, people who are complete strangers to me, people I'm related to and have known me since before I had pubic hair? 

This isn't a topic I choose to discuss, and honestly, would rather not hear people's deeply held convictions about, but telling the cashier at Safeway or the preschool teacher or my aunt to shut the f@#* up, and mind their own damn business tends to create difficulties in my daily life--like bad service or having the dogs set on me. So I do what other good, polite Canadian girls do. I smile, nod my head, and at the soonest possible moment, I change the subject. 

So, what, you ask, is this mystery topic? Well, for anyone who has more than 2.5 kids, this is going to sound familiar, but for the rest of you, listen up, and listen good: 

"Oh. Are these all you children?! All of them. I mean, your actual children?" Now, as a point of fact they are my biological children--meaning I did squeeze them out of my body, every single one of the little termites, and I have the saggy vagina to show for it--but does it never occur to these vapid dunces that even if I'd adopted every single one of them they'd still be my actual children!

I nod my head as my eyes glaze, "Yes, they're my children. Mmmhmmm, all 5 of them." Then, it comes. The real kicker (and there's always a good chance that the next person who says this to me is going to be the kickee!), "You do know what causes it, don't you?! Tee hee hee!" 

Now, how do I adequately answer this inane question? 

• "Yes. Yes I do know what causes it. Thanks for inquiring."
• "Ummm, actually, just between you and me, I've never figured it out. Why? Can you tell me? Why does it happen? Why do I have so many, and is there a way to stop having more?!"
• "Yes I do. Would you like me to explain it to you?"
• "Well, what happens is this: when sexually aroused, a man's penis engorges with blood causing an erection. When erect, a penis can enter a woman's vagina, preferably lubricated. Then through a series of thrusts and parries, often accompanied by grunting, the man ejaculates semen, a viscose liquid, which carries sperm, into his female partner. At which point....." 

I'm tired of this. I'm really tired of it. Whether they were all planned or all accidents, whether they have five different fathers or one father is nobody's business. I don't want to hear the political argument that it's someone's business because they pay school tax or medical premiums which support my kids, or the social argument that the world is overpopulated and I'm being reckless. Really? Really? What can you say to that? Detail the list of things that we all pay taxes for? Point out who'll be the tax payers when these nosy bastard are decrepit? Ask for a detailed account of what they own, what they drive, what they smoke, where they go and how they get there? Honestly, hypocrisy is not only sad, it's rather funny. Poor little meddling pea-brains. 

What is it about becoming a mother that makes you public property? It starts when we're pregnant. As soon as a woman is showing, everyone, Everyone, starts to touch. Poking and prodding and patting, like you're a bloody loaf of bread. With the touching, comes a sense of ownership that gives these interlopers the self-proclaimed permission to counsel, advise, and just plain boss.

Now, I can grasp that in this day and age 5 kids seems outrageous, maybe selfish, or maybe selfless, but unless we give each other the permission to invade each other's personal lives and space about everything--"Oh, are you going to eat both those cheeseburgers? or "Gee, you have tiny little breasts," pat, pat, pat or "Oh my God, you stink of B.O. do you know what deodorant is?" or "You do know you're stupid, don't you? Tee hee hee!"--people should just tuck their lower lips around their tiny little heads, and leave me, my kids, and my uncontrollable libido alone!

Or, they could be honest, and say what they're really thinking, "What are you, crazy?" At least, then, we'd agree on something!

Darlene and Gloria

"Helllou....Oh, hiya Honey. How you doin' today? Mmmm, he did? He said that? What's wrong with men? Does all that play fighting when they're young knock their damn brains around 'til they just loose inside their skull? Sometimes, they're just as thick as fence-posts! I know just how you feel. Why just yesterday, after I got back from having my nails done, Harvey said to me....Oh, my, just hang on a minute...what's that Georgie? Oh My God. I gotta go Gloria. Georgie just had a big number 2, it's kinda leaking out his diaper....oooooo, I really gotta run. He's making little poo tracks down the hall. STOP! GEORGIE!! STOP MOVING!! GEORGIE! YOU STOP RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!! I'll call you back, sweetie."

"Hi Gloria, it's just me again. Do you have a few minutes? I've got to tell you the craziest story. Yeah. Good. Grab a coffee because this may take a little bit. Mmmm, yah real cream in coffee is soooo gooood. What kind do you use? Oooooooo, Honey, I like the sound of that! Whaddya call it again? Yeah, save me the tin so I can see the label. Oh. Yeah. The poo. 

Well, anyway, after I hung up, I chased Georgie down the hall. He'd made it to our room and was trying to pull himself up on our bed. I'm going to have to wash all the sheets now, and I just did them 2 days ago, oh and our drier's on the fritz so I have to line dry 'em, and it's suppose to rain today. Goddamn! And why my side of the bed anyway? It's the farthest away from the door? 

So anyway, Honey, I dragged him off to the bathroom to change him, and he's kicking and screaming. He just hates to be changed now. Ever since he started walking he's a fiend. He twists and arches and kicks. It's awful, and when I'm frustrated it's even worse. I just want to let the little bugger sit in it, you know? Or conk him on the noggin to get him to shut up and lay still long enough for me to get the job done.

So, like I said, I drag him off to change him, and I just get him laid down and I got a clean diaper and those nice smelling Johnson's wipes....mmmhhmmm, them flushable ones. Makes it so much easier just to flush them than to think about poopy wipes sitting in the kitchen garbage. Pardon Honey? Oh yeah, me and Harvey got one of those diaper pails, but Harvey hates all that twisting, and he thinks it's just stupid to have to buy special little bags for the damn thing, so it's sitting outside the backdoor with the snow shovel, rake, and the old handle and float from the upstairs toilet we had to replace in June. That man never cleans up anything. 

Anyway, I've just got Georgie down, and I had to lay him on a towel! There was no way I wanted poo on the bathroom carpet. We just had that replaced. So, like I said, I was just undoing the pull-tabs when he kicks me real hard, right between the boobs. Well I'm just trying to catch my breath and hold him down, 'cause he's squirming like a demon now and the diaper is half off. All this wet poo is dripping and little bits are flying everywhere. Well, I just yell at him to lay still and grab him, but he wiggles and I get a handful of the diaper. So now I have poo all over my hand, and Gloria, Honey, it was under my fingernails. Now that's just horrible. Isn't it? So I'm gagging as I get a good hold of him and lay him flat, I think I kinda scared the little bugger, 'cause he started crying. And the doorbell rings. 

Well, I hate not to answer the door, and I was expecting an Avon delivery, yeah, Honey, that Peachy Keen lipstick that Joyce has, mmmmhhmmm. I do love that color. So I quickly wipe up Georgie and run my hands under the tap. 'Course he's not completely wiped. You know that little spot right under their scrotum, where you have to move the little sack back and forth to get it real clean? It's still not clean, and I can smell that he's still kinda foul, so I put him in his crib for a bit and run to answer the door.

Well, it's not the Avon lady. It's the Jehovah's. Sweet Jesus those people show up at the worst times. Anyway, I am standing there trying nicely to get the old broad to go away, smiling and nodding. Well she's going on and on about, 'Aren't things different than when we were kids? Things are so much harder for kids nowadays. Don't you agree? Well, you know what the problem is? Do you know the culprit?' And I'm just nodding and shaking my head, sorta leaning on the door so it's closing ever-so-slowly, and she says, 'The very thing that's exposing our kids to the dangers of Satan is the.......SINternet. They call it the information super-highway. But it's only the super-highway to HELL!!!!'

And all this time, I can smell poop. I look down at my blouse and there's none there, then I look at my hands, but I got most of it off when I washed, only the stuff under my fingernails was still there. So I sniffed my hands, kinda secretly so the Jehovah lady didn't suspect anything, you know, I sorta pretended my nose was itchy, and well, they smelled more like my rose-scented soap than poop. Well, the Jehovah lady is trying to get me to take that Watch Tower magazine-thingy so I can read about the evils of the Sinternet and how if I come to a church meeting on Wednesday night I can learn how to stop Satan's network.

Well Georgie starts screaming real loud, so I tell the lady that I really gotta go get my boy, and thanks for the magazine-thingy, and I was busy Wednesday night, but thanks for the offer anyway, and I shut the door. I guess I closed it kinda quick, because it created quite a breeze and I got a strong smell of poo again. So I smelled my hands again, and they seemed okay, though I knew I still had to scrub under my nails. And I just had them done the other day! Plus, I'll have to bleach the nail brush, and who knows how many of them little bristles will fall out. I'll probably have to buy another one. Oh, yeah?....They come in lavender? Where? Where did you find a nail brush in lavender? That would go so nice with my bathroom. I can only ever find them wooden handled ones. Where? Mmmhmmmm, I shoulda known Wal-Mart would have something smart like that. I'm not even gonna bleach the old one. I'm just gonna run out and get a new lavender one.

Anyway, so I go get Georgie out of his crib, and he's good and mad. So I give him a cookie, just to hush him up and run him a bath. I wasn't tryin' to wipe him anymore. I'm not risking getting kicked again, that little spot right between my boobs still hurts. Anyway, I get him undressed and in the tub, and I dump in his toys. Finally, he's quiet. But, Lord have mercy, I can still smell poo. I grab the nail brush and start scrubbing. When I'm all clean, no more poop under my nails, I take a nice long smell of my hands. Lovely. But just after my big last whiff, I catch a smell of poo again. It's starting to really make me mad now.

I'm getting to it, Gloria. Hold your panties on. 

Well, I look in the mirror to fix my hair, and whaddya know. There, right on the end of my nose, is a big old spot of dried poop. Yup. Right on the end. About the size of a pea. Stop giggling Gloria, you'll getting me started and that will wake Georgie up! Well, I start to laugh until I remember that I musta stood there for 5 minutes listening to that Jehovah lady go on about the information super-hellway with Georgie's poop right on the end of my nose. She musta thought I was crazy. 

Well, you're right there Honey! At least it wasn't the Avon lady!   

When Motherhood was Pretty

Oh, I remember so well when motherhood was pretty. In fact, pretty is an inadequate adjective to describe the radiant beauty I felt in being a mother. I virtually shone with inner light. When I was with my children, my hair glistened, my smile glowed, and my joyous, heart-felt laugh rang like a chorus of bells. I wrapped myself in my children and we were breathtaking.

Oh, I remember well how beautiful my children were. We walked down the beach, in rolled-up jeans. We skittered up the sand as the waves broke over our feet. They giggled and squealed. My heart nearly burst of love. I would stop, overwhelmed that my heart could hold as much love as this. How could it not burst?

Oh, I remember their first violin lessons. When they held the tiny instruments in their small hands. Running their fingers carefully over the polished wood. The little start of glee I saw start in their eyes and then creep down to their lips the first time they drew the bow across the strings. Even the squeaking and squawking practice couldn't diminish their joy, or mine, in seeing them so happy.

Oh, I remember how perfect and frail my children looked when they were sick. Wrapped tight in a blanket of fleece, and my love. Flushed from fever. Their soft hair brushing warm cheeks. Crying soft, nearly silent tears. All of us. Them from the pain, and me from the pain of watching them suffer. 

Oh, I remember. I remember the transcendent, quiet beauty of being a mother. 

Then, I remember, that this all happened in my tiny little pea-brain years before I ever actually had kids. Then.....I went and had them. 

Then, oh, my hair glistened all right. It glistened from the natural oils your scalp produces when you can't spare 5 minutes in 5 days to take a shower. And that bell like laugh, was in fact, more of a going-to-snap cackle that turned my husband's hair white (it has incredible power, that laugh. I've seen it melt popsicles). 

And, oh, they were beautiful. They were gorgeous. When they were sleeping. But when they were awake, and strolling down the beach, it was a chorus of whining about damp pants and sniveling about sand between their toes. And the skittering? That was actually galloping away from me as I chased them down the beach threatening to bonk them with a conch shell.

Then, oh, ohhh, ooohhhhh that first violin lesson! When I wondered what on Earth possessed me to place a one-child-torture device in the hands of a three year old! It's like asking a pyromaniac to hold on to your matches for you. Certain disaster is sure to follow! Believe me, it's not pretty to see a harried woman chew her way through a miniature bow. Not attractive. At all. And damn, it's tough to get horse hair out of your teeth.

And, oh, oh my. How frail they were when they were sick. Weak, except for their voices, bellowing in my ear, after they'd just thrown up down the back of my neck as I was bent over the toilet being sick myself. And wrapped in the fleece? Me. Strictly to protect my facial orifices from the next bout of projectile vomit sure to be aimed at my head.

Oh, I remember when motherhood was pretty. Way back, way back, at the back of my imagination. Motherhood was pretty when I was pretty damn green (inexperienced, not nauseous). The beauty of motherhood kinda matches my belly--the before and after. Before kids, it was glorious. Flat, smooth and sweet. After kids, it's lumpy, creased and sad. 

Ah, the innocence of youth....mine, not my kids. 

My advice? Stick with the imagination kids. They're cute, clean, cuddly, and sweet. And they will never, ever wipe snot on your best blouse. 

Go Forth and Fail Miserably

I always worry about my kids. What I lie. I sometimes (on a fairly sporadic basis) worry about my kids. Honestly, I'm not a worrier. Okay, here's my secret shame. Don't tell anyone. Promise? When my teenagers go out at night....I don't wait up. I work, or blog, or watch TV, or drink scotch (actually, there's no "or" about the scotch, I pretty much always do that), brush my teeth, and go to bed. I don't lie awake listening for the door, or toss and turn wondering if they're going to miss curfew (not giving them a curfew has actually made policing that little problem rather easy), or sit in a darkened room, in my house coat, tapping my fuzzy slippers. 

Nope. I cuddle up, and go straight to sleep (and let me here, again, extol the virtues of scotch). 

But there are times, even for a lackadaisical parent like me, when I worry sick. Will she pass the driver's test? Will (no, when) will Lauren (or Larry, we're an equal-opportunity family) break my son's heart? Will they get into the university they want to attend? Will they get hired? Will they get fired? Will they fall down drunk on the front step after a party and destroy $6000.00 of orthodontia? 

So, I think I do what most other semi-intelligent, moderately interested parents do....I press the secret button every parent has on the underside of the minivan dash and convert the family vehicle (which I never seem able to rid of the hamster-smell, what is that smell anyway?) into a save-my-kids command centre. 

From this post, I manage, juggle and herd the problem in to a little corner. I then pounce fiercely, capture the beastie, and slay the bastard. Virtually saving my darlings from pain and anguish. Oh, I'm amazing. You should  see me. It's stunning. 

But only recently, my bright and blazing super-mom emblem is starting to slip (and it has nothing to do with one boob being bigger than the other either, thankyouverymuch!) As they get older, and are more and more in the world without me, I'm becoming aware that they're scared. Not scared of people, or taking the bus, or even walking at night. They're scared of something much, much worse. They're scared of failure. 

I watch these smart, savvy, talented, attractive people that my children have become (I mean, just look at the gene pool!) stand on the sidelines. They're careful and cautious. They don't or won't risk anything. They conform, for the most part (wait, here is my other secret shame--well really I have approximately 79 secret shames, but let's just keep on message, shall we--from the time they were born I lived in fear that they'd grow up to be investment bankers or police officers or dentists. In short, I worried they'd grow up to be "The Man." Tattoos, piercings, and purple hair were cool with me, but the more I encouraged, the more they rebelled. It's all nice hair cuts, oxford shirts, and manners! Little buggers really know how to push my buttons! I know, you're thrilled!! Now you know how to raise your kids to be well-groomed, pierce only their ears, and only one time in each lobe, and restrict tattooing to tagging their Five-Star binders with washable markers). 

But why?! Why were these kids, my kids, who had nearly every advantage I could afford--a comfortable life, a good education, and parents who loved and encouraged their dreams, be afraid to fail, and thus, finally, afraid to try? 

Because of me. Because I was the lion-tamer, the trapeze net, the big, fat mat to cushion their falls. I never let them hit hard. I never let them feel the truth of their pain. I never let them experience their mistakes. I never let them fail. 

And in doing so, I've failed them. I've raised people afraid of pain. People who won't risk themselves because they've never learned that, though it's painful, they'll live through their failures. I saved them from themselves and have short-changed them. Now I have to step back and watch them wobble. As young adults facing a new life, they have to learn the lessons I should have allowed them to learn when they were four. It's not fair and I'm ashamed of myself (and they're angry at me now for not doing what they've come to expect me to do--save them). 

I thought I was doing my best for them. As a parent, watching your child suffer is possibly one of the hardest things we have to do. My solution was to prevent or soften that suffering, as much for them as for myself.  And I was wrong. We owe it to our children to allow them to experience the reality of their actions and their pain. How else can they become people aware of their potential, aware of what they can overcome, and what they can achieve? 

So, I've retired my super-mom outfit for good. No more saving them. No more slaying the beast. I have to give them the simple human dignity of truth. They can and will handle it. And they'll be stronger people for it. They'll be better people for it. 

I have a new motto now--Try stuff. Fail faster.

I know there are going to be bumps in the road, but frankly, I  think they'd rather live through those bumps than ever have to see my bumpy thighs in my spandex super-mom outfit again! For that, at least, they'll thank me, and, I suspect, so will our neighbors!

The Plan

My kids are driving me crazy, or as my darling Grandma used to say, before she'd slipped down the hall to take off her girdle, and secretly slide a mickey of Gammel Dansk out of a pair of sensible shoes at the back of her closet, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!!"

Now, say....I think Grandma might have been on to something. 

So, I've developed a strategy. I've decided to approach all parenting dilemmas with a three-fold plan:

One: When approached with whining pre-schoolers, or angry, angst-ridden teenagers (of which, insanely, I have both),  I will stop. That is, stop moving--a mother standing in the kitchen or laundry-room, or sitting on the toilet, is such a ubiquitous sight as to make her almost invisible. Especially if she's holding any implements coated in food remnants, filthy dirty socks turned inside-out, or as with seeming regularity in my case, mid-stream. If however, the invaders sense my presence (which I admit, may be more often than I like, them being equipped with highly developed mother-seeking radar), I'll move onto step two of The Plan.

Two: After being spotted by the hordes, with the unfortunate failure of my camouflage, I'll smile (to put them off their guard), then run. Admittedly, I'm not as fast as the little ticks, and when determined they have incredible stamina, but I hope that with the combination of the disarming smile, and the sudden movement (of which they are rather unfamiliar--sudden movements from their mother, I mean), the boogers will be unsure of what's happening, thus giving me a much needed head start. I plan to press my advantage, make a fast-break for any room with a lock, and once inside throw the bolt. Now, I haven't failed to account for the problem of having the nose-miners on one side of a door, and me, locked on the other--which most mother's have learned results in the pound-kick-pound-scream attack. So I've made a survey of all the rooms in our house with a lock, and discovered that each of those rooms also has a window. Always have an escape hatch (that's my motto). Oh, yes. Always have an escape hatch, and wear shoes. But, I sense, this tactic may be slightly flawed and prone to failure, as eventually, my Catholic guilt will force me home, where I suspect, the "Bestowers of the Stretch Marks" will be lying in wait. So, when forced to reenter my home, I will move on to step three. 

Three: Calmly and quietly, through the noise and din and renting of clothing, I'll make my way to the drink cupboard and pour myself a stiff one. Once imbibed, I will repeat the step until sufficiently lubricated as to make all complaining, whining, demanding, and shouting irrelevant (to me). At which point, I will proudly carry on the family tradition and bellow, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!" 

How to be a Cool Mom

I had this idea recently, that I would poll my children and their friends on what makes a cool mom. Now this isn't something one leaps into blind. I had to formulate the appropriate closed questions--opened-ended questions wouldn't suffice when addressing the loquacious junior high school drama-club set. I needed supporting visuals, superior reference materials, and ample edibles on hand to sustain the examination period (the test market being rather churlish and unwilling when not plied with bottomless nachos.)

The weight and value of this question required my full attention. I had to put aside all other pressing matters, like dinner, to give this burning subject the considerable time and thought it deserved. I mean, I was possibly assembling the most highly sought insights of a generation. My research could change the face of parenthood forever. I felt like a modern day Marie Curie, without the science background, or the ability to introduce a possible cure for a terrible plague to the human race, but, hey, I try to do my part.

So I rounded up my test market--three 14-year olds, two 17-year olds, a six-year old, a 20-year old, and a pre-schooler. The sample wasn't large, and the room for error was, but I'm a trooper, and an extraordinary extrapolator, so I pressed on. 

I posed a range of questions, including:

Who is the coolest pop culture mom--Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie, Marge Simpson, or Lorelei Gilmore?

Is it cool to share clothes with your mom?

Is it super-awesome when your mom flirts with your boyfriend/girlfriend?

Does your mom look better in a cropped belly-shirt or an ankle-length full-coverage muumuu?

Which is better, a strict mom who sets boundaries, curfews, and has introduced a complete ban on blue eye shadow? Or a wild mom who bootlegs booze and gives you a semi-annual bikini wax on the kitchen table?

Is it a good thing that your mom talks to you about sex? In microscopic detail? With handy props?

And finally, when going out with your mom, what is the feet-in-distance you must follow your mom x outfit-your-mom-is-wearing. In other words:  if my mom is wearing sweat pants and a maternity top, I walk_______feet behind her.

Well, when all was said and done (and let me tell you, I did not escape unscathed. I still have little pockmarks in the skin on my face from the spittle blasting from horrified mouths. As well, my ears continue to ring from the near dog-whistle-high screams of terror), the responses were fairly consistent (I' ll save you the technical jargon we pollsters use) but to be a cool mom you have to:

1. look like Angelina Jolie, 
2. speak only when spoken to, and
3. allow any and all teenagers in your vicinity to choose your clothes. 

Oh, and some of the respondents felt a cool mom always supplied a bedtime story, with the funny voices. However, those respondents were in the minority. 

But, by far, the most important revelation of what it takes to be a cool mom was, in the end, simple and intuitive. And, frankly, it's one I hesitate to share (after all, having done the work, one feels the overwhelming urge to keep explosive information like this to one's self). But for the sake of future mother-child relations, and in the long-sought pursuit of cool mother status I will share what I know. But brace yourselves. 

To be a cool mom, a really cool mom....

....just keep those nachos coming.

Where Have I Gone?

I'm disappearing. In fact, I'm nearly invisible now. 

There was a time when I was smart and beautiful and funny and charming and brave. But now, I'm not. Now, I'm someone's mom. Now, I'm a driver, a cleaner, a cook, a moderator, an occasional friend, and an absolute oppressor. 

How strange and sad it is to try to see myself through my children's eyes. To me, I'm still the wild-haired girl who danced all night, flirted mercilessly, drank gin, read, talked passionately about politics, laughed long and loud, loved sex, and chased dreams. They don't see that girl though. They laugh and blush at the idea she ever existed, and beg me not to tell their friends. They reject her. And when they allow that, possibly, she was, they're ashamed. 

So, where have I gone? How long ago did I leave? 

The Golden Age of Parenting

Oh good grief. Sometimes I just want to flee. Do you ever feel like you just want to slip out a side door and make a break for Mexico? Or maybe, in that dark, creepy corner of your basement, where the kids are too scared to venture, secretly develop the first angst-propelled jet pack? Better yet, harness the power of the teenage-eye-roll as an alternative combustible, fill the tank, and pull a Thelma and Louise?

I thought, ya know, I genuinely thought, I was doing it right. I could justify, argue, and defend my parenting choices 'til large men wept (from boredom mostly). The backbone of my belief: treat people, especially children, with respect and dignity, and they will grow to be respectful, dignified people.

I abhorred and tossed my hair at the notion that a family should be anything other than a democracy. What kind of people, I would ask, would subjugate someone just because they could. That kind of abuse of power was reprehensible. I'm a modern, enlightened mother. I talk to my kids. I share with my kids. Their thoughts and feelings have as much value as mine. I thought. 

Well, some of my children are grown now. Big people. In fact, my oldest is the same age I was when he was born. And guess what? My Utopian parenting didn't work. 

My kids aren't bad--though I hate that word. It's so filled with judgment. They are, for the most part, thoughtful, intelligent people. But our relationship isn't what I imagined. All those years of telling them that they had a say. All those years of allowing them to share in the decision making--from where to eat to which house to buy. All those years of discussing chore-sharing, and living expenses (which in our house is a pseudonym for allowance), and giving them a voice when they felt they were being oppressed. All those years, and all those things, backfired. 

What I thought, truly believed, would become mutual appreciation and respect, has turned into reverse discrimination. Now they feel they have the power to subjugate me. They demand and demean, and feel fully within their rights to do so. And when I attempt to put my feeble foot down, I get the heavy sighs, the "yeah, whatever's," and the near seizure-inducing eye rolls.  

I thought giving them a voice would empower them. I just didn't suspect that that voice I fought so hard to allow them would be used against me. 

It's probably too late to reverse my parenting style. I wonder if I could temporarily inhabit the body of a 1950s parent, and see what a swift kick in the ass might do. Probably not much for them, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.

Your Imminence, May I Get Off My Knees Now?

When I reflect on my life, I'm amazed. Amazed about a couple of things: that I am an independent person; that I have, despite the odds, made good; that McDonald's has the audacity to continue to operate; and that 25 years of shaving your legs is exhausting. But the thing that stands out, that amazes me beyond anything else is, that I'm alive.

When I look back, frankly, I'm shocked. They say cats have 9 lives. If people have anywhere near that amount, I'm nearing my inevitable end. There was the time, when I was 5, that I was hit by a car and spent weeks in the hospital. The time, when I was 8, I was climbing trees with my brothers and slipped from the branch and dangled, probably, 30 feet above the ground, with my brothers crying, yelling at me to pull myself up, and terrified I would fall. The time, as I was traveling alone around Europe, that I was pulled into the bushes by a very horny, intent Greek man. The time I stood on a street saying goodbye to a young man I was particularly smitten with, when a bus turned the corner and nearly ran me down. The time I nearly bled to death on the delivery room table after one of my sons was born.

I look back at these, and other times when my life was in question, with a little awe and the calmness of having lived and survived. But it also makes me aware that death, Death, is imminent. It's my constant companion. It stalks me like a shadow. But whatever. I can deal with it. I've brushed the edge.

So how is it that I am paralyzed with fear that one of my kids will die. I know the routine. Born, grow, procreate, die. It's pretty simple. I just can't wrap my head around it when I think about my kids. Not only are they going to die, they could die any time. Today, while I'm typing. Tomorrow, when I'm holding their hands. It scares me to a depth I didn't know I had (and I'm not talking intellectual depth here either). This fear is a bottomless pit.

I struggle to understand how to let them go to live their lives when I feel like I need to wrap them up tight and hide them. I have to protect them. I have to absorb the sometimes terrible shock of life. But, can I? Should I? Is it my right to do so? To live is to risk death. I know it myself.

How can they live if they can't die?

They can't. I know that. Intellectually I know that each one of my children will test death. And someday, maybe today, they will die. It will come sometime, though not a time of my choosing. I have to learn to understand that. I have to learn to take whatever I'm given, and learn to allow others, even my children, to have and own what they're given. I think, for me, it's the hardest lesson of parenting. It requires a faith I'm not sure I have.

"Have faith in God."

"Have faith in justice."

"Have faith in the Tao."

"Have faith, everything will be alright."

It's impossibly hard for me to have faith. I'm frightened to my marrow that I'll lose one of my children. So every day I test my faith. Every day I inch toward trust. Every day my heart constricts, yet every day I open the door, and out they go. Into an uncertain world, and a more uncertain future. Do they deserve any less?

So I sit and write and think and silently pray to who ever will listen--God, Jesus, Mohammed, the Buddha, Krishna, Mary Poppins--my silent mantra and inner dialogue, "I'm going to die. I'm going to die. So are my children. So I must let them live."

Yet, my faith is weak, and still, I'm scared.

W.H. Auden said, "To choose what is difficult all one's days, as if it were easy, that is faith."

I think he must have understood parenting.

Good Morning, I Think

My youngest child is four. Thank God. She feeds herself, dresses herself, wipes her own bum (most days), and is, finally, night-trained. She's self-sufficient, and I'm glad. No. That's a lie. I'm over the bloody moon. 

Babies are sweet, and I love them. When my babies were babies I sometimes couldn't get enough of them. Touching them. Smelling them. Sometimes I wanted to be so close to them, I wanted to bite their chubby little thighs. But I never, ever got over the perpetual lack of sleep.

I always thought those women who stood around talking about how little Betsy or Jonathon slept through the night when they were six days (six seconds) old were full of shit. They were them same women who told me how much they loved every nauseous minute of being pregnant, and that giving birth was not a bloody, messy, dirty, sweaty 12 hours, but a spiritual event that transformed their lives. Oh fuck off. 

So when my children all reached that most glorious of milestones--sleeping through the night for the first time--it was always a sublimely joyous occasion. Though as I grew older and more confident as a mother, and with each subsequent child, that joyous occasion started to look a little different.

When my first child slept though the night, I woke in an absolute panic. How could this be!!!! Was he still breathing??!!! Had he, oh, please no God, had he died in his sleep? I practically flew from my bed to his room. I threw open the door and ran to his crib and picked him up. Poking, squeezing, listening and watching for his breath. He was fine, if a little shocked and groggy. After all, I had just woken him up. He started crying (go figure) and my day began. He didn't sleep through the night again soon. 

When my second child, a beautiful little girl, slept through the night for the first time. I again woke in a panic. But, I'm no dummy. I'd learned my lesson the first time. I quietly, though quickly, made my way to her room, tiptoed in, rested my hand on her little back to feel her breathing and tiptoed out. I, of course, didn't go back to sleep. The adrenalin ripping through my veins prevented that. Good God. Parenting is a perpetually stomach-clenching nightmare. I laid their wondering if there would ever be a time I wasn't in constant fear that something bad was going to happen to my children. Then she woke up. The screaming, snot-filled day was about to begin. My fear abated.

Then came my third child, and friend, let me tell you, I was tired! There's really no word in our language to express that absolute bone and soul weary feeling of motherhood. I was nursing her when she had her first all-night sleepfest. So I woke a pajama-soaked dripping mess. I was engorged, and it hurt like a bugger. I rolled over looked at the clock and realized what had happened. The entire night had gone by and I was still horizontal. I had an instant flash of panic, but I was drowningly exhausted. So I pulled the blankets up around my ears and thought, "Well, if she's dead there's nothing I can do about it now. I may as well get a little more sleep." And, well, I went back to sleep.

I did. I went back to sleep. And it felt good. Well, except for my boobs. But she made fast work of that when she woke up. 

Note to Self:

If your six year old wakes up every night for a week, he is about to get very sick.

Sound Bites from the Dalai Lama

My husband gave me a corny desk calender for Christmas. Quotes from the Dalai Lama. Ya think that's a hint about something? My inner-piece is just fine thank you (my inner-piece of apple pie, anyway!)

Today, there's a quote I wanted to share:

"Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality."

And, sister, it's a Hell of a lot easier than ensuring immortality through squeezing a squirming, pooping, squalling succubus out of your body!